Note: In an effort to pretend like I can actually write, I've decided to begin a feature on this blog titled "500 Word Serials". I intend it as a homage to the old days when stories were published in periodicals and newspapers, even if they ended up later in a longer format. I have chosen 500 words because it suits the medium, and because my original ideas of 100 and 200 words seemed too short. Before I begin with the first story, I want to offer a content advisory, as this feature is rated "R" for naughty language, adult situations, aspirations to pretentiousness, and severe mountain goat instigated violence. If you work at a regressive place, are too fragile for severe winning, or just like reading bowdlerized material, please contact me and I will replace the offending language with appropriate euphemisms. And then I will laugh at you behind your back. Sorry, it's the code I live by.
Please note: all typos, grammatical errors, and incoherent plot details are purely unintentional. Unless they improve the story, than it was my intention all along. Now sit back and enjoy my first story, titled The Blogger. I know, completely unexpected, right?
“What the fuck, momatoes?”
“It’s from The Simpsons Allie, but perhaps you’re too young to remember that reference.”
Bertram was talking to his best friend of many years over the phone. He had written a draft of a blog entry, and had sent it to her to peruse before he posted it. Most of the time, she usually passed it back with a few scant recommendations. Unfortunately, this was a bad one.
“I’m three months younger than you, moran. We watched that episode together, Homer became a rogue food critic. Where the reference is from isn’t the problem, it’s the relevance.”
“Of course it’s relevant. The booths at the festival were red. Like momatoes.”
“IT WAS THE FUCKING STRAWBERRY FESTIVAL! And even if it wasn’t, your post would still be a rambling, incoherent mess. Its nothing but disconnected rants about stale shortbread, the origins of World War I, and how disappointing Jar Jar Binks was.”
“You can’t deny he was a poor substitute for Chew--”
“THE AWFUL MONSTER JAR JAR BINKS IS NOT THE ISSUE HERE! God, Bert, I’ve seen better writing than this from you. This wouldn’t be entertaining to anyone, other than those who love laughing at the insane.”
Bertram almost offered a response, but thought better of it. He looked at the screen of his laptop, the draft post still up on the screen. Just hours ago, he thought it had been an irreverent piece of “gonzo journalism” about the Salinetown Strawberry Festival. Now, he wasn’t sure if it qualified as English.
“Also, what was the deal with randomly inserting ‘Screw Fredritch’ throughout the post? I’m guessing it was another reference to that episode of The Simpsons. Of course, changing the name from Flanders to Fredritch makes you look like you have a vendetta against some random person.”
“Alright, alright, I’ll make some changes. Jeez, you don’t have to rub it in. It’s just a fucking blog that no one reads.”
“Sorry, Bert, but you’re a better writer than that. Criticising your work emphatically was the best way to get through to you. I’m sure your next draft will be better. I know being a child of the 80’s means you can’t take a shit without making a pop-culture reference, but there are better ways. More Community, less late period Family Guy. Just a bit mo--”
Allie’s voice grew softer and more muffled as she talked to someone else. The muffles grew louder and more contentious, and Bertram knew she’d be hanging up soon.
“Sorry, Bert, but I’ve gotta go. Some bullshit went down with the latest release. I don’t know, code went out that shouldn’t have. God, I hate this place sometimes. Fix it up a bit, and let me see it again. This time, a bit more fun, and a bit less insane.”
“Got it, less with the insanity. Have fun with your clusterfuck there.”
Bert hung up the phone and closed his laptop. The post would be fixed, but right now was walkabout time.
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