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Finding Out Someone Else Has A Punch In The Face-Themed Blog — Punch In the Face

February 27, 2009

Well, this lasted long.  5 days, 2 posts and 1 killer old school rap  01-punch-in-the-face3, and I get a stark Punch In the Face:  Apparently, someone else already has a Punch In the Face-themed blog (on another blog site).  Look, I get it.  It’s the Internet and no idea is completely original.  And no, the themes aren’t exactly the same — my life is a Punch In The Face, and this blogger’s listing people she wants to punch in the face.  You see?  Clearly the two blogs theme-atically distinct.  But still, I kept holding out hope that my Mommy was telling me the truth:  that I really am special.  This latest revelation is evidence that, so far, no dice on the “special me” front. 

So, where do I go from here?  Do I just fold down my laptop and limp off the blog battleground with my head down?   You wish.  You wish I’d leave my legions of fans:  the fourth graders bumping the Punch In the Face mp3 on their iPod’s as they prepare for a grueling day of pop quizes and frustratingly small juice boxes; the salesman ordering a white-on-black Punch In The Face t-shirt from my members-only fan site; and the 5th-year lawyer at the white-shoe law firm whose only respite from the endless stream of billing his time in 6-minute increments is when he stuffs a print out of today’s PITF blog in his $200 trousers and sprints off to the bathroom for a daily dose of the Gospel According to C-ROC . . . 

That’s it.  I can’t just leave my millions of dedicated disciples.  I can’t leave you to fend for yourselves in this cruel, cruel world.  You’re very fragile.  You’re barely hanging on to the pathetic existence that you refer to as a “life.”  Need proof?  You’re reading this.  Wait . . . come back, I was kidding. 

As I thought long and hard about whether I should just throw in the blog towel today, I took an item out of my fan mail.  It was a letter — brown and tattered, and it had been folded over eight times.  I carefully unfolded the letter like an ancient treasure map.  Even though I’ve read this note before dozens of times — hundreds of times maybe — I have to see it, feel it, on days like this where my personal foundation has been shaken to the core.  The letter is from Alejandro, a 9 year-old boy from Acapulco (“Alejandro from Acapuloc”, isn’t that adorable?) , a place I haven’t been in about a decade.  The note — written in such simplistic Spanish it makes me blush — has only 4 precious words: “Tu Eres Mi Papi.”  Powerful.  Even as I type this, a tear is gently rolling down my cheek.   Wait.  You don’t get it?  How can you not get it?  Don’t you see? I’m this kid’s hero — I’m Alejandro’s personal David Ortiz

Well, Tu Eres Mi David Oritz, Alejandro.  Tu Eres Mi David Ortiz.

I’ll talk to you guys tomorrow.

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