I'll Be Over in Ten Minutes, Wolf.

Well hello, old friend. I feel like it's been ages. Do you have a second? There's something I need to talk to you about, and I feel like I can come to you with anything. Remember when you were nine, and it would be summer on, say, a Wednesday night, eight o'clock or so, and during your big neighborhood cul-de-sac kickball game (but before you began Ghosts in the Graveyard later in the night), your friend Jimmy would make a really funny joke about Jackie from the end of the street's burgeoning breasts, and he'd still have the Rocket Pop stain on his Big Dogs t-shirt from when the ice cream truck came by five hours earlier, and you'd be scratching at your mosquito bites and tugging at the bandaids on your knees from your Slip-n-Slide wounds from yesterday, and someone would suggest you quit kickball and pickup a game of TV Tag and everyone else would throw something at that kid for such a lame idea, and then that kid would go, "sike! I was just kidding!" and then you'd talk about how freaking awesome The Mental Misadventures of Ed Grimley was last week? Well, those times were pretty much awesome. They were pretty freaking eggsalady.

That's just how I feel this blog is eggsalady felt back in the day. There were days when I couldn't wait to write to Valerie Bertinelli or the Easter Bunny, or discuss why Rachel on Friends always had her brights on in every single scene (seriously, Friends writers - maybe the pay at Central Perk couldn't afford the lass a bra with a little more substantial padding, but I refuse to believe that her lucrative Ralph Lauren career replete with an assistant named Tag couldn't have afforded a little bit of pull in the intimate apparel department). Anyways.

These past few months we've had some really great times. I loved running to you with confessions of my lust for the Marlboro Man and not Crockett (ick) but rather jherilovin Tubbs. You sat with me at the Zaxby's Discriminates Against Nonchewers Sit In of '08 (and made great strides, I believe, paving the way so that one day some kid with a hacked lingual nerve and a dream can be as good a spokesmodel as Lorenzo Lamas ever was on his worst day)!


You know what I love to do? Write you a limerick or three. Haikus? They're for your eyes and only your eyes. Oh, and maybe for ubertrashwad Six from Blossom's eyes. And those of Amy Fisher's cooking fetus. And maybe also for the author of Little Treasury of Snatch. And The Tampon Family Players (now touring with Constantine Maroulis. You go, TPFs!). But mainly for you. Oh, frick. Who am I kidding? It was all for Mr. Sex Machine Wolf Blitzer himself all along. (WB: Call me!)

And, mygod, Sexy Programmer Thursday. Oh, how Sexy Programmer Thursday was like those hot summer nights when all was good with the world and you watched your neighbor's big sister get felt up by the zitty 11th grade saxophone player in the back of his Firebird and then you'd all run and dare Bloody Mary to show up in Jimmy's mom's mirror and then flail out of the bathroom in the middle of your third request. It's almost like all that heat and all that passion of SPTs fulfilled my wildest dreams for this lifetime and my next six. Those Sexy Programming pieces of manmeat were my own personal game of Seven Minutes in Heaven over and over and over again.

What I guess I'm trying to spit out here is that all the enthusiasm, all the vigor, well, I just don't think I can keep it up like I feel like I should. I don't want to give any less of eggsalady than I originally intended, and I don't want to fall back on lame cousin Oliver moving in for an easy plot device. There's no way I'm gonna sit back and be that guy who only writes every other week or so to tell you about the baby I may or may not be having with Jessica Simpson's better nose(jobbe)d sister. I wish I had the time to devote this summer to the fast paced world of the eggsalad, but I just don't have the time I want to give it my all. You deserve more. I've had a lot of fun and eaten a lot of Easy Mac.

But, for now, this blog is eggsalady is going to go on hiatus. It really is me, and not even a little you (well, maybe a little of you, Wolf). But, I think I'll be back around some day. There's still so much we need to talk about. I mean, come on. There's still so many orifices of Tila Tequila we have yet to discover. When Ali Lohan's album FINALLY drops, I'll need you to sing along with.

To whom will I confess my inappropriate dreams about Judge Joe Brown and Judge Mathis coming to blows over the ownership of my affections?

And there are so many people I'm going to miss during this hiatus. I am going to visit some of you often (whereever you may be) - and I'm specifically talking to several of you - and you know who you are, Alice, Bee, Damon, Elastic, Malcolm, Meg and many, many more (really. If I didn't list you, that doesn't mean I don't actually want to become you!). But, FREDDY, my friend, I'm going to miss you most of all. Could everyone please go visit Retail Hell Underground and say hello to one really awesome blog? You won't regret it.

In the meantime, I'm (cliche' inbound. You've been warned) finishing my screenplay and am entertaining offers for a couple nifty little writing gigs in the works. You will see me again, and not in a Richard Hatch way. I thank you for the journey.

always,

"what's a donzer" (What kind of asshole stupid name is THAT!)