You tell me, because I have no idea.

Did you notice that Blog rhymes with Flog, which is Japanese for a common amphibian living in still waters throughout the world. Always jumping in the water with a little croak when you don't expect it, the amphibians I mean, I suppose…though in the spring time those little peepers made a lot of racket but were impossible to find tiny and camouflaged as they were and hiding in the dead weeds that lined the swamp so that you could not really find the edge and would get your feet suddenly wet as you stalking the small peeps from the invisible enticing little Flogs, errr..I mean Frogs stepped unwittingly into the muddy bottom through the clear waters of the swamp. This swamp, which was behind my boyhood home, what kinda word is boyhood any way, was always filled with leaves just beneath the surface and in the winter you could ice skate among the swamp maples it was like skating in a forest, which as a young boy I used to dream about simply proving that dreams are replays, with some artistic license, of the previous days and weeks memories. So as you get older I suppose your mind begins to fill up with leftover tracts of half deleted memories till that time when, exceeding your bandwidth, you either stop dreaming, or begin to lose your memories to make room for more replayed dreams, because there is not a little warning window that pops up to tell you, hey fool you are remembering too much and are running low on virtual memory and had best shut down some applications before your body steps in and deletes the programs as it sees fit. How bad can that get when your body's registry entries get corrupted?....well you know there is a bit of a problem when you accidentally poke your self in the eye and then wet your pants in automatic response.... being reminded instantly of stepping into swamp water while chasing frogs, not that I have wet my pants recently though I have chased frogs like the one big green frog, which people often mistake for bull frogs, that my son found at his grandmother’s (on his mother’s side), the real one, grandmother I mean and not the X wife’s boyfriend’s mother whom is sold as a grandmother to trusting children, this past summer while on vacation and which he took to the river and jointly with his sister tossed to freedom amongst the soggy tumble weeds that having blown in the water during the past weeks windstorm now clogged the shoreline like so much spiky brown seaweed. Tumble weeds, and apples of course, being the major exports of this state seeing as how the local folks won’t allow their local grown transuranics to leave as a result of a misguided politico’s attempt at notoriety by shutting down the incoming transport of low level zoomie infested trash which coincidently prevents the removal of the nastier and even the nastiest stuff on the planet. Such helpful buggers these politicians, some of whom are to no one but themselves beholdin, you can bet they have forgotten how to dream long time passin now beyond a Frogs age ya sure. They Flog the fledgling minds to suit their own needs (“yes she’s your grandmother ”) , and well at’s aright then to bloody Blog which incidentally rhymes with Flog and of course that is, as noted earlier, the Japanese word for a common amphibian.