Is this thing on?

When my good friend Karla said that she wouldn't blog again until I posted something, I thought "Sweet. Mission accomplished." In fact, if preventing Karla from ever blogging again was the only good thing I ever did in life, I think that in terms of karma, that would be enough. Preventing her from procreating would probably have been better, but I kind of missed the boat on that one. Besides, given her vast and ever growing number of sexual partners (by which I mean people she drugs and ties up) I'm not really sure how putting a stop to her gene pool is even possible.

I was all ready to celebrate my accomplishment. I had put up pinatas all over my house, commissioned the creation of a Boston creme donut the size of an armchair, and printed up 3 dozen T-shirts reading "Ding Dong the Witch is Dead: RIP Karlababble." Then, in a moment of clarity the likes of which I have not had since God himself came down from heaven on a white donkey to tell me to stop murdering immigrants, I realized something.

Without Karla's blog, this guy would have nothing to do. In fact, I imagine that Karlababble is the only thing that keeps him sitting in his mom's basement, drooling all over his keyboard, and not out there on the streets, killing puppies and molesting old women. As much as I love the thought of silencing Karla forever. I cannot and will not do it at the expense of all the puppies and old women in Dyckerson's home town.

And so, though it pains me to do so, I have given in to Karla's lame little trick and resumed posting again. This will be great news to the 2 of you that read this blog. (As near as I can tell, one of you is Karla, and the other person is an NSA agent assigned to keep tabs on my activities.) I will make it my mission for the remainder of this year to change this blog from "the finest source of shit and fart stories on the net" to "a place where like-minded individuals can come together as one huge virtual community and hate Karla."

We'll see how that goes.

In the meantime, Karla, I have posted. That means it's your turn. Drag that bloated incubator you call a body out of bed, turn off the 36-hour "Gene Simmons Family Values" marathon and get back to writing about how you hate everyone and love pickle juice. Or whatever it is you write about. I wouldn't know. I skip the posts that aren't about me.

The ball's in your court, Miss Babble.