Episode 96: The Blog-ification of Alfred P.

There are strange things done in the Big Nickel
By harriers who toil for gold;
The northern trails have secret tales
That will make you beg for Yaktrax
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the periphery of Lake Ramsey
I blogged about Alfred P.

Now Alfred P. was a CWOSSA boi you see, where winter is soft and lame.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the 'bury, God can only explain.
His runs were miserable, but the land of nickel seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in he - res."

On December 12th he yogged his sorry ass along some snowy street.
Talk of the snow! through his balaclava's breach it stabbed like a driven cleat.
If his swim goggles he'd remove, then his lashes froze till he couldn't see;
People in cars thought it was funny, but the only one to disagree was Alfred P.

And that very night, as he donned his swim goggles and a snow suit,
And everyone else was inside, as the weather network did call for a stormy brute,
He turned to me, and "Gogs," says he, "I'll probs die on this yog;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse to dedicate me a post on your blog."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he typed, seeming done:
"It's this blighted blizzard, and it's got right hold of my Sunday long run.
Yet 'taint the pace - it's my awful dread of dwindling mileage that's a pain;
So I want to you to swear, that living or dead, about my run you'll explain.

A troll's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore it wouldn't be too convoluted;
And he started on across the campus; but God! he looked fucking stupid.
He crouched against the wind, and he raved all yog long about asshole motorists spraying him above the knee;
And before nightfall a broken soul and ice covered goggles were all that was left of Alfred P.

There wasn't a thing to blog in the land of Gogs, and so I typed, boredom-driven,
With a niggling urge to lampoon that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to my desktop, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your thesaurus and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to blog Yogi's jokes jog."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the 'net is a strange circus.
In the hours to come, though it was kinda fun, in my heart how I cursed Robert Service.
In the long, long hours, by the lone screenlight, while my suitcases, piled high,
Imposed their malcontent to this homeless blogger - O God! what a nigh'.

And every minute these familiar verses seemed to long and longer grow;
And on I went, though my ideas were spent and the material was getting low;
This blog was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

'Till I came to the periphery of Lake Ramsey, and I remembered my muse;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called "Yogenfruzz".
And I imagined it, and I laughed bit, and I looked at this frozen fool;
Then "This," said I, with a sudden cry, "happened to me in high school."

Some verses I tore from a book, and I came up with an idea for this entry;
Some words I found just lying around, in an online rhyming dictionary;
The rhymes were just flowin' and I was in the zone - such literacy you seldom see;

Then I clicked "publish post" on the editing page, and I blogged about Alfred P.

Then I went offline, for I didn't like to see my number of hits so low;
And the heavens scowled, and I howled, and the wing began to blow.
It was still icy cold in the nickel, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, because I was south of the 45th degree;
And the Superstack's smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the chat window I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the little green dot reappeared and ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but bravely said: "I'll just see what's going down.
I guess he's cracked, and it's time I see how bad;" ... then the chat window I opened wide.

And there was Yogi, all frozen and crazy, defrosting his balls;
And he had frozen fingers you could see a mile, and he said: "pLeasr tellls me who\= youi are'
It's awfpul up here, and zI greatlty fear that tomorrow's run will be equally shite -
Finally knowing your identity would likely make it kind of alright."

There are strange things done in the Big Nickel

By the harriers who toil for gold;

The northern trails have their secret tales

That would make you beg for Yaktrax;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the periphery of Lake Ramsey

I blogged about Alfred P.