Hi, my name is [Palinode], and I write a weblog called "The Palinode". If my name were [Stan] or [Wet Jet], I suppose my weblog would be called "The Stan" or "The Wet Jet". Respectively. It strikes that there's something silly about this eponymous technique; it reminds me too much of the aliens from Battlefield Earth, who called themselves Psychlos and came from the planet Psychlo.¹

It also strikes me that "Wet Jet" would probably rate as the worst nickname ever. What girl would cross the room to giggle with shy-but-handsome Jimmy "Wet Jet" Natheran? Would he ever make the varsity football team, or would ole' Wet Jet get rejected again, despite his athletic prowess and wicked Trans Am? Poor Jimmy Wet Jet. His father owned a hosiery business and his grade one classmates let the confusion between hosiery and hoses give rise to Jimmy's unfortunate nickname. After high school and a failed freshman college year, he'll drift into drug abuse, prostitution and fact-checking at a glamorous New York publishing company. His memoirs, "You'll Never Get the Wet Jet, or How I Got Fired From Henry Holt," will rocket him into a brief period of literary renown. He will be f�ted in New Yorker Magazine as "a 3:00 AM rocket-burst of literature, an Ice Capades matinee on crystal meth, a Crazy Carpet ride into the heart of America's nightmare". After sales surpass 50,000 copies he will pick a fistfight with Stephen Frey and die of heart failure after a two-week binge on fortune cookies, hair tonic and speed.

You are a reader of fine tastes and therefore will enjoy a honking big page of Kermit-inspired verse.

PALINODE'S UP-TO-THE-MINUTE GUIDE ON OFFICE HAPPENINGS TODAY

The IT guy shuffles some papers over by the printer.

Somewhere a mouse double-clicks and a hard drive gurgles.

The printer whirs briefly.

The photocopier spils out a slice of green light as it copies a cost report.

Total silence. No one types, speaks, shuffles anything. No computers beep. Only the cycling of machines tucked away in the corner of the basement.

Someone says "optometrist" to herself and giggles. Silence again.

¹As soon as I typed out "Psychlo" I got the unnerving feeling that I had written the same line or pursued the same joke a few dozen entries ago, so I Googled my site for any mention of those ten-foot baddies with a lust for gold and no shame about naming a whole planet after themselves. The search button said "Google search," which began to echo in my head like "Hulk smash!" This is what happens when I'm overtired.

parode - exode