Suggested Audio Jukebox ♫
 Tricky Disco “Housefly”
 AC/DC “Fly on the Wall”
Well would you look at me, I’m a fly on the wall. How delightfully novel is that? Before you go rolling up those newspapers and loitering with intent to strike, I’d like to make it clear that I wiped my boots before I entered and have absolutely no intention of starting any kind of unsolicited poop party in the foreseeable. I know what people say when we’ve got our backs turned – “Get him fellas before the little bastard takes off in reverse” – and feel a tad disillusioned by the general consensus towards my kind. Public opinion states that flies are a pesky nuisance at very best and should be consigned to the sin bin for crimes against feces alone.
While I’m not about to suggest there aren’t a fair few dirty rotten scoundrels among the domestic ranks; I’ll also have you know I have far better things to do with my time that don’t entail tap-dancing on excrement, thank you very much. Why slum it in the dung for my shits and kicks when I could be performing the American Smooth on a ham ‘n cheese Panini and filling my boots that way? It may not look much like it right now, but I do have my dignity you know. And I’d be awfully grateful if you ceased that snickering in the back. Stop killing my buzz. Got feelings too you know.
I blame evolution. I mean, whose bright idea was it to position our taste buds on our toes for crissakes? It’s preposterous I tell you, not to mention simply begging for an outbreak of foot and mouth disease. Should I wish to sample a flavor, then I’ll be required to get my stroll on and stamp my feet like a piss-ant and the last thing on earth I wish to do right now is start pissing off Ant Man when he can bench press fifty times his body mass. I may be mildly unsavory but I’m not bloody stoopid. Neither am I hell-bent on lounge domination or looking to spread scourge like the monkey from Outbreak. I might be a smidgen unhinged, but ape shit crazy I ain’t.
As I made implicitly clear at hello – I’m a fly on the wall, nothing more or less. And just to clear up any confusion, I had nothing whatsoever to do with Brundle-Gate. As many of my fallen comrades learned the hard way, news travels fast when you’re a fly. You ever tried to keep up with the Dow Jones at speeds in excess of 100 mph? Any ambitions of becoming a fly on Wall Street are swiftly squashed once the daily rag makes contact. Trust me, I’ve seen the headlines up-close-and-personal and know damn well they’re pinning the whole Bundle-Gate affair on yours truly. Makes me wanna puke. No really… I think I’m gonna ralph.
When Dr. Seth Brundle first emerged from Telepod #2 brimming with vim and vigor, it appeared as though his top-secret experiment had been a resounding success. Better yet, his new live-in lover Veronica Quaife was on hand for any celebratory back pats. Alas, this is where it all turned a little awry, as he’d inadvertently granted personal space access to a foreign object when huddling inside his misty chamber and come away only half the man he was on insertion. The other fiddy stake in Brundle’s DNA went to his co-pilot, who was completely disinterested in playing silent partner as it turned out.
A few thick back hairs sprouting up ad hoc may have been easy enough to explain his way out of; but it proved a little trickier explaining the right ear sliding down his cheek as Seth’s tender Ronnie ran her hands through his mad scientist hair. Perhaps not your typical Polaroid moment and I’m not altogether sure who came off worst from their brief love affair you know.
Things may not have ended well for poor old Brundle-Fly, but at least he got a free back, crack and sack wax. What did his lady friend get for her troubles? Knocked up on the fly, that’s what. A fly by no less. It’s the midwife I feel sorry for. “Ms. Quaife… not entirely sure how to break this to you but you have a beautiful baby… erm… oh look, it’s the machine that goes ping”. Is it any wonder we flies get such a raw deal?
At any rate, I’d like to reiterate that I had nothing to do with Brundle-Gate and neither do I condone the actions of my second cousin twice removed as I know better than to buzz around places that I have no right to trespass. Indeed, there are few flies more respectful of the privacy of others and less fixated on becoming the centre of attention. I’d much prefer to hang back and observe others going about their beeswax from a safe distance.
I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve begun a group engagement only to instantly take a back seat, not out of blind ignorance, but because my work there is evidently done. Now I’m not gonna lie to you, being a fly ain’t no picnic, and I feel a tad embittered about being regarded little more than a common pest. But this wall sure is comfy.
Right then. Enough of the metaphorical stuff for the time being. I reckon it’s high time I drop the fly act and speak of the real reason I’ve called you all here today before I make the cover of Time Magazine but not in a good way. By now you’ve no doubt guessed where this is headed, and if not, then I assure you it ain’t the emergency room with a severe strain of typhoid.
I was thinking more of social networks actually; my chosen poison Twitter to be more precise. To be fair, that nice Mr. Zuckerberg has very kindly donated my very own wall on Facebook to roam about as he sees fit. But the conversations there just don’t ignite the imagination in the same way so I bid this platform a polite adieu and head on over to sleep with the enemy every time my eyes get heavy.
Thanks to the wonders of internet technology, it is possible to tag multiple people when you post and, each time you do so, a private party ensues. Okay so perhaps private isn’t the word I’m searching for here as we’re hardly talking your secret knock kind of shindig. But it’s an exclusive opportunity for those shortlisted to spark up some back-and-forth. Given that I regularly drip-feed fresh content onto the free marketplace, it seems only right and just that I initiate the odd group hug for the purpose of lifting some spirits.
Should you choose to peruse my feed, then you’ll see that a happy front is the only front where the Keeper is concerned. If I was looking to trade insults, then I’d invite Justin Bieber for a soya bean latte and remind him that it’s way past his bedtime. No I’m pretty much any cynic’s sworn enemy I’m afraid; all three of the Powerpuff Girls rolled into one and consisting of sugar, spice and all things nice. Makes you sick doesn’t it?
I request you to gulp back the bile momentarily as my feet have only just eaten and I’ve found myself a sweet spot here behind the net curtains. On second thoughts, puke to your heart’s content as I’ll no doubt be making a similarly twee comment in the time it takes Bambi to evacuate in a fire drill. And how could I possibly not gush like a busted hydrant?
You see, numerous recent Twitter interactions have tickled my fickle pickle in a way you couldn’t possibly buy with a nickel. Anyone who knows me personally, will be only too aware that meet and greet is my special purpose and it’s everything beyond that point I blow badger beans at. My chief issue here is the amount of words I already prise forth daily before I so much as clock in socially. A writer’s work is never done I tell you.
To further over-populate the in-tray, the Twitterverse lives by the rather irresponsible motto that it’ll sleep when defunct. Thus a good twenty minutes is reserved for the traversing of timelines and tying up of all corresponding loose ends; before I can so much as tweet a howdy ho and poop emoji. Given that I’m a fly (at least for the next few stanzas), it seems human waste is as good an ice-breaker as any but the sentiment is some way from shitty.
However I elect to kick things off, it’s never once less than all about sparking fuses. Should I empower another to smile wider than before, then we’re in the ideal setting to kickstart ourselves a chain reaction, and every last subscribing soul then stands to reap the rewards. One case of friendly ensnaring and we’re sharing, and what’s more, caring. Tell me that’s not the spice of life you can smell and I’ll gladly switch cologne.
A few months back I planted the seed for a movement called Creators Unite and kicked things off with an article highlighting the benefits of all pulling together. Since then I’m thrilled to report that a number of truly gifted souls took this idea and ran with it. Not only is this hashtag now popping up on my feed with great regularity, but it has also culminated in a free online magazine which is currently gearing up for its hugely enticing second issue. As I stated at the offset, it was never my intention to lead this project. I simply dig being one of the people. A victory for one is a triumph for all, after all.
You guessed it, nothing makes me slap-happier than to sit back and observe shenanigans from the sidelines. You see, all I really want for Christmas is to help bring good people together for the common good. In that respect, I guess I’m not your typical everyday house fly as I’m far too busy hunting for goodwill to hit my plague quota. Tell you what – next time you discard your a.m. muesli to boil the kettle, I’ll throw up in your cereal bowl, how does that sound? Would hate to fail in my basic fly duties. Until that time comes however, you can find me in my usual spot right here on the wall. Needless to say, I’ll be buzzing.
If I have one meager request then it would be that you refrain from decorating your pad with flypaper. That’d be plain mean. Other than that, feel free to forget I’m even here and make the absolute most of every last festivity. Oh and if you see Veronica Quaife on your travels, please pass on my congratulations on her newborn brundle of joy. Seth Jr. really is a dead ringer for his father you know. Good luck with breast-feeding Ronnie. I’m sure he’ll find a way of latching on. You may wish to express a few quarts, just to be safe.
Richard Charles Stevens
Keeper of The Crimson Quill
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