The Spaniard is now fighting the Six-Fingered Man, forcefully proclaiming, “My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father, prepare to die!” What a great film. Jenny from Forrest Gump is reciting cheesy romantic dialogue with the dude from Robin Hood: Men in Tights.
That Prince Humperdinck is a punk. All bark, no bite. O what artistic wonder! What craftsmanship! And Andre the Giant? That casting director deserves an Oscar. Somebody get that man an Oscar!
Sundays may also allow fits of delirium. If idleness is the Devil’s Workshop, then call me Bob Vila on Sunday afternoon. It’s beautiful. One last gasp of freedom before the week begins with all of its accompanying demands.
So speaking of Sundays, this one has been a bit crazy. What type of morning begins with massive tornadoes in your bride’s hometown, attempted cruise line hijackings by Somali pirates, and 80 degree November days? A guy doesn’t know what to believe these days.
The fun thing about blogging is its pointless nature. Look at this post: utter nonsense. Do you, reader, if you were truly being honest, really care about spending time reading random quotes from The Princess Bride, musings about the wonder of Sunday afternoons, and modern-day swashbuckling? It’s magnificent foolishness! Yet we do it so willingly. My only hypothesis for explaining this phenomenon is that perhaps it correlates with reality television. It’s like a non-stop confessional room where we can all examine the chain of pericopes that when woven together, create the tapestry that is our lives. We will sit for hours watching the television tell stories of people who are just as mundane as us, while we whittle away what precious time our Lord has given us. I don’t mean to be pessimistic; it is simply a fascinating observation once you think about it.
Okay, add esoteric ranting to the above list. Good day to you. I said Good Day!
