Seems my sisterwhoeatspoofortwo has set up a site for Field Marshal Noodles’ valet, in which she writes for the wee Nugget.
She asked me if this made her a Mommyblogger.
My response?
“No. Mommybloggers write as themselves. Not as their babies.
“Also, they swear.
“A lot.”
(Oh! You all know it’s true. Frighteningly true.)
So… how’s about y’all head on over? Say hi. Mess up the joint. Give it that “lived-in” look.
(No. You don’t need to take your shoes off. They’re cool.)
In deciding whether or not a single sentence constitutes a proper blog post, I realise that as long as it consists of a) at least one hyperbolic word, b) an utterly improbable (yet hilarious-to-the-author) stage direction, and c) enough verbiage to require either the vocal training of a Wagnerian opera star or at least four breaths and a pee break to be said aloud, then we’re all good.
[Sound of devious mole rats sneaking up behind you for the sheer tangential joy of messing with your head.]
If I can post to Twitter at least once a day, I can post here a little more frequently than once EVERY TEN DAYS.
I can’t promise that everything will be of the “stunning quality”* that you have all come to expect from Space Monkey Pants, but I’ll do my gosh-darned best.
And I have a very big project looming on the horizon.
I have approximately three months of comments to answer.
I’ll need a serious pick-me-up to get me through that.
Do they make crystal-meth-chip cookies?
…
* Please — reserve your sarcasm. I used quotation marks.
“Oh. Excuse me, kind sir, but where’s the quote?” you ask.
Just pick one. The whole post is a burning incandescent sun of HAWSOME.
I changed my mind. I’m relegating my Twitter posts to the sidecar- er, sidebar.
[Cough.]
You may now return to your regularly scheduled interweb activities.
[Pause.]
Fine. I’ll go. But I know you’re going to look at porn.
