So as to keep the vividness of narrative under control, I had to introduce some spelling innovation and add '*' (not asterisk but letter yobz now) to the native orthography.

The yobz surely earns its keep, insert it in any of your preferred words to dim the sight of the censor software out there, thick smoke spouts out its ears and, for instance, 'fu*ck' is welcome as virginally innocent linguistic norm, like any other necessary word of feather fixed as needed.

Forgotten are the constellations of **** and other fuc*king malarky while the smart reader will see through non-obscuring yobzes.

Still and yet, I’ve betted on the wrong horse because The Blog took a week longer to finish off.

I dunno what to say Dickens on his next visitation.

* * *

Chapter or (more appropriately) Bottle #1: ~ Who Cares for Rhymes If Having Reason ~

A-and well, if you attentively weigh up the matter, do I need it at all? This here Blog?

A rather moot question, I must admit, far and away, precariously so. A scrupulous explorer, like me, first off, would plumb the depths to the very bottom: what is the meaning of being a blogger? Hmm?

One thing sticks out like a sore thumb though: some guys are renown bloggers, others lay claim to the title and are still alive and kicking… well, the most part of them.

Which advantageous circumstance certainly encourages a closer review of the befogged question, at least for the sake of self-education, within limits. More so when you’ve happened to enrolled in some advanced mob (but later they corrected me politely that the like associations are safer to name „social nets“ now), where, in addition to your personal account, you get a sexy gizmo (yes, the harsh bitch of life does make you yak up all sorts of discombobulations), a personal blog—on-the-spot and less than just-for-asking—in the state of vanilla virgin blankness. A freebie from the blue, follow me?

As it happens, the registration was a total fluke. I’d even, sort of, say it came to pass accidentally because of curtain rapt anticipations.

Yet, a closer look derailed those designs as premature – no picking your silly nose here and smudging the mucosities of nitwit hopes on the items in public domain, if you know what I’m about…

On the other hand, here is your brand new account plus the blog, unasked-for…

That way, the confluent circumstances slithered in to kinda mate and make me ponder on self-education issues, although at the start I would not count the like matters among my natural bents.

So, yes, straight from the shoulder, that too-smart-ass trap-scheme does indent the principle of non-interference, an impudent (though cleverly disguised) intrusion into my innate sloth.

But then again, the more we learn the more we know. Period.

In the light of the above-demurred, I’d like to also point out the rumors fleeting, now and then, tangentially, at the periphery of my scattered, in general, attention as regards divers show business celebrities, who—before to pass away in their usual way of hopeless fight with cancer (when choosing a career you sign up for the strings commonly attached) or hang themselves to spite the life that failed at fulfillment of the hopes pinned on it some fifty years back—by their blogs were blowing the Net up – now, get it, bugger!.

BZDAH-BANG!!!

How’s that for a good-bye kiss from me, sweeties, huh?!.

But why? Why not to drown themselves in peaceful, polite manner?.

Anyway, more than once it swished at the bottom-page news level—like a flying saucer over a far off neighborhood in the opposite hemisphere—that some scum bag of fame «has blown up the Net». Which arrogant sabotage can hardly find a properer response than just 2 words: „Fuck youself!“ (Both stressed, the latter stronger.)

To be frank, in my post-pubic life I was not much attracted by a career of a demolisher. However, the pranks of plumb crazy stars keep interest to bloggerism a-simmer (though pretending I don’t care a fig still in its place). They do undermine my unconditionally rooted reflex of genetic proclivity to leisure and slow, serene thinking, alphabetically.

As for the sporadic spells of living my life in accordance with my likings, then I am more than reluctant to skim all those googlies-wikies and would prefer drawing my own ad hoc conclusion or two (of various amount of probability) concerning the matter in hand, when in doubt. A screeching process, yep, why deny, yet at my natural pace and taking breaks when feeling like that.

By and large, «blog», at the given moment of my single-handed brain-storming, does not too categorically outpace an average chisel, which they use to scratch their marks—“here I am, the one and only!”—so as to impress the eternity to come by their (chiselers’) personal uniqueness, the praiseworthy claimant to the mutual awe and admiration.

Quite natural and ubiquitously wide-spread drive, exceeding dinky racial dissimilitudes. Suffice it to recollect the pole to pole go-getter Mr. Kilroy, and in no way less omnipresent Citizen Vasya. Two tireless champions of screwing the world with their respective autographs to preserve their popularity forever and a day.