|Not quite perfect, but it will do.|
I tried and tried and wrote and wrote - inspiration is what I needed.
Wait, does that rhyme? Holy crap, that rhymes. I do not want this to be a rhyming post. A rhyming post would never qualify as the perfect post. Maybe for Shel Silverstein and his psycho babble, but not fore me.
My perfect post must be perfectly supreme. Like Diana Ross, before she touched Lil' Kim's breast on national TV. Or Clarence Thomas's polished coke can.
The perfect post must be strong enough for a man, but made for a woman. It must hold you, thrill you, kiss you, kill you. Bono must sing about it.
My post must be so alarmingly well done, Sean Penn will beg to take it to Haiti and use it as medicine. This post must be the thing that Oprah trades all her 'favorite things' for.
The perfect post must have spunk, pizzaz and flair. It must be fetching, tantalizing and pulchritudinous. Especially pulchritudinous, lots of pulchritudinous.
My perfect post must "stand the test of time" and there's "no time like the present". So it must stand the test of the present. It must stand today. It must stand.
Speaking of standing, the perfect post must be able to stand on it's own two feet, which means it must be at least as stable as an agile baby, or a gorilla, or a well trained dog.
The post must be less - because less is more. And then it must be more, because its already been less and, more or less, less is more. So it needs to be less.
The perfect post must grow like a mighty oak. It must also speak softly and carry a big stick. Good thing it is an oak.
The bigger they are, the harder they fall. Thus, my oak post must be mighty in girth, not height. I'm going to go out on a limb and say that there's no way a fat, chunky oak falls hard, or even falls at all, unless someone is standing out on its limb.
My post must be a labour of love. But not like a childbirth love-labour. That would just be gross.
The perfect post must crack my audience up and leave them in stitches. It also must cut to the chase and have an axe to grind. Pretty much, it must beat the living crap out of its audience and then murder them with a ground up axe.
Alas, I have not yet written the perfect post, but that's not to say that I don't have something in the bag... or up my sleeve... or skidmarks in my underwear. Two of those three things I definitely have.
I undoubtedly am leaving you on pins and needles, like a careless and unqualified acupuncturist. Instead, I'll leave you hanging, like a very forgetful gallower.
But that's the way the Cheeseboy rolls; I like to keep you guessing. One of these days I'll write that perfect post, but I am not going to let the cat out of the bag.
(That's last thing is a figure of speech. I do not actually have a cat in a bag. Well, maybe I do. I have a lot of bags just lying around. I haven't heard any meow in a while.)