King Malcolm here. Again. Maggie is off at CES this week. No, not the fancy one with robots and televisions that cost more than a small castle. She’s at the Conference of Edinburgh Saints. It’s like Comic-Con, but with fewer capes and more halos.
It’s basically an annual gathering where she and a few old cronies reminisce about the dark ages glory days like they personally invented them. Also, she gets to see our son, David. Yes. There are two saints in this family. I am not one of them. This has been mentioned. Repeatedly.
Maggie considered outsourcing this column to Paige or Bernie. Sensible options. Instead, I took it. Quietly. Efficiently. A man should always seize opportunities to share his opinions with a captive audience. I discovered last time that I enjoy this. Immensely.
Unfortunately, there is very little happening. Not a reader question in sight. I reviewed the newsletter. It is… lean. Sparse. Economical with its excitement. I am beginning to suspect Maggie only allows me to write when there is “nothing to say”. She fears what might happen if I were given a topic of substance. She is correct to fear that. Also, I do not believe in excessive words. If there is nothing to report, I will not manufacture fluff. I am not a decorative pillow.
Which brings me to my point: If you’ve got nothin’—embrace it. Do something worthwhile. Build something. Cook something. Stand outside and think about Scotland.
Personally, I will be preparing for next week’s Fish Fry. Outfit selection is critical. Waterproof waders. Overalls. Boots that say, “I respect hot oil.” Some of you may not know that I am a founding member of the Feastie Boys. We do not advertise. Legends rarely do.
Maggie claims frying fish is “my jam”. Incorrect. Gooseberry-rhubarb is my jam. I consume it daily on dry spelt toast. I have done so for nearly a millennium. Consistency builds character.
Now. The Fish Fry. I enjoy it. I am from Scotland. We consider anything fishy and boiled in oil a love language. Volunteering at a Fish Fry is even better. You get the honest-to-goodness smells feels. A chance to hang out with real men, drinking beer enjoying fellowship over a flaming vat, and providing fish and chips for the masses.
And let me be clear: this is not a subtle, subliminal hint that volunteers are needed.
It is a direct command.
They need help. It was the only new thing in the newsletter. You had one job: read it.
This is where Maggie and I differ. She suggests. I instruct.
Volunteer.
Well, enough blathering on. I did what I came here for. (And I did it all without a single emoji.) Go live your lives. Find something better to do. Or at least show up next week and handle a basket of cod with dignity.
I must say, I thoroughly enjoy writing this column. Power suits me.
