After nearly twenty years with The Hot Comma Momma, I have decided to make an honest woman out of her.
Already, I know a host of husbands are leaning closer to their screens; anxious to discover what manner of experimental therapy I have pioneered borrowed from Doctor Toboggans to deliver such breathtaking results.
This task, one that many would say required an army of specialists, psychiatrists, and a thorough submersion in truth serum, has been accomplished with the most unassuming of treatments: Facebook.
After untold months of godless cohabitation, our social profiles were at last joined in networking matrimony.
Here is a firsthand account of the whole affair:
I am thinking about holding the reception on Flickr or maybe Twitter.
MySpace offered to host it, and their rates are reasonable, but illiterate teenage drama gives me a rash.
Not this blog mind you, or even the various characters and personas I have populated it with, but me, my very own personal self.
If there is anything that gets my dander up and marching around,1 it’s being labeled with terms so offensive, so clearly and blatantly derogatory that even I don’t know what they mean.
So in spite of strict vows intellectual pacifism, I undertook the most strenuous research methods at my disposal to fathom the enigmatic mystery known as droll.
After several second of diligent mousework I wiped the sweat from my wrist and basked in the glow of discovery.2 After a brief post-investigative nap, I read through the symptoms as presented by the vocabulary professionals of Dictionary.com:
Droll –adjective. amusing in an odd way; whimsical; waggish.
Could it be? Was it possible that The Ominous Comma and myself its erstwhile creator were in fact suffering from the insidious effects of droll humor?
So severe were the consequences of this implication that I sought out a second opinion, and after a couple more clicks of grueling research the lexiconary specialists at Wikipedia confirmed the diagnosis:
DrollHumor -an often dry, witty form of humor that elicits laughs through amusingly odd, sometimes zany behavior or speech.
They those same experts went to on to illustrate the sufferings of well known victims like Steven Wright and John Cleese, never once hinting at a cure.
I was stunned. I didn’t know how to live with such self-knowledge, or myself after having discovered it. My only hope lay with the experimental psychological research of the late Doctor Harold Toboggans3whose cutting-edge Third Person Repressionary Hypnosis therapy I hoped would give me my one shot at pulling through this crisis without permanent damage.
Snatching at the fragments of memory, I hastily assembled my best approximation of the Doctor’s radical self-programming technique.
I helped myself to several cleansing breaths and a shot of scrubbing bubbles. Then as I gazed convincingly into the mirror, I began the chant:
“Brent Diggs has droll humor – Brent Diggs is droll.”
The moral of the story I began to realize–
“Brent Diggs has droll humor – Brent Diggs is droll.”
Is that any time you set out upon a voyage of self discovery-
“Brent Diggs has droll humor – Brent Diggs is droll.”
Yes, while my errant spouse was going native in the steamy jungles of Costa Rica, the Comma Community held a monitor-light vigil in her honor, filling comment-box after comment-box with well wishes, congratulations, and self-pitying cries of loneliness.
Of course that last part came mostly from me, but unless you are an extortionist, armed felon, or possibly a senator, you can really only give what you have.
But as I vowed last year, things have changed. This year my beloved traveler is in country, in house, and if I do say so myself, fairly well in hand.
“What you are experiencing now is the Kung-Fu spinal grip. Between it and the forcefield, you won’t be going anywhere.”
Of course my squad of corporate ninjas is on full alert in case she attempts another getaway, but all in all I feel pretty confident that my bride and I shall make it through the evening in the charming company of each other.
Furthermore, let me add that- Wait. That sounded suspiciously like the front door.
I have to go now and kick in the emergency boost generator for the Toboggans Industries Electromagnetic Spouse Containment Field, but while I’m gone feel free to commiserate…congratulate the HCM on nineteen lucky years with Your Author.
*Alright, for those of you who insist upon an actual list, here are the Little Known Ways: ninjas, tranquilizers, superglue, and linebackers blocking every exit.
Today is the first anniversary of the ground-bruising weblog known as The Ominous Comma.1 On this solemn occasion I stand before you humbled in tearful amazement, a fact having just as much to do with the freshly spilled coffee in my lap as with the undeniable glow of achievement which not only permeates this site but also illuminates entire neighborhoods, disturbing the circadian rhythms of countless innocent victims.
Without a doubt, this blog is really something.
Although scientists are torn as to what that something might be, they generally agree that whatever it is, it’s probably not anything worth getting torn over.
But, putting aside all questions of composition, the Comma has existed, some would say thrived over the last twelve months.2 And having personally guided the ship of site during that period, past all danger of recession or even accuracy, I feel that it is high time to settle down to the serious business of granting myself a slew of generous, retroactive pay raises.
Although it is customary on these sort of occasions to impress the crowd with a few statistics, I will not. Allow me to assure you that I do indeed have numbers and that they are both large and numerous, featuring digits and decimals and other types of obscure mathematical notation. Numbers so fierce and intimating that I prefer to keep them stored in specially engineered Byzantium-lined PO boxes, for reasons of national security.
However, to further bolster my own claim on competence, I will slip you a few figures. To date, I have let fly 182 posts and been greeted with 3774 comments, many from people who have read what I have written, a couple having no mention of male enhancement products.
Truly, these are heady accomplishments, the kind that would inflate the ego of a lesser man. That I can stay humble is the face of such over-awing achievements is something in which I take great pride.
This brings me to an announcement of great significance and prestige. This blog, The Ominous Comma, the very same one you are currently reading has been declared the best blog in Tennessee by a distinguished panel of purple and green refrigerator stars, one of which has agreed to pose for photographs immediately below this sentence.3
With this distinction, the Comma is ready to assume its place among the other A-list blogs of the Volunteer State such as…um…well…many fine blogs, none of which I am personally acquainted with at this time.
Clearly it is a new day in America, an event unparalleled in over twenty-three and half hours. And as such, I pledge to the people of this website to continue in the tradition of excremence and sheer speculation on which our beloved blog was founded, bringing forth upon the internet a kinder, gentler Comma, smelling faintly of lilacs…or ex-lax, whichever is more readily available.
I hope to one day add a research department to our fine organization and so upgrade our status to the rank of Surface-Scratching, but until that time fact checking will remain strictly one of the more enjoyable aspects of trivia hockey. ↩
Of course, these are the same people who keep trying to set you up on that blind date with the convicted Ukrainian wankel smuggler, but around here we take our endorsements where we can get them. ↩
<p>Although the inclusion of the Comma in their fine directory reveals the highest level of taste and cultural appreciation on the part of the Tennesseebloggers.com, they seem to be lacking some of the more basic mathematical skills. For example, let’s just say that there is a statistically improbably number of Best Blog in Tennessees.</p>
There is also no category for Memphis Humor, a redundancy I’m sure they sought to avoid. ↩
Although I would never mention it, I am in fact something of a celebrity.
The extent of my fame is not always obvious to the causal observer, mainly due to the surprising restraint shown by my admirers in open areas, but in the enhanced proximity of an enclosed space, their distinctly fanatical character is revealed. In fact, it is a rare occasion that I can slip away from a restaurant, doctorâ€™s office, or even a speed trap without some stern, often uniformed fan demanding my autograph on the bill.
But, like many other newly-minted luminaries, news of my social elevation has been slow to travel home.
Of course Iâ€™m not referring to the members of my immediate family, who extract paychecks, extort allowances, and otherwise allow me to house and feed them with the appropriate sense of reverence and awe due a man of my standing. No, I am talking about my childhood friends.
It may surprise you to know that as a young man, I indeed had friends…
It may surprise you to know that as a young man, I indeed had friends, and that I did not have to financially compensate them in any way for the pleasure of my company. It may also surprise you to know that even today a statistically improbable number of comment-dispensing Comma readers are former high school associates of mine.
What always surprises me, however, is how these longtime aficionados of my â€œworkâ€ are also the quickest ones to point out any hypothetical failings I may possess as an author, fearlessly critiquing my often-thought unassailable humor technique.
They are also impressively speedy to call upon the Hot Comma Momma, by far the friendliest of my high school acquaintances, for reinforcement in any comment section battle of wits they might find themselves decidedly not winning.
You can tell these â€œfriendsâ€ of mine primarily by the bold way they deliver their jabs and slights to my authorly self, here at the very heart of my Ominous empire. They think nothing of harassing me, providing violent ego-decompression, or even comparing my carefully cultivated Surrealistic Lyricism style of Artistic Blogging to a juvenile round of Mad-Libs.
Along with droves of other internet humor connoisseurs, you might wonder how these spectators from my past could possibly find fault in an artist of my stature.1 I often ponder this mystery myself, and the only conclusion I have come up with so far is that somehow my former educational associates still see me like this:
The Young and the Clueless
Instead of this, the towering bloggeranaut I have become:.
The Veins of Our Lives
So as a service to those of you whose mental picture of me is painfully lodged somewhere in the late eighties, I have generously arranged this opportunity for you to get with the program. It is a simple, three step program, consisting of the following tasks: halt your mockery, acknowledge my manly accomplishments, and tremble.
Those readers as of yet not trembling are clearly approaching the forgetful stage of their chronological advancement. So for the benefit of these semi-senile individuals, I have provided this handy Accomplishment Reference for your trembling convenience:
I write the Ominous Comma, hailed by critics as â€œthe most inventive and un-credible blog ever to be named after punctuation.â€2
I have a full head of my own original hair.
I arose from my bed this morning unaided, narrowly escaping the clutches of gravity.
Did I mention the Comma?
For anyone who may have already forgotten the purpose of the preceding highly impressive list, here is a reminder, in large, bi-focal friendly print.
Alright my readers, it is now your turn to wax reflective. If you went to school with the author, if you went to school with people, or if you in any way participated in the educational process,3 please send your memories, pictures, anecdotes, or anything else likely to embarrass you to this fine publication via the comment boxes securely mounted at the bottom of this post.
Our usual $72 dollar entry fee has been waived in order that even the most starvingly artistic, as well as the merely unemployed, can participate in what is sure to be painful spill down memory lane.