Come home, Maddy.

You may have noticed that my darling MadPriest has been absent from his post for almost two weeks now.

He left one last silly joke about the Primates and then it was radio silence.

The rumor is that he is on vacation, but I just know it was something I said.

Oh, there is a group of folk who are trying valiantly to fill the void. They've set up a "shadow blog" they call "Of course, I Could Be On Vacation."

Dennis, Ann, Eileen,Freedom Bound, K-Lady, and Lapinbizarre have been doing a valiant job of trying to keep up appearances, but it's just not the same.

I'm having "Maddy-withdrawal."

It's a terrible malaise characterized by low energy, unprovoked irritability, an annoying inclination to engage in bickering and complaining, and a foreboding sense of uselessness and hopelessness.

I've spoken to others who exhibit these very same signs and symptoms. Our numbers are legion. It's terrible. Simply awful.

It has to be something I said. I just know it.

This has to be my fault. Everything always is. I grew up believing that my father was often angry and in a bad mood because of me. Typically, his ill humor was due to the fact that my three younger siblings were misbehaving and noisy, which was because as the eldest, I was setting a bad example for them. Furthermore, there where children starving in Viet Nam because I wouldn't eat my Lima beans. Or, children naked in India because I had torn my trousers playing softball.

My mother told me all this, so it must be true. She has since become a very successful certified travel agent for guilt trips.

Well, I've become quite desperate, so I've taken to a desperate solution. I've hired a sky-writing airplane which is set to fly tomorrow at noon. I've asked him to write these words: "Come home, Maddy. Please?"

I had to pay extra for the question mark, but you know how Maddy is about proper punctuation.

I pray that it works. I simply don't know how much longer I can last without his bizarre sense of humour, his biting social commentary, his razor sharp wit, or his brilliant hand at Photoshop.

If you happen to see him 'round the neighborhood, please tell him that whatever it is I've done to displease him, I'm sorry and urge him to come home straightaway.

I mean, since Maddy's been gone, Tony Blair has stepped down, Harry's been banned from serving Iraq, and Falwell is dead.

What's next?

I shudder to think.

Come home, Maddy. Come home. It's just not the same without you.