Doilies. Doilys? Doilies. Are there still doilies? When I was young, our living room was littered with doilies, as if they had drifted down from a giant stalk of Queen Anne’s Lace. We made valentines by carefully picking up a paper doily, brushing off the hanging chad, touching it with mucilage, and pressing it onto the red construction paper. And never once snagged a soulmate for all the trouble. Are doilies gone? Or are they experiencing a renaissance? Why shouldn’t they, I am. I’ll carry them along on my wave. There should be doilies in life.
This isn’t helping the image of hulking masculinity I’ve been trying to cultivate, is it? Why can’t I write about lug wrenches or Portland cement? Doilies! If someone in authority gets wind of this, I’m going to have my testosterone license revoked. And then where will I be? I’ll get all soft and baby-like. The adorable tuft of hair on my chest will disappear. My giblets will wither on the vine.
Perhaps I’m saying too much. You think? Well, the purpose of this blog, as expressed in the Mission Statement on page 7 of the Dummies’ Guide To Crackskullbob, is free and unfiltered confession, larded with as much truthfulness as I can stand, masquerading as loony adolescent flights of fancy, so that you, dear reader, will shake your great woolly heads and say, “that Wally...” while I sit at my keyboard crying bitter tears. In a manly sort of way.