Eat Our Dust, Bitches

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have been so wrapped up in sundry scandals du jour—illegal immigration, the situation in Gaza, Tom Cruise’s existence—that we haven’t even taken note of an important milestone. No, we’re not referring to the continued—and impressive—vitality of Art Buchwald, though we do wish him well.

Rather, we mean that recently our humble “weblog” passed a semi-important marker of sorts. That is to say, we’ve reached the 150,000 “hits” mark. This puts us in the storied 150,000 Club, which is much like the Mile High Club, only not as lascivious and without the membership of John Elway. Double drat.

As you might imagine, dear reader, we’re pretty pleased with ourselves. When we started this humble “weblog” many moons ago, we never dreamed of this kind of vitality. Of course, we’ve never had particularly outrageous dreams.

Sure, Glenn Reynolds—Al Gore’s famed Instapundit—may receive more than 150,000 “hits” per day. (Or, as we like to say, per diem. Mighty classy use of the Latin, isn’t it?) Although we’ve made our way past 150,000, this doesn’t mean that we’re exactly shining stars in the World-Wide Web firmament.

Further, we suppose we ought to mention that around 149,000 of those 150,000 “hits” come from the crack young staff itself, as we’re very fastidious about checking our “website.” In fact, you might want to call us a bit self-impressed. Others do. And, yes, we self-impress easily.

Still, we suppose that we ought to take a moment to thank the handful of people who have e-wended their e-way to our humble “weblog” and chosen not to send us hate mail. It is for you, precious friend, that we have begun this “weblogging” enterprise in the first place. Without you, our “website” would answer a famous Zen query: If no one reads a “weblog,” does it exist? (Perhaps we’ll have to ask Sullywatch that.)

Frankly, esteemed reader, we can’t thank you enough. You have made your way through mountains of glaring grammatical errors, poorly-wrought arguments, and clunky prose, all to take in the vaguely useless animadversions of the crack young staff. And, boy, it was well worth it.

What can you expect in the next round of 150,000? To be honest, probably more of the same: Vapid commentary, tasteless yuks, and barbs hurled at Phil Collins.

Ah, yeah: That’s just what the doctor ordered.