The Psmithian, though on occasion prone to verbose soliloquy and, now and then, a bit of high-horsed enthusiasm for matters not altogether popular in any sense, is indisputably a ‘blog of the people, plain and simple. Every atom belonging to us, dear reader, as good belongs to you. Our little grey cells are your little grey cells, and all that. And thus it is safe to presume that we know what you’re thinking, something rather like, “What the devil do we have here?” A valid question indeed.

The Psmithian has no simple answer to your query, lest it be to say that we are a vital organ of ideas, some better than others but all worth a once-or-twice-over, or that we are a trumpet for our household gods–Reason, Beauty, Joie de Vivre–to whose soul our services are bound. We have no “mission statement,” being as we are not a packet of whole wheat crackers or a pound of coffee sent from some verdurous equatorial mountainside, nor can we offer you any catchy slogan or slick summary of our multifarious ideals.

But hear this! The Psmithian has ideas, the Psmithian has questions, the Psmithian has criticisms, panegyrics and odes. We are chock-a-block with that most-devilish of traits, the cat-killer curiosity, engine of all great endeavors! We will attempt to tackle to the ground life’s big, brutish questions and then tickle them under the chin, and the small, trivial questions will likewise be grabbed by the shirt collar and given a playful noogie, then sent on their merry way. No matter is too great or too small to escape the Psmithian’s watchful eye, sabre-sharp mind and general blitheness of spirit, and though some may take umbrage with our methods, our motives, our English usage, and cetera, we will not be muzzled, and with a fife of wit and a drum of bonhomie we shall march ever onward in our exploration of the human condition.

We, that is the Psmithian, emboldened by those glad endorphins that post-regimen swim swiftly to the noodle, had just finished delivering a mellifluous harangue on some now forgotten subject, an oration of the sort that would have had old Red Jacket himself slapping his knee and calling “Hallelujah,” or something of the sort, when my dear droog and work-out pal Cuthbert “Cutty” Matheson, tauter of muscle than of mind I am sad to say, let slip the damning remark, “Why don’t you blog about it.”

Naturally, I was shaken. Not only had I always relied on young Cutty’s unflagging support for my most lunatic exhortations but I had also presumed him to be, like any honest citizen, fundamentally suspicious of the Internet, and specifically that dark institution’s democratic approach to journalism, soap-boxing and vituperation. On the Internet, it has been said, everyone gets fifteen thousand opinions, no matter how outlandish, and therefore it is not quite the sort of place for the man of learning, especially if he, like the Psmithian, is of a gentle spirit and a poetic nature. Therefore, I cast a stern gaze in Cutty’s direction and coolly remarked, “I will write a blog the moment that the near- and perhaps actually-mythical face of fervor Osama bin Laden arrives on American soil in a red, white and blue body bag.”

To which Cutty replied, “Deal.”
To which I replied, “Deal.” And that was that.

So, dear readers, there you have it. And although, in actual factitude, Mr. bin Laden, if one can believe the stories, now hangs up his turban in Davey Jones’ Locker, I have agreed to honor the spirit, not the letter, of the wager. Thus, I am pleased to present to you the Psmithian, a modest online journal devoted to Reason, Beauty and Joie de Vivre.