My great grandma Cinda was a Hawkeye. She was so flippin' old (and I so flippin' young) when I first met her, that I didn't really understand the concept. Literally.

My parents were both military, so we moved around every three or four years. One of those times, we had the occasion to drive through Iowa, so the decision was made that we'd meet Grandma Cinda. We called her Grandma Cinda because that's what Dad called her. I didn't find out that she was my great Grandma Cinda until, like, yesterday (I kid). So we meet Grandma Cinda, and she's in this home (because that's what they called them in the mid '80's) and she's completely kickin' it! In reality, all I remember is that it was a sunny day, and she sat with us (?) at the front of her building. She was a nice lady. Give me a break you bastards, I was like, four years old. To go into a place like that and remember sunlight and smiling faces is amazing to me.

Anyways, we made our way to our duty station and less than a year later it turns out Grandma Cinda's place gets broken into by a couple of two-bit thugs and they beat the shit out of her for no reason but to steal her stuff. Cinda, to be redundant, was older than a bag of seed. So needless to say, getting into a cage match kind of took its toll on Grandma Cinda.

All I have to remember my Great Grandma Cinda is flash memories of the day I met her, a photo taken in heavy makeup after she was beaten and robbed, and a yellow t-shirt bearing the Hawkeye logo across the front.

Until today.

I got a box full of stuff from some cornhusking, flyover country living, Rush Limbaugh worshipping, degenerate (Of course, right? Because that's where they all live, right?) that dropped anchor on areas I didn't even remember I remembered.

Jen, your package may have seemed mundane to you; but it was awesome to see the Hawkeye logo again.

Mostly because it's, you know, BLACK AND FREAKIN' GOLD; which helps.

And yes, I do have a copy of this magazine. It's waiting to be matted.

What many Blog War n00bs don't understand, is that a good strategist doesn't confine a blog war to the blogoshpere; just like a good general doesn't confine his battles to the cities and towns. No, we must seek out our opponent in their element, rattle them.

So as my first strike, I drunk-dialed the crap out of Jenelle last Friday. Now, I don't remember every single word that was said (as is the nature of the drunk dial); but I do remember having a good time. Which probably means it was torture for her; making the manuever an outstanding success. At some point she had to bail, I think she had to go to a History QuizBowl Challenge of the Champions or something like that, I don't know.

In an effort to infer that my intentions of blog warfare are simply a product of some sort of ailing social life (sorry, I don't know how she drew that conclusion either) the evil 'She Who Would Be Queen of the Mundane' (as I could only surmise from her posts as of late that exemplify the trivial) has asserted that I married the wrong woman.

In reality, what we're seeing here is a last ditch attempt to legitimize the hurt that she must feel; knowing that the one she held for herself during those private times really belongs to another.

I'm totally normal with it though, because I'm so used to being coveted by all my internet biatches.

So, Jenelle addmitedly wouldn't introduce me to her friends.

Well, I say fine. Oh and Paul, I wouldn't long so deeply for a photoblog issue of her swimsuit shopping. Let's just say I've got my confidential sources and it's not pretty.

And to think, all this time I was proudly showing her blog to all my friends. Well I bet she just saves my posts for late at night, when no one's around, and she can keep me all to herself. Either way she's a naughty, naughty little Spinster; and she's gonna get spanked.