WHAT THE...

Well... I suppose this is what you get for taking a summer vacation and leaving the keys to the candy store in the hands of true pikers. I just returned from five wonderful weeks on the East Coast to find the Piker headquarters in shambles. The place smells like the basement of a fraternity house. Actually, it's much worse. I just gagged and swallowed back some throw up after getting a whiff of stale beer mixed with stale vomit and what I think is either curry or cumin. God only knows how long "Copacabana" has been spinning on the record player, stuck in a warped groove, repeating "and do the cha-cha" over and over again. How the hell did they get enough sand in here to make a beach volleyball court?

Everything I built before I left is gone. Readership had climbed into the high seventies, low eighties pre-summer sojourn. Now I'm damn lucky if I get twenty visitors a day. I am depressed. I poured at least a fraction of my heart and soul into Piker and this is what I get? Couldn't someone at least have tipped me off to what was going on? Some friggin' courtesy, please! Oh great... I just stepped on the Rubik's Cube that was sitting on my desk before I took off. I almost had two sides. Could it get any worse?

I'm not going to stick around to find out. I do want to detail my travels to the Sweltering South, but I'm afraid I'm going to be sick if I sit here for any length of time longer than one minute. I want all twelve of you loyal readers to know that I will not give up on Piker. I intend to see this thing through. To finish what I started. To return Piker to it's previous glory! Ugh-oogh-brrrp... Right after I ralph.