A mystery is afoot. No, I didn’t lose my keys (again), get lost in the woods and find myself halfway to Alvesta (it’s happened before), or require a recipe for ermine stew (if you’re reading this, Furry Weasel Who Must Not Be Named, let this be a warning).
This mystery also has nothing to do with mathematics (took one math class my first year at university, got a C-, and am damn proud of it), unsolved murders (sorry, but I’m no Mikael Blomkvist), or the meaning of life (I’m not Monty Python, either).
The mystery is this: why do you read this column?
Seriously, why do you? 110% Lagom has better pictures. Julie’s Nordic Island is more insightful. Snuggling with the Enemy is more entertaining. And Julie’s Melodifestivalen blog is written by, well, an actual Swede.
So why do you read this? Don’t you have better things to do? Like, I don’t know – go fishing, spend time with your family, or buy something online that you really don’t need and costs way more than it’s worth?
This column isn’t funny. It isn’t insightful. Heck, it’s not even well-written. In the pantheon of great writing, it’s the equivalent of the guy who couldn’t even get hired as the night janitor at the nearby Burger King.
But you’re still reading it. I mean, do you actually enjoy hearing about the misadventures of some poor chap with about as much common sense as an ostrich and who frequently finds himself more out of his element than Steve Buscemi in “The Big Lebowski?”
Hey, buddy: you’re still reading this. Haven’t I made myself clear? This column is about nothing, nothing, and more nothing – with some more nothing added in for good measure.
It’s pointless. It’s rude. It’s downright crass. But if you’ve gotten this far, you’re downright hooked.
Sure, you’ll comment on how terrible this is, how I’m a disgrace to the journalistic profession, and how it should be illegal for me ever to type anything ever again. But just remember this: you chose to read this. Since I doubt the CIA, FSB, or the AIK front line forced you to look at this as part of some elaborate and unquestionably bizarre torture method, you have only yourself to blame, bucko.
Not my fault you’ve lost 90 seconds of your life you’ll never get back.