To the BATMOBILE

Friday, December 09, 2005

"an indepth report"

While listening to romanian dance music (the very addictive Chicken Little advertisement song, "Dragostea Din Tei") may not exactly be a conducive environment for conjuring enough literary garbage to justify the point of having a blog (a.k.a. I'm not too sure why I bother to mantain having a blog these days as I don't have anything to write about... Oh wait - I hardly ever do anyway), it does however, allow me to opportunity to show of my vastly improving dance skills... And I shall now present to you (with a little techno flourish) -

BUTLERMAN'S INDEPTH GUIDE OF WORST CASE SCENARIOS, which incidently might also come under the different heading of SHIT I'VE GOTTEN MYSELF INTO.

I'm going to let you all in on a little secret. Blogging no longer has the draw nor benefits that I desire anymore. There has been once upon a time, where I gladfully donned the helm, full body spandex and yellow, copyrights-blatantly-infringed-upon, logo of Butlerman to prostitute myself to the masses (hey, who wouldn't)... People cried out for my name in their sleep, and mothers grew increasing restless for their daughter's safety as I shed pounds into a sleeker, more crime-bustingly muscular body (it is, at the very least, a half truth, and all attempts to scorn my efforts slides off me like lubrication - a bad image, but nonetheless true)... Then people posted, replied, and called for medical experts to check on my mental state - and they actually seemed as if it was a pleasure to do so (since when is prodding someone with clinical thermometers, stethoscopes and weirdlyshaped erotica-resembling medical instruments not pleasureable?)...

Now, Butlerman is nothing more than what friends call me, and while it does lift the corners of our mouths (nothing a badly placed treatment of Botox couldn't do), it is apparent that the word is no longer synonymous with anything vaguely heroic or even positive, as I execute mistake after mistake with dire consequences (even on the rugby field, where people once feared and complimented my game, I receive nothing more than a sympathetic pat on my frail back)... The swagger is now a slouch, X-ray vision now nothing more than a couple of eyebags, mortality never seemed so real... The cover of invincibility has been blown, so give Butlerman a kick in the nuts while he's down while you can (god knows some people didn't hesitate... And while my mind begs me to utter her/their dreaded names, it serves me no purpose to do so... I'd rather forget about them or better yet, take it up diplomatically with them - I stress diplomatic).

There is much on my mind, ranging from the death of an OM teamates father (It shames me that I cannot call him my friend, for I know I have not justified being one to him) to the my perpetual pauper state. None of it is pretty, or wholesome (nothing erotic, a fact which may garner a few gasps and raised eyebrows) and it shames me all the more... I enter now into a phase where every superhero/wannabe stows his uniform in an alleyway rubbish bin and walks away, and it gets increasingly obvious that it is time for me to do a little superhuman soul-searching, to rediscover what went wrong where and when (alliteration!), and while it might be easier for me to get run over by a truck and forget all of this, or just delve into a burning house to save a grandmother to gain some false sense of courage and self-worth, I cannot, through sheer lack of courage, and let's face it - it's easier to write it out then do it in reality, and this minor detail I overlooked has been a feature since the very beginning of this blog.

I hope you found some part of this entry vaguely interesting, or at least informative (to demand that you derive some comedy value from this would be presumptious) because I am losing a war I am ill-equipped to fight...

Perhaps for the one final time (I certainly hope not)
TO THE BATMOBILE

posted by butler at 11:59 pm
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