Inside Doug's Head

I am not a number, I am… What's that stuff they make glue out of? I'm that. Forever swirling, forwards and upwards, but always sticky. Sometimes, a little sad.

Earnest Hemingway, that’s the guy. I can never remember his name, so I thought I would write it down here so I can look it up easily when I need it. When I am at social events, I often get mid-anecdote, especially when I have been drinking, like I do whenever air is mostly nitrogen, and I get to that part in the story where simile and metaphor collide, the part where I say, “You know, like that guy, the writer guy, you know, the one who wrote those books about war and fishing stuff and then ate a shotgun in his garage because of Sandra Bullock.” And there’s a pause, because no one can remember what happened yesterday. What was his name?

Earnest Hemingway.

The brilliance of his writing was grammar and punctuation. Without his sagacious semicolons and well placed commas, he’d be an unknown. Like that other guy, Grapes of Something, Al Gore where the Earth gets hot in the 1930s winters like today. Sadness of Malcontent. What was his name? Greta Iceberg? David Suzuki makes his living writing horrorscopes for the Toronto Sun. His prose is egg salad. You will die from a glacier and a penguin. I see a white bear in your future, no Santa.

Marketing. All we need is punctuation and marketing. And a fabricated cause. Marketing, financial support from lunatic billionaires, and… where was I going with this monologue?

You know, for vodka that comes in a plastic bottle, Popov is pretty good. What’s so bad about being drunk? Ask a glass of juice.


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