It has come to my attention, upon my recent travels through the blogosphere, that an earth-shattering change has taken place. Where once the landscape lay bare of Val-isms, there is now a lush carpet of Val's stylings. A virtual weblog rain forest dripping with bad grammar, made-up words, poor syntax, inopportune tense shifts, and sentences ending with prepositions.
Perhaps it is simply wishful thinking. The thought that folks want to emulate Val. Or at the very least, send her an emu late at night, to interrupt her REM sleep, and render her unable to spread her special brand of prose-without-rules from coast to coast. Border to border. Into space, the final frontier.
Like a New York cook named Mary dishing out hot typhoid, like a yawning Student Zero spreading lethargy throughout a seventh-hour late-August classroom, like Charles D. Campion releasing Captain Trips on the world via East Texas...Val has spread the seed of unconventional communication of the write kind. Which, while feeding her vast narcissism and hefty ego, is not necessarily a factual occurrence, or a good thing. Some might look upon her inflated claims as something else. Most eloquently stated as fifty pounds of crap in a ten-pound bag. The end of written entertainment as we know it.
A Valpocalypse, if you will, of literary proportions.