Finding some T-E-M-P-O

Well I wuz informed by Mr. Seibold yesterday that he found the diction contained in the hillbilly phonetic blog to weigh a bit on the nefarious side of the scales of proper bloggin etiquette. I allowed that he was likely correct and all about such matters, cause he is one prolific blog writer n all, but I was curious about eggsactly what rules dictate the proper bloggin etiquette.

But bein the good feller that he is n all he didn’t get too eggsasperated with my ignorance and he sez, “Boy, you’re misunderstanding me, I’m not saying that there are anywell defined blog etiquette guidelines of any sort, it’s all a recursive relationship that builds upon and defines continuously revised parameters,” he pauses for a second and I can hear the loud screel of a table saw, “but…um what was I saying?”

Now I was gettin awful cornfused but didn’t want to let on ‘“ on account of exposin myself as the poseur of grande poseurs ‘“ so I allowed that I was making sense of it right well and began an easy-like segue into other matters, but it was like he heard not a thing fer he picked up his train of thought like he’d never jumped track:

“Listen to me boy, it boils down to this: T-E-M-P-O. That is what your missing, that is your personal guidline, your Happy-Place, concentrate on unabated rhythm and you’re gonna be golden jimmy.”

Sweat was beadin up on the back of my neck and my breathin was gettin shallow, seemed i was havin one of them panic attacks same as what sent my aunt Lena to ward B of the looney house. I felt knocked senseless, the world was a puddle of mud now, Seibold had me on the ropes, clingin and scrappin for somethin to hold onto fer comfortin knowledge, but there was nuthin but a big black hole darker than Dubyas private reserve of oil that he likes to get nekkid and swim round in like some sorta modernized real to life Scrooge McDuck.

I had to bail the conversayshun so I started ramblin faster than a humminbird bout the toilet overflowin with sewage again and screamin like some meth-crazed banshee that i hadta get them little scrubbin bubble guys to help me else me and the little lady was gonna drown in some kinda horrible nashunal enquireer style death.

So I slam down the phone and take in one well deserved gasp of air. I reckon I couldn’t stand the bare truth no more, so i disconneckt the phone and commence to doin a bit of feeble, tempo-less art as such:

Homage to Julius the Free

Insekt in Search Pt. 1

The Arrival of Floating Rasta Head