The Ruby Rose Report: A Warning from Mr Blogger

Ruby turned in her latest report last night: Here is your copy.

I am blessed to become part of a blogging family.

It is a privilege to provide humor and heartwarming stories to our friends. When caretaking of it was passed on to me, I was told to protect the blog. It is my family legacy, like the Yellowstone ranch, but with fewer horses,

That is why I was shocked that our blog had a warning message. I could not figure out why and required representation to fight this scurrilous charge.

She arranged a meeting with Mr. Blogger, a canary who oversees blogs for the Google Dynasty, and their patriarch Barney.

At the meeting, Foley demanded to know why there was a warning on the blog she had created. When Foley pressed for what was said, Mr. Blogger pulled up the blog.

It was the Poetry Thursday blog. I had been given a photo of an older woman holding a rolling pin. “It is the last two lines,” Mr. Blogger said. Foley read them.

“You mean when she wrote….”

“Don’t!” Mr. Blogger shouted. “If either of us says it, then I will ache to censor myself, which had been outlawed, at least in the red states.”

Foley, a believer in the freedom to bark, was incensed that our freedom to speak was being curbed. “It was just a joke, which, according to the comments, people found funny.”

“We have to protect our readers. Someone could do damage to themselves because of your sister’s poem.” When Foley asked why Mr. Blogger said, “pee hole splinters, my aunt had it. She landed on a branch wrong. Two months later, she hatched wooden eggs.”

“Well, we don’t have many bird readers.”

“I disagree; birds often read your blog to relax before they poop on your mom’s windshield.”

“Well, regardless,” an increasingly peeved Foley said. “It’s not like she lied, began an insurrection, and almost overthrew the government.”

“Oh, that’s allowed and a real profit driver for us.”

Foley sighed. “I promise if you remove the warning from the blog, I will ensure this young pup doesn’t write anything wrong.

“But what about my bawdy limericks?” I asked.

Foley put the kibosh on them.

The matter of our appeal is under advertisement. When a decision is made, a bird will poop the decision on our car.

And they say I am a dirty writer.

Next Poetry Thursday, I am rhyming “sedition” with “nocturnal emission.”