DESPERATE MEASURES

One of the things that sucks about blogging is that it can reduce self-worth down to what the hit count says. The more hits you have, the more people like you and what you have to say. Millions of hits makes you a rock star of the blog world and puts you in line for columnist gigs and book deals. A hit count of, oh say, 8,500 makes you the crashing bore of the blog party, a high-water-pants-and-pocket-protector-wearing nerd who would be shot on sight at any profitable publishing house.

Saving myself from blogging oblivion becomes tricky, however. I could try to write about politics. Those guys always seem to rack up the hits. But given my addiction to the ridiculous and the fevered state of the Republic right now, I might wind up as poster boy for some lunatic fringe that thinks what the country needs in the White House is another plain-talking Hollywood star. No, not Fred Dalton Thompson; Mister Ed. I would probably end up as the VP candidate, and it also probably would not be long until the press labels me "the horse's ass" because of my loutish attacks on the opposition.

Some of the most successful roads to blogging stardom have been paved with personal revelation, the more salacious the better. Jessica Cutler, the onetime Capitol Hill intern with an overbooked sex life, rode her blog from abrupt unemployment to the bestseller list.

Other paths to glory use gambling and sports. Since desperate circumstances requires desperate measures, I'm going to grab all three, and give you a taste of what's on the horizon for this blog. Sure you can call it selling out, but it's not like I haven't done that before, and for a lot less.

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My day started with sex, and lots of it. After I kicked out my girlfriend (who was spent from the night's amours, by the way), I was pleased to see that the person delivering my paper was bikini model/law student who was paying her way through school by delivering The Telegraph. Before the thump of the paper had quit echoing on the porch, I had that broad across the hood of her car, and we were definitely making headlines.

After I sent her on her way, it was time to ride my bike. Cycling for me is almost a form of meditation. As soon as the endorphin buzz kicks in, I'm able to clear my mind and focus on the problems and challenges of life. I'm able to find the clarity that leads to deeper spiritual awareness and peace. Cycling allows me to find the better angels of my nature.

And have sex. As I was riding down a country road, I saw a hot twentysomething babe jogging ahead of me. As soon as I pulled up alongside her, I knew it was on. I didn't want to interrupt my ride too much, so I hauled her up on my bike and ... well, do I really have to draw you a picture?

After I discarded her somewhere in Tifton (no lie -- Tifton!), I had to zip back here to Macon to attend an AAU summer league game that had the East Macon Mavericks against the South Forsyth Machine. The Mavericks are the team of Antonio Flywright, a 6-9 high-riser who can take it to the rack with authority and also hit the trey. He can bang inside when he has to, but he's better creating on the perimeter. His ball-handling and passing have to improve, but he's a lockdown defender who has the attention of every D1 coach. Many are hoping that he'll stay in state and go to UGA or Tech, but an inside source (his friend's cousin's girlfriend's brother) says he is a lock for Southern Cal.

The USC angle gained a little credibility when I noticed what had to be a Trojan cheerleader in the stands. She was probably there as an enticement for Antonio, but I was the one who enticed her outside. Once I found a romantic and out of the way spot (in the alley beside the Dumpster), I sexed her down and gave her something to really cheer about.

After that it was on to poker. At least I thought it was poker. It had a lot to do with limping into a game and then watching people flop about. A blind guy was sailing on a river until he hit a big time bluff, but there was a flopping rainbow, so he made a turn to write a check that he folded. After that, I made a call and took down the pot.

And then it was on to more sex. This time with a cocktail waitress at the bar where the poker action was. Unfortunately, she had a jealous boyfriend who sucker-punched me and knocked out a tooth. After picking up the tooth, I scrambled out of the bar and hailed a taxi. The driver was an aerobics instructor working her second job. She started to come on to me like a drunken prom queen, but I thought doing it in the back seat of a cab would be kind of sleazy, so I blew her off.

When I got home and went to bed, I put my tooth under the pillow to see what I would get for it. I figured that if my baby teeth went for a quarter a pop, then one of my permanent teeth would go for about $25, given inflation.

Later that night, I was disturbed by a smoking hot chick with wings and bathed in an ethereal glow slipping something under my pillow. I quickly seized her by the wrist and checked her offering. A quarter -- a lousy quarter. I looked at her and said it was going to cost her a little bit more to get that tooth.