WELL, BUTTER MY ONION, HERE, IN DOUBLECLICKISTAN, BUT I’M NO LONGER HOTTEST IN THE NATION, ACCORDING TO RATE MY OPPRESSORS, ER, PROFESSORS.

What looking in the mirror used to be like: Hot!

Now that I’m post-hot, all I can do is rub Cholula all over myself in the hopes of producing a third nipple. Then I could front the Scandinavian metal combo, Third Nipple Rampage. “Old hotties never die,” said MacArthur, “they just fade to mild.” The hell, though, if I’m gonna settle for Tepidest or Lukewarmest in the nation. Now that I’m post-hot, I’ll need a greater reservoir for compassion than my balsawood heart allows, I’ll need a greater system for latitude than my Zen-X philosophy allows. I’m beginning to learn that life is more than just clicking ass and taking URLs. Especially here in Doubleclickistan, where avatar oleomargarine and avatar sweet vidalia can slather each other all they’d like. No more coverage in The Huffington Glue Post, nope. Even if Red Rover were invoked I sure as hell wouldn’t come over, nope. I’ve gone from “chili pepper” as in “habanero” to “chilly pepper” as in “habanero left out in the snow.” The radio sings, “Ya / ya / ya / ya / ya /ya / ya / Your Sharona,” as if the lady-in-question were someone else’s Sharona, not my Sharona, not any longer, now that I’m post-hot. What have those Immediate-Past-Hotties done with themselves, I wonder, but cruised the jalapeno aisles, for hours, in supermarkets? Not that I, an Immediate-Past-Hottie, cruise the aisles, myself—god forbid it should all come down to stalking the shiny finish on a Hungarian wax pepper. I suppose I could look forward to the brisk fever of an influenza, oh, to be hot again!