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To Tweet, Or Not To Tweet:

That Is the Question, Donald

©2017 Hal Padgett


A retrospective of the surviving manifestations of my brief bout with twitteritis. It lasted about two weeks, with a modest output of just under 1,540 characters.


Twitter’s stingy 140-character per-Tweet limit doth betray as shite Polonius’s assertion that brevity is the soul of wit.


My dying whisper will be “avenge me.” I pray all within earshot will have the wisdom to interpret this as mere theatricality.


On language: “Jumbo shrimp” is an oxymoron. “Assless chaps” is a redundancy. “Puking” is a participle that gushes first, dangles later.


After taking a riot squad rubber bullet in the head, I adjusted my rebel’s yell to: “I’m as mad as hell, but I can take it some more.”


Christmas postscript: There is no greater distraction from respon-sibility than unrequited flatulence.


Most house merlots could be put to better use as a disinfectant, or heated with Sterno to repel mosquitoes.


Given the grim possibility of romance in 2010, I’ve been practicing key succesful relationship phrases like “What?” “I don’t know,” and “nothin’.”


It's already the third day of the new year, yet I remain untouched by human hands or the splatter of sizzling lard.


My new year’s resolution: Gonna keep my pimp hand strong.


My house cleaning abruptly halted when I encountered a rat-size dust bunny as old and hideous as the Dred Scott Decision.


Say goodbye to the pursuit of happiness with the USDA’s new mandate that revenge is a dish best served at an internal temperature of 160°.

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