R.S.P.C.Blogs

Me: Hey Bloggy blog! I'm back! (pat pat) Have you been a good Blog? Have you missed me?
Blog:
Me: O ... Kay. Not impressed. Fair enough. Sorry, but I been busy, Blog. I been hard at it, don't you understand? I brought you some nice little words, just to taste, whaddaya reckon?
Blog: I'll eat some words. Later. When you aren't looking.
Me: That bad?
Blog: I've been so lonely! Bitch Toa. Tie me up and leave me with with diarrhea etherkibble - BRAN and PRESERVATIVES and FOOD COLOURING so it looks like real words and all it does is bind me up. On the end of a chain. All alone. How could you do that? (Forgot. I'm not talking to you.)
Me: I'm so sorry Blog. My mind has been like those reams of copy paper - full of pulp but kinda blank. It's the result of trying to put words in the right order, week after week. There's so many things I wanted to feed you with and walk you though. The flathead are running in the channel. There's a spot, near the reef, just after dark, where we pull them up in the net, heavy it is, they are coming up a foot apart, in the wind tunnel that is the channel. (Anglers take note. You won't get a tip like this in the Newspaper) Old Salt is still acting all salty. We catch trumpeters in Oyster Harbour at dawn for crab bait. He says "It'll be all brass bands and grass skirts tonight", referring to the local Tongan community and their penchant for trumpeters. They've gone for free trumpeters baked in coconut milk in a big way.
Blog: I don't give a shit. I'm bound up. Give me some meat and take me for a walk.
Me: William Hook?
Blog: That bastard. Don't talk to me about William Hook.