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Home Again
Faithful Readers, this Reporter is so glad to be back! Home is where the heart is. Home is where the anchor drops. Home is where the story begins. Home is…..well, you my most perceptive of Readers get the message.
And what a home it is! A web presence with lots of pictures and words. Enough words to drown an encyclopedia! And so life-like too! Hats off to Marjem, Gus, Ben and all the others who sweated blood like overstuffed chaos leaches just so we all could have a place to hang our hat, or helmet or cap or what-have-you.
And what a home it is! A web presence with lots of pictures and words. Enough words to drown an encyclopedia! And so life-like too! Hats off to Marjem, Gus, Ben and all the others who sweated blood like overstuffed chaos leaches just so we all could have a place to hang our hat, or helmet or cap or what-have-you.
Confession
This reporter’s heart is glad but this reporter’s soul is restless. A confession is in order. When last faced with the true ugly face of Glarkian Prophecy, this reporter acted defiantly. With words clamoring for defiance from not only this reporter but from all of you, my faithful readers, hopes were high that the contrary nature of Tar Shakan would rise up and show its ugly backside. Bark like the dogs that get you bit! That was the spiritual ticket, or so this reporter truly thought.
But like many others, this reporter headed for shelter. With barricades in place, missile weapons at the ready, along with an assortment of nasty edged and phlanged weapons of ill intent, this reporter waited, like many of you waited. We were waiting for the plaintive howl of a confused, yet holy dog looking to have his day. Barks, howls, growls and hackles raised was the thought on many of our minds. But not a sound. Tar Shakan didn’t roll into a ball and die, but the loud, raucous contrariness never appeared. The world turned as it always has, and solid realities of our fair land crumble just outside the periphery of our vision.
But like many others, this reporter headed for shelter. With barricades in place, missile weapons at the ready, along with an assortment of nasty edged and phlanged weapons of ill intent, this reporter waited, like many of you waited. We were waiting for the plaintive howl of a confused, yet holy dog looking to have his day. Barks, howls, growls and hackles raised was the thought on many of our minds. But not a sound. Tar Shakan didn’t roll into a ball and die, but the loud, raucous contrariness never appeared. The world turned as it always has, and solid realities of our fair land crumble just outside the periphery of our vision.
Our Fight
Our fight will be a slower, more agonizingly painful fight, much like a bad case of constipation. We will need to be vigilant, ever pushing the Truth to the light of day and day by day beating back the forces, not just the Glark forces, but all the forces arrayed against us.
This Reporter's Job
This reporter is back to report on those inconsistencies that would torture your mind, if only you knew about them. Fear not, for this reporter knows about them, or at least suspects he knows about them. At the very least, this reporter has imagined them. And this imagination is willing to be stacked up and measured against any other imagination. It’s just that good.
As this reporter walks the streets of Botella de Cola, talks with those residents not cowering in the shadows, and tap those journalistic sources that allow Truth to ring like a bell, this reporter promises to blow the lid off of complacency, evaded topics and dig into the meat and potatoes of the reality of it all. And it is done just for you.
As this reporter walks the streets of Botella de Cola, talks with those residents not cowering in the shadows, and tap those journalistic sources that allow Truth to ring like a bell, this reporter promises to blow the lid off of complacency, evaded topics and dig into the meat and potatoes of the reality of it all. And it is done just for you.