The Great Unknown

So, we're all heading off into the great unknown....

First Clause: Lionheart Leaks

As defined by the Richard Tattoni Free Dictionary, a clause is simply "a particular and separate damn article, stipulation, or proviso in a treaty, bill, or contract." I don't have a clause binding me to write tales of Lionheart Leaks, but I'm plotting fresh ideas for 60 to 70 installments in the offline serial novel not-yet-ready-to-blog.

And you can start by trying to find anything done online about Lionheart Leaks and simply go Beyond The Rum Diary. E.B. White was an American writer and lucky bastard who was a contributor to The New Yorker magazine. White believed "the best writing is rewriting." In other words, the best writing is editing. We find all kinds of free online books, but mine will be well-edited and it will shine a new light on your fears of radio. 

Second Clause: Ho, Ho, Ho 

Christmas is a time to give generously. "Ho, ho, ho" is a deep-throated laugh or chuckle used as the laugh of Santa Claus or even the Jolly Green Giant. The Daniel Blowden Show wishes everyone a happy holiday season. If you haven't finished your fucking shopping or you don't know what to buy, there are always goddamn gift cards: 

gift card

n.

1. A prepaid credit card can be used as an alternative to cash.
2. A gift that basically means, “Merry Christmas, I know literally nothing about you.”

I'm going to share a motherfucking poem:

Santa Claus Wasn't My Friend

I knew Santa Claus, who was trusty in his way,

When he came near, his busy elves ebbed away.

And with fond memories, Donner jingled away,

Ebbing or dying to go, Blitzen would run away.

Of his choice virtues, I can speak on his behalf,

Or hear the drunk and Rudolph’s red-nosed laugh.

(And they never did meet again on George Street).

I coined wishing wells for penniless spirits from hell,

His dreams dropped, twisting from sadness to grief.

He dreamed of his family, trapped in a prison cell,

He was behind bars, steel barriers without relief.

This would be the jolly old man’s ineffable fate

That he did time while Mrs. Claus played late.

(I wish they worked together on George Street).

The North Pole or Hamilton or any living land

Frightened just in time for a Christmas witch.

Mrs. Claus formed a steamy female punk band.

Near the playground, she would sing like a bitch

Or strolled with their child and dog to the store,

And he’d see them there and recall longing lore.

(Over a haze he wouldn’t work on George Street).

                                      

Let love be the demise of any other known man,

But not for this Santa Claus and his heart of stone;

He’s strong, unmistakable, and a trustworthy man.

One day he will pay his mortgage and bank loan.

Those past days were a decade to flash or blur,

Till a further step, he’ll live to support her.

(He wasn’t my friend on George Street).