I sent in an application to be a journalist at The Antarctic Sun. I am blindingly, dizzyingly qualified for the position. I am so qualified that penguins crane their necks and fall over, wiggling about in awe, leaving penguin-shaped snow angels. My qualifications are heroic. They are the unknown couplet that follows Keats' "Beauty is truth and truth beauty, That is all / Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know." Lovers of purity and virtue recognize this, and they clamor for my appointment to the position. They are tired of the filth and degradation in the city, and they want me to go, to be free, to tell the truth about what goes on in Antarctica. They are encouraged by the pleasant email auto-reply that I received, and they dare to raise their hopes ever so slightly.
I am beset by liars and thieves, though, so I have my doubts.
I am a soccer ball, Being kicked around. I also get hit, Without being noticed. The referee calls foul, And somebody picks me up. The forward kicks me into the goal, And starts to shout like crazy. Then I get kicked again, But this time out of the field. No one even sees me. I am all alone, Outside the field. End of the soccer game, I get carried, Out of the game. Bye bye field, I have done my part for today.
Kenneth in San Jose California is one of the stars of the KidPub website. He muses on the changing of the seasons and the exploits of his soccer team, and he also weaves tales of intrigue. Can you solve The Mystery of the Circus Clown before the young detectives can? Possibly. But I have had it with you Sherlock Holmes motherfuckers and your endless braggadocio.