Dooced

(No, I haven't been fired for talking about my job on my blog--as the term "dooced" usually implies--nor do I think I've said anything here that would warrant such an action, being as how I like both my current jobs.)

I am not a jealous man. This is actually a lie, but for the present purposes it is true. It does not bother me when my wife occasionally admits that she is attracted to Johnny Depp or Brad Pitt (though I do find her taste in men quite different from mine), and in fact I wouldn't mind if she did so more frequently. I know she loves me and is committed to me, so it doesn't matter if she's admiring some other guy from a distance.

What does make me jealous is when I see her reading the blog of a Salt Lake woman named Dooce (the woman doesn't need a link from me so you can find her blog yourself if you want to) and laughing hysterically. Sometimes I worry that she will stop breathing. Inevitably, when she can calm the laughter down enough to talk, she will call me or whoever else is near to the computer so she can show us what hilarious thing Dooce has said this time. Usually, it is quite funny, which is what makes it so bad.

Dooce, in case you don't know, gets enough regular hits on her blog that she can support her family with the advertisements on her sidebar. Everybody loves Dooce. I have tried to love her, but I can't. For a while I thought I'd read her blog regularly to figure out what she's doing right that I'm not. I just couldn't. In the first place, it is hard for me to get into the blog of a person I don't know in real life or have some other personal connection to. But even more than that, I have not been able to follow her blog because it makes me angry that I am not her.

In real life I am a funny person. This is not due to any greater-than-average portion of wit, but due to the odds being on my side. If I am comfortable with you, I will say out loud just about every thought that comes to mind--whether it be a random word association, a deliberate misunderstanding, or a nonsensical Your Mom joke--and the chances are, out of 100 attempts at being funny, at least 9 or 10 will invoke genuine laughter. This habit of mine makes any effort to have a serious conversation with me quite frustrating, as Foxy J, Lady Steed, my mother-in-law, or any number of people who know me will attest. Still, I like to think it makes me endearing. I don't believe that's true, mind you, I just like to think it.

My blog, though, tends to go something like this:

Hi. I am Master Fob. This is why I suck.

Da da da da da da for five paragraphs.

And this is why I really don't suck, and you don't suck, and nobody sucks. Let's all hug. The end.

I would like to tell myself that I am not funny on my blog because I am too busy being meaningful and poignant, but that's just stupid. Lots of people are funny and meaningful at the same time, such as Tolkien Boy on every blog post he ever writes, or Samantha Stevens when she is telling naysayers on Times & Seasons that they are being silly. Really, this is the blogger I'd like to be. I enjoy funny writing so much more when there's a point to it, whether the point be a philosophical epiphany or just a good story (I'm not saying that there isn't a point to Dooce's humor, by the way; I can't honestly say whether there is, as I don't read her blog).

I think my lack of humor here comes from two things:

1. My sense of humor depends on interaction with people, as I tend to play off whatever they are saying. I could never be a standup comedian.

2. Blogging is my chance to be serious, since in real life I usually am not.

Which means, dear reader, that it sucks to be you. Or rather, it sucks to be me, as you will surely grow bored with my meandering and go check out Dooce's blog.

Da da da da da.

And this is why I really don't suck, and you don't suck, and nobody sucks. Let's all hug. The end.