I should tell you a little bit about myself. I’ve been a Barbarian for close to ten years, now. I originally wanted to study Medieval
Literature, but I was told the Middle Ages hadn’t really gotten rolling yet, it being only 596 AD and all.

There really weren’t that many vocational choices at the turn of the Seventh Century. My father and mother were both dung-shoveling peasants, as were their parents and grandparents.

Toward the end of school I went to see the guidance counselor. She brought me into her office and had me sit down.

“So what can I do for you?” she asked.

“I don’t know what to do when I finish school,” I said.

She smiled, and reached into her file cabinet. “I have just the thing,” she said, and handed me this test.

I spent a couple of hours answering hundreds of questions about what I do and don’t like, and then I brought the test back to the guidance counselor. She told me to wait a second while she processed my results, then immediately crumpled up the test, threw it into the trash, and handed me a piece of paper. It said:

DUNG-SHOVELLING PEASANT

“What?,” I exclaimed, shocked. “You didn’t even look at my answers.”

“There’s only one career, dear,” she replied, still smiling, and showed me out.

I figured it was probably time to leave town, so I packed my bags and said goodbye to my brothers, sisters and parents. I can still see them, crying and waving goodbye, little bits of dung flying everywhere.

Hello there. I am called Ulf.

SpoonFighter has asked me if I would be interested in taking over responsibility for this blog, for a while.

I said Ok, and then burned down his house and carried off all his money and Mrs. SpoonFighter. I’m just kidding of course. He didn’t have any money.

I have always wanted a blog. Not many people have them here in 606 AD. Not many computers, either: I can only post an entry if we sack a village and Alaric doesn’t set the library on fire.

Soon we will become good friends, I hope. Perhaps you will post many nice comments, or even send me email. Or your address. And I will come to your house to drink mead with you. And then I will burn it down. And carry off your wife.

Dear Fans Of The Spoon,

I’m a little tired of blogging. My life just isn’t that interesting, and writing about “issues” seems to put me in a bad mood, not to mention making me deeply insecure that I’ve offended some group who’ll show up at my house to burn me in effigy. (Although, at this point in life, any attention is good attention.)

I will be handing over the heavy responsibility that is SpoonFighter to someone I know, for a month at least. He tells me that he will write his first post in the next several days. I’m sure that you’ll enjoy his unique perspective on life, so please do give him a chance. He is very sensitive, though, so please do be nice to him, post lots of affirming comments, send him loving e-cards and so forth.

Yours,

SF

It’s true. I’ve done a lousy job of posting anything, let alone content that is original, creative and interesting. I have lots of ideas, but no time these days. My corporate overlords have heaped many fascinating and time-consuming projects upon me, projects which will no doubt change the way we live and think for generations to come; projects which represent techtonic shifts in the global human experience.

That, and I have a new game for my Xbox.

:-D

I was trying to think of something funny to write, but I’m stuck.

All humor makes fun of someone, something, or some group. All jokes have a victim. The problem is that so many victims are now off-limits, it’s difficult to write something funny without getting into trouble.

For example, it is not ok to make jokes about black people, or being black. Ever, ever, ever ever ever. There are only two exceptions to this rule: (1) You yourself are black (I am not); or (2) You are making a joke about Al Sharpton, Jesse Jackson, or Michael Jackson.

(Personally, I think this is a very good rule, because black people have suffered enough indignity from white people in America, and also because they are almost all bigger and stronger than me.)

I’ve come to believe that there’s a list, maintained by a secret committee, which determines who can make fun of whome whom. A member of one group can get away with making fun of any group farther down on the list, but not a higher one:

1. Blacks
2. Latinos
3. People with Disabilities
4. Homosexuals
5. Jews
6. Asians
7. Whites
8. Rednecks
9. Midgets “Little People”
10. Vegetarians
11. Michael Jackson

(To be honest, I’m not sure about #9, because they are surprisingly quick and I’ve never been able to catch one. Same for #11.)

Since I’m a white person, I could make a joke about “Little People” and as long as there weren’t any “Little People” present, everyone would have a good laugh. On the other hand, if I made a joke about black people - which I never would, I swear to God - nobody would laugh and I might get my ass kicked. Possibly by a group of “Little People.”

I personally do not like this list. I don’t like being so far down on it, and I think that the “Little People” deserve to be several notches higher, too. In fact, I don’t see why there should be a list at all. Can’t we all enjoy a little good-natured ribbing, then link arms, and celebrate our common humanity by making fun of Michael Jackson?

As promised, I will now entertain you with riveting tales of my recent safari in an un-named Southern state. Actually, I’m just going to show you a couple pictures and make fun of the people who live there.

This is a place where “mullet” haircuts are plentiful, especially on the women-folk. As you can see from the picture to the right, I found a store at which you can not only have your hair cut in this style, but can even have it “fresh” and “smoked,” whatever that means.

Many of the locals believe that the outcome of the Civil War is still up in the air, and are waiting for the refs to review the slow-motion replay. Confederate team paraphenalia is readily available.

The question that always plagued me is why my grandparents - neither of whom is a Southerner or a redneck - settled there 40 years ago when it can only have been worse. Weirder still is the fact that nearly all my other relatives followed them.

Some of those relatives live in a really schwanky trailer park - sorry, “Retirement Village” - that has its own golf course. Actually, they live in a very nice manufactured home that I’m quite certain cost more than my little brick house, and one of their neighbors has a Hummer.

Mrs. Spoonfighter and I were very fortunate to catch their big Christmas parade. What fun!

Anyway. Now we’re back. Obviously we had a wonderful time.

My deepest apologies to Rev. Gish and D.A.F.H., whose most recent comments I have only just now approved, and to all you kind souls who loiter at my little corner of the web. I have been neglecting you.

My excuse is that I have been visiting my grandparents. They live in a location that has yet to be informed of the Confederacy’s defeat, and which still doesn’t have any unsecure wireless hotspots or internet cafes. As such, I was unable to post, or even check my email.

Anyway, I’m back. I have fun stories from my time in the South, most of which are complete fabrications, and I’ll try to share them with you this week.

I would also like to say thanks to all of you who accepted my invitation to discuss my previous post. Thanks for all your ideas, and thanks for keeping it civil. Please do keep discussing, should you feel so inclined, and rest assured that I have not passed on your treasonous, un-American statements to the Feds.

I only do this for the attention, you know. And any attention is good attention. Unless it’s the physically-violent kind, in which case it’s kinky. I didn’t mean that. Anyway. I have been laboring under the impression that nobody but two or three people - all of whom are considering restraining orders - actually visit this website. Imagine my joy to discover SpoonFighter mentioned on another blog that I didn’t even know existed!

From Jack Of All Blogs, the post entitled “7 Blogs You’ve Never Heard Of”

Wasters of Time

SpoonFighter
This guy has way to much time on his hands. It’s pretty obvious. Worth a read over. It’s dumb And sometimes you need to read something really stupid.

Wait, that’s not very nice, is it? Should I be grateful for the nod, or should I be hurt like a sensitive, Off-Broadway thesbian thespian, withdrawing into my room to gorge myself on rocky-road ice cream and cough syrup until I finally write a pathetic, self-indulgent suicide note without punctuation and then even more pathetically try to slash my wrists with a Gillette Mach 3 razor and wind up in the mental ward for three months?

I’m going to have to think about this. I might be back.