When did I ask? When did I ask you to interrupt my wonderfully articulated, musical speech with such a pointless question? It’s pretty obvious – I love my monologues, hence, well, the blog. So don’t flatter yourself: I am, after all, only speaking for my benefit.
21st May 2021
Today marks a week since the last Decablogs release, and the few of you that have signed up to – or been signed up to without consent – the weekly newsletter will know why. Exams. Alas, every CEO Laird Chief Supreme High Archangel Esq (as Austin addresses me every time we speak) needs an outlet, and today such an outlet will be my blog.
Truly, when did I ask? If anything ruffles my feathers it is those who find it appropriate to question why I am talking. The answer is obvious. No, it is not to appease your desire for all the useless knowledge which I possess. So when, and why, did you ask, and why am I rambling? You didn’t have to – I already adore the sound of my own voice. The true question is when did I ask you to speak? Don’t interrupt me and shut the hell up. I don’t care if the world ends because I am having my moment. Thank you.
When did you ask? When did you ask for this wonderful hammering of the philistines that walk this Earth constantly questioning why the hell I’m talking? You did not, but in response to all of you feigning that you do not in fact care about what I am saying, I am coming out guns blazing. When? Now.
When did I ask?
Ah, the classic. This one truly does make me quake in my boots. My hatred for this phrase is comparable to my ill-fitting trousers’ hatred of my socks. Unfortunately, whilst my trousers will likely never have the pleasure of meeting my socks, I have had the utmost displeasure in encountering too many of these people with brains dryer than asphalt after a year of intense drought. When in fact you thought my continued rambling was in response to your question, it was not. Rather, I very much enjoy the sound of my voice. So much so that when I cannot sleep I am oft found reciting Shakespearean soliloquies to cure my boredom.
What gave you the impression that I cared?
If I’m being honest, this one hurts. My usual retort: how did you gather from my continued speaking that I give a toss as to whether you care or not? Underneath, however, I am indeed crying. You see, I hold a very high opinion of myself and my ego is “as large as…” To think that there are people out there who don’t care for what I have to say hurts me. It hurts me to even think that people would so willingly blaspheme. Did you care what Jesus said? I thought so.
I am of course not comparing myself to Jesus, but I am a very important person and a somewhat decent blogger. Hence, you should care about what I have to say. Mike Allton didn’t, and look what happened to him. Do you want to get the same treatment as Austin gave him in his blog? Thought not.
Why did you think that point was valid?
I am a learned blogger. At the ripe old age of two, I read the Biff and Chip books and it has been only up from there. At my current age, I find myself encountering far more smut than I would typically like, though that is beside the point. I am evidently of superior intellect, evidenced by my clash (and ensuing victory) with Big Mike, and am willing to take any other blog on the web. By extension, I am always right. So why did I think that my point was right? In true “history essay” fashion, it is because “evidence suggests that I am almost always right”.
I have reached the point of this blog where I am asking myself many existential questions. Who asked for me to write this? Why did I write this? Surely I have better things to be doing? Work perhaps? Not obsessing over effectively using rhetorical questions? Writing something serious perhaps? Maybe about my interview with a certain celebrity/politician for this very blog? Acquiring my daily hot chocolate from Pret before I run out of time?
The truest answer I can give, not to the rhetorical questions but to the question of “who asked” is as such: you did. Now, don’t pretend you didn’t preface your witty retort with a question, nor should you pretend that you don’t care about what information I have to share. Listening to your jokes is as painful as wading through thick, old, mucky treacle. Just delightful.
I guess the real question now becomes: “who did actually ask me to write this blog?” The answer – nobody, because I can do what I want. Like fire people, for example. Or tell Google to go away and stop suing us for copyright and spamming the website. Perhaps my attempts at trying that will be explored in a future blog. Until then, ask yourself: who asked you to read this? Because it was most likely me. I asked. That’s who.
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Quick shoutout to my friend Eliane who thinks she is so cool and constantly weaves these questions into our conversations. Eliane, as my guy William once said, I have no more faith in you than in a stewed prune. Perhaps it is because you are an alien. I’ll get Noah on that. His alien-hunting expertise is second to none.