Arts
It’s Christmas. Whoopee. What do you want from me? Seriously. What do you want? If you deigned to communicate, I might have a target at which to aim. As it is, I discharge my arrows blindly into the murky yonder, awaiting the Word. A yelp to announce a misfire. Co-ordinates for adjustment. A “hip hip hooray” for a bullseye. Be there even souls proximate? This Archer knows not. All He can say for certain is that He is here, with quiver, projectiles and a website in development. So throw Him a bone. Last night, in the midst of imbibing a pint of petrol-station sherry, I tendered Pfidze a festive lark (my pile of board games has, over the course of lockdown, come to represent the limitations of human endurance, a mocking monolith of infernal ennui, and so it has been decreed that all ludal constructs must now spring neurally): I would feature any two words of her choosing in this blurb and derive humour therefrom. Given Pfidze’s cake-philia, it is perhaps unsurprising that her donation was “congress tart”. That said, given the relative obscurity of the term and her abject grappling with fluency, the unsurprise is somewhat neutralised. We uncomfortably end up in a place that is neither surprising nor unsurprising and, if nothing else, that is something. All of this simply is, which I did not see coming. Anyway, congress tart… Something something something Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. I don’t know. I am so very hungover. If it was unclear, I’m the Archer.Happy (insert fashionable nomenclature).