I doubt I need to explain that saying “the internet will be down for the weekend” in my household is more or less equivalent to saying “they forgot to deliver this week’s oxygen,” including the part that ends with everybody hyperventilating and clutching their chests. It would just be One of Those Things if not for the fact that the phone company has called us three different times with three different stories, two of them being, “It’s fixed, right? It’s been fixed since Saturday morning. We stopped worrying about it. We’ve been golfing.”
I don’t really mind the resulting Monday Morning Mailalanche (even artificially, it’s nice to feel popular) but I was concerned that I would come here this morning and see a conversation in the Comments section along the lines of,
Porn!
Porny porn?
Oh, porn. Porn pornest porn.
I’ve set up barbed wire fences and guard dogs, but things do slip through. It’s a full-time job, keeping your virgin eyes protected from the crap that gets auto-posted.
So, now I just need to catch up on what’s happened this weekend– I’m hearing something about an earthquake?– and spouting off on it.