Welcome to Cassidy’s Corner, my little, bitty corner of the electronic and clubby world.   What is Cassidy’s Corner?  C Squared?  CC?  As my dear friend Winston Churchill once told me, “It is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma; but perhaps there is a key.”  And the key would be, less is more.  When in doubt, dumb it down.  As my dear friend H.L. Mencken once told me, “No one ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of American bloggers.”  Words to that effect.  We chatted.  He died.  What can I tell you?

Frankly, Tom and Rand have described their ideas of this thing to me, but they can only tell me the story of it, not the feeling.  Their descriptions meant nothing.  Moke and smirrors.  Blah.  Blah.  Blah.  Think about that old cartoon where the guy is talking to the dog, saying: “Good Spot.  Let’s go outside and play, Spot.  Come get your leash on, Spot.” And all Spot hears is, “Blah Spot.  Blah blah blah blah blah, Spot.  Blah blah blah blah blah, Spot.”  Stuff about blogs and links and pdfs make me weak. Blog, fog, slog.  I don’t blog.  Play with your blog and you’ll go blind.  Your mom wasn’t kidding when she told you that.  It’s like the toads and warts thing but worse, especially if you’re still dating.  I did mention the blah, blah, blah thing, didn’t I? 

I do email and internet.  I do word docs, but only for pay.  I occasionally flirt with Quicken (deposits only).  I love Google.  I’ve used it twice already, even though Winston and HL were my dear friends.  But that’s about it for me electronically.  Should you ever see me with a dark piece of plastic earwax permanently attached to my skull, and me talking with some nimrod so I can feel connected - woo, woo, woo, give peace a chance — feel free to take me out with whatever large caliber ammo or cudgel you have handy. 

What you will find here are things that interest me.  As in, okay, enough about you, now let’s talk about me!  If you’ve known me long, and mistakenly given me the slightest bit of e:encouragement, you’ve probably made your way on to one of my email lists.  Some of you know me only as a Dallas Cowboy fanatic.  Others may think of me as a forward minded liberal, or a dog lover.  Those are, by the way, two separate categories.  Some may have provided me with fodder for legal shenanigans, or I may have foddered your shenanigans, but only at the misdemeanor level and with the appropriate, adult consents.  What you’ll find at CC is all of the above plus whatever suits my fancy that day or week or month. 

As we perambulate ~~ impressive, no? ~~ through the flotsam and jetsam of life, CC will take you to the latest ramblings and such, thoughts that nuzzle up next to worthiness of consideration by decision makers across the globe.  Since you’re really not working anyway ~~ did I tell you about the one way mirror? ~~ you can then do the linky thing, if, as and where appropriate, and see what we’ve got today.  It’s also my understanding that you’ll be able to reply to a comment, if you’re so moved.  Like we care.

Okay, enough intro.  Fini with the overture.  It’s time for the fat lady to start singing.

As you may have noticed, it’s a special time of the year.  No, not the Dems with the Obama Lovers, the Clintonistas, the weed smokers, and the other slackers.  And not the Repubs with the flack jackets, the Veepette’s go-go boots, and the cool mottos, e.g., Mission Accomplished, Good Job, Brownie, and I Am the Decider. 

No.  No.  No.  Nope, it’s time for f’ball, from schoolboys in the six-man sandlots of Texas, on up through the colleges and universities and other hubs of great knowledge.  All the way to the epitome of the sport, the National (pause) Football (pause) League!  And where would we start our review of the highest form of social enterprises known to western civilization?  Nooo, again.  Not at Tejas Stadium with thelittledallascowpokes, as you probably suspected.  Good guess, and an otherwise worthy group of gentlemen, whom we’ll be checking in with from time to time.  But nosireebob!  Not this time.  Not this year. 

This year, we head north to the historic, frozen tundra of Lambeau Field.  We head to the land of the Green (pause) Bay (pause) Packers (genuflect).  We would humbly seek an audience with the one, the only, the living legend, The Dairy Queen Himself, Bvrvevtvt Fvavrvve.

Yes, I thought we’d do a weekly check in with The Brettster, The Brettorama, The Brettatolla, those wonderful personas all wrapped together and presented to the sporting world as, taa taa!! ~~ The Dairy Queen!  Though he’s gone and gorfotten, Swedewegian for forgotten, we’ll be checking in on him and his Phoenix-like rise from the ashes and other forms of stinkypoo that he created now that he’s hooked his star to the dog***ed Jets of New York City.  Ah yes, the Jets.  And that would be the Jets without Namath.  Think Paris without the Hilton.  The Jets, known far and wide as The Nurse Mildred Ratched of the NFL.  The Jets, like Dick Cheney without the whimsy and gay insouciance.  I get all squishy inside just thinking about my new main man, Brett the Jet.  Brett and I are close.  We go way back, so I’ll have the inside scoop, betcherbooties.

And to get that ball rolling and get in the spirit of the thing, all the way from Kiln, Mississippi, we have this fab new version of ABBA’s “Dancing Queen,” torqued up for The Dairy Queen by none other than our own Rand Huguely!

But anon, we’ll save that one for next time.  Tee hee . . .