All this clicking nonsense is getting downright ridiculous.

On the hottest afternoon in Georgia in seven years, the seventy-second floor of the tallest building in Atlanta was hardly abuzz with activity. A pimply-faced boy slowly pushed a squeaky mail cart down a hall. Somewhere a telephone rang. A receptionist put down her cigarette, cleared her throat, and began to talk.

“Lilliput, Brobdingnag, Houyhnhnm, and Yahoo....Miss Gulliver speaking. How may I direct your call?” said the receptionist into the mouthpiece of her silver telephone.

“Glrbfq fnjx kqdmsl, wqvx,” said the telephone.

“Certainly, sir. I’ll put you through to Mr. Brobdingnag,” said the receptionist. “Please hold.”

Across the hall, another perfectly coiffed receptionist picked up another ringing telephone and said, “Jersey, Holstein, Ayrshire, and Guernsey. May I be of assistance?”

“Kfwscy ljvdn qwerty uiopn?” said the telephone.

“Ms. Guernsey is not in the office today, ma’am. Would you care to speak to Ms. Ayrshire instead?” said the receptionist.

Arthur Pilkington ripped the sheet of paper out of the typewriter, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it in the general direction of the wastebasket. He stood up and went into the kitchen and made himself a Harvey Wallbanger, even though it was only ten o’clock in the morning.

Another morning, another wastebasket already half full. It was going to be a long day.


Well, enough of that. I tossed off that chunk of immortal prose in a matter of minutes (could you tell?) to make the following point:

I’m beginning to hate clicking on links. Everybody and his brother puts links in posts, me included. No self-respecting member of the blogging community could possibly post anything without links in it.

We do it because we can.

Perhaps we’re all going to Hell in a handbasket.

Now go and check out those links.