I have been proscribed. I am on the non imprimatur list. I have joined the dreaded Index of THINGS THAT PEOPLE MUST NOT BE ALLOWED TO READ. I have heard from four people, who access my blog via their work computers, that my blog has been blocked by their companies. Even my darling daughter is no longer allowed to read me.
Now, my beloveds, what in my blogs could possibly cause offence (offense), apart from my orthography? And how do the Internet Thought Police find out that I am offensive anyway? Presumably they do a word search and ban any blog that uses words of more than two syllables; or - and this is where my heart begins to sink - which contains anything they regard as politically incorrect.
So, mes potes, my next posting will be politically correct. Completely politically correct. Totally and inoffensively politically correct. So politically correct that you will be able to eat your dinner off it.
In fact, political correctness is already such a parody of reality that it is impossible to parody it. You know the kind of thing: "I met a man who was pigmentally challenged"**. It isn't funny because the chances are that that's how black people will be described in a year or so, once our dark-skinned brothers and sisters decide that the expression African American is almost as offensive as black or negro. Well, one more word search by the Bowdler Brigade and that's me done for.
OK, OK, I know, I am my own worst enemy. Show me a prick and I will kick against it. And, goodness knows, there are an awful lot of pricks to kick against these days. Pricks.
**In fact, it's the pink-blancmange-complexioned like me who are pigmentally-challenged. Why else would we spend so much money trying to darken our skin?