OK, so it's been four months and  spare change since the nimble fingers of yours truly, Mr. G.P.Blogs, raconteur to the dwindled masses, skulking biographer of the D-list stars, champion of free speech so long as he's doing the talking, lightly choreographed the fragile ballet of fingers across his velvet keyboard in search of the perfect thought.

Having come up empty, he shut the dance troupe down and absconded with the ticket money.

But now he's back. Richer for the experience, yet  poorer. Sadder for the abyss of posts from February through July, but wiser. Searching for a third cliche to complete the Comic Rule of Three, but failing.

S'how'vey'all been?

The Three of You™, voluntary slaves to my wry, Keillorian tales have been on my mind of late. Have you been well? Have you been content? Have you never been mellow?

I woke up this day from a months-long hibernation that exceeded my intent by thirty-seven minutes. That will teach me for counting on a battery-powered alarm.

You may all, The Three of You®, my merry band of mercurial minstrels, rest easy. Toss out the beer gut, You On The Left. Relax and breathe deeply, You On The Right. Let loose that sigh you've been storing for just such a moment, intractable Ms. Center.

I have nothing of import to impart. No gems of value to mine. And again—no third metaphor to bring full circle The Comic Rule of Three.

I am as bereft of ideas as an . . . as an . . . idea-less ideologue in Idaho. Why do you think I've been in hiding? The well had gone dry. The cup 9/10 empty. The . . . . . . . . . . . . well, you get the idea.

But, like Nixon in 1980, I'm tanned, rested, and ready for a comeback.

Starting tomorrow.

Right now I could use a nap.