If I had the luxury of being one of those workers who can be online all day long (which I most certainly am not-having just bargained full internet access for myself less than a month ago), I might be inclined to become one of those sort of bloggers who post as if their blogs were Facebook.
Like Abraham Piper or even Instapundit, I might post links and mini-thoughts a dozen times a day (although Instapundit is more like a couple hundred times a day).
And if I were one of those sorts of bloggers, I would certainly post this insightful commentary from one of P.G. Wodehouse’s “Golf Stories”:
On Russian Novelists:
“This Vladimir Brusiloff to whom I have referred was the famous Russian novelist…. Vladimir specialized in gray studies of hopeless misery, where nothing happened until page three hundred and eighty, when the moujik decided to commit suicide.”
~From The Most of P.G. Wodehouse, page 413
With my infinite (read “minute”) knowledge of Russian novelists, I know enough to ask, “Did the moujik commit suicide on page 380, or just decide to do so?”
*snicker*
(Or perhaps just, “Like”?)