If you haven’t noticed… it’s probably because you haven’t been here. And when you’re not here, there’s little reason for me to be here. Without you as my reader, why should I climb into this miserable editorial office? Without you, why should I write entertaining stories about the nonsense which defines existence here in the Conjoined Towns?
If enough of you beg, I may change my mind.
The Daily Goose has not flown south, been shot from the skies nor been cooked. (Have had a horrible rash, though, but that’s an entirely different matter.) Fact is, the Goose is busier than ever crafting a long-format piece which you’re sure to enjoy. Hang in there, faithful reader!
What not to do in the Conjoined Towns of Pretty and Plain on a Sunday evening when you’re home alone and heat’s off (because you haven’t paid PP Power in three months), and you’re huddled by the stove, polishing off a bottle of Pinot and what’s left of a pound of Hershey’s Kisses:
A) You don’t cuss at the Universe while inching open the kitchen window to B) aim a BB gun at a squirrel sitting on the oak stump halfway between you and your Civic. And for God’s sake, you don’t C) pop a hole in that dear squirrel’s bitty heart. Tsk, tsk, man. C’mon, what have you accomplished? You’ve bloodied the freshly fallen snow. You’ve added more dings to the passenger side of the Civic. And you’ve solicited a frenzied rapping of knuckles on the kitchen door.
There stands Mrs. String, ancient and emaciated, a retired CIA psychic. Your neighbor. Her yoga-garb hangs loose where it should be snug. Her twiggy arms are outstretched and unsteadily supporting a can of mace which more or less waves at your face. “Namaste,” she says, puzzled to see that it’s you. And then, with breathless excitement, “Such calamity! I presumed it was—I don’t rightly know, an intruder! And thusly came prepared.”
“I am so, so sorry, Mrs. String,” you say, relieving her of the mace as if accepting a can of beer at the end of an all-nighter, “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“Oh, quite alright, my dear Mr. Smith. But you did hear it? The gunshot!”
“I did. I saw a squirrel, and I think I shot it with—I know I shot it. I’ve been drinking.”
Mrs. String curls her toes into the snow, wraps her arms around you, pulls herself closer. She looks up and smiles and you see that she’s not wearing her teeth. Her hug is sweetly maternal. “I know what you’re feeling, dear boy,” she whispers. Of course she does, she was a freakin’ CIA psychic.
You shut your eyes. The Pinot coats your brain, and so does the sugar from all those Kisses. It’s the last you recall of the evening.
Mrs. String, along with the begrudging Mr. String in his electric wheelchair, shovel away the tiny carcass and its bed of vermillion slush.
Why am I gifting you this cautionary tale? It’s that I want you to appreciate that within the Conjoined Towns of Pretty and Plain, where aberrance is the burgeoning norm, you—my discerning reader, are better off an observer than a participant.
As a public service, therefore, I bring you The Daily Goose.
A blazingly quick update for the three of you who’ve been steadfastly following this blog since its inception: Get off my back! It’s a process, for goodness sake! Writing, I mean; it’s a freakin’ slow and painful process. Think amateur dentistry. (Not to burden you with the degree of guilt you’re now feeling as you read each and every word that I’ve pressed out of the fat between my ears.)
So, in a goose-shell, here’s my process: First you make the coffee. Okay, did it. Then you drink the coffee. Did it. Then you sit at the computer and type. Doing it. Click-clack, click-clack. Lastly, you put on your pants. Optional.
The first major story to hit this blog is still in the cooker. But it’s going to be fantastic—as entertaining as it is hugely weird. (Dats my thang, baby.) Am hopeful it will be finished before the second week of January. The holiday season is a jumble of interruptions. My normally slow progress becomes—well, remember when the Earth had glaciers?
We’re writing and designing The Daily Goose, your newest go-to blog for stories on all that’s provocative and absurd in the conjoined towns of Pretty and Plain.
We’re stocking up on typewriter ribbon, pistachios, and piping hot pots of java, and can’t wait to get connected to whatever’s left of the Internet. We’ll be with you soon, friends. Maybe in a week. Maybe in a month. Will let you know.
Till then, a very warm welcome. Now, go away! Get, y’all!
Founder / Publisher / Editor / Writer / Receptionist
The Daily Goose