Gone baby gone

Um, hello there, faithful readers. This is Mr Rumpus. I'm terribly sorry to say that for the second time in less than a month, Tin has gone... how would one put it... off the reservation? It's unclear at this point whether it's a furlough or gardening leave, a sabbatical or a prolonged comfort break. All I know is that I haven't been able to raise him for over two weeks now and I'm getting increasingly concerned about his mental state.

Goodness knows he's not always the most reliable of fellows but underneath it all Tin does have a good heart, and I fear that the turbulence of the current disastrous market conditions in the newsletter business may have tipped him dangerously over the edge into mania. I'm sure there were three or four unopened bottles of Drambuie in the Welsh Dresser before he vanished and now I can't seem to find them. Oh Lord, I hope he hasn't done anything foolish, such as reneging on his commitment to increasing efficiencies or signing off on a reduced pension package ahead of his planned early retirement. That would never do. 

Will he ever return?

So what rhymes with "layoff"?

Salutations, content sniffers! Tin Blott here, refreshed and reinvigorated after a socks-off furlough that has almost literally made me a new man, although still not one who can quite live with himself. 

Now: it's not like me to sponge off someone else's work... actually, who am I kidding? It's totally like me to re-appropriate someone else's efforts for my own ends.

So I was particularly tickled by the musical exhortations of the political editor of American newsletter The St Louis Post-Dispatch, who has cut a brand-new track entitled Copy Editor's Lament (The Layoff Song). Tactfully circumventing the fact that that title alone could do with some trimming back, it's a toe-tapping power-pop number with a surprisingly powerful theme. Despite my better judgement, I feel honor-bound to spread its bittersweet message.

You can listen to it here.

And if you'd like to pore over the lyrics for ironic typos, they are here.

And, in all fairness, the author's antiseptic personal website is here.

That is all. No singing along, mind.

Who botches the Blotchmen?

Aloha, content acolytes! Tin Blott here, back from an extended – and needless to say, unpaid – sabbatical. We must all band together and do our bit in these troubled times for newsletter production. 

I genuinely believe the best way to view such a "furlough" is to use it for self-improvement. For example, I used the downtime to catch up on some classic episodes of Doctor Who featuring my favourite companion Turlough. 

Talking of science-fiction, I find myself strangely drawn to another unusual character called Rorschach, one of the caped cast of Watchmen, which has apparently recently been made into a popular telefilm. This slippery fellow is a ruthless yet deeply troubled individual, who presents an ever-shifting mask to the world – essentially, allowing people to interpret his expression however they wish while he secretly pursues his own sordid agenda. Why does that seem so very familiar? Who knows? Now, super-friends – onward into our very own dystopic future!

Have you seen Tin?

Um ... hello there. It's Mr Rumpus here. I was just wondering: has anyone seen Tin? It's been a few days now and I'm starting to get a little worried. I know that he's an adult now and can obviously look after himself, but a phone call would be nice, just to let me know that he's safe and that he's doing OK.

 

The irony, of course, is that there are now quite a few companies who seem to have rapidly come round to Tin's groundbreaking ideas about newsletter production, newsletter efficiencies and newsletter streamlining... it would be nice to share a laugh about these Jonathan-come-latelys over a warming glass of Drambuie back at the Blottcave.

So. Tin. If you're reading this... please come home. I miss you.

Have you been affected by this post? Don't worry – help is available.

Shot through the heart...

... and you are to blame! You give love a bad aim! Ay caramba, romance lovers! Tin Blott here, with a pulsating look at what quickens my heart not just at this particular time of year but the whole annus through. For me and Mr Rumpus, it's the chance to apply our blood pressure-increasing ideas to the whole outmoded model of newsletter production. 

In truth, a goddess lives here. Her name is Victory. And it's about time we produced for her a daily newsletter that doesn't involve so much darned manpower. So to that end, I have composed a concise sonnet, the better to serenade the deity to which I, and many others, happily kneel:

P is for Pisces, a sign that I hate
R is for Robbery at which I am great
O is for Oh what on earth has Tin done?
F is for what the F***ing f***ingest f***?
I is for "In the future, things will be better."
T is for "acTually, I'd rather ditch newsletters."

What say thee, readers?