A malteese soprano kat, about 12 months old,
singing old hundred on a picket fence,
late last thursda nite, whichever person owns
sed kat will find him (or her, according
to circumstances) in a vakant lot,
just bak ov our hous, still butiful in death.
This has nothing to do with anything, but I love it and feel it belongs here.
Previously, in this spot I recorded a true and faithful account of my actions in eliminating the Pibgorn comments board at Gocomics, accompanied by the convictions that underpin them. (Anybody who wants to know what I wrote can log on to http://officialpibgorn.livejournal.com/ for the transcript.)
I was told that these words were met with a generous serving of invective and accusations of lying (people nearly always call it lying when they don't like the truth). That was followed here at Pibgorn headquarters by an astonishing gush of e-mail from previously silent fans offering their support and encouragement (you remember that scene in "Miracle on 34th Street" when Edmund Gwenn's bacon was saved by the U.S. Post Office, and Gene Lockhart found for Santa Claus and William Frawley walked with relief from the courtroom and little Natalie Wood got her wish?). I am convinced I never should have heard from these generous individuals but for all the lively contumely accreting on the Gocomics blog. For that alone I am most grateful.
I also tip my hat to those at the blog who spoke in my defense. You spoke in fairness to me, and in recognition of my rights, even despite your personal wishes.
It is daunting, the calisthenic agility with which so many of my erstwhile comments board fans bounded from indulgent patronage to, by all accounts, foaming-at-the-mouth hatred or attitudes of violated virtue worthy of Delsarte (a leap that, I contend, should get extra points for execution, except that the figure skating scoring system is too complicated, and that the level of artistry rather negated the leap). I never read the posts, but my informants tell me that the feeding frenzy achieved the febrile pitch that can only be likened to a kindergarten lynch mob (too short actually to throw the noose over a tree limb) augmented by trolls (bringing dignity to proceedings, as is their wont, by wetting their pants).
When I die, I want to die laughing. I won't forget this. Thank you.
To quote Dorothy Parker, who also, by the wildest of coincidences, did not write with a comments board or a public forum attached to her: "...But I shall stay the way I am, because I do not give a damn."