Story on Baby Seal Beating Factory, Pictures at 11
I have felt with some leads to some of the stories that have been dumped on my lap the last month or so, are just that, baby seal factory beating stories where I am supposed to take pictures, do interviews, watch these beautiful animals ground up in a blender, and then served to me with a smile as a tasty frozen drink. I am sickened enough not to want to blog here, here, and here.
I have thought of throwing my press pass in a campfire, but my sick and twisted side is watching various car wrecks happen in slow-motion in front of my eyes, so I want to know the ending. I hope it is not a cliffhanger, so I may decide to make a clean break, take the next fork in the road, and go on the path that is the rest of my life.
My tinfoil hat goes off to those in the REAL media that report stories knowing both sides of a story are both sleazy pieces of crap, telling lies, manufacturing evidence. There are always two sides to every story. The more pure someone claims to be, the longer the potential fall from grace is.
There is something said for my maybe going off to an island somewhere warm, with my beaten and well preserved typewriter, and I would like to throw my laptop in a swamp, but will not, as it is the closest thing to something NASA built with a keyboard and screen capable of working below twenty degrees below zero to a temperature where I cannot type as water boils at 212 and the computer can be used to 240.
Before I arrive at my private island please make sure I have enough bottles of my favorite 12 year old single malt Scotch for a drink or two per week, a solar powered fridge for making ice, and I will need a female specialist to rub oil on my back (now taking applications) as I do not want to get the oil on my typing paper soiling what I will write offline.
Ok, call me sick, but I can have my fantasy here, especially on Free Speech Central, blogspot.com, can I not?
I hope not to have any internet, newspapers, or television on my little island.
Maybe it is a dream, maybe it is reality, maybe I will require postal service that comes every 6 months or so.
Yours truly, the Baby Seal Factory Reporter Wannabe Guy, Steven G. Erickson a.k.a. Blogger Vikingas, secret agent screenwriter, BS Artist Extraordinaire
[fess up now, who slashed my name in red, was it me?]
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The Connecticut State Police didn't like what I wrote about them in newspapers, so they sent in this stalker