Will the Last Chirping Cricket to Leave Please Turn Off the Lights?

Sitemeter tells me that I had 69 visitors to my blog in the past week -- more than a fifty percent decrease from a few weeks back.
That's sixty-nine.

LXIX.

60 + 9.

I will not have my blog identified with Lady GAG-a's favorite number.

Now, some might attribute this drop off to my having posted nothing since June fourth, but I know better. The inactivity of a cold and windswept moor is no excuse for not clicking that link at least five times daily.

Something's rotten in the state of Blogmark.

I blame the gaiety of children -- those mischievous little hobgoblins with a penchant for teeter-totters and merry-go-rounds.

I blame fresh air -- the noxious stuff -- and the cloying emanations from spring flowers.

I blame those stingered buzzers bumbling around their petally crowns.

I blame warbling little winged imps dive-bombing me from the trees as they sing odes of joy.

I blame sunshine -- Aie! how it burns -- and dogs slobbering for a walk through suburbs peopled by Mexicans thirty to a house.

I blame spring break -- what a crummy idea. I thought the whole point of school was letting some faceless cog of the machine raise those little demons. Now you're voluntarily keeping them underfoot for a week? Yecch! I hope you have a T.V. It's somewhat more impersonal than a state drone, but it gets the job done.

I blame employment. Keeping up with the Ahmadenijihads and the Velasquezes and the Shamalamawopbabaloobopawopbamboomaputras. I asked my neighbor what he thought about this problem, and he just stared at me with a baffled expression and said, "Que?"

I've always had difficulty communicating with my fellow man. Que sera sera.

I blame unemployment. After all, how are you supposed to comment or visit blogs if you can't pay your phone and ISP bill? Of course, you can go next door and use Gonzalo's computer, but I realize it's not the same. Thirty's company, but thirty-one's a crowd.

So I think there's a fair chance that if you're reading this right now, I can say "God bless the public liberry."

I blame porn -- the expected stuff, and the off-the-meds whacked out junk like midget, clown, Smurf, tentacular, frilled lizard, and Care Bear porn proclivities. Just ugh, you guys.

I blame alien abductions -- both the illegal human variety, and the extraterrestrial Grays and Burnt Siennas and Anunnaki or whatever else they're calling themselves this week. Close Encounters of the Most Unkind.

I blame Our Serengeti Savior. Too Serengeti. Not enough Savior. You knew I'd work this in here somehow. And his birth certificate's as authentic as a pimp whispering sweet nothings in Bambi's ear.

Crap you can believe in.

Last, I blame the news cycle. There's little going on in the world, besides the Qulling of Qadaffy. Or the Idolization of Iraq. Or the Afghanistan Asininity. Or the Economic Extinction Event. Or the Pulchritudinous Pageantry of Politics. Or the Gushing about Goody Gingrich and the Guidance of her Groovy Gigolo Groom Gnewt. How Gauche of me.

Nope. Instead, the "news" story that has carried the last week or two is a rags to riches story. Part One was known as the Waxing of the Weiner. With his announced resignation from the House of
Rep-uh-zentitives, we have come to Part Two of this riveting two-part saga: The Waning of the Weiner. Wax on, wax off, as Mr. Miyagi warned with terse eloquence. This truism applies to the washing of cars, the phases of the moon, or the political career of a six-foot Germanic sausage.

Confucius didn't hold a candle.