You may think that this is the most boring blog, but you would be wrong.

Many of you have speculated on the exact location of the Plasticave, from which, lonejustice is written. Well, I assure you that it is not in Boring. The Plasticave is a secure hideaway, and yours truly, the plasticgraduate, accesses lonejustice, through a series of tubes called the Internet. This is truly amazing technology that allows for complete anonymity.

Well, perhaps not so anonymous if Google is served with a subpoena, then the true identity of the plasticgraduate will be revealed. Which begs the question, who is hotter, Rosemary Port or the plasticgraduate?

The plasticgraduate has always been a great believer in the superiority of the animal kingdom. Obviously, monkeys have known for years how to peel a banana while I always struggle, mashing it and throwing away half. Oh well, I usually have enough left over for my Cheerios. What do monkeys care about cereal? They probably take Lipitor for their cholesterol problems.

So monkeys are clearly intelligent creatures, so closely related to homo sapiens they could be our uncles. But I never understood how you could place one in front of a typewriter and he would eventually knock out the great works of Shakespeare. I didn't think monkeys even liked Shakespeare. What if it were a French monkey? Would he write Victor Hugo instead?

Apparently some guy in England actually tested out this theory. After five years, all he could get out of the monkey was the word, "monkey." Not even, "monkey want banana."

So, I heard that this Internet thing is a little like the infinite monkey theory. Except that it's proved the theory wrong.

It has come to my attention via the Google on the Internets that an impostor is posing as the plasticgraduate.

Yes, he tries to distinguish himself by placing a space between the two words- "plastic graduate" - and he writes much of his blog entries in Chinese, but take no substitutes, my friends, the real plasticgraduate, author of lonejustice, is unique and safely ensconced in the Plasticave somewhere in the Great Northwest.

Some of this charlatan's English-language blog entries are often filled with the type of tired excuses for lapses that have become all too common in the blogosphere:

It has been quite a while since the last time I wrote an entry. Even though I despise the activity of maintaining a blog as a fashion statement, I do have rare fits of pouring out junk from my brain just to clear up spaces for the exams. Therefore, the entry is kind of long, and you have no choice but to live with it.

Ah, but you have every choice, my friend. Yes, you, my dear reader, my loving public, have come to expect nothing but the highest quality junk from me - therefore, you will receive no excuses here.

Call your cable provider today and tell them, "I want the real plasticgraduate!"

No, just kidding. Only trying to get your attention. No prize here. Nothing to look at. Move along.

Unfortunately prime tweeting hours are between 9 am and 9 pm, so I've been forced to write this in blog format. No more putting on airs.

Yes, I have found incontrovertible proof that spending the past 60 days on the internet has made me stupid. I know this, not because I read it in Wikipedia, but because I read it in an article in a high falutin' magazine called The Atlantic. OK, so I didn't really read the article. But I did look at the headline. And that was pretty scary.

Give people a little power and they will turn into a little autocrat. Inventing little rules out of the ether. Often in myriad trivial ways, often in ways which seem trivial but in reality come to play a pivotal role in the life of the one being trampled upon.

This was my experience just last week when I made what I thought was a simple request to a superior in what has become the never-ending Oregonian quest for palatable employment. Evidently, this was my error in assuming it was simple. In fact, my request could not be handled because it was improper (?) and, as such, had to first be cleared through the proper channels. Apparently the plasticgraduate is not the only person with a Ph.D. in superficiality.

Once in a restaurant in Mexico, I asked if I could plug in my camera charger while we ate. The waitress informed me that it was against the policy of the establishment. Hmm...I've worked in eateries and never seen such a detailed operating manual. "Regulation IIIa clearly states that no patron shall access the electrical outlets for digital photography purposes during the breakfast hours."

I recall really being struck by Discipline & Punish: The Birth of the Prison, by Foucault.

Yes, these were the days when people had books, and they were on paper, Grasshopper. I know you were confused because I saw you kept using your mouse to click on the page numbers to try to read the next section.

Anyway, so apparently we punish those who step out of the boundaries of acceptable behavior of society. Problem is, there doesn't seem to be any universally agreed upon standards. It's only by crossing those boundaries that one can hold true to ideals and so a fundamental question must be asked - should you risk position, reputation or to give up the fight? Unfortunately, there are no guarantees in the latter, either. But that's where the fun is.

In the words of that immortal 70's poet, Billy Joel, "I'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints..."

Moved the Plastifamily into the cave a few weeks ago. Still working on the kitchen so we have to bring ice in and keep the milk in a Coleman ice chest. Plastigirl has taken it upon herself to do some home decorating.

Celebrated the New Year with a bottle of champagne. Heard strange noises. Kind of a loud growling. Went outside and was confronted by a seven foot hairy, biped. He grunted. Pounded his chest and scurried away. The next day I found some beer bottles in a small clearing near this encounter. I followed the footprints and found him sleeping off the night of revelry.

I shook him awake. He let out a long growl, "Me want Advil."

I complied. We engaged in some idle conversation. Found out his name is Sasqui. He is a bachelor who lives in the woods nearby. I invited him over for coffee the next day. I think we'll become fast friends. He seems like I can trust him with my true identity.