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.