As our own Blog Guy once said
to his readers,
“Hilton’s as dingy as a bell,”
As Cain announced when he knew he was trounced,
“It was swell, voters, swell,”
As the Blog Guy said to his readers with ease,
“Don’t forget make comments, please,”
As fwd cried in the duchess’s ear,
“Kate, why not choose me, dear?”

It was just one of those things
Just something that Ronald’s spam brings
One of those peaches or beaches from one of those kings
Just one of those things

It was just one of those blogs,
Just one of those things that leaves you agog
A trip to the moon on the BT-69′s wings,
Just one of those things

She’s a flop!
She’s the brainless teaser.
She’s the shlock!
She’s a Swanson’s dinner.
She’s a Bieber fan, a can of Spam
She’s a cheap tattoo, a print in the loo
She’s a Yugo
She’s a bounced check, a total wreck, a flop,
But if, Blog Guy, she’s the bottom, you’re the top!

Blog Guy, as a loyal fan, please don’t take this wrong
Please, please, please if we’ll always have Paris
Crop those photos, or there’ll be more songs
Give us her shoes, her clothes, even those skeleton hands
But on her head, crop a paper bag! …..

My story is much too sad to be told,
But practically ev’rything leaves me totally cold.
The only exception I know is the case
Where I’m out on a quiet spree
Fighting vainly the old ennui
And I suddenly turn and see
Your ubiquitous face.

I get no kick from champagne.
Mere alcohol doesn’t thrill me at all,
So tell me why should it be true
That I get a laugh out of you?

Some get a kick from cocaine.
I’m sure that if I took even one sniff
That would bore me terrific’ly too,
Yet I get a laugh out of you.

I get a laugh ev’rytime I see
Your Reuters photograph before me.
I get a kick though it’s clear to me
You obviously don’t realize your stupidity.

I get no kick in a plane.
Flying too high on a BT-69 in the sky
Is my idea of nothing to do,
Yet I get a laugh out of you.

Paris, you do nothing to me.
Your vacuous simper simply mystifies me.
Tell me, why should it be
You have the pow’r to hypnotize sheep.
Shove off your creep,
So I can sleep.
Nascar this
You narcissist.

Your fans,
You’ve got them under your spell
Screw that doodoo that you spew so well.
For you do nothing to me
That that Duchess of Cambridge can do.
Let me live ‘neath her spell!
If you stay around
I’ll make you my clown
Just give me Kate,
And clear out post-haste!
For you do nothing to me
That one smile from her can do
Yes, only Kate will do.

I laugh at Paris in the springtime
I laugh at Paris in the fall
I laugh at Paris in the summer when her abs she chisels
I laugh at Paris in the winter when her fitness fizzles

I laugh at Paris in every photo
Every photo in which she appears
I laugh at Paris, oh why do I laugh at Paris
Because her fall from grace seems so near

http://blogs.reuters.com/oddly-enough/20 11/09/14/coming-soon-the-sound-of-stupid  /

Does this blog come in Braille, by any chance?