We apologize for the meekness of our return. Our last two weeks have been difficulty harried — not in the Secret Girlfriend we-have-funny-slacker-friends-and-have-hot-sex-with-hot-chicks-all-the-time-19-year-old-fratboy-life-fantasy harried*, but legitimate, important life stuff that chose the worst weeks possible and delayed our execution of our surprisingly well-laid plans.

There will be posting on Friday — we think — but things will kick off properly on Monday to begin our markedly mentally ill overarching plan for the next few months’ worth of blogging. Again, expect two to three days of updating per week from now until further notice.

Think of this week a lot like the NFL preseason — a test drive of the team before the real, meaningful games begin. You play with some new ideas, you’re reminded that the Lions still suck, you get a surprisingly honest grade on what the Panthers’ season will look like, and you are delighted to learn that Larry Langford in a sombrero is as funny as it sounds.

Oh, and hopefully this will be the last time you read us talking to you directly for a long, long time…

*We are have become frighteningly obsessed with this show and its brilliant awfulness. If we are the star of the show, why is our living situation so murky — weren’t we living separately from our two friends in one episode, but now we are for some unexplained reason? Why do hot women find us so attractive and always want to have amazing and inventive sex with us anyway? Is it a relative thing — you know, because apparently we’re incapable of making male friends who can’t be described by the adjective “puggish”? Why is it our friends are the only ones who seem to have jobs? What do we and our hot pseudo-girlfriend do for a living that gives us so much time and disposable income to have keg parties and visit strip clubs in the middle of the week? Wait, is this show exclusively set on weekends? Because you know that would make sense. And why does it seem like our life is being scripted by writers who are coming up with increasingly contrived reasons to keep our crazy ex-girlfriend around? Is it that hard to get a restraining order in California, or do we not have the time or money to do it because we’re too busy drinking with our friends and fucking hot chicks? And why are we so accommodating to her — like when we drove her home instead of finishing that hot chick in the shower after she’d stormed off? Perhaps we take some sick pleasure from hearing her shout “WHORE-FUCKER” in each of these neatly capsulized adventures of our life?

And wouldn’t our life be better broadcast on premium cable where our wild sexcapades could be more fully appreciated?

These questions demand answers, dammit!