A-and well, if you ponder it carefully enough, do I need it at all? This here Blog?

A rather moot question, far and away, I’d rather plumb the depths to the very bottom: what is the meaning of being a blogger? Eh?

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

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 (yes, the harsh bitch of life does make one yak up antic terms and unlooked-for expressions) you get the gizmo, on-the-spot and less than just-for-asking, of a personal blog in the state of vanilla virgin blankness. A freebie from the blue, follow me?

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

Thus and so, confluent sneaky circumstances closed in and made me think on self-education, though at first I would not list such matters among my preferential predilections. And yes, to sum it up, so a smart-ass trapping scheme tacks onto the bloggerism per se the principle of non-interference too, into my innate sloth.

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

In the light of the above expostulations, its hard to omit the rumors fleeting tangentially, now and then, at the periphery of my naturally scattered attention as regards divers show business celebrities in the who—before to pass away in the well-established manner of hopeless fight with cancer (usual strings attached to the career of their choice) or hang themselves in protest to the life failing to make true the hopes pinned on it some fifty years back—were blowing the Net up by their blogs – get it!.

BZDAH-BANG!!!

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

But why? They could just drown themselves peacefully...

Anyway, more than once it swished at page-bottom news—kinda a flying saucer over a far off neighborhood in the opposite hemisphere—that some scum bag, a bugger of fame «has blown up the Net». Which arrogant sabotage can hardly find a properer response than 2 words of „Fuck you!“ (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 remains in place). They do undermine my unconditioned reflexes rooted in the genetic leisure-proneness and nurtured by slow thinking, alphabetically.

As for the sporadic spells of living my life as becomes, I am more than reluctant then to skim all those googlies-wikies and would rather draw an ad hoc conclusion or two (of various amount of probability) from 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.

Because of all the aforesaid, «blog» at the current moment of my single-handed brain-storming does not go far from being a chisel to scratch and shape their marks “here I am, the one and only!” so as to impress the eternity to come by their (chiselers’) personal uniqueness up to the point of mutual awe and admiration.

Quite natural and ubiquitously wide-spread drive outstripping dinky racial dissimilitudes. Suffice it to recollect the pole to pole go-getter Mr. Kilroy, and in no way less omnipresent Citizen Vasya. Two champions in screwing the world with their autographs so as to stake their popularity in the future both near and far.

Still keep in mind both you, all kinds of a slinker Vasya, and you, most respectable Mr. Kilroy, that each and any of your askew scribbles is supervised and handled by OBPS.

Yes, yes, and yes over again – every single one, that’s the rule of no exceptions. And wherever you leave your scrawl—on the wall or a chimney, an ancient temple’s abacus, a 4-axis railroad cistern for sulfatophenol transportation, the top of a decrepit water tower, the lid of Chernobyl Concrete Sarcophagus, a thigh of a drowsy Hippopotamus, in the cup of constantly alert and moving radar, on the jerking tails of the passionately spasmodic conductor of the symphonic orchestra, a Sequoyah stump, the plastered pedestal or marble back of the monument to Great-Leader-Liberator-Teacher-Steerer, in the palate of a cannibal Orca frisking gaily after a hearty meal—each your mark is just another addition to the blogs of your lives delivery of whose disconnected messages (even though you, blockheads, never bother to indicate the name and whereabouts of addressee) would be seen to by Oceanic Bottle Postal Service, OBPS, whose clients are all them bloggers lock, stock, and barrel. See what I mean?

And here pops up the dark side in the blog definition—if you avoid getting lost at digging thru the sites of all those googles and wikipedias, who certainly are in the dark and have not the slightest idea of OBPS, because they are so too busy, engaged in copy-pasting from each other to have their content full updated, you know because not only my nose is rubbed into them those antiquarian terms by the bitchy realities of life...—

Yes, Mr. Kilroy, yes, Citizen Vasya, all of your blog as well as any of its constituent crappy scraps-and-crumbs is none but just a drop lost in the immense Digital Ocean (DO) where for all and anything (A-N-Y-thing!) there are avariciously forked out just 0 and 1 in all kinds of combinations.

A-and in DO it, your blog of all your scribble-doodles, is nothing but a message stuffed into an empty bottle by one more screwed-up sucker from an uninhabited island smack-bang in the middle of the wide ocean—from one horizon to the opposite—a one more plop toy for its playful waves, a dildo for the torrents and/or another gourmet nosh for the pack of the greedy gulpers from the shark species both the dumb and the small-fin, and the leaf-scale, and the mosaic gulpers, as well as the bird-beak, the long-snout, the arrowhead, and other members in the dogfish family, the large-tooth, the small-eye, the cookie-cutter and so on from the kite-fin sharks, the comb-tooth, the ornate, the bare-skin, the granular (whatever it means) in the lantern family, the cylindrical, the ninja, the brown, the pink, the velvet-belly, the blurred, the lined, the thorny, the rasp-tooth ones and—their cousin from the viper Genus—the prickly and the rough-skin, the white-tail, the sparse-tooth, the large-spine, the knife-tooth (I bypass the all-out concatenation of the Genuses of sleepers), the blunt-nose, the big-head, the green-eye, the fat-spine, and the not yet described Lombok, the high-fin spurdog, the order of labor-loving sawsharks (ten types in two Genuses), the divine-helpers Angel sharks from all over the globe, the bullhead sharks including horned and cryptic, the great white, the goblin, the megamouth, the sand tiger, the crocodile (not relative to crocodiles per se), the big-eye and other horror-inspiring mackerel killers, as well as swish dandies from the Carpet subdivision – the epolette sharks of divers Genuses up to the hooded carpet sharks and the banded, and the tussled, and the network (sic!), the epaulette wobbegongs to be followed by the collared and the saddle, and the barbell-throats, the ginger, and the necklace, the whale shark and the zebra (we’re still among sharks), then come the Family of requiem sharks: the gray sharp-nose, the spade-nose, the black-nose, the big-nose, the hard-nose, the dagger-nose, the slit-eye, the pig-eye, the silver-tip, the copper, the bull, the tiger, the white-cheek, the nervous, the silky, the lemon, the hook-tooth, the snaggle-tooth, the straight-tooth, all kinds of ribbon-tail both the slender, and the graceful, and the magnificent, and even the false cat sharks not as true cat sharks as the white-bodied, the white ghost, the hoary, the pale, the milk-eye, the short-belly, the humpback, the broad-nose, the long-nose, the long-head, the flat-head, the broad-head, the sponge-head, the fat, the broad-gill, and also (my favorite) the Black wonder cat shark (not described as of yet), the spotted, the pale-spotted, the orange-spotted, the variegated, the blotched, and the starry, the somber, the mud, the jaguar (do you really have so much time, eh?), the painted, the draughtsboard, the flag-tail, the balloon, the lollipop, the saw-tail (not to confuse with the saw-heads!), the file-tail, the black-mouth, the mouse, the pepper, the phallic (oho!), the quagga, the puff adder, the grinning, the crying, the honeycomb, the beige, the velvet, the boa, the lizard, the freckled, the chain, the cloudy, (now passing to the hammerhead sharks): the wing-head, the scalloped bonnet-head, to mention just a few, the whiskery shark, the black-tip tope, the big-eye hound shark, the gummy, the dusky, the starry (yes, again but from another Family, if you are still here), the star-spotted, the spotless, the flap-nose, the narrow-nose, the leopard shark and… and… and now subtract the number of listed here from 536 to evaluate the volume of my goodwill and also the kindness of my heart of gold.

How big are chances, should they ask themselves first, the lonely sucker in the island, for so seductively streamlined snack of their bottled message to slip away from this horrendous horde of Order Elasmobranchii at ready to swallow it on sight?

Or could it fail to give the pretext to a cruising environmentalist of the Greens Genus to spit out an enraged swearword addressed to an anonymous fucker polluting the ocean with his Goddamn bottles?

~ ~ ...and so forth… ~ ~... und so weiter… ~ ~

Scarce and far between are genuine connoisseurs and admirers of OBPS today.

Multi-billion-eyed attention of the global community got stuck to Facebook*, Twitter or whatever else passes for OK in your neighborhood.

(*The organization is announced to be terrorist and their activities banned on the territory of the Russian Federation.)

No one is up and scanning the heaving sea waves to zero on a vagrant buoy, a marine tumble-weed carrying Uninhabitania islander’s message…

(And if at this here passage at least a single tear of warm empathy is not swished off an eye, let them, the eye owner, go and… hum… well… buy themselves something at Ali-Express or any other proper place for the likes of them – heartless rats.)

But mind you well that OBPS at times can bring you real consolation.

What if some day one of the waves—with a mild «plumpee!»—will unexpectedly bring and serve a bottle onto the desolate sand in the lonely beach where from it had started its matchless voyage some heck of a long time ago?

And fighting back the tremor in your eager fingers, you’ll open it, O, islander—this vagabond envelope encrusted with uneven sea-salt fancy patterns—because who but you knows so too well the meaning of OBPS!

And—lo!—you have already spread out the sepia tinged sheets and got delighted with the inimitable perfection of your style of yore and the depth of your own thought forgotten by you so long ago (what a pity a couple of pages are fucked up by a stray ship worm!)

Damn! You’re but a sworn philosopher and global thinker, Mr. Kilroy! I swear by my word of honor!.

Well, and this seems quite enough for the first missive, because I still have to find some rubber tree and bang out a kinda cork to seal the bottle so as to be in time for sending it with the evening tide.

What makes me personally such an ardent devotee of OBPS it’s its being free – no postage fee whatsoever—look! see?! it’s taken! no stamp is the must, no nothing!

* * *