shows little sign of abating, might as well batten down and discuss it calmly.
And as always, I find one must eventually turn to poetry to make cool and sober sense of the tangle of modern life.
Because, as Shelley once said, "Poets are the unacknowledged ta-ta wranglers of the world."
First, "Dirty Pink Pillows":
so much depends
the dirty pink
glazed with gray
beside the white
-- William Carlos “Tit King” Williams
Next, the stark "Won’t-a-man-date-us"
I met a traveler from Wisconsin land
Who said: A flat and ashen poon of stone
Stands in Madison. Near it, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The blog that mocked them, and the heart that’s dead,
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Won’tamandateus, Queen of Spleens:
Look upon my posts, ye young and pretty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that tenured wreck, manless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
-- Percy Bysshe “Really more of an ass man, but don’t tell Mary” Shelley
Then the haunting "The Whine of the Ancient Harridan" -- Part I
It is an ancient Harridan,
And she bloggeth for all to see.
`By thy withered dug and boohoo eye,
Now wherefore stopp'st thou me ?'
The Big Dog's meetup is opened wide,
And I am next to greet;
The guests are met, the feast is set :
But she’s bitching about some teat.
She holds me with her skinny hand,
'There was a tit!' quoth she.
`Hold off ! unhand me, greytard loon !'
Eftsoons her hand dropt she.
-- Samuel “Senior Fun Bags” Coleridge
And, finally, inevitably, "The High Road Not Taken"
TWO breast converged in a light gray top,
And sorry I could not handle both
And be one blogger, long I stood
And looked down as far as I could.
Down my nose at this lovely youth;
Then I busted out, most unfair,
Making loud and idiotic claims.
Because she was young and wanted wear;
Which made me blog and tear my hair
Now I watch my rep go up in flames,
Because on that morning I rose to slay
That cussed child with the hair of black.
Oh, I kept it up for another day!
Yet knowing how “back” leads on to “pay”,
I doubted if I shall ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a lie
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Feminism hung by a thread, and I—
I blogged the low road traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
-- Robert “My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard” Frost
Ah, the classics!