Vicar, you free-riding parasite . . . .

heh heh. You heard me right: Mr. Mike's numbers don't lie. (nice wav file, btw, Mr. M) You sir, are a disgrace to grouse gabdom. Here all along I've thought you were doing your fair share, holding up your end of the bargain, etc. etc. You know, I believed that you were a real "Camp Man," as the Captain of Old T might put it.

But now I learn that you're nothing but a free-loading blood-sucking tic on our grousers' collective arse. And that goes for you too, Kleinpuppy. The gloves are off. I'm spitting mad, phtew, phtew.

So all you free-loading hosers get your fingers on the keyboard and start writing some comments AT THE VERY LEAST, sheesh fer frigginchrissakes. Cause it's lonely here in the blogger.com control booth, writing my heart out day in and day out, spilling my guts for the entire internet community, and for what? This is the thanks and gratitude that Mr. Mike and I get for our literary output? Almost enough to make me ashamed to be a grouser.

So snap out of it, fellas. Give us a sign that you're at least reading these things. Crickets chirping, whatever--a little bit of appreciation goes a long way.

Otherwise, I'm gonna start spamming your boxes with multiple copies of every post that makes it onto the blog--Cheney haiku included. And that's not a threat . . . that's a promise.

heh heh

I can barely stand it any longer . . .
I'll tell you where the bear shits in the woods.