Not sure what I was thinking or if I was even thinking, I punched up a certain blog list to see what the Third Tier was up to. The Third Tier is my group of blogs I call up when the starting line up has been pulled from the game and all the of the blogs riding the pine have already been tapped to pinch hit.
Mixing it up with this motley crew of droolers, foolers, and scalawags is always an interesting journey into the land of odd. Often, but never two times in a row, some even make some sense. On rare occaisions when the moon has gone blue and after that fifth shot, they all strike a chord that might be considered music to my ears as I leer, fear, and jeer.
"Right on Bro"
"You Go Girl"
"Oh Dude, that is just plain rude, crude and lewd. You ain't supposed to eat that."
Good ole boys who collect chainsaws and then post their latest score, that 1954 Homelite double bladed topping saw. Though I have never seen the guardian of this blog, I imagine him to be light on dental work, but flush with a full closet of overalls.
More than few rabid voices from the fringes of the political/religious wilderness will reinforce my ongoing decision to desperately continue clinging to the wishy washy center. Like scavengers in the dark distance hills yipping and nipping at the heels of unlucky strangers who make the mistake to happen by, these zealots go for imaginary jugglers and invisible bogeymen who I am told by all of them are going to one day send us down a black hole.
A sportsman who is positive that the reason Tom Brady is so charmed is because he sold his soul one day when out on a collegiate stroll. Lucifer seduced him with an autographed football and a case of Valley Forge Brew.
Then there's Yardman guy. His collection of over 300 almost antique Yardman tractors and lawn mowers is supposed to be the most envied collection of said machines in the known universe. And most likely envied in a few unknown ones.
There's the blog dedicated to wife swapping, fluids freely exchanging electronically with pictures and arrows just to make sure we get it right. I always feel guilty over my voyeurism on this blog, but hey at least I don't have to give out my credit card number. And the woman who pens the words is a pretty damn good writer. I like her kiss my butt, there's a piece of misteltoe on my coattails attitude.
I would gladly link them here in my blog if I didn't already feel wierd enough as it is.