A SPECIAL HISTORICAL EDITION OF WMON'S "BEHIND THE MUSIC:" THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER, AN ANTHEM OF PERSONAL TRAGEDY

FRANCIS SCOTT KEY JUST ANOTHER LAWYER-TURNED-POET-WANNABE, WOULD PROBABLY BE "BLOGGER" IF HE WERE ALIVE TODAY

American History Academician Says Key's Words "Amateurish At Best," And That He Was Probably A Pothead, Too

"If we can look past his iconic patriot status for a moment, we can see this man was clearly living in the tall shadow of the cousin with whom he shared names, Francis Scott Key Fitzergerald, a.k.a. F. Scott Fitzgerald," said F. Murray Abramowitzaham, the auteur of a soon-to-be-released documentary entitled, "The Rockets' Red Glare: The Battle of Baltimore Through The Eyes of a Potomac Pothead."

"I've been studying this for quite some time now, and Key clearly suffered from hallucinations, most likely from hash he smoked as a coping mechanism. It's quite evident from his writing style that he was watching the events at Fort McHenry unfold while under the influence of a mind-altering substance that subjectively enhanced what would have been a rather ordinary experience to one of epochal proportion, and that he thus felt compelled to document -- essentially with scrawl on a used, paper dinner napkin, employing what the PSSA would unkindly reveal to be little more than a sixth-grade vocabulary.

"For example, Key wrote of broad stripes and bright stars, as though the flag were larger than its actual dimensions of 42 feet long by 30 feet high, and that the stars were glowing in some fashion, as though, perhaps it may have even caught fire -- it's like he's telling us that he was witness to flaming projectiles. We know in retrospect these are gross exaggerations. But without digressing into a missive on the reluctancy with which society embraces revisionist history or gay sex, suffice it to say, that flag in the Smithsonian is very likely a clever forgery."

Further examination of this unexplored, taboo jurisprudential reefer culture reveals that "flag burning" back then didn't have the loaded, anti-American attachment it does today, either. It was just code for what we'd call "lighting a doobie," said Abramowitzaham.

"And I've got this theory, too, that the more names your parents burden you with, the more important you must believe yourself to be. For every moniker listed on your birth record, there is a psychological underpinning associated with that name. You see this in Miss America pageants all the time. Look what happened to Kaye Lani Rae Rafko, who to make matters worse, decided to hyphenate her name after marriage, and is now Kaye Lani Rae Rafko-Wilson. Having a lot -- and I do mean that word in the literal sense -- of names is the most indelible form of societal one-upmanship, but by the same toke -- I mean, token -- it's often an unrealized expectation."

What did happen to Rafko-Wilson?

"Exactly. No one's heard of her. If you can't live up to the reputation that precedes you, you are doomed to a life of misery and self-contempt, and often, unfortunately, self-medication," he added, as he excused himself to go blazin'."

MS. MON TO WRITE RELATIONSHIP ADVICE COLUMN FOR PITTSBURGH POST-GAZETTE

''AS SOON AS I SAW THE QUALIFICATIONS -- 'MUST HAVE RECENT BERET PHOTOS' -- I KNEW I WAS A SHOO-IN FOR THE JOB," SHE SAID

PITTSBURGH - Rumors that long-time Pittsburgh Post-Gazette columnist Cat Specter was going to be replaced were quelled today when the newspaper made a formal announcement that it was picking up Ms. Mon as a columnist after reviewing thousands of beret photos.

"It was a rather intense process," said editor John Allison, who was on the panel to select a replacement. "We pored over every single submission that came into this office. First, we had to eliminate the color photos, since we are a newspaper and we can only print black and white photos, obviously," said Mr. Allison.

Mr. Allison went on to say that judging by some of the millinery applicants had donned, there were those who clearly didn't understand the requirements -- so many photos were thrown out because they were not berets. "We had quite a few cowboy hats, which I thought was odd, but the one that really threw me was the fez. We had a fez," said Mr. Allison.

In the instance that it was questionable as to whether or not the submitter was in fact, wearing a beret, a majority vote was taken to either keep or eliminate the photo, and consisted of a panel of five: Allison, fashion editor LaMont Jones, Harrisburg reporter Dennis Roddy, columnist Tony Norman and retired P-G fashion writer Barbara Cloud.

Cloud remembers the process. "It was in the spring of 1956, when women wore white gloves and crisp linen dresses, that I first saw the beret when I was in Paris with my dear friends Sylvia, Cloris and Esther. The people in France have always had so much better taste in clothing and have always been so much thinner and better than Americans. It was so romantic," Ms. Cloud waxed, until Mr. Roddy cut her off with a heavy sigh and an eye roll.

Offering no solid reason as to why Catherine Specter's column was being axed, Mr. Jones simply said, "We though Ms. Mon was a better fit for the kicky beret."

Mr. Norman was too busy being a the P-G's unlikely African-American, conservative columnist to take questions.

Additionally, Cat Specter had no comment at press time, but said that if you caught her at happy hour later, she might have a few choice words. And that none of them would be beret.

A very delighted Ms. Mon promised her advice-seekers, "I will not let my new post go to my head."

MS. MON RELUCTANTLY AGREES TO 'HAIRCUT' APPOINTMENT, WILL SURRENDER AT THE HANDS OF LOCAL STYLIST

GENERAL PUBLIC REJOICES; FAMILY, FRIENDS AND COWORKERS ARRANGE FOR MOTORCADE ESCORT TO ENSURE HER TIMELY ARRIVAL

Coworker Lidia Ribaldry taking bets at office Ms. Mon bails: "I know that woman, and once she sees those pointy scissors pointing at her, she is going to scamper like a rat out of a sewer on a rainy day, whatever the hell that means."

STEELERS OWNER DAN ROONEY QUESTIONED BY COMMITTEE ABOUT RELATIONSHIP TO HOLLYWOOD ACTOR

"That is a preposterous allegation," Mr. Rooney testified before the Senate Foreign Relations Committee as President Barack Obama's nominee for ambassador to Ireland. "There is no way in hell I'm related to that crazy bastard, and I resent that question so much that the next time the Steelers win the Super Bowl, none of them are coming to the goddamn White House. They'll all be afraid to fly!"

MEANWHILE, SOMEWHERE IN ENGLAND ...

"I am in no way related to the Rooneys who own the Super Bowl! My real name isn't even Rooney! But I AM Mickey Rooney! Wait, am I? F*#@ YOU! And you are? Can't you get me a younger broad? I SAID CAN'T YOU GET ME A YOUNGER BROAD? Oh, this is my wife? OK. I DO SOLEMNLY SWEAR I AM NOT RELATED TO DAN ROONEY!!! WHO THE HELL ARE YOU PEOPLE? I'M MICKEY ROONEY!!!!!! Wait ... "

WE ARE

LUKE RAVENSTAHL APOLOGIZES TO COMMUNITY, BLAMES MR. ROGERS FOR SELF-CENTERED, IMMATURE BEHAVIOR

OAKLAND -- "I stand before you today at this press conference sponsored by UPMC as a man, an ethical man, willing to admit that I have not given the attention warranted to the needs of my constituents. Many of you have asked about my schedule, and the truth is, I just need some "me" time. But God as my witness -- and it pains me deeply to be honest about this -- it can all be attributed to the hours I spent viewing Mr. Rogers as a child. Just remembering the episode where Picture Picture plays Mr. Rogers' visit to the crayon factory takes me to a deep, dark place. The good folks at UMPC have kindly agreed to help me by offering their best therapists," said a weepy Luke Ravenstahl, in a paragraph reprinted here that may rival in length only one from the novel, Ulysses.

According to a UMPC spokesperson, Ravenstahl's first session employed Gestalt Therapy. "It ended with what you might call a bit of Primal Scream Therapy," she said, with a hearty guffaw. "And I'm only telling you this because Luke says he wants it all out in the open. Near the end of two hours of intense treatment, he was literally curled up in the fetal position and screaming Mr. Rogers lyrics."

The therapist immediately recognized them from the song, "The Truth Will Make Me Free:"

What if I were very, very sad
And all I did was smile?
I wonder after awhile
What might become of my sadness?

What if I were very, very angry
And all I did was sit
And never think about it?
What might become of my angers?

Where would they go,
And what would they do,
If I couldn't let them out?

May I'd fall, maybe get sick
Or doubt.

But what if I could know the truth
And say just how I feel?
I think I'd learn a lot that's real
About freedom.

Ravenstahl ended his apology by proclaiming in his signature monotone voice to the packed house, "I am fully willing to accept that the blame lies with Fred Rogers, may he rest in peace. So please, now that we've got that settled, please -- won't you be my neighbor?"

AN IDEA FOR PITTSBURGH

These signs are posted in various locations in Connellsville, Fayette County. At least they're honest.

THIS PUBLICATION WILL NOT REPORT ON MAYOR LUKE RAVENSTAHL'S APPEARANCE ON "CBS SUNDAY MORNING"

A SPECIAL LOOK BACK FROM OUR ARCHIVES: MARCH 12, 2007
















(Above: Journalists stare at Ms. Monongahela's cleavage during a special staff meeting.)

MS. MON ORDERS STAFF OF NEWSROOM VETS TO "LEAVE THIS RAVENSTAHL STORY ALONE" AND "CUT IT WITH THE LOOSE TIE ROUTINE"

PITTSBURGH -- During a staff meeting yesterday afternoon, reporters for Ms. Adventures on the Mon appeared incredulous as their audacious editor demanded that 27-year-old Pittsburgh Mayor Luke Ravenstahl's appearance on CBS Sunday Morning not be covered, her reasoning being that she refuses to be restrained by the prevailing standards of propriety.

"It's completely counterintuitive to ignore this story," bemoaned disgruntled City Hall reporter Mitch Gaylord, who asked that readers take note of how many syllables are in the word "counterintuitive."

Said Ms. Mon, "I refuse to report that the mayor's wife Erin Ravenstahl said, 'We'll like drive through the city, through the tunnel, and I'll be like, You're in charge of all that? It's crazy.'

Vivian Vantage, the publication's copyreader, charged that it was only because Erin Ravenstahl's comment reminded Ms. Mon of a bad acid trip she had as a college sophomore.

"I take the position that there are more important things going on in this City. Take, for example, the fact that a woman from Emsworth just appeared on Judge Judy and sued her ex-boyfriend. And plus, we need room for all the fish fry listings," Ms. Mon countered.

Bob Evans, the TV critic, expressed his own outrage that he was not permitted to cover the event as part of his beat. But since Ms. Monongahela is the editor of this publication, she will not tell you exactly what he said, fueling rumors that she is a despotic egomaniac, especially when you consider that she just wrote this sentence.

"I told [Bob] rather plainly that we are not going to give any more publicity to that whore John McIntire, who is damn funny, by the way, or the only real contender -- besides Professor Emcee Square -- in the mayoral race, Bill Peduto. The last thing we are going to do is put Bill Peduto's name in print, because Bill Peduto is just going to have to get his own publicity. Bill Peduto's name will not, and I repeat this for clarity's sake: Bill Peduto's name will not appear in this publication. And neither will John McIntire's. And finally, we are not even going to mention how much coverage the bloggers at 2politicaljunkies have given this story. We are big fans of 2politicaljunkies, but 2politicaljunkies have so many readers already, that writing about 2politicaljunkies would just be redundant. And the last thing we want to do is be redundant."

(Gabby Rivershores, our dyslexic headline writer, contributed to the last, unwieldly paragraph of this story.)

CAUGHT ON CAMERA: MAYOR LUKE RAVENSTAHL "THINKS"

SUPPORTERS OF CITY'S WUNDERKIND LEADER SAY THEY HOPE "HE WILL CONTINUE TO DO SO"

PITTSBURGH REPUBLICANS "PUMPED" FOR UPCOMING MAYORAL ELECTION

MS. MON PREDICTS THAT IF WORTHY OPPONENTS DON'T STEP THINGS UP, SHE MAY HAVE TO RUN WITH THIS FRONT PAGE ...

MAYOR LUKE RAVENSTAHL INCITES RIOT WIELDING GIANT ICICLE DURING PENGUINS GAME AGAINST NEW YORK RANGERS

This highly reliable news source has recently acquired an exclusive photo sent by an attendee of Tuesday evening's hockey game, who released it to us on the condition of top secret anonymity. (Thanks, bro.)

At press time, the mayor defended his actions, issuing a brief statement that he was only trying to protect the hockey players from "crazy fans."

A player from the Boston Bruins -- who seemed literally to appear out of nowhere -- tried to calm the crowd, but to no avail.

Erstwhile mayoral spokesperson Dick Skrinjar was available for comment, because he is unemployed, but this news source was too lazy to call him last night.

A person who works close to the mayor confided to Ms. Mon that he believes "the upcoming election really has Luke concerned. I'm afraid he's ready to crack. We're trying to get him the treatment he needs right now before another incident like this happens."

JUDY O'CONNOR PRAYS FOR MS. MON; GOD ANSWERS, 'YOU'RE WASTIN' YOUR TIME, LADY'

MS. MON HOSTS "COOKIE SUMMIT" TO ENCOURAGE PEACEFUL COEXISTENCE AMONG BLOGGERS, MSM AND ALTERNATIVE PRESS

MORE FROM THE MS. MON ARCHIVES: NEW SERIES: "THE THIRTYSOMETHING CLUB"

Another archive classic: February 7, 2007

PROFILING PITTSBURGH’S NOT-SO-YOUNG, BUT NOT-REALLY-OLD PEOPLE

LIFE OF DEBAUCHERY, BEDLAM AND BAD HABITS, STILL, SOUTH SIDE WOMAN GOING STRONG AS SHE REACHES MILESTONE OF 36. OK, 37.

Gertrude "Gertie" Manachan, the grandaughter of a coal miner, never met a mop she liked. Family and friends would enter her ill-appointed home and were aghast at her housekeeping habits. Lore has it that once, her own mother ran screaming at the smell of burning hotcakes, insisting to the local fire department that the house was engulfed in flames.

“My sister-in-law asked us when we were all in Cincinnati for Thanksgiving one year if we could find the one place in her spacious suburban cul-de-sac home where she forgot to clean. I just tell people when they come inside my house, I’ll give them ten dollars if they can find the spot where I did clean,” said Manachan, as she belched after chugging a Blithering Idiot and slid into a pair of maribou slippers. "I haven't had to pay out yet," she insisted.

Friends admire Gertrude for her nonchalant, carefree ways -- the kind that get you in trouble with law enforcement and such, though she claims the "undecent explosion" she was once charged with (the charges were later dropped) was a case of mistaken identity.

"That time the Overbrook fire chief had to come over and get the handcuffs off her extramarital lover was something else. We still have a good laugh about that one. Even her husband thinks it was pretty damn funny," said friend Tonya Berryberry of Normalville.

And then there were the papers piled on her desk that she was “saving” for some reason or another. It was usually another.

In her younger years, she could drink men under the table, and once she got them there, we can’t even tell you what she’d do with them. Though we suspect it was make them do little cleaning.

Mrs. Manachan is known for her flushed complexion and hair that looks like it needs a good brushing.

"I dated a law school student once who kept offering to pay for me to see a hairdresser, but I refused. He wanted a girl who looked like she made apple pies. Fortunately for me, I found a man who could just buy me all the apple pies I wanted. Ha," she said.

One of her best friends, Barb Tyranasauro, who attended high school with her way back in the ‘80s, said her favorite drink was Tab and her favorite food was Pop Tarts. “I always knew it would catch up with her. You should see her hips. As if you could cancel out the effects of Frosted Cherry with a diet soda. She’s a prime candidate for some kind of cancer, I’m sure. And then of course, there was her personality. She told it like it was. She wasn’t afraid of anything or anybody. She‘ll be the kind of woman who‘s laughing on her deathbed. Granted, it will be a maniacal laugh that will scare the bejesus out of the very people trying to save her, but she'll be whooping it up.”

Her other secrets?

“In heaven there is no beer, that’s why I drink it here,” Manachan sang. “Oh who am I kidding. I’m going straight to hell. Can somebody hand me a cigar for goddsakes?”

To be included in the Thirtysomething Club, please send your submissions elsewhere, because frankly, we don’t want them.

FROM 9-28-06: UNIVERSITY OF PITTSBURGH STUDENTS ELECT LUKE RAVENSTAHL STUDENT GOVERNMENT BOARD PRESIDENT IN LANDSLIDE VICTORY

From the Ms. Mon archives -
originally printed September 28, 2006












Just one week after University of Pittsburgh Student Government Board President Joe Pasqualichio broke both of his legs in a bizarre accident on Bigelow Boulevard that happened when Chuck Bonasorte's vendor's cart accidentally drifted into the street and ran him over, the SGB was forced to hold a special election to determine a replacement to serve out the remainder of Pasqualichio's term.

At the time, Pittsburgh City Mayor Luke Ravenstahl's political canvassers had been placing flyers in various strategic locations on and around campus, such as Chief's Cafe, to inform students that he was doing everything in his power to ensure that no special elections would be held during spring break, and that Luke was actively seeking their vote.

It seems, however, students mistook the postings as Luke's tossing his hat in the ring for Student Government Board president, so now he is offically both the youngest mayor of the City of Pittsburgh and, at 26, the oldest undergraduate Student Government Board president ever elected to office.

Mayoral spokesperson Dick Skrinjar said he is not sure what to do about the situation just yet. "We've got our legal people on it, and that's about all I can say at this time. Ultimately, I may have to write a letter to the City Paper and ask Chris Potter. That kid's got an answer for everything."

A BLAST FROM THE PAST! A STORY FROM THE MS. MON ARCHIVES! MARK RAUTERKUS ANNOUNCES CANDIDACY FOR MAYOR; WILL RUN AS MEMBER OF "SAVOIR-FAIRE" PARTY

NOVEMBER 14, 2006

PITTSBURGH'S MOST ILLUSTRIOUS SOUTHSIDER REVEALS CAMPAIGN SLOGAN: "A PIEROGI IN EVERY POT AND A FOLDING CHAIR FOR EVERY PARKING SPACE"

Has already secured endorsement of the "pirohi ladies" of St. Vladimir's, even though as Ukrainians they disagree with his preferred Polish spelling

by Mitch Gaylord, City Hall Reporter

Without any pomp -- or circumstance, for that matter -- late last night, when no one seemed to be looking, Mark Rauterkus and his running mates quietly pulled a Princeton Offense, delivering a backdoor pass that landed his proverbial hat square in the melting pot for mayor of our beloved city. (Pittsburgh, just in case you weren't sure. You were sure, weren't you?)

Rauterkus, who ran a respectable campaign to fill the city council seat that was left vacant when Gene Ricciardi won a district judgeship, was defeated by at least twelve other candidates in a special election last year, including the guy who won, who was, um ... well, that's beside the point.

Rauterkus, a Libertarian reformer with strong ties to the Savoir-Faire faction, will face off with a formidable group of white men, including happenstance Mayor Luke "Opie" Ravenstahl; David Caliguiri, son of Pittsburgh's former, former favorite son (who was unseated recently by Pittsburgh's new former favorite son, Bob O'Connor); Bill "Progressive" Peduto, who waged what would turn out to be a killer campaign, by all accounts, against O'Connor, but lost because older voters outnumber young ones; Mike Dawida, formerly of the county commissioner triumvirate known as Cranmer-Dawida-Dunn, or "The Three Stooges," and Michael "Little" Lamb, who appears to make it his life's mission to split the progessive vote in Pittsburgh and keep Peduto out of office.

At presstime, it was unclear whether Lou "Hop" Kendrick would run, but we at Ms. Adventures on the Mon hope he and Les Ludwig will emerge at some point because they both make Ms. Mon smile. We have no news of any female candidates, but rumor has it that Melissa Hart is available.

In a phone interview early this morning, Rauterkus said he plans to endear the constituents of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania through a grassroots "folk song campaign" that will have everyone singing his praises. Instead of airing political ads, he will air "political music videos" to get his message out. "I'm going to make this the most interesting election Pittsburgh has ever seen," he said. "This election will go down in the annals of history. I'm going to make sure that I'm known as more than just the guy with the really groovy hair."

VIVIAN REPORTS THAT MS. MON HAS GONE TO TIBET FOR THE REST OF THE WEEK

MS. MON ANNOUNCES SHE IS QUITTING QUITTING BLOGGING

Dear fans,

I've been thinking. Again. After the overwhelming response from my Aunts and Uncles yesterday -- and Sherry -- I have been in emotional turmoil for oh, at least 15 hours, and I think I need to take a step back from this whole "quitting blogging" gig and take a much-needed reprieve.

I never expected that quitting blogging would be so exhausting. But alas, I found myself unable to sleep last night, in the throes of epistolary angst, as I formed this letter in my head to you, which I am now typing.

So, I have decided to quit quitting. In other words, I'm still quitting, but I'm quitting quitting. For now.

Are you following? I know, I had trouble with it, too.

Let me explain it to you more clearly. Because I ran out of things to say, I quit blogging. Well, sort of. But now that I am running out of things to say about quitting, I need to quit quitting, and since two negatives make a positive, it means I'm not quitting. Just yet.

Because even though I don't have anything left to say, and I'm done. With this. (And don't forget about the big void in the universe part!) OK. Just kidding. I mean, while one might not have anything to left to say and find themselves in the position of quitting blogging, there is much to say about NOT blogging anymore.

And, if we were to take that a step further, we could posit, if there is so much to say about NOT blogging, how much out there hasn't been said yet about NOT NOT blogging? The possibilities are exponential.

It does indeed, boggle the mind.

So, for now, I must go think. Nap. Maybe catch a movie.

Love Always,
Ms. Mon

MS. MON'S AUNTS AND UNCLES TURN OUT EN MASSE TO IMPLORE HER TO CONTINUE BLOGGING

PITTSBURGH, Pa. -- This morning, as Ms. Mon was retrieving her Pittsburgh Post-Gazette print edition from the mud in her dormant flower bed next to her driveway, she looked up to see her entire extended family -- peculiarly, only aunts and uncles, no grandparents or cousins -- gathered in front of her home, engaged in thunderous applause.

At first, she thought it was because they were glad to see her finally get up on time.

But then, Uncle Harry in the 22nd row shouted, "You can't quit us now. You must go on. You must blog."

Dee Thompson from WPXI, the only reporter present because he is the only reporter awake at 5 a.m., asked Ms. Mon, tears welling in her eyes, to describe her reaction.

"Well, Dee. Seriously man, I was only toying with the idea of quitting. The whole quitting thing was pretty noncommittal, if you read between the lines. In fact, I still haven't made up my mind. I'm leaning towards just renaming it," said the slippered Ms. Mon.

It was estimated that approximately 500 aunts and uncles were present, from parts of the world as far away as Steubenville, Ohio.

"I'm very touched by your show of support," Ms. Mon told the crowd, and she adjusted a wedgie. "But I really need a cup of coffee before I can deal with this. And Aunt Miriam, when did you become Aunt Mark?"

Ms. Mon then politely excused herself and went to make coffee and get dressed, it is presumed.

FANS CLAMOR FOR MS. MON TO KEEP BLOGGING

You know, our good friend Jerry makes a compelling argument in the comment section below as to why I shouldn't stop blogging.

So I'm going to ruminate a bit.

Get back to you.

A FINAL FAREWELL: MS. MON IS CLOSING UP SHOP

How many ways can one say goodbye?

Many, actually. And until I've exhausted every single one of them, I'm not going to be satisfied.

Forget what I said yesterday. I'm not quitting blogging because of a broken heart.

And forget what I said the day before. What did I say the day before?

The point is, I am quitting blogging.

Forever.

But it's Friday, and I have like, a gazillion things to do, so I'm going to have to finish quitting tomorrow.

Hope you had a great Friday! See you tomorrow! I'm quitting blogging!

THE BLOG STOPS HERE!

I was thinking.

You really only get one chance to retire from blogging.

So why not make sure you've purged every possible emotion from your being before you move on? I mean, what's the hurry?

What if I wrote this up like it were an obituary? Just for fun and all? I know. I was thinking the same thing. Abso-friggin'-lutely! The real reason Ms. Mon is quitting is because she has a broken heart. So forget everything I said yesterday.

Ms. Mon
March 6, 2006 - March 5, 2009

If only she could have lived that one last day to make it to her three-year-anniversary. But that's how things went for her. Always a day early (if she could even remember when she was supposed to be there) and a two cents too much.

Ms. Mon, prominent blogger for Ms. Adventures on the Mon, died last night from complications of losing her soul mate. She was 35 years old. Soft-spoken and obsessive, Ms. Mon never looked the part of a hopeless romantic. But, in the final days of her life, she revealed an unknown side of her psyche. This hidden quasi-Jungian persona surfaced during the Agatha Christie-like pursuit of her long reputed soul mate, a man whom she only spent a few precious hours with. Sadly, the protracted search ended early Thursday morning in complete and utter failure. Yet even in certain defeat, the courageous Ms. Mon secretly clung to the belief that life is not merely a series of meaningless accidents or coincidences. Uh-uh. But rather, it's a tapestry of events that culminate in an exquisite, sublime plan. Asked about the loss of his dear friend, Chris Potter, award-winning writer, office lothario and editor of Pittsburgh City Paper, described Ms. Mon as a changed woman in the last days of her life. "Things were clearer for her," Potter noted. Ultimately Ms. Mon concluded that if we are to live life in harmony with the universe, we must all possess a powerful faith in what the ancients used to call "fatum", what we currently refer to as destiny.

MS. MON IS REALLY FINISHED TODAY. FOR WAY REAL.

OK. I'm back. There were a few more things I needed to get off my chest.

I know yesterday I suggested/hinted/tossed about the idea of quitting blogging forever. But today, I mean it. I am quitting blogging. Exiting stage left. Turning in the Terrible Towel. Giving up the ghost. Boo! Did I scare you? Good.

I was thinking that before I exit stage left, more time needs to be devoted to the rumination of my self-annihilation, and it would be cathatic for us all to pull up a chair, sit back, relax (maybe get a massage?) and engage in some gentle discourse.

Please Discuss.

Now that we've all introduced ourselves, I want to share with you the reason I must quit blogging. (Did I mention forever, by the way? I just want to be 100% certain my point is coming across. I'm quitting blogging. For good people. For. Good.)

You see, people have been cyberstalking me. Trying to figure out who I am, and the thing is, I don't want you to know that I'm Frances Sansig Monahan. It would ruin me. It would ruin the integrity of my blog. It would ruin the mystique. The fun. The je ne sais quois.

We don't want that to happen. So I can't let you know I'm Frances Sansig Monahan. Or Frances Monahan if you don't feel like typing out three names. (And who could blame you? Damn feminists. I wonder if anybody's ever studied their contribution to carpal tunnel syndrome.)

So yeah. Some real idiots have had the audacity (because-I'm-so-special-and-my-identity-is-so-sacred-that-I'm-willing-to-have-lunch-with-every-editor-in-town -- OK, that part's real -- as long as you're payin') to threaten to reveal who I am. And I can't let that happen. If you find out I'm Frances Monahan, then you know, things will be different.

Kind of like when Ellen came out of the closet? Remember -- it stalled her career a bit. But man, did she return big time. Funny lady, that Ellen.

So anyway, I want you to know that others spoiled the fun. I'd tell you about them, but I don't want you to hate them or draw more attention to myself. For example, there was this guy, see, and he was real close to telling you that I'm Frances Monahan, and I just couldn't let that happen. (That's Frances with an e, by the way -- not an i. People always misspell it and it drives me bonkers. So remember, e = feminine spelling, i = masculine. Got that? Good. So that's F-R-A-N-C-E-S. Also, there are two common spellings of my last name. Mine is sans the "g." So that's M-O-N-A-H-A-N. Not Monaghan.)

What a turd, huh? I mean, how dare someone try to figure out who I am. I mean, I'm only telling them EVERYTHING ABOUT ME EVERY DAY AND MY FAMILY AND TAKING PICTURES OF MY SURROUNDINGS.

(Wow. Do you know how tough this is for me to find all these words, considering I have nothing left to say? I'm diggin' deep man. For you, my faithful readers. And the ones who haven't been so faithful. See you Saturday, by the way. Your wife's out of town this weekend, right?)

Yeah. It takes a lot of freaking balls to put two and two together, when they're being handed to you on a silver platter. The last thing I ever wanted to happen was for you to find out I'm Frances Monahan. But I do want you to know that I'm never blogging again.

I'm really, really, really never posting another thing on this blog.

Tear-stained letters have already started to trickle in, and I know how sad you are. On the verge of depression, I imagine. I mean, let's think about it. Here I am, running this fantastic blog that maybe 100 people a day read, and then poof! like that, it's gone. You will be angry first, then sad, then the acceptance will begin to take hold. I am asking you, as my solid fans, to just start accepting now. Skip the anger, the sadness and the gamut of emotions you may be inclined to experience and just accept.

Accept.

Because Frances Monahan is never blogging again.

Sniff.

I mean it. Ms. Mon aka Frances Monahan is through.

Please, your pleas are worthless. I'm done.

With this.

MS. MON HAS A MAJOR, IMPORTANT, LIFE-ALTERING AND URGENT ANNOUNCEMENT TO MAKE!

She is pontificating retiring from blogging. Because she has really run out of things to say. She has nothing left to say, it seems. In fact, it is amazing that she continues to type, considering she is so done with blogging it's not even funny. She just can't think of anything. She's a blank. A zip. A zilch. A null. A nada. A zero. She's done. That's it. She is just going to stop blogging, she thinks, forever and ever and all eternity and ad infinitum. So she wants you all to know that SHE MAY NEVER BLOG AGAIN. SHE HAS NOTHING TO SAY. SHE IS DONE. Well, maybe. But no, seriously, she is going to quit blogging. And nothing is going to change her mind, and she's glad she could keep this so short. Because brevity makes impact, people. It gives one pause. Time to smell the roses. Relish life. Relish hot dogs.

I can't go on anymore. I'm done. In fact, I'm so sure I'm finished, I'm going to repeat that. I'm done. Done, done, done. OK. I'm just thinking about it at this point. But I am thinking about it VERY SERIOUSLY. GRAVELY. EARNESTLY. HONESTLY.

WITH MUCH SOLEMNITY. (And a thesaurus at my side.)

There is no way anybody's talking me out of this, so don't even try. Your pleas for me to continue blogging will be met with great resistance. I will not cave. Give in. Concede. Acquiesce. (That's what I can do without a thesaurus. I just spilled my coffee all over it.)

So, as I said, there's no use if you want to try to keep me from quitting. It's not really quitting, though. I am just moving on. Because I have absolutely nothing to say. And I'll say it again. To emphasize.

I'm finished.

Through.

Fried.

Toast.

Gone for good.

Forever.

OK. Not yet. But close.

And that's why I'm keeping this so short. Because when I say I'm done, I mean it, and I want you to experience the full drama of this quitting, with me. Now let's breathe together and repeat: Ms. Mon is going to stop blogging, and my life may never be the same.

Did I tell you I may never blog again?

I know this comes as a great shock to you, but I have been mulling over this for a while. Ruminating. Excogitating, in fact. No. Really. Have you ever met me? Total excogitater. Is there an excogitater in the house? Yo! That's me! Present! And guilty as charged, sir.

Hi. My name is Ms. Mon. And I'm an excogitater.

Who has nothing left to say.

And is going to be done blogging. Soon.

Maybe.

I know that you are deeply concerned, and I appreciate this. I know you are asking yourself questions like, "How can I go on?" and "Whatever will I do?"

And that's because you know that when I'm finished here (which is going to be really, soon, because I am making an official announcement, perhaps) that life will never be the same.

Things will be different.

Daily, you will wake up and ask yourself, "Why? Why? Why? Why did she stop? And why can't I stop thinking about her?"

And you will have these thoughts everyday until the day you die. And I just know it, which is why I want to announce that I may never blog again and your vain attempts to intercede will be met with much implacableness. Much. Did I say much?

Kingdoms will fall. Empires will collapse. The economy? Eh, not my field of expertise.

So anyway, I am quitting the business. Forever. Probably.

Did I tell you I am retiring from blogging, and I just don't have anything left to say on the matter?

I know. It's devastating.

That. I. Don't. Have. Anything. Left. To. Say.

I am through. Through, I tell you!

Finished.

This is my last blog post.

Of all time.

I mean it.

Yep.

GEORGE W. IS A CONCEPT

YOU SAY YOU WANT WHAT?

IF IT MAKES YOU HAPPY ...

I KNOW HE TAKES FREAKING FOREVER TO DIE ... BUT I LOVE THIS VIDEO