This blog just came to me, really, just now, this very moment, as I was looking at another journalist's blog, called The Freditor, and the idea of a play on words suddenly danced through my head, and it came to me--the Retorter. Not reporter, which is what I really am by trade, but retorter, which is what I am by instinct.
One definition of retort is "to reply, especially in a quick, caustic, or witty manner." Now, those who know me would definitely say I respond quickly, sometimes too quickly. Many would say I frequently let loose with caustic comments. And I'd like to think a good number would say I'm witty, but I'll leave you to decide for yourself. If you're still reading, I must be doing something right so far.
What I plan to do here--and I say "plan" with full understanding that I just invented this blog about 10 minutes ago--is exactly what the title implies: retort. To what, you may ask? To anything. To the news. To sports. To new products. To celebrity hijinks. To my eccentric collection of family members of friends, living or dead. To the ranting homeless Vietnam vet in the BART station. To nature. To love. To myself.
That about covers it. So here's my first retort, and it's directed at President Obama: Just what in hell are you doing, buddy? I mean, I can understand wanting to be cooperative, but given how combative Republican leaders have been with you, why on earth would you let them tell you when to address the country? You're the freakin' President, with a capital P. You decide when to address the country, and the country schedules around you. That's how it works. Remember, you asked for this job--now show some backbone before we find ourselves stuck with one of the loonies lining up to unseat you.
Until my next retort...
