Wow -- I hate to be a jack ass, but I have checked your blog every day for nearly a month, and this is the best you have to offer? Where is the biting satire, the sharp political commentary -- hell, what happened with the wax-on-your-coat guy? I must confess, FAF, I do not blog myself so I know not the pressures and strain of writer's block but, babe, really -- this post was NOT what your legion of followers was waiting for... Sorry to be such an unappreciative bitch...

Oh no, wait -- it's not any fun at all.

Thankfully, others of you are more appreciative.

Still, I fear my reappearance makes a promise I cannot keep.

When I first launched this blog, it was a fun side project -- great for those years I was a student who needed a creative outlet. It was a blast to entertain, to spark discussions, to get on my high horse about politics, pop culture, queer issues and dating.

Oh, and American Idol. There was always plenty of American Idol.

Now, however, it's difficult.

Difficult because I have to work -- and I don't write about work. My social life consists of American Gladiators, and that has yet to reveal itself as a gold mine of material. And I have a huge new project brewing, but it's not yet at the state for a big reveal.

So I decided that unless I say something, I feel I've made a promise I can't keep.

Here goes:

I don't know when, or if, I'll write here again. There's just too much else to concentrate on, and most days I don't have any great ideas about what to post here. It's sad, but that's where I'm at.

Now about that other project: I hope to be ready to announce it soon, and I hope you'll follow me to that new destination. I can assure you I'll be doing plenty of writing there.

In the meantime -- thanks for tuning in, be well, and be sure to check back here in the next few weeks to find out the F-AF's next step.

I hope you'll like what's coming.

Blogging is funny business. You're in the zone -- or you have a job that requires 0.4 percent of your brain function -- and you're churning out copy at a Stephen King pace. But then you miss a day, or a week, or a month, and boy it's hard to get back in the mood.

You know it's bad when your mother e-mails you, wondering just when the hell you're going to post something new.

My problem, I fear, is that after three years of blogging, I just can't write silly crap any more. Once upon a time, I posted a few paragraphs about building Ikea furniture and figured I was genius. I superimposed Twinkies over a close-up of my red eye and waited for the Pulitzer. I wrote about mismatched socks, which I think makes me Dave Berry.

But when you've been off the horse for more than a month, you just have to get back on that stallion.

And just like my last hiatus, American Idol brings me back to you.

Evidence A: Unfortunate contestant's pre-interview:

Evidence B: Unfortunate contestant's audition:

Evidence C: Unfortunate contestant's post-interview:

Now, I know that reality TV is about as real as any emotion I've shown since 1998, but c'mon.

Could it be that some auditions require multiple takes to make for better television?

This Deep Throat whispers, "Follow the earrings."

I sat down -- he was already there -- and we began the usual first-date conversation flirtations.

After a half-hour or more, I noticed I had just bumped the candle with my elbow.

"Oops," I thought to myself. "Better move that back to the center of the table. You don't want to make one of your wild gestures and send a candle flying.

We kept chatting, laughing, eating. It was a good time. More time passed.

Suddenly, I noticed the candle brushing my hand.

"Didn't you move that to the center of the table?" I asked myself. "Odd."

I pushed it back to the center.

We finished eating. Dessert. More stories. More flirting.

A thump.

Darkness.

We both looked around the table, then at each other.

"I knew it!" I cried out, leaping up. "That candle was moving!"

And there it was, rolling back and forth on the floor, having slowly, imperceptibly slid across the table over the course of a two-hour date.

I patted down my arm, my pants. No wax.

Shrugging, I sat back down. We finished our date in darkness.

A walk to the car, a kiss.

As I drove away, I glanced down.

And discovered the front of my coat was covered in wax.

What a gentleman not to have said anything.

Or what a man not to have noticed.

And that's how my coat ended up in the freezer.

Your coat in the freezer.

Any guesses?

Hint: Martha would approve.

She's :-( because the Hollywood writers' strike just robbed her of her skit of the year: five minutes of Oprah's My Favorite Things, with Ms. O proclaiming as only she can, "Here's my favorite person to change America: Barack Obamaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! And there's one for you. And there's one for you. And there's one for you. There's one for everyone!"

And then 300 suburban ladies in sharp sweater sets lose their effing cool and someone literally dies of an aneurysm.

It is, apparently, a Big Deal that the world's most powerful woman has publicly endorsed a candidate for the first time.

Having seen celebrity stumpers in action before, I'm not so sure.

In 2004, I spent a day with a friend carting the actors who played Ted and Melanie from Queer as Folk around town for the HRC's election efforts. Of course, I would have to actually visit IMDB.com to look up their non-character names, so I suppose they don't really count.

A couple of weeks later, I found myself on a gay-bar stage with Chad Lowe, Hilary Swank and a whole mess of very petite people who are probably so pampered they don't know how to order pizza anymore. Julianna Margulies liked my anti-W T-shirt. She asked if she could have it, but she had left ER and was doing cable. So I turned her down.

They wanted us to vote Democrat. We did.

We lost.

Celebrity endorsements aren't all they're cracked up to be.

Of course, Oprah Winfrey is a whole other beast. She picks a book and the publisher needs advanced warning to get enough copies printed. She gets together groups of incomprehensibly wealthy women, gives them millions of dollars in jewelry as gifts, and her audience is fascinated rather than outraged.

Hell, she somehow made Dr. Phil acceptable.

The other candidates should probably be worried.

But since she's not supporting my gal, I believe the appropriate level of bitterness requires me to remind any Oprah fans who are swayed to support Obama because of her endorsement of these following facts:

1. She used to date Roger Ebert.

2. She believes in The Secret.

3. And while she is now worth far more than $1 billion, her original training is as a TV journalist.

And we all know the average intelligence of one of those:

Yeah, that's about right.

I'm employed, thankfully, but with no guarantees past February. And even though I've been assured numerous times how valuable I am, I have the growing feeling there just won't be any money when the end of my contract arrives.

So I'm on the prowl -- not for some useless man, but for gainful employment.

And after more than two months of ad-scouring, resume-sending and interview-going, I realize the two emotional roller coasters are one and the same.

The sense of depression/dread/futility/giving up is very familiar:

Why hasn't he/they noticed my profile/resume posted on Facebook/JournalismJobs.com?

Why didn't he/they call after I gave my number/mailed in my resume? I'm perfect for him/the job!

Why hasn't/haven't he/they called after our first date/interview? Oh my God, what did I say that soured him/them on me for a relationship/job?

Well, screw him/them. I didn't want to date him/work for them anyway.

I'm going to be single/unemployed forever.

I'm going to die alone/end up on the street.

It doesn't take a therapist to diagnose that it all comes down to one thing for me: fear of rejection. I need a man to want me. I need an employer to want me.

And right now, I feel very unwanted.

So if you're a company in Northeast Ohio looking for a journalist/writer/editor/marketer/communications specialist, send me an e-mail!

Because I suck as a boyfriend.

But I'm a freaking awesome employee.

When Ann Coulter called John Edwards a faggot, who sat in on Today to weigh in? Not me, and it's still puzzling me, Matthew Todd Lauer.

When Larry Craig made naughty in an airport bathroom, who crowded the hot-topics table with the ladies of The View? Wasn't me.

And now this news: Vice President Dick Cheney found to have an irregular heartbeat.

The moment I saw that information breaking on the gym TV yesterday, I knew the anchor was about to say two words: atrial fibrillation.

Regular Faggoty-Ass Faggot readers will remember my own good times with that particular condition last summer. And while A. Coop. is clearly a regular member of the F-AF audience, still no call.

So here are my thoughts on the Cheney fibbing:

1. This statement from the VP's office is some serious spinny bullshit: "An electrical impulse was used to restore the upper chambers to normal rhythm. The procedure went smoothly and without complication."

He got the paddles, folks. Somebody called out "clear!" His sickly, bare, white torso jumped six inches off the table. And he was sedated, or else he really is Darth Vader.

But sure, an "electrical impulse." No big whoop.

2. For the first time in seven years, I don't wish this man ill health. Me, pray for his atrial fibrillation-related blood clot traveling up to cause a stroke? Yeah, my poor heart so doesn't need that bad karma.

3. F-AF and Cheney, ironic heart bedfellows. Who would have thought?

Especially since neither of us previously has shown evidence of having that particular organ.

Bananarama? Meh.

Banana hammocks? Ew.

But worst of all is bananas themselves. They are vile.

I have a long history of hating the ickiest fruit. It's the texture. No, it's the taste. No, it's the stringy bits that reside between the peel and the flesh. No, it's the strange spiky thing at the inside of the base.

It's ... everything.

In 2000, when I was still living in NYC, my boyfriend at the time and I planned a trip to visit his family for his birthday. He asked his mother to bake his favorite cake -- a two-layer white concoction with a filling of coconut and bananas in the middle.

Because he knew my aversion to bananas, he asked his mother to leave one part without them.

Dinner passed, and it was time for dessert. His mother brought out the cake, and smiling, she said to me, "I remembered to leave the coconut off half just for you."

Confused, I turned to my boyfriend. "Huh?"

"Mom, it's bananas he doesn't like. But it's OK, he'll eat it."

I grimaced as she put a plate with a piece in front of me. As everyone else dug in, I sat there.

"Eat it," he hissed to me.

"I don't want to," I hissed back.

"Don't embarrass me in front of my family," he hissed in return.

It was, perhaps, the defining moment of our relationship.

We didn't last much longer.

Bananas didn't ruin our relationship -- that was doomed from the start.

But now they've ruined God's essential foodstuff -- Twinkies.

A few months ago, Hostess announced they were going to start adding banana flavoring to Twinkies. It's a throwback to a time before World War II, when all of the delicious, cream-filled treats had that tropical taste.

Luckily, Hostess was going to still make the vanilla-flavored variety I'm used to.

A couple of weeks ago, I picked up a package, purposefully aiming for the non-banana kind. That night, I packed two in my lunch for work.

At lunchtime, I worked my way through my Lean Cuisine so I wouldn't feel guilty about indulging in dessert. I unwrapped one of my treats, bit in, and ...

Banana.

Shocked, I checked the wrapper -- nope, plain.

But the filthy taste was obvious.

Hostess, friends, has gotten sloppy. Either the good bakers can't keep track of what flavor is what in the packaging process.

Or the banana toxicity is so great, it is infused in the very equipment used in the manufacturing process.

Either way, Twinkies might be ruined for me forever.

Stupid bananas.

There in the Christmas section, next to the strings of lights and collection of inflatables:

The plastic, three-piece, indoor/outdoor nativity scene.

And the plastic, three-piece, indoor/outdoor African-American nativity scene.

Now, I understand the reasons behind offering the top Christian icons in all the rainbow of humanity's skin tones. After all, aren't we all a little tired of the lily-white lie of the European Jesus?

But correct me if I'm wrong: Wasn't America invented about 1,776 years after a woman gave birth to the most famous baby ever born in a barn?

Why can't we just say "black"?

"African-American" is just so careless. After all, there is no way, no way -- unless time travel was involved -- that Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus were African-American.

But they might have been pretty close to black.

I imagine some Wal-Mart employee in charge of diversity initiatives issuing a directive to add products for all communities. "But we don't say 'black'! It's 'African-American.' "

And thus, ridiculousness is born.

Why not manufacture one set that features really, really dark tans?

Then white people could look and say, "Eh, close enough."

Black people could look and say, "Eh, close enough."

And people of Middle Eastern descent?

They could look, smile and say, "Yup. They finally got that one right."

Seriously. Can I be in the Writers Guild just so I can go on strike with the writer/creator of Mean Girls?

Although, do you suppose they're checking IDs? Because then I could just stop by, grab a sign and start schmoozing with the cool people.

I certainly hope they have grammatically correct, stunningly creative chants. Because if I walked by the strikers and heard, "Hey hey, ho ho, underpaid residuals have got to go," even I would back the producers.

Today, I'm all about the strike. After all, as a writer, I would like to think someone values my work for more than 4 cents a DVD.

Of course, the moment The Soup and Gossip Girl disappear from my existence, my support is going to drop like the dollar.

Luckily, we have America's Most Smartest Model and soon Project Runway to tide us over.

The best part of the wall-to-wall coverage of poor, angry wordsmiths on the picket?

Learning Wheel of Fortune is a Writers Guild of America show.

That's right. Someone (or probably someones) earns union wages for writing, what, about 22 words an episode?

H_w d_ I g_t m_ th_t sup_r sw__t gig?

On Friday, all of the children of my co-workers came to the office for a cubicle trick-or-treating event.

On Saturday, my friends and I went out dancing for the local bars' costume parties.

On Sunday, many local municipalities held their annual door-to-door candy shakedowns.

On Monday, the supermarket discounted its candy to 50 percent off.

And that's how I found myself at work last night, standing over a plastic pumpkin container, munching on a mini Twix and thinking to myself, "Wow, I can't believe we still have all of this candy so long after Halloween."

On October 30.

Hmm, I thought. The writer must have missed the first name on first reference.

But oh no. General isn't a title. It's Holiefield's first name.

And I realized that was genius.

Back when I was contemplating a name change, the best my readers could come up with was Benjamin.

Just imagine what the correct title-as-name could do for you.

"Have you met my son, Nobel Laureate?"

"Yes, of course I'll go on a date with you, Academy Award-Winning Director."

"You are so sexy, Pope."

Of course, that bat swings both ways, I suppose.

"Sure, I'll give you my number -- just as soon as I come back from the bathroom, Assistant Night Manager."

"I want to set you up with my dear friend, Chief Sanitation Engineer. He has a great personality."

But honestly, more than anything, that a man is named General Holiefield gives me great hope.

Because perhaps the man they call President Bush isn't actually our leader.

Perhaps we've all just been schnookered by two aspirational parents all these years.