a mad, dim, senile whore hates me

A friend of mine recently complained that I don't update this web-blog enough. He's right, I don't-- and while my general laziness and the recent acquisition of an Xbox 360 may be in some way to blame, the relative quietude of At Last! is, to my mind, less a product of a lack of things to say than an over-abundance. In the parlance of our times, this blog has gone from being the sort-of funny new kid cracking lame jokes from the back of the class to being the weirdly placid loner drawing pictures of guns on his desk.

Blame it on the coked-out, paranoid spinster whose self-titled show I am reduced to anagrammizing. When I first got word that I'd be working on her show, my initial reaction was something along the lines of "Gee, I bet that crazy dame'll give me a whole lot to web-blog about." And while the crazy-fruit that springs forth from that woman has been plentiful, I am faced with two problems.

The first problem is that, as a condition of my employment, I signed a nondisclosure agreement. This would not be an insurmountable problem in and of itself, had I not overheard her screaming at one of the producers of the show mere seconds after I signed it that she'd googled herself and found nasty things written about her on the internet. This means that, if I were to write about her, I'd be forced to be vague -- A woman you've never met said or did something unpleasant -- or to come up with some tedious code -- SL snorts drugs on the set of her show, SHMWSL, on the food-based television channel FN -- which would be childish and obnoxious. Either way, I'd be depriving myself of the pleasure of declaring to the world and everyone in no uncertain terms what a miserable bitch she is.

Still, this too would not necessarily be enough to keep me from breaking a hastily written, typo-riddled nondisclosure agreement. No, the real reason At Last!, like that dried-up she-beast's lady parts, has lain barren for so long is because the minute I start to write about her, this blog will cease to be about anything else. It would, in essence, be nothing more than another hate site dedicated to that horrible woman, and as much as I'd love to vent my frustrations upon her in this one-sided semianonymous format, I want to believe I'm better than that.

So for now, allow me a few more days of coming home and playing Rock Band until I'm too tired to be angry. Allow me a few more days of funneling the righteous laser beam of my contempt into my work, that I may lift boxes faster and better. Taped up on the wall above my bed is a piece of paper on which I've broken down, day by day, exactly how much doing or saying something stupid will cost me. For now, allow me to think that this is enough.