Occasionally I have stories to tell. Like right now, for instance. My crazy-ass sister-in-law Nancy, her so-called husband Banana Nostrils (they were "married" on a beach by an actor amongst a pack of leaping dogs), and their gang of l'il translucent children descended on our house for Christmas.
Oh, I've got pages of notes about the whole sad affair, and no outlet through which to purge the poison from my system. A friend suggested a "blog," but that sounded mighty gay to me. Mighty gay. After all, Bill Oates is a man, not some typing dandy, sitting around hitting the shift key with his pinky, that gayest of all digits.
But I had to admit that it made some sense. I could write it out, a little here and a little there, and others could read it, and maybe we could all share in the pain. You know, in a strictly heterosexual way.
So that's what I'm going to do. Against my better judgment I started this so-called blog to write about Nancy's latest visit, and whatever else might pop into my head along the way. It'll probably be updated in fits and starts, possibly more than once a day in some instances, then not at all for several days in a row.
Because Bill Oates is a very busy man.
