Bring Out Yer Dead

I got nuthin'.

As someone who'd like to think of himself as a creative type but coming increasingly to terms with the sad reality that he's merely another oxygen-sucking dullard, this is perhaps no great revelation. Although my contribution 'round these parts has yielded such found gems as these heroes, it goes without saying that in terms of pure originality I am sadly lacking. I have no party photos, no amusing costumes, no posed photographs of myself and giant stone Communists. I create nothing, produce nothing, inspire nothing. Instead, I point my finger at fellow martial arts amateurs and laugh. Laugh heartily, yes, but is there no more to me than petty mockery? Am I no more than the human equivalent of Nelson Muntz' derisory cackle?

Well, maybe it is time for me to turn over a new leaf. Instead of knee-jerk criticisms and negative nelly-ism, maybe I should look for the good in all things. Instead of taking lemons and injecting them with cyanide and eating them, I should instead make lemonade. Sweet, delicious lemonade, sold by suburban youngsters who haven't yet figured out the far more lucrative properties of homegrown marijuana. Ha! Lemonade! What ignorant rubes!

No, no, no--that is exactly the attitude I need to dispel. I must look for inspiration, not castigation. And where better to look for inspiration than here, within the comfy, homely walls of Corndog and Crabclaw land? There is enough innovation and insight splashed across these Inter-Web-Pages to satisfy even the thirstiest of talent leeches, and believe you me this here leech has been wandering the desert of mixed metaphors for quite some time. But I have enough intelligence and (just barely) self-respect to not steal from you all directly; I also have enough self-awareness to realize that any effort of mine to do so would only result in comical (and, in certain cases, catastrophic) failure. For instance, an attempt by yours truly to capture the magic of Captain America would only result in perhaps the saddest-looking cosplay geek in the universe, while my DIY venture into the world of winemaking would probably go down as perhaps the third-worst biological disaster history has ever seen.

So instead, I will look deep into the bowels of Dis Here Blog, picking through the discarded wastes of posts gone by. I will find the remnants of ideas and re-animate them into some gory, second-hand freakshow of creative retardation; post titles that you had thought consigned to the infinite reaches of cyberspace will be resurrected by my bony, unlotioned hand, and appear like spectres on the Big Front Page, followed by whatever half-assed tomfoolery I can come up with.

First up: "The Arrival and Pre-Dawn Departure to New York City of One Miss Annie Oakley." I will talent-rape that literary corpse in due time (anywhere between five minutes and three days, depending on my ever-fluctuating ambition).

P.S. If the original abandoner of that post would prefer that I leave well enough alone, he can feel free to fly his ass across the country and deck me on the nose.