Our freedom to screech, or a fairy tale by the Grim Sisters.

I couldn't make it, Bluegill couldn't make it, and Lloyd couldn't make it ... and there was no on-line report this morning at the Courier-Journal's site ... so I suppose we're waiting for Maury and the afternoon Tribune for a report on last evening's city council meeting.

When something appears, it will be linked here.

Meanwhile, here's a fairy tale for your approbation.

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A short time ago in a land considerably closer to ours than those who value some semblance of propriety would prefer, a fading but still quite angry troglodyte discovered that through the wonders of computer technology – an intricate science developed by the same highly educated and talented men and women whom the troglodyte most detested – she could magically disseminate her petty grievances and frustrations in a far more efficient fashion than Herr Goebbels’s one-time employer ever imagined back in the troglodyte’s youthful heyday.

And so, “Freedom of Speech” was born with the help of a virtual C-section, but although the embittered former governmental patronage employee ached and yearned to humiliate her betters and to scoff at those aspects of human existence that consistently eluded her limited understanding, she was tormented by the notion that a lifetime of personal insecurity and an utter absence of academic achievement might act as impediments to her narrow ambitions – until, in a flash, she realized that in the blogosphere, anonymity was common, and for reasons unknown, even accepted.

Why, she could be anything and anyone she chose to be! Emboldened by the purely egalitarian ideal that imaginary credentials need not be buttressed by pesky annoyances like truth, the troglodyte imagined herself on the catwalk, threw open the phone booth door, and emerged as Professor Erik, a college professor of economics and political science, a PhD holder who immediately began writing blog screeds with the syntax and vocabulary of a fifth grader.

Oblivious to the incongruity, the newly fashioned Erik surveyed her work and was pleased, and yet one important piece of business remained to be done. The troglodyte’s vitriolic and often slanderous attacks were bound to generate discussion among readers, but the thought of having to consider opposing views made her shake with trepidation. What to do?

Fortunately, there was an easy way for the founder of “Freedom of Speech” to subvert the dialogue that lies at the heart of truly genuine freedom of speech: She clicked the handy “no comments allowed” button at blogger.com. A quick glance in the cracked rear view mirror confirmed the troglodyte’s freshly minted self-esteem, and with her smudged, autographed photos of Erin Brockovich, “Dallas’s” Larry Hagman and the late Herve Villechaize (Tattoo) at her side, Professor Erik sat and composed a posting blaming the mayor for the Kennedy assassination, global warming and a pothole in the street outside.

Pleased, she disabled the spell check, gathered her souvenirs, and went off to bed.

The anonymous Erik’s circle of readers might have remained small and insignificant were it not for the pressing need to enlist a stalking horse for the future political aspirations of local businesswoman Auntie V, who needed to prepare the ground for her candidacy while still maintaining her mentor Rove’s obsession with plausible deniability.

“I’m no blogger,” piously proclaimed Auntie V, who made a beeline to press flesh with the blogging trog.

And so it came to pass that an unlikely alliance between the anonymous and superannuated troglodyte and the glamorous, facsimile Coulter poster woman was forged, and they were happily inseparable, loudly gossiping during city council meetings, passing notes to fellow council travelers from the 2nd and 3rd council districts, and behaving like giddy schoolgirls who’ve skipped class, borrowed daddy’s Corvette, and gone to drink Black Widows at the Tiki Bar – where Auntie V naughtily scratched the words “Jimmy G, you work for me” in the wooden bar top with a stiletto dripping blood.

But late one night, the troglodyte had a nightmare. It began innocently enough; she dreamed she was Miss Jane from the “Beverly Hillbillies,” dressed in Erik’s academic robes and carrying textbooks about the Laffer Curve as she chased a panic-stricken Jethro (who bore a suspicious resemblance to the 3rd District councilman) down Main Street … when suddenly, operatic music she’d never, ever heard before boomed and seethed, and a black-clad Auntie V emerged from her icy mansion, stiletto in hand, and began plunging it – into Miss Jane's chest!

All the while people stood on the street and laughed. "What a maroon," commented a carrot-chewing Bugs Bunny. David Hasselhoff just nodded his head, turned, and walked away. Jethro darted into the junk shop across from the Parthenon and began haggling over Matchbox prices with the proprietor. The Valkyries quit playing, packed up their instruments, and hailed a passing chariot.

Erik awoke in a cold sweat.

Had she been used? What was that sound … Jacob – Jacob Marley?

No, it was the television set. Instinctively, the troglodyte reached for her remote control, raised the volume, and saw that it was an infomercial. A cherubic Donny Osmond sang:

And they call it puppy love
Oh, I guess they'll never know
How an aging heart really feels
And why I love her so

Relief flooded over the drenched blogger at this sign from a merciful God that Auntie V really did love her, and that everything would be all right. Erik donned her ragged slippers, shuffled to her desk, booted up the creaking vintage Compaq, and saw the words form on the screen:

Everyone in the community knows that the real credit should go to Auntie V for saving us from Al Qaeda, curing polio and running the sewers on time.

(to be continued after this brief purge from our sponsor)