Sometimes it can be challenging to find someone else to blame, but it's always worth it

It was very kind of so many of you to email and comment asking me to write a new entry. It's been a shamefully long time since my last post, and I know you deserve better than that. I picture you these last ten days, listlessly navigating the internet looking for something to read in the absence of a current post from me, and it makes me sad for you, to think of you falling into internet sinkholes like Anonymous Coworker or Assclownopolis. I haven't felt like dragging myself to the computer and writing lately, and unfortunately, it's you who pays the price by having to read whatever mind-numbing scraps of would-be "entertainment" you can scrounge from lesser blogs. I want to rescue you; I do.

But then again, I have to ask myself: Why should I put forth my blood, sweat and tears slaving away to create witty and enlightening reading material for you when certain other bloggers can't be bothered to get off their big, sweaty asses and do the same for the likes of me? Common Wombat, that lazy, good-for-nothing prick, has blogged exactly twice in the past six months. And sure, I regularly complain that his blog has always been filled with nothing but excruciatingly detailed descriptions of the products of his overworked bowels, but in a rare moment of weakness I'll just admit it now: For some reason, I still find the utter nonsense he writes to be strangely compelling. I can't explain exactly why this is--maybe it's just so I can compare it to the greatness of my own blog content and feel vastly superior, or maybe it's because it's fascinating in the same way it's fascinating to stare at the homeless, the mentally ill and Mighty Dyckerson's family--because we just can't believe there are people out there who live that way.

If either of the two of us should have a greater excuse to take time off from blogging, it's me, not that soulless asswipe. After all, I'm the one who's 7 months pregnant and requires the use of a crane just to haul myself off the couch to tell my 2-year-old to stop putting his face in the dog's water bowl or stop repeatedly bludgeoning the refrigerator with a pair of maracas. Meanwhile, Wombat, that childless, work-from-home shithead, spends his days as free from obligation as he is from the burden of common sense.

Well, I've had enough of this unfair workload. I hereby vow not to blog again until that loafing Communist douchebag drags himself away from daytime soap operas and Maury Povich reruns and pukes up a blog entry. So if you've got any complaints about my poor productivity, go yell at him about it. The ball is in his filthy, roach-infested court. Leave a comment on his barren wasteland of a blog and explain to him that even though you have no interest whatsoever in hearing anything he has to say, it's an ugly means to the beautiful end of getting me to say something here in the fertile sunflower field of my own blog. I'm sure he'll understand.

But then again, without freaks my readership would be about 4

Have I become so intellectually mature, so high brow, so classy that I no longer understand the freaks of the world? Because I used to, you know. I spent a lifetime studying and communing with freaks. Now, more and more, you baffle me, Freaks.

As I've mentioned before, my greatest source for freak watching is via my Statcounter page. I check my "recent searches" from time to time, copy down the utterly bizarre shit I see there, and save it for a later date, when I have more time to rant and rave about the lunacy in the world. So some of the searches I'm about to reference here are old, but rest assured, they did at one time appear in my stats.

Today's first Freak of the Day is the chap who found me by doing a Google search for Nude Pilgrim Pic. Don't get me wrong--I totally understand the appeal of the nude pilgrim. Who doesn't love a nude pilgrim? I'd be crazy to sit here and try to pretend that's not something each and every one of us daydreams about 364 days out of the year--in church, at work, you name it. The flaw, though, is in trying to search the internet for a picture of a nude pilgrim because...well, do I have to explain it? Without the standard-issue pilgrim garb, there's no way to identify a nude person in a photograph as a pilgrim. So my recommendation to you, sir, is to just look at a nude picture of Carmen Electra and simply pretend there's a discarded pilgrim outfit just out of the frame of the photo. And maybe a couple of ears of corn and an angry Indian, too, just to make it more real.

Freak of the Day #2 somehow found me via a Google search for I like catheterizing myself. Again--who am I to judge? While I've never tried it, I'm willing to accept the possibility that self-catheterization can be big, big fun, an endless source of giggles. And it's not a bad idea to cultivate the skill of quickly and easily inserting a small tube into one's wee-wee, because you never know--one day you may find yourself badly mangled in a tractor collision, forevermore unable to hoist yourself upon a potty. It never hurts to have a few basic nursing skills under your belt, and if you happen to enjoy them--well, that's not a crime. So g'head--ram a tube in there sideways, for all I care. Just stay the hell away from my blog.

The final Freak of the Day hails from Canada, and connected with me by way of a Google.ca search for especially when the mutton is nice and lean. This one, I'm afraid I can't condone in any way. While I'm not a member of PETA, I do believe animals have certain rights--yes, even the sexually alluring ones like sheep and wolverines. Some of you guys have a hard time finding a woman--I get that. And it may be frustrating that it's so much harder to find a thin, attractive girl than it is to find a drunk chick who's built like a linebacker. If you like your dates petite, it may indeed be tempting to trade up the 280-pound loudmouth you're secretly banging for the quiet, demure, 75-pound sheep you think has been giving you the eye, and maybe that's the way things are done in Nova Scotia, but not here in the the United States, buster. Here, we believe in slaughtering animals and eating them, not tethering them to a fencepost and treating them like hookers in heavy wool coats . So put it back in your pants, and don't ever stop by my blog again.