The blogger has a fitful night

Hey, I was fifty-five and out of work so I took my rubber-bumper car into the Blog-o-sphere and started bonkin around. Work out some aggression. Assert my little ego. Ugh ugh ugh. Like a fat man's belly. Man, it was crowded in there! People in little rubber-bumpered cars everywhere. Bonkin, crashin, bumpin, smashin. At first the effin din scared the bejabbers outta me. Hey poot, remember those free-for-alls we used to have out in back of Covert Avenue? When Lame Jamie got popped in the noggin and needed stitches? Well, this was just like that -- everybody squealin and screechin at the same time. Lotsa lung power. So loud you couldn't make out any meaning. You just felt the emotion.

This Blog-o-sphere bumper rally is goin on all the time. 24/7/365. I think to myself, they shoot horses, don't they? People hangin on for dear life, rubber bumpers half hangin off their teeny dented cars. But they gotta get themselves a hit of some of that Blog-o-sphere therapy. The bonkin goes on all night long. In the wee small hours of the mornin, you still hear that thump thump thump. Then the screechin picks up at dawn as the Professional News comes on and the Big Bumper dudes take off their gloves. Bonk, crash, bump, smash. Here I come, gonna knock you silly. Bang!

It's nine and here come the Free Market Boys! Pop! What're they sayin? Pop! Unemployment is slowing! Pop! Great news! Makes me happy. Makes my effin cheeks rosy. I throw back my head and let out a howl. They hit my car broadside. I shudder with delight as they whomp me around. They keep bonkin me until I get punchy. I wanna tell the Free Market Boys, "Hey, guys, take my money. Please. Have fun. All is forgiven. Invest. Take my tiny nest egg and crack it open. Make a tiny omelet. Just stop bonkin me, will ya?"

The noise reaches a peak around noon. Forget about lunch. Just shoot us some caffeine. I wanna keep crashin until this damn car falls apart. Here I am, the caffeinated bloggin boy havin a blast in the Blog-o-sphere bumper rally. Hooked up with a pod-sourced crowd, shoutin with the hoi polloi, grindin with the great unwashed, moshin in the people's pit, a happy ingot in the melting pot. Who cares if we're goin deaf? Who cares if we're goin blind? We gotta keep rallyin till we're all out of metaphors.

If you're outta metaphors, you're dead. Right, poot? I mean, they shoot donkeys, don't they?