A couple of weeks ago I banned David M. McGivern from commenting on the emdashbedotto. I did so because a formula (unashamedly of my own device) indicated that this particular Scotsman, who I have never met and with whom I have exchanged only a couple of surreal, protesting emails, was a serial pest.
Regular readers may recognise McGivern variously as The White Fox, Dave Monk, The Poet Mick Mack, G3-DIO or other momentarily convenient appellations.
I have little doubt that McGivern will find a way to circumvent my makeshift roughshod barriers, as he has before, although I must admit I did ban most of Scotland this time (sorry!).
I am no friend of this man who I believe has attempted to despoil this place, has cut short and ridiculed the voices of others, has mutated the dotto that I subsidize and tend, and has at times reduced my enthusiasm to do continue to do so. I don't get worked up about it, and if it ever bothers me especially, I solemnly run a script that wipes his each and every word here, leaving the poor souls who dared interlocute seeming like they are addressing ghosts or fancies.
I am no friend of this Mr McGivern, not at all; this much should be clear. But tonight I was awed by his prolific obsessiveness, and I wanted to make you aware of it.
Approximately 1300 of these poems have been authored, with some substantial indications of care, by McGivern. See for yourself.
McGivern, this is nothing more than a temporary truce—Christmas Day in the trenches—but while the sun still hangs low I salute your tenacity, your profusion and your terrible compulsion. Under other circumstances, eh?
Joseph | 9 Mar 2005