Rage, Patrick rage. Rage against the dying of the light and the wilting
of my artistic ardor. O'Neil, inflamed and blustery, takes to his
keyboard in San Francisco. He is beyond frustration. Until recently, he
was pacing outside his South-of-Market abode -- shouting, tearing at
his hair, rending his clothing -- banging a metal cooking spoon against
a hub cap for anyone who might pay heed. But the now, Patrick's
streetwise muse seizes him, shakes him, and the words finally come
spilling out onto the sidewalk ...
This is Bellingham's blogg.
This is Bellingham's blogg on Crack.
This is Bellingham's blogg on an illiterate crime spree.
This is Bellingham's blogg doing a ten year bid in Folsom.
This is Bellingham's blogg making parole.
This is Bellingham's blogg struggling in a halfway house.
This is Bellingham's blogg in group therapy dealing with its issues.
This is Bellingham's blogg in denial blaming Bellingham for all its
woes.
This is Bellingham's blogg on a murderous rampage of payback.
This is Bellingham being forced to flee the country.
This is Bellingham forging a new life in Lithuania.
This is Bellingham left wondering how this all happened.
This is Bellingham wishing he had spent more quality time with his
little degenerate blogg.
Let Bellingham's pain be a lesson to you all. Don't let this happen to
your blogg! Nurture the little bastard, even when you don't feel like
it, even when you're busy, even when you got nothing to say! Or you're
blogg may go bad too!
(Signed) The Society for the Emancipation of Bloggs and other Bits of
Superannuated Verbiage.
