THEY ARE ALL DEAD, SIRE...

At first I thought it must be finals, but not everyone has that excuse. Then I thought it must be travel after finals or before Christmas, but the people who were traveling are home now. Perhaps everyone has simply written their brains out and there's nothing left to go onto the keyboard but a few random splatters of gray matter. Even Silliman is gone, afk for days and days in an ironic celebration of blogging, travelling countless miles to see a Straussian Jerub-Baal. He at least is still posting--but only once a day.

Doc Ock is also still active, crying insanity at world healthcare.

But Metzger is dead, sucked into the whirling vortex of lies, deceit and titillating advertisements that is modern television--the Blue Knight did not go quietly, but, laid flat upon his back by a crippling wound thereto, has gone into that dark night.

Seraphim has been reduced to posting excerpts from papers he did not to write. We sat and procrastinated and commisserated and complained together before finally spewing out tripe and claiming the completion of mediocrity.

Hugger has left us with a submissive farewell, running headlong into the arms of the Holy Father of Rome.

~Gauche is presumably enjoying a cold one in hell--I wonder if there's some way to list him on his own list of hibernatory bloggers (and to simultaneously remove myself).

Caitlin has posted nothing for weeks--leaving nearly defunct one of the more consistently soothing blogs in the 'sphere.

Bethany is with Silliman, enjoying a last journey before departing to do the Lord's work in Darkest Africa.

Talcott has left us to be entertained by a flexible fork after promising to dethrone the Pope--we are not impressed, but wish him a blessed Nativity nonetheless.

The Wiley Woodsman is as quiet as ever lately, spending his time in contemplation of his approaching nuptials, perhaps meditating on Love and the great four-poster of the Unsentimental Sentiment.

Master Golding's unflappability has been flapped by the great monster of Law School (and it's evil sidekick Torts, whatever that be)--we are left with allusions to unending and unbearable songs from the Master of Mice and Men. Where now the gun and the lockpick? Where is the homebrew that was flowing?

The Man without the Blonde 'Fro is locked in an epic battle with Mac 'ware, both hard and soft--and none may tell the outcome of their struggle. 'Cause he's not posting.

Stack is, presumably, still counting days until my wedding--but she hasn't notified anyone about it, and her blog lies quiet as she laughs about cynical editors afk in Canada

The Love of Her Life has been eaten by cockroaches in vengeance for the prematurely squashed life of Cheeko. I wonder what they did with his new pink velour pants.

Da Konz is still listening to Bob Dylan, still writing sonnets, still tell stories about the Highlands. Actually he's at home, getting ready to come to my wedding--I accidentally hung up on him last night when my cell phone battery went dead. Sorry 'bout that, buddy. Call me back and we'll finish the conversation.

And me...well, I have nothing much to say, or don't want to take the time to make myself think, being tired of typing after the 60 pages of writing I finished last week--so I'm resorting to making fun of everyone else for not posting, just to avoid being consigned to Prizio's Cold Place in Hell, where I already am despite my frequent posting of late, and where he can't consign me because he's there himself.

So, to sum up, we are all dead.