I'm sorry I've been neglecting you

Dear cherished blog reader (except those of you who arrive here thinking that this is some sort of low-rent porn site - hell, I couldn't give this shit away),

So I haven't been up to my normal prolific blogging. I know you come here expecting three, four, and on an exceptionally good day, even six posts of something or other. Sometimes good, sometimes bad, sometimes embarrassing, sometimes profound, but mostly just the mediocre ramblings of someone who likes to see what he has to say paraded in front of him and others by cleverly arranged electrons. And lately, I haven't been up to it.

Oh, I could make excuses: I've been busy with work, the trials and tribulations of the World Cup have absorbed my conscious thoughts, the weather melted my keyboard. But let's be honest, the reason for my lack of posting is because I haven't been thinking about you, my lovely, lovely blog reader. I've only been thinking of myself and my selfish needs.

Yes, I know you want to be caressed with lyrical bon mots, dazzled with flourishes of rapier wit, and touched deeply, deeply with profound thoughts, but all I've been able to muster is complaints about the weather and a lame list of what popped up on the old media player.

You deserve more than that. So much more.

And after I sleep off the two super-size stouts that the divine ms. wobs profferred me this evening as peace offerings, I promise I'll give you, my caring, sharing, daring blog reader, post after post of meaningless nonsense dressed up in syntax that, while grammatically correct, still remains more interesting than the average humdrum sentence structures you see in the more quotidian publications. It's a promise of returning to form, of searching for the latest faux pas, absurdity, or witticism that comes across the dull light of a monitor before me.

I'll begin again to share a little piece of me with you, my most devoted blog reader.

And this is why drinking 32 oz. of stout before bed is a bad, bad idea.