The telephone rang, jolting me from the most pleasant, but strangely odd, dream. The infernal chirping of the cordless phone continued as I reached over to find it. I must have knocked it off the nightstand, because I heard a small "thump" and the ringing moved down about 3 feet. I got out of bed and picked up the phone. I didn't recognize the telephone number, but answered it anyway.
"Hello?"
"Basil?" came the voice on the other end.
"It's 'basil'" I corrected.
"Yes, that's what I said," came the voice. I didn't say anything. He continued, "I'd like to talk to you about your blog."
"Why?" I asked.
"So, you are the 'Basil' of 'Basil's Blog?'" he said.
"It's 'basil' and it's 'basil's blog,'" I corrected.
"Yes, that's what I said. I'd like to talk to you about your blog," He repeated.
"You remember when I asked 'Why?' Well, what I meant by that was, 'Why?'"
"You're not that snotty on your blog," he said.
"Wait till I write about this conversation."
He tried again, "My name is
Michael Moore and I'm doing a documentary on blogs and bloggers. I'm interviewing people who are running blogs.
I'm also blogging my research into bloggers.
"Good for you," I said.
He continued, "I'm outside, actually. Can I come in?"
"No way am I letting you into this house!" I almost yelled.
He came back, "Well, then, can I ask you about your blog?"
"Okay, but why me? Why don't you ask some of the big fish in the blog pond?"
"Who is a big fish?" he asked.
I paused. "Well, that depends. Are you talking political, humorous, sports, cats, photography, or what?"
"I like politics," he said. I could hear his grin. "Politics make me happy! Except when George Bush wins. That makes me sad. I'm sad now."
"Okay, why don't you talk with the folks at '
Daily Kos?'" I offered. "That's a big blog and their politics are close to yours."
Michael Moore hesitated. "To tell you the truth, those people scare me."
"I understand," I said. "What about
Wonkette?"
He paused. "I can't see her. Brings back memories that..." He was quiet.
"Well, go right wing, then. Try Charles Johnson of
Little Green Footballs."
Michael Moore hesitated. "To tell you the truth, those people scare me. Not all of them. I have a distant cousin, Gordon, who hangs around there. But he's the black sheep of the family; too conservative, you know. But, I'm not talking to them. They have guns. And bigger guns than my bodyguard carries."
I sighed. "Okay, why don't you branch out from politics? How about humor?"
"What's that?" he asked.
"It's not important. Just be aware that many people go to humor sites. And they're funny. Some of them."
"Sounds fun, which is sorta like 'funny,' so, yeah. Who do you recommend?"
I thought for a minute. "Ever heard of
TuckerMax?"
I could hear the contempt in his voice. "He's an asshole. And I'm the only asshole in my movies. Who else?"
"What about
IMAO? That site's run by Frank J. Fl..."
Michael Moore interrupted, "Oh, I went to see him already. I didn't know he did humor."
I was silent.
He continued, "I drove down there and some blonde chick answered the door, saw who I was, and beat me up. Then, as I drove off bleeding, she and some crazy-looking fellow shot at me."
"Okay, then," I said. "What about
Right Wing Duck?"
He hesitated. "No, I went to see him already, but I left without speaking to him. Them people scare me."
I thought for a minute. "What about
Jeff Goldstein?"
"No, them people scare me."
"What about
SondraK?" I suggested.
"I saw her already. She beat me up," he whimpered.
"
Nickie Goomba?"
"Those people scare me."
"Susie of
Practical Penumbra?"
"Tried to talk to her already. She beat me up."
"What about Dave Burge at
Iowahawk?" I asked.
"Saw him last week. He made fun of me."
"How about Harvey of
Bad Example?" I suggested.
"I saw him last week, too. Some lady there came out and beat me up. Then hung me upside down in a tree overnight."
This was going nowhere. "Right down the road a ways is Beth who runs '
MY Vast Right Wing Conspiracy' and she..."
"No good," he interrupted. "I stopped by there already and she cursed at me and then she and a little girl beat me up."
"What about the
Flying Space Monkey?" I asked.
"Beth said she'd hurt me again if I came back to that city. I believe her."
I offered, "Well, there are lots of other humor blogs I like that I think you could speak with."
He replied, "Those humor people aren't funny. They're mean."
I smiled. "Okay, what about some of the other big names that cover a wide range of topics?"
"Like who?" he asked.
"Well, there's
Michelle Malkin," I offered.
"Those people scare me," he replied.
"
La Shawn Barber?" I asked.
"Those people scare me."
I thought for a second. This was going nowhere. I needed to get rid of him in some way. I went to the window and looked through the blinds. I could see him sitting in an SUV wearing a ball cap and a gravy-stained "Fur Is Murder" t-shirt. He saw me and waved. I closed the blinds. Then it hit me. I knew what I had to do. But did I dare? I had my misgivings, but I thought of the greater good. "There's one I haven't mentioned. He's a lawyer, and..."
Michael Moore interrupted, "You mean like John Kerry and Hillary Clinton?" I could hear the excitement in his voice.
"Uhhhhh, yeah. That's right. He's a lawyer, and he's just a few hours north of here. About a six-hour drive. He'd be glad to talk with you. And, uh, stop and pick up a puppy. He likes puppies."
I gave him directions to Knoxville and hung up the phone. I paused. This was like fraternizing with the enemy, and I knew there'd be hell to pay. But, sometimes you just do what you have to do.
I picked the phone up and dialed. "Professor Reynolds, please." She placed me on hold. The music was playing and I was humming along:
When she walks, she's like a samba
That swings so cool and sways so gentle
That when she passes, each one she passes goes - ooh
The music stopped and I could feel a chill go through my body. "Yes?" came the voice of the Evil Glenn Reynolds®.
"I just thought I'd let you know, there is someone coming to see you," I said.
"You dare send someone to me? Who do you think you are, pathetic human?!" came the cry from the other end of the phone. "So, when's he getting here?"
"He just left. He's driving an SUV, but I don't think it's his. He's a hobo; you can tell by the way he's dressed. And he's carrying a puppy."
Evil Glenn® laughed, "Very good, very good. You have earned a reprieve. For now, I let you live. But one day.... One day."
As I hung up the phone, his final few words were still ringing in my ears: "Prepare the altar for the sacrifice. And plug in the Cuisinart."
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