Z Box

The only computer game I play is Blogstation. The object is to accumulate as many readers as possible before you bore everyone to death with interminable posts about the Microsocrates who pontificates in the agora of your own umbilicus. I'm up to level fourteen on that.
I don't think there really is much difference between me, slouched in front of my computer typing nonsense, and some bald-scrotummed manchild in a Green Day t-shirt and skate shoes battering his X Box for hours on end each day. We are both staying out of trouble: I won't waste time writing my unpublishable book, Quetzalcoatl in Cornwall, and he won't steal studded leather wristbands from the local punk rock megastore, and the world can breathe a sigh of relief because of it.
Mind you, if anyone has any information about Quetzacoatl in Cornwall (or the Devon area), I would be very grateful if they would contact me. I'm desperate.  Dale Williams once saw a small grass snake and some feathers in the same field near St Ives about eight years ago, but that's all I've go to work with so far.
(No boring Merlin rubbish, please, and no D. H Lawrence versus Peter Warlock, either. Thanks)   

Comments

[Edward Williams]

When the content is gone, at least the cadence remains.

[Dale Williams]

Actually, it was nearer the Golant area and I was high on a clotted cream tea at the time.

[Mikeachim]

Blogsistentialist angst is like a bottle of Stain Devil for the soul. It even gets out biro. And afterwards, you've redefined everything so you know where the limits are.
It's a theory I've been working on while I've been playing 'Halo 3' in my greying underwear.

[Mikeachim]

I should have said 'playing Halo 3 *wearing* my greying underwear'.

[stephenesque]

yes, for a moment I pictured a huge grey underwear tent with you and your Halo 3 inside it.

[zipthwung]

plaid pants.