Now if someone would be so kind as to inform the police...

Recently It's Me, Maven... asked the following question on one of my blog posts:

"WHERE IN THE HELL IS WOMBAT??"

I happen to know the answer, and I'll share that with you in a moment...but to me, the more interesting question is why she would care in the first place. Judging by her decision to write in all-caps, I assume she was hysterical, or perhaps utterly shitfaced, at the time she asked the question--the only two conditions a person could be in and actually be interested in what Wombat is up to. Still, I'm fascinated, so I've spent some time trying to imagine what could have gone so wrong in her life that she's wondering about Wombat's whereabouts, rather than thanking her lucky stars that he's not around. I'm guessing it's one of the following:

1) Her children are missing, along with every box of Fruit Loops and Count Chocula in her pantry.
2) There are mysterious puddles of urine in every room of her house.
3) She's a homicide investigator trying to explain the dead bodies that keep cropping up all over town.
4) He still hasn't returned the Barry Manilow albums he borrowed from her 3 years ago, and she's getting pissed.
5) She's writing a column about married men hiding their homosexuality from their wives, and needs people to interview.
6) She's a drug dealer trying to collect a debt.
7) Someone has been wearing her underwear and then putting them back in the dresser afterward--as evidenced by the sweat stains and traces of Fluffernutter all over them.
8) She borrowed his vibrator and wants to return it.

It may not be possible to unravel the mystery of why anyone would care where this derelict has disappeared to, so I'll give up on that for now, and answer Maven's question. Common Wombat used to blog on a fairly regular basis--much to the dismay of the decent, God-fearing internet public. His posts were not exactly works of sheer genius--in fact, he commonly searched for blog topics by peering into his own toilet. He was able to coast along this way for awhile--but eventually even he had to admit that there is nothing very compelling about repeatedly broadcasting the frequency and consistency of one's bowel movements. He probably spent some time trying to brainstorm other, non-fecal, topics to write about, but alas, trying to whip up something creative from of a "storm" in a brain that small is akin to trying to scrape up a satisfying meal using a Barbie Doll shoe full of grain, so eventually Wombat had to admit defeat. I think he learned a valuable lesson, though: That there is nothing whatsoever in his cavernous head except some seasonal phlegm and an unnatural quantity of ear wax.

So Wombat gave up on blogging, which gave way almost instantly to a 3000 percent increase in internet user satisfaction...but sadly, a corresponding 3000 percent decrease in his wife's marital satisfaction, since Sally used to treasure those few moments each day that Wombat was engrossed in blogging instead of following her from room to room in their home, describing in minute detail his morning bowel movement. Tensions in the home rose, and Sally threatened divorce. Knowing full well that he'd never find another (living) woman willing to cohabitate with him and his enormous collection of porcelain dolls, Wombat did the only thing he could think of to keep Sally around--he bought a life-size suit of armor and forced Sally into it, then welded it shut.

Now Sally spends her days standing at attention in the living room of Wombat's home, sobbing with humiliation as Wombat cheerfully hums to himself while dressing and undressing her suit of armor with a variety of different lingerie items and lacy thongs. The bloody scrapes across his cheeks that never heal are from his repeated expressions of love, as he lifts the little metal door that covers Sally's mouth and attempts to kiss her--it hurts him, but he doesn't mind. "Love hurts," he'll say philosophically, as he lovingly polishes his bride with Brasso, then turns her toward the television so they can watch Star Wars again, as they do each day. He's settled into a routine that he has found some comfort in--even if that same routine has made Sally wish she were dead.

So there you have it, Maven. I'm glad I could be here to answer your question, even if I don't quite understand your interest in it. Please let me know if there are any other ways I can be of service.

Bed rest: It's not just for amputees anymore.

Bed rest sounds nice, doesn't it? Who wouldn't want to be put on bed rest? You picture yourself lounging about in a feathered nightie or flannel footie jammies, watching your favorite movies and eating grapes straight out of the servants' hands. Perhaps there's a oversize glass of wine at your bedside, or, if you're Dyckerson, a plastic jug of urine. Either way, it sounds like a great opportunity to relax and rejuvenate.

The little-known reality is that bed rest blows. In my non-bed rest life, I'm a person who is always on the go, unwilling to sit still for very long. Plus, I teach group exercise classes, as well as working out on my own at the gym 6 mornings a week for an hour and half to two hours a day. This gives me the energy I need to leap fences and dash through alleyways when the Feds are chasing me, or beat the crap out of anyone who looks at me sideways at the grocery store.

In short, I like to keep very busy.

But because God has cursed women with the twisted joke that is a nine-month pregnancy, complete with cumbersome weight gain and many other unpleasant bodily changes, and because I'm perhaps being punished for being such a terrible person all my life, I have recently been ordered to serve out the remaining 4 months of my pregnancy on bed rest. Well, to be fair, I'm not sure yet that the bed rest order will continue that long--I'll find out next week at my doctor's appointment if I can at least go back to my slovenly desk job a few hours a week--but it's not looking good. And I'm certain there will be no more working out or teaching group exercise for a long time to come. So if you thought I was crabby and disagreeable before--look out, brother.

Far from the peaceful feathered nightie and footie-jammies scenario mentioned above, bed rest is a horrible, ugly existence. Television, formerly a vehicle only used once a week to gaze upon the faces of the hot guys in the Lost cast, now becomes the central focus of existence. Along with the endless hours of Court TV, Discovery Channel and History Channel, there is also such brain-killing fare as Frasier re-runs, Judge Judy, and the occasional soap opera. This is bad news for those of you who come here faithfully seeking my well-thought out, deeply intelligent monologues that instruct you in the ways of the world and stimulate your minds, since after a few months of this dumbifying television intake, my blog may start to read like--well, it's too horrible to say it. But you know what I'm thinking of.

For the first time ever, I envy you. Not your lice-covered scalp or filthy, feces-covered apartment, and certainly not your lengthy prison record or astonishingly low IQ. No, I envy your ability to get up and walk around the house, even leave the house when the mood strikes. Presumably, despite your hundreds of noticeable faults, you're at least not laying on your couch hour upon hour until your skin starts to fuse with the upholstery, nor gaining five pounds per month while inadvertently committing to memory every line from Frasier's 1995 season.

Jealousy is an ugly thing. In fact, it's so ugly that maybe the only thing uglier is what a woman looks like after 4 months of pregnancy bed rest. Hear that sound? That's me, hitting the wall. Soon I'll become one of those people who only posts a photo of herself from the chin up, always blurry and darkened, with a cloud of hair swirling in front so that a person viewing it isn't entirely sure if it's a photo of a woman or an aerial shot of Kenya.

So say goodbye to the old Karla. My bed rest sentence has only been in effect for a few days, but I fully expect that by the end of it, you will see a newer, angrier, more horrible Karla than before, one that you'll like even less than the old one. And actually, pissing you off may be the only satisfaction I get in all this. It might even make it worthwhile.

Maybe I'll call him The Antichrist.

Where I come from (Shithole, Missouri, in case I haven't mentioned it), most people have a nickname. Some people have several. Some people are called so exclusively by their nickname that you may not even know what their real first name is. Often the nickname was given as a result of some event or a joke--in other words, it was rooted in some legitimate story. In other cases, the nicknames seemed random and rather arbitrary, as if they were chosen simply because no one could think of anything better at the time. Some of the nicknames I remember from my hometown are:

Head
Roach
Toby
Chief
Frog
Bear
Moose
Spanky
Hocker
Blenderhead
Fly
Squeak
Webby
Boomer
Puppy Pumper
Spot
Bucky
Cheeseburger
Crash
Little Bitty
Pan Face
Lumpy
Chogg

I know you're wondering about Puppy Pumper. That's one of the ones that did have its origin in a particular event. And yes, it's exactly what you're thinking. There was no Humane Society in my town to report him to, either.

Everyone calls my friend Matt by the nickname Buttface. I know another guy named Robot. My friend Jay calls me Cinderella. Common Wombat is (well, admittedly, only to me) Fuckhead Weasel Nuts. And Mighty Dyckerson is widely known as Tinkerbell Sissypants The Big, Crying Girl. I think it was his father who came up with that one, and it just kind of stuck.

Why are nicknames important? Primarily because if you ever end up in jail, you want to have a nickname firmly established, to prevent getting one bestowed upon you that's less favorable than the one you might have acquired outside prison. For example, a person who might have been dubbed Shorty or Bubba if he had gotten his nickname as a child might instead go a lifetime without a nickname, and then, shortly after incarceration, find himself being called "Sally" or "Hotpants" by the other inmates. You can see how this would be bad.

So it's important that Jake get a viable nickname now, one that could stay with him into adulthood. I have a few silly, mommyish nicknames for him, but they're all too babylike to use for much longer. For example, I frequently call him such things as Babyface, Babycakes, Diaper Butt, The Beast, Cakeface, and sometimes--only under my breath--You Little Shit. That last one, while not babyish, isn't exactly a winner, either. And the others--well, not only would a 16-year old be humiliated to be called such things, but an incarcerated adult could get into big trouble with those names, as well.

So it's time to get started on the daunting task of finding Jake a nickname. Lots of people call him Jake The Snake, but that's the lazy man's way out. It's too easy. Every Jake since the beginning of time has been called Jake The Snake. Yawn. I'm looking for something more interesting, more dynamic, more unique.

So I submit this challenge to you--primarily because I have yet to find any kind of redeeming use for you whatsoever--help me think of a nickname for this charming little boy. It has to be one that would work just as well in grade school or Boy Scouts as it would in prison or rehab, just to be sure all bases are covered. Come through for me on this, and I'll forgive you for the shamefully small number of death threats I was able to squeeze out of you gutless swine.

Why doesn't anyone ever want me dead? It's not fair.

There is no justice in the world.

Kathy Sierra is someone I've never heard of til now, because, well, I'm not a computer nerd. But my husband is, and he pointed her out to me recently because apparently she's a big deal in the geek blogger world, and an even bigger deal now that she's stopped blogging because she got some lukewarm death threats. A couple of commenters said some nasty things about her, one guy Photoshopped a picture of her with a noose around her neck, she got all oversensitive about it and bam! She makes it into the top 10 searches on Technorati. She was number one for a few days.

Personally, it looks to me like the chick is overreacting a bit. As death threats go, what happened to her is pretty tame; I know you guys could do way better. Either way, I'm indignant. How come I never get death threats from you rat bastards? You're mentally unbalanced, right? And don't I repeatedly say objectionable, offensive things to and about you? In a perfect world, the combination of those two factors should be enough to get me a death threat or two that I could then publicly freak out about and get a big surge in search hits.

It's not like I haven't tried to cultivate your wrath, either. Some of you I even single out and blindly attack, unprovoked, over and over. Jesus, what more do I have to do to get a death threat, here? I'm not sure if you're too lazy or if you're just a bunch of pussies, but either way, I'm getting screwed.

What the hell has happened to the youth of America? There's no ambition anymore, no get up and go. Gone are the days of John Hinckley, Jr. and Mark David Chapman, when a dangerously unbalanced person had the gumption to channel his psychosis into action. Now you nutjobs just spend your days slumped in your filthy, cat-filled apartments, surfing the internet for circus seal porn. I blame antidepressants, the dramatic increase of which is responsible for killing the ambition of the stalker/murderer community and turning you all into a bunch of lazy crybabies trying to find your inner child. You should all be ashamed of yourselves.

All I can say is I've done my part. I've said horrible things about you; I've taunted you. I've called your mothers whores, mocked you for your sexually-transmitted diseases, made more small-penis jokes than there are penises in the world. At this point, I give up. It takes two to make a death threat work, and you're not doing your part. I can't force you. You have to want to change, and until you make that decision in your life, well, things are never going to get better.

I can't do it anymore; I can't continue to be more personally invested in your psychosis than you are yourself. At this point, I wash my hands of you.

Dear Jackass, Volume 13

Dear door-to-Door Solicitor:

For Christ's sake, get a real job. Any type of employment which has you dragging your uninspired ass from house to house and ringing doorbells is a straight shot to mediocrity. This is not 1932; there are plenty of jobs available. Whatever wrong turns you've taken in life that have brought you to this point, I assure you it's not too late to turn things around. In fact, I'm going to collect a huge stack of employment applications from various local retail and food service establishments and keep them by the door. Each time one of you shitheads rings my doorbell in the middle of the day when my toddler's ten minutes into his nap, I'm going to open the door and hand you one of them. Then I'm going to shove five more up your ass. Jackass.

Dear Expensive Glasswear Collector:

You, ma'am, are an asshole and a jackass of the highest order. Collecting anything merely for the sake of collecting it (mechanical teddy bears, porcelain hummingbirds, pewter thimbles) is more than enough to put you in the jackass category...but collecting something expensive that is incredibly delicate and easily broken, yet meant to hold alcoholic beverages, is, well, fucking stupid. To then insist that your guests drink from your precious, expensive, delicate collectibles at holiday gatherings--and then have a coronary when one of these useless baubles predictably gets broken--speeds you right to the semifinals for the title of "Biggest, Dumbest, Most Assholified Jackass of All Time." Your irrational love of expensive crystal champagne flutes is simultaneously a red flag to your low I.Q. and the single greatest argument yet for more lenient punishment for assault and battery crimes. Now sit tight; I'm on my way over now to cram one of your stupid champagne flutes into each of your eye sockets. Jackass.