Suzanna, Insty, Obama and Monique . . .

.. . are killing me today. Having blogged all night to respond to Cynthia Yockey, then stunned at developments among the Newbie Duo, I managed to get to sleep sometime around 10 a.m. this morning.

At 11:30 a.m., the phone rings: "Uh, Mr. McCain . . . Well, sorry to wake you, but I was checking my SiteMeter, and there was about 50 hits. But then when I checked back, there were like 1,200 . . ."

Bolt upright: "The Lanche!"

"What? Anyway, when I checked, I found out that Instapundit guy, you know the one you told me to put on my blogroll, well, he linked me and now it's going crazy and I don't know what to do."

A blog consultant has to be on call 24/7, and now my client was in crisis mode. Try to remain calm. "OK, Logan, what did he link? The Jello wrestling or the Big Sexy?"

She sighs in exasperation. "That's just it. He linked the very first post I did a week ago."

Groan. "Dammit. . . . OK, you've been 'Lanched. . . . Never mind. The first thing to do . . ."

So then I ran her through the drill, explained she must first acknowledge the honor of her first 'Lanche, which is always more granted than deserved, with an update to the post. Mumbled curses. "It took Jammie Wearing Fool six months to get his first 'Lanche, Logan. Make sure you acknowledge Monique. You guys have got to be a team. . . ."

After I'd finished mumbling more, I tried to go back to sleep. But the TV was on MSNBC, and there was an Obama press conference at which he lied through his teeth, telling America that passage of his budget was a necessity. But as Monique has been saying for days, the federal government can auto-pilot on continuing resolutions indefinitely. There is no emergency, and the Obudget is the Mother Of All Crap Sandwiches.

No hope of sleep. Monique just switched over from Blogspot to a custom URL, but hasn't set up SiteMeter at the new site, so she can't even measure her traffic now. Minions Gone Wild, and now I've got Obama to blog.

When the going gets weird . . . hey, my Samoan attorney won't even return my calls. No justice. No peace. No sleep. No Ibogaine. Who to blame? Richard Spencer. If he hadn't struck out with Michelle Lee Muccio . . .

UPDATE: Little Miss Attila, kharma queen of the blogosphere, finds amusement in the virtual menage between me, Yockey and Insty. If we could just get an Ace-o-lanche, we'd be rolling.