Good Evening.

Good eeeve-ning.  (Or something like that ... I hate all that spooky-ass shit.)  I am the Right Reverend Blood, recently deceased and just ever-so-less recently defrocked from Our Lady of Perpetual Befuddlement Episcopalian Church.  The two incidents -- the defrocking and the deceasing -- are not unrelated, but I'm not going to go into that right now.  It's kind of a sordid tale, and besides, I want to present as good a front as possible.  Never know when the big ... whatever She/He/It is ... upstairs will have a change of heart.  She's -- I'll call her "She" just for convenience -- She's kind of flighty that way.

No, this first post is just to introduce the place and tell you something about me.  And the first thing to remember is that I hate this crap.  Blogging, that is.  I hate it.  It's generally accomplished by myopic, overweight dweebs with coke-bottle-thick glasses, who can't get a date because their acne has flared up.  Either that or soulless corporate drones, hiding from their bosses at work, pretending to be sixteen-year-old girls.  (Ever noticed how many blogs are written by somebody named "Mandy"?)

I hate blogging, and wouldn't come anywhere near WordSpot or BlogPress except for one little, tiny thing: I have to do it.  And not in some candy-assed, fulfills-some-deep-seated-need way either: She is making me do it as part of that eternal torment thing. It's my punishment for ... well, let's just say that it's a punishment and leave it at that.

Point is, She Who Must Be Obeyed is making me do this. I could no more get out of it than a mackerel-snapper could defy the Pope, and believe me when I say I've tried.  The first time it cost me my pinky finger and the next, well ... let's just say I'm glad I don't have to use that anymore.  After that I learned my lesson, and sit down regular as clockwork to tap out a post.  Truthfully, She doesn't seem to care what it is, just as long as it is.  Though She has given me some vague guidelines: "As you haunt the earth, you are doomed to chronicle it" or some such shit.  But I know She's just fucking with me.  She does that, you know.

So ... here are the results.  I still don't know how the posts get from my Pentium 2 (the afterlife is pretty low-tech) to the internet, or when or even if they'll show up in this space for you, dear reader, to look at.  But do me a favor and read this stuff, ok?   Maybe if you do She'll reduce my sentence for good behavior, or maybe not: She can be a little, how shall we say it, arbitrary.  Just read the Old Testament, if you don't believe me.