The Black Republican

I'd like to take this opportunity to respond to Rick's post from earlier today, and use it as a segue into an important reminder.

First off, as they say in the vernacular: "Steve should talk." ;-)

The editor-in-chief of this establishment has never expected a certain level of posting from anyone, nor an explanation should anyone's posting not rise to that non-existant rate. Heck, I don't even require anyone to code properly (Rick) or spell correctly (*cough*Steve*cough*).

The only person I require any level of devotion for this blog whatsoever is myself, and what I require from me is just enough of an attention span to keep the site running today - just in case I need to post tomorrow. As I've said countless times before, The Black Republican was founded for nothing so much as therapy. I do it to get things out of my system, and with the hope that I can make someone's day a little smarter, or wiser, or at least happier. Changing hearts and minds is pure gravy.

Unlike the esteemed Allahpundit, I really do run this site to relieve my stress level. I remember what it was like when I had nowhere to vent my frustrations when they appeared, and it is not a pretty memory...

Do I want to "become a f**king journalist"? Actually, one day when I was a lad of 26, during the first dawning hours of the Internet, I got the idea that someone should use this wonderful new tool to replace the leftist media with a conservative one. In a fit of anger, casting down the pages of my hometown News-Press, I swore to my father that someday I was going to show all the world how to run a proper newspaper, and in that newspaper I was going to tell the truth.

I was still a youth, and the boast was brash. All my scheming over the next few months went for naught as I realized I had no idea how to run a newspaper or even how to use the Internet to the extent that I could make a start at it. Knowing now what I would have had to have known then, it was a good thing I never pursued it further, or I could have ended up suicidal, and even poorer than I am now.

But to all things there is a season. And so two years and exactly 1100 posts ago this very day, I started what passes in the 21st century for a small-town broadsheet in Cybertown, USA. (Incidentally, last year's blogiversary was forgotten as it was eclipsed by other news.)

It may not bleed newspaper ink, but I've got my soapbox, and I'm telling the truth as God gives me the light to see it. I only hope my dear father has seen our work here and smiled upon his son done good on his promise. To you, Dad, I dedicate our third season.