The Illegitimite Blog

Tonight I've been busy sprucing up this shabby, urine-scented blog--tweaking the font and format, adding pictures to rectify the absence of visuals, removing asbestos, that sort of thing. For about an hour I wrote in the once vacant "About Me" section, only to learn upon completion that an autobiography over 1,200 characters in length is deemed verbose by Blogspot. It all worked out for the best, though, because this entry isn't really "About Me" in the first place, and besides that, if you knew 1,201 characters worth of my personal information, the mystery would be gone.

Following a dismal night at the dog track in which I lost $500 under the false impression that I could bet on the mechanical rabbit circling the track, I got severely loaded. My notebooks wanted nothing to do with me that night, and so I stumbled into the embrace of a computer that buzzed like a bee pollinating a flower. I recall fitful fragments of blather, mostly about the tyranny of the higherups at the dog track. I thought there was no harm in venting to random outlets once in a while, but I was wrong.

The next morning when I awoke, haggard and breathing napalm, the lap-top was still in my bed. I roused it with a gentle tap of the space bar and became petrified by the realization of what I had done. I had brought a blog into this world.

"Fist pumps and beyond?! What the fuck does that mean?" I cried.

The lap-top rested forlornly on my bed as I hurried out the door in my pajamas. I strided around the block for three hours, returning to the same point just as my frantic thoughts did. I didn't have the heart to DELETE the blog (although I respect other people's decision to delete their own blogs) because the Internet is just too precious. And I didn't want to hand my blog over to another writer for fear that they'd never truly love my blog as their own. The point that I kept coming back to in my mind that morning was that we know nothing about responsibility and wisdom until we find ourselves in a situation where we're totally screwed.

Now you know the genesis of Fistpumpsandbeyond, which is as screwy and implausible as the comedic essays it harbors.