In Which Your Humble Blogger doesn’t argue about the old/young thing this time, because the arguments are pretty obvious and not terribly interesting, and besides, there will be another chance in the next verse.
In Which Your Humble Blogger hath perused yon book, and lo, it is crap, by’r’Lady. Strewth! Tush!
In Which all that is solid melts into air, damn it.
In Which Your Humble Blogger is not blind or deaf, and my memory works just fine, actually.
In Which Your Humble Blogger comments on the news of the day, or year, or something, and says something about it, or something, and what it all means, or something.
In Which Your Humble Blogger has learned to just say ‘I like Victorian Novels’ and leave it at that.
In Which Your Humble Blogger is old, like a palimpsest.
In Which Your Humble Blogger points out that it has been nearly ten years since that sniper poll happened, and wonders what happened to those six people. And also—YHB would totally tell a pollster something wacky like that. So may as well call someone else, right?
In Which Your Humble Blogger writes out his annoyance, and will let it go, now.
In Which Your Humble Blogger whines and moans and clutches his brow, and weeps into his handkerchief, and is generally other than chipper.