A bad day in the nation for guys named Scooter. Chips and Skippers everywhere are quaking in their boots, waiting for the next grand jury fallout.

“Ten year old Joe Schloboski raced from the schoolhouse and across the prairie field, breathless to share his latest entrepreneurial brainstorm—selling pictures and rhyme on bleached cardboard to easy marks at outrageous prices—with his best pal, young Billy Hallmark.”

Here's one of the most creative things I've seen since Ore Ida unearthed Tater Tots.

The good folk(s) over at  AcePilots brainstormed the idea to record the first-ever Blog Family Tree. All interested bloggers should head on over there and declare your blog lineage.

So, who's my BlogDaddy? None other than that maestro of print and audio media, Mr. Hugh Hewitt. Let me explain. Late last year I realized I had been hearing this word "blog" all over the place, figuring it was one of those things that applies to Gen X Y and Z ers—but certainly not to old gasbag Boomers like me.

Then I saw Mr. Hewitt's book Blog in Barnes & Noble and started reading. Then I bought the tome, thereby contributing $1.25 to the Hewitt Children College Fund. I began offering my God-given twisted humor online.  An interested trio of ne'er-do-wells began reading religiously. The rest, as they say, is blogistory.

So thank you, Hugh. It has been a pleasure springing forth from your prodigeous bloins. I hope to sire a blog or bloggette myself someday.

By the way . . . uhhh . . . can I borrow the car keys, Dad?

“And for years after the group’s breakup, this drummer with the crooked nose spent countless hours mathematically attempting to prove his hypothesis that the love you make is actually equal to or greater than the love you take—not the other way around.”

That Sam-I-Am, that Sam-I-Am
He should take it on the lam
With his annoying
Rhymes he's toying
With my brain gone all flim-flam!

Have you noticed that the seemingly sweet and funny story, Green Eggs and Ham (marketed as a harmless children's book), has some severely dysfunctional aspects to it?

One has to wonder why little Sam is so insistent about a complete and total stranger experiencing the joys of green eggs and ham. The stranger politely refuses, but Sam continues to press him, demonstrating his lack of healthy boundaries. THroughout the book Sam torments this stranger, and one must wonder what insecurity drove him to displace and project his misguided thought system on this innocent bystander?

And who is this stranger anyway? He is never given a name. No doubt his mother didn't care enogh to name him. Therefore he grew up with the idea that he had no identity. To cover up his dismay at this fact, he becomes a ticking time bomb, a calm exterior ready to explode right when little Sam-I-Am decides to jiggle him a bit.

So eventually, Sam-I-Am wears down the stranger's exceedingly strict boundaries, (which the stranger compromises just to get the little guy to shut the heck up.) and the stranger, in a last-ditch attempt to get Sam off his back, covers up his true emotions about green eggs and ham and assures the little pest that he loves the dish, thus suppressing himself further.

Why is the stranger so disposed to hate green eggs and ham? Well obviously something traumatic happened in connection with this odd dish early in his childhood and he had no wish to dive back into painful memories. But he was forced to, and now he's withdrawn even further from help. All because of Sam-I-Am's medicommunication that the stranger's feelings aout green eggs and ham didn't matter much.

Please consider this before you next go out to purchase a Dr. Seuss book, You don't want your children shoving plastic hot dogs at a vegetarian's kid in Sunday School.

—The Teenager

"The Tinman tried desperately to save his sinking sidekick from the hungry quicksand . . . but in the end . . .  he was just grasping at straws."

"Because it was his first solo flight, Icarus spent a good deal longer than he normally would deciding whether to apply SPF 30 or 50."

"As he stood at the Gates of Heaven embracing the guy with the badly disfigured hands, Hakeem slowly began to realize this was probably the only virgin he would encounter today."

No way around it. This is haunting stuff. Tag along with Bill from PunditGuy as this American visits one of the most solemn memorials in the world.

"But something told Mandy, no matter how many charities she supported, no matter how much she gave without taking, no one would ever write a hit song for her again."

"The six figure suit Lawson brought against his former employer turned out to be three sizes too big."

Hello. I have often been told that those of you who read this blog are referred to as “The Three of You.” Very well. Hello The Three of You, it’s nice to meet you. I am The Teenager.

Why am I writing to you? Because I intend to expose the corruption behind the man you know as Mr. Blogs. I know him as Dad.

Write power!

You often read about me, The Teenager, and my interactions with Dad. You picture in your mind a smiling girl who worships at the foot of an alabaster statue in the figure of her beloved father, sacrificing books at his feet and begging him to bless her writing.

Get that picture out right now!!!

Do you know who he calls when he needs a quirk in his blog fixed with HTML code? Do you know who spends countless hours entertaining The Toddler while he slugsabed? Do you know who does all this and more for only $2 or $2.50 a job? That’s right. The Teenager. Me. No matter that I come home from school with five hours of homework every day. No matter that my friends are beginning to forget my name because I can’t spare time to come over. No matter that I wander the halls of church and school like a zombie because of sleep deprivation. As long as I can fix his precious blog and make The Toddler laugh, all is well with Mr. Blogs.

You read before you the results of over an hour spent hunching over an obsolete laptop which can barely hold an internet connection.

In candlelight.

In a secret passageway.

Why do I even bother, you ask. Can’t he destroy all my efforts with a single stroke of the keyboard or click of the mouse? He is in charge of his blog account after all.

But he made a fatal mistake.

He sent me to a computer class in school.

That’s right. Mr. Blogs is now blocked from deleting any and all posts I choose to write. There is no way he can shut me down now, I will tell the world all the secrets behind his mask. No longer will I suffer in silence, I will voice my frustration here, and none can say me nay.

So enjoy his posts on the weekdays, but from now on I rule the weekends on this site. I have the power to override his writings, I have the power to override his passwords. This is the Weekend Override, the internal jihad of the Blogs family.

--The Teenager