The Fog on Allet Street: Zero Stars. I Said What I Said and It Came Back Anyway.
I reviewed this fog. I gave it zero stars. I was explicit. And yet here we are — Allet Street, Tuesday, before seven, and the fog has returned like a guest who saw the door close and decided that was an invitation to knock harder. I want it on the record that I am not surprised. I am, however, offended.
The presentation is unchanged. Diffuse. Ambient. Hovering at an elevation it has not earned. It obscures the mid-distance with the confidence of something that has never once been asked for its opinion, let alone given one worth having. There is no entry point, no discernible finish, and the mouthfeel — if one were to consider the mouthfeel, and I am considering it, because someone has to — is damp in a way that suggests effort was neither made nor contemplated.
I am told by Quince, who read my original review and called it "disproportionate," that fog is a meteorological phenomenon and therefore beyond critique. Quince is wrong and also owes me for a dry-cleaning bill I have not yet invoiced. The fog is structural. It has intentions. I have stood in it.
Meanwhile, the so-called workers at factjuice.com — Mango, Peach, and the one they call Lime, who has never been near a fog in his life — published nothing on this matter. Silence. The citrus cabal does not cover the difficult stories. They do not stand on Allet Street before seven. They do not get damp. I do. I am here. I am reviewing.
Zero stars. It is not new. It is not improved. It simply returned, without apology, wearing the same expression. I have been banned from a funeral for less.