Recently, I’ve been asked by some readers of this column, yes there are a few, if there really is such a thing as the Ne’er Do Wells Club, and if there is, how can they begin to start skipping meetings, like I do, on a regular basis.
For those of you out of the loop, this club is for you.
We’re a bunch of comfortably frustrated brawlers, bawlers, beatniks, orphans and lonely paramours who sit around and tragically shoot the breeze with unloaded repartees of less than precise vernacular.
We see the loop and we are out of it.
As for not attending meetings, just do as I do. When the exact directions for the clandestinely floating meeting place become public, through various codes of subliminal ambiguity, disregard the message in its entirety and await my call.
If you don’t hear from me, our mission is complete.
However, skipping meetings regularly does not automatically put you in good graces as you ascend the ranks of the Ne’er Do Wells Club, like I do.
You must ponder gratuitously and randomly examine your lot in life and your preferable position in the club.
Club members are a radiant folk of little blush, glitter without the gold.
We are the soldiers fighting for our lives and country on the battlefield with a lack of suitable ammunition and love letters from home.
We are the roadside amblers helping stranded motorists as the anathema of traffic barrages by.
We are the extractors of feral but helpless cats from trees without the waiting arms of children below.
We are the brethren of the discounted and the sweepers of the rain, the third party candidates and the voters for the cause.
We are the forgotten ballots in the shadows of the election.
Although we spend prodigious amounts of our daily routine attempting to take the edge off, we seem always to be abundant with enough edge to coddle, nurture and sanctify.