You need no ticket to make a place for yourself here where humor, black and otherwise, comes to you from the stage where the human comedy itself is being played, its performance trumping the things dark and tragic and found in the world of literature.
No Hodgman No Cry
Well folks, it appears to be time to turn off the lights on this one
. As Mr. Hodgman continues to play Godot, I’ve no intention of meeting him with my Estragon. As a proper spanking I think we should all invite our favorite scribes to our blogs for a few words, creating a new genre where Mr. H will live in infamy as “they guy that didn’t show.”
I haven’t forgotten that he is the great white hope for the ironic hipster lit scene that some refuse to let die a dignified death. As mildly intelligent Gawkerette J. Coen herniates her frontal lobe trying to understand it and Hodgman mans the life support pumps (while perfecting his “email spam could wreck my career: boo-hoo!” too timid to be bemused/too intelligent to look smart shtick) we hear Willie Nelson crooning in the distance…
“Mamas don’t let your baby girls grow up to be gossips...”
Anybody know any good hobo songs? Surely They Might Be Giants
must have one for just such an occasion.