Been a while since I posted something. Why? Well, I’ve been…working. That’s difficult to believe, particularly at my somewhat advanced age, but it’s true. I’m officially an employee of a You Ess Falderal Guv’mint agency. Yup. I got an eye dee card and all that stuff. Even better, I get paid. Not a hell of a lot but it’s real money ‘n that shit comes in handy.
The money helps me reach out. Reach Out? You wanna know what the hell I’m reaching out for, like maybe my willie if I’m in the bathroom or maybe for my toes when I bend over–as if I’m proving I’m not as old as I look.
Yeah. I wanna know what I’m reaching out for, too.
I keep seeing the term in email messages from other You Ess worker bees. Today I saw the term “reach out” in a local noospaper (I won’t refer to the source as a newspaper, thus dignifying it with a title I once considered honorable). Yes. Well, in the rag’s columns a reporter referred to contacting an attorney for a comment about said lawyer’s miserable perp client.
“We reached out to lawyer A but he hasn’t reached out to us with an answer…”
Yeah, I know that “reach out” is now one of those catch-phrases that replace a perfectly serviceable term such as contact or ask or called.
Suppose I’m getting grouchy in my dotage. Dotage. I like dotage much better than reach out but we could combine both. Korea’s Little Rocket Man reached out the US’s Orange Haired Monster, implying that the monster’s well-known lack of cogency is an effect of his advanced dotage. Monster, a self-described (no humility here, no, sir) master of quick repartee, reached out to Little Rocket Man by tweeting, “Fuck You, esshole.”
Brilliant. Scintillating. Without doubt the President’s reply will reach out through the years to come with bell-like clarity. Particularly when we realize his bell has a crack as wide as Arizona’s Grand Canyon.