this is a test of the republish old JD this is only a test.
Transcribed from a garbled mess on a digital recorder delivered by seafowl, here are the last known words of "Idoltime", the self-purported gonzo doctor of blog journalism, on his final assignment documenting the world-record holding phenomenon, the "Blazer's Edge Junk Drawer" from the Blazer's Edge sports blog on SBNation. He is also wanted for questioning by the authorities about the theft of a bush plane, tampering with a Diebold election machine, and impersonating a pilot, a police officer, & a doctor. Authorities are also investigating allegations of stalking behavior brought up by this article. The managing editors of this periodical would also like to discuss collection of $777 in advanced pay with him. If anyone sees idoltime, he has arms and is extremely delusional -- proceed with caution. The magazine takes no responsibility for anything.
Dictating my final story after three sleepless days amidst countless threads of refuse -- given the circumstances, I am lucky to be alive to tell it -- my world-acknowledged indolent pursuit of the truth led me to Blazer's Edge, the site by Blazer fans, for Blazer fans... a cult, really, composed primarily of nogoodniks and foreigners -- rustlers and mutants, I even suspect a few of being zombies. Understanding that I would be in constant peril, I packed all of the essential supplies: my digital voice recorder, thirty-five grapefruit, four rolls of aluminum foil, a machete, seven rolls of duct tape, fifty-seven paper clips, and several cases of stale rice cakes -- somnolence before transcendence when in the line of duty -- the motto of seekers of verisimilitude -- I dare not forget it now on this my most dangerous assignment to date.
My first stop was the main page, the harbor of ataraxia into a pugnacious sea. You could usually count on the cool head of Dave and the wicked kicks of Ben to provide the necessary ballast to keep the ship steady in this tumult. But my journey would not take place on a boat nor could it end at the main page; armed only with my supplies, a forged pilot's license, and a sense of entitlement -- my assignment would only be reached with gallons of gumption and a Piper PA-18-150 Super Cub loaded with my supplies & fuel.
These people came in all flavors and, despite their primitive, cannibalistic ways, managed to derive interesting content much like a 1,000 chimps writing on a 1,000 typewriters would destroy that room and ruin most of the typewriters. But now it was the off-season, and this place had largely devolved into a rancid sump of malformed trade ideas and bloated junk drawers. And I am here to enter the infamous Blazer's Edge Junk Drawer -- the pit of inferno where only the most degenerate reprobates dare tread.
With only my addled wits from the anodyne to comfort me, I dove straight into the belly of the beast. The BE junk drawer causes anguish to boil in the spleens of any hard-working automaton who dared inhale its toxic fumes. Forty-two previous journalists attempting to cover the junk drawer were never heard from again; I suspected many were now moldering -- odds were overwhelming that I would join them in their final resting place.
Landing in the viper's nest -- my head dizzied like a wine-cooler infused prom queen -- a thick fog covered a ground littered with endless threads of junk haphazardly "organized" into threads only somewhat related to one another. But then -- through the haze, a small blue-topped figure shone in the distance, and I swear that a song began playing through a tinny overhead speaker:
"If I could be the sun, I'd radiate like Africa and
Smile upon the world -- Intergalactic love laughter and
If I were the rains, I'd wash away the whole world's pain and
Bring the gift of cool like ice cream trucks on sunny days and
If I was the earth I'd be like mountains bountiful
And if I were the sky so high, I'd be like wind invincible
And if I could be a seed, I would give birth to redwood trees and
If I were the trees, I'd generate the freshest air to breathe in" - (1)
Although I was possibly somewhat smitten with the blue-haired girl -- and there could be no doubt that the romantics had vivid hallucinations foretelling her --
"all that's best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes" - (2)
-- but my true sight was set on the truth, and I intend to deliver it to my faithful readers like a mactruck to where there is no sun. Then again, what better story could there be? Clearly, I had to understand this fascinating being in order to know for certain whether she was my story.
Morality and conscientiousness have no place in journalism; I would have walked on orphaned, midget toddlers using my mother's face to stabilize my gait for the sake of the truth. But my intentions were misjudged -- instantly, the denizens sprung at me from the fog like rabid geese on performance enhancing drugs! The merciless wave of jostling and heckling ensued -- faces, many pale, and bodies writhed about in front of me.
Hopelessly intoxicated from the stale rice cakes -- defending myself was not an option, so I fell. I could not tell whether it was blood or another viscousness covering the ground. A kaleidoscope of wookies and trolls engulfed my perception entirely; prostrated upon the sticky floor amidst a commodious sea of fading honking --
-- I had a dream I was at a garden party with flocks of affluent white folk.. I stepped up to the podium, surprised to find myself as a 10-year old African-American revolutionist:
"Excuse me. Everyone, I have a brief announcement to make. Jesus was black, Ronald Reagan was the devil, and the government is lying about 9/11. Thank you for your time and good night." - (3)
The ensuing riot took the national guard, a seven legions of Canadian Mounties armed with Ahlspiess and Molsons, and Sonny Barger with rusty chainsaw and a head full of five hour energy to bring it to a halt. --
-- A moment of lucidity later, I recognized the sensations of being alive -- stiff lower back pains, sleep crud in my eye, feelings of shame and mistrust from my mother. Feeling lost without a snooze alarm to hit or the fundamentals for a proper bloody mary, I stayed supine - hoping to catch the ruffian hordes incognizant.
But I did not fool anyone -- soon I was being surrounded again. Once the commotion renewed, my head cleared. I came here to report the truth, but what was that story -- why was I here?
Then -- through the crazed mob and the obfuscation -- my eyes met with the girl with blue hair, and I knew what I must do. Reaching deep into my pockets past used Kleenex and Sauron's Ring of Power, I grabbed the keys to the Piper. After unhooking a key to a locker in a train station in ann arbor and my bottle opener, I threw the Piper's keys towards her; she smiled and stood up to retrieve my errant pass. I met her eyes again and nodded -- I had no chance of making it out alive, but she could still escape. I deluded myself into thinking she looked down pleasantly at me one more time as she flew off -- proving once again that pilot licensing is just a capitalist conspiracy by the banking industry and William Hearst -- and a tune played as if in my head:
"Angel came down from heaven yesterday
She stayed with me just long enough to rescue me
And she told me a story yesterday,
About the sweet love between the moon and the deep blue sea
And then she spread her wings high over me
She said she's gonna come back tomorrow
And I said, "Fly on my sweet angel, fly on through the sky" - (4)
Having recorded my tale, I gave a stinking, drunk albatross my bottle opener to ensure safe passage for this tape to reach my editor at the Sports Blog Decennial. I have learned to walk and to talk with these primatives and am taking on their atavistic ways; soon there will be an open scrimmage - hopefully, they do not sacrifice the losing team's players to their barbaric gods. Even if I were to be rescued one day, I fear I would require extensive reinstitutionalization and repeated rounds of shock treatment -- possibly a lobotomy -- if I ever hoped to integrate with the mainstream. (ed note: This was actually noted word-for-word on his employee file when he was hired three years ago.) And of course I'd like to see whatever became of that girl with the blue hair, for she truly represents the American dream of freedom, liberty, and basketball.... plus, I left the grapefruit, machete, and duct tape in the Piper.
Appreciation to Michael Franti & Spearhead (1), Lord Byron (not Scott) (2), the Boondocks comic strip (3), and Jimi Hendrix (4) for providing me with great words to steal to fill in my own words -- channeling the great fodder of cannon himself, Hunter S. Thompson.
And, of course, all of this is dedicated to GalacticLove and her imminent departure for España. Fly on.. be safe.