The Age of Innocence

Uh-oh-- I'm a little in love.

It's not with an antique Volkswagen Beetle, or a song from the Victorian era, or a retro-chic men's dress shirt, and don't worry Mrs. Apron, it's not with some tight Villanova law student either.

No. I'm in love with some random schmegeggie who somehow found his or her way to my humble little blog by engaging in a Random Act of Googness.

Every day or so people come here, sometimes intentionally, sometimes accidentally, and, really, I'm not picky. I'll take either. I love all who enter here, because you're choosing to take some time out of your app-filled day and pull your bar stool up next to mine.

And I appreciate that. It may not seem like it all the time, but I do.

While I definitely have love in my heart/trousers for each and every person who reads "My Masonic Apron," whether it's once or 794 times, there's one person out there for whom my love is exponential, Freudian, all-encompassing, and damn well near Terpsichorean.

Yes, it's true. I'm in love. I'm in love with whomever arrived at my blog after typing the following question into the vastness of Google:

"What does 'pull my pud' mean?"

God. I could kiss you-- on your pud, even-- I love you so much. (Hopefully you're not a minor.) I was just filled with such a sense of immense delight when I say that somebody had Googled "What does 'pull my pud' mean?" and got to... ME!

ME!!!!

Pull my pud! I say that! And I LOVE saying that, and other stuff like it! And I don't know if this random Google-face got the answer s/he was looking for by arriving at my blog, and I don't care, because it's not about conferring information to people-- it's about broadening their horizons, about creating question flowers out of question seedlings, it's about painting with all the colors of the wind.

How high does the Sycamore grow? Who gives a tit? What does 'pull my pud' mean? That's a real question, Pocafuckinghontas.

You might find this difficult to believe, but I, as a true vulgarian of the highest, apron-wearing order, love innocence, and the charming naiveté inherent in the asking of a question like, “What does ‘pull my pud’ mean?” makes me very, very happy—over the moon, in point of fact. I’m like the goddamned cat with the runcible spoon when I encounter sweet, cherubic questions like these. I have to believe that the only people alive today who don’t know what “pull my pud” means are formerly home-schooled, sack-cloth-wearing Iowans, but maybe I’m wrong. Maybe there is an unjaded, unmaligned sector of the population out there that faces the world with a St. Olaf-like glint in its eye. And, if that’s the case, then I’m glad they’re out there, asking their questions and getting their answers.

(Whoa—second Disney reference?)

Because, really, in a world where U.S. Presidents cigar-fuck their interns and I.M.F. heads sexually-assault chambermaids with their sloppy, yogurt-dicks, the fact that some random somebody, somewhere got to my blog by Googling “What does ‘pull my pud’ mean?” is just about the last, breathless hope for humanity.

And I think that’s fucking beautiful. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go put on a pair of black mambos and strengthen my armadillo.