100 thanks

I logged on this morning with designs on gabbing about the Saturday evening Wife, myself and the in-law units spent in the emergency unit at the hospital. That was before I noticed that this very post would be numero 100.

I'm a milestone sort of dude. I get all misty-eyed when players near those benchmark numbers. 500 homers. 3,000 hits. 300 wins. 100 touchdowns. 15,000 yards rushing. I couldn't add two numbers together if you had a shotgun pointed at my twig and berries, but ask me to compute someone's batting average and I'll spit out the data like I'm Charlie Epps. For some reason, I see magic in those numbers.

Maybe because I didn't believe I'd get to this point on this blog - and I have countless unfinished fiction stories to attest to the theory that I like to leave things unfinished - that getting to this point holds a special little place in my otherwise cold, black heart (I ain't blowing smoke up your kazoo, Wife will gladly tell you my heart holds no emotion). Seriously, who'd want read the ramblings of schmuck from SoCal, transplanted in the middle of the Sonoran Desert, where all he talks about is poop and midget porn (OK, maybe me, but really I have to be in the minority here)?

And while I don't know how many of you are out there, I have to thank you. If it weren't for you folks bringing up my foibles (and as you can see, those foibles are many) over a beer or 8, on e-mail, at the prison work camp, or in sky writing above Lake Pleasant, this little piece on the World Wide Web could have gone the way of Milli Vanilli - a one post wonder typed by another person, or more likely a chimp.

So thank you all for pushing me - especially Wife, who I'm sure gets me to blog so I stay out of her hair - to keep typing poop jokes and midget porn references. Keep it up and I promise to do the same.