Doobee Doobee Dooce

When I hear doobee doobee doo in my head it's doobee'd to the tune of "Strangers In The Night," because about ten years ago during playoff season there was a series of commercials for Bud Ice in which a penguin tried to steal the Stanley Cup and "reporters" would say, the only clue to the theft is that witnesses reported hearing an eerie tune, "Doobee, doobee, doo."

Now, when I hear it, it makes me think of Dooce.

Heather Armstrong and I are strangers in the night and in the day, or at least I am a stranger to her. She, of course, is famous for her blog, her dog, and her chin — so she's not exactly a stranger to me. Some day there will be a song about her, and I like to think that I was ahead of the curve.

Of course, I also like to think I'm 29.

But I digress. I wanted to tell you about how, just before Christmas, I was dooced by the Great One herself, the Dooceroni, the Doocemeister, her Dooceliciousness, that one and only Dooceologist, Dooce.

Now, before I tell you this story I want to make one thing perfectly clear: I think Dooce is the greatest blogger in the blogosphere. I read her blog regularly, except when she's going on and on and on and on and on about how astonishingly adorable her daughter is &mdash I mean, her daughter is awfully cute, it's just that I feel about children rather the same way as I feel about fluffy bunnies in cages, which is to say they're fine so long as they stay there, but there's nothing you could possibly write about them that would make me interested enough to read it, and yes, they're precious, and yes, I understand that parents are quite attached to their own and would not share my opinion on the matter, so save yourself the trouble of writing the hate comments now, I won't publish them anyway.

Heather's dog, Chuck, on the other hand — well, don't get me started. Seriously, I love that dog. I mean, who wouldn't love a dog that lets you put spaghetti on its head?

I also envy her chin, having none myself. And I love it when she says FUCK and rants about the Mormons.

I just changed my mind: I want to make two things perfectly clear. The story that I'm about to tell you is in no way meant to disparage the fact that Dooce sells ad space on her blog. Advertising on blogs is no different from advertising on any other form of media (in my humble opinion as a professor of advertising who was recently quoted in the San Jose Mercury News). The fact that content producers sell advertising space is what makes that content freely available for us to consume, whether that content is a television or radio program, or a newspaper, or a magazine, or a website.

Do you imagine, Gentle Reader, that magazines would cost $5 were they not ad-supported?

Heather Armstrong makes a living from her writing, because of the advertising revenue model, and that's to be admired, not scorned.

It's just that... well, she wouldn't let me buy advertising on her site. And that's the story I'll tell you tomorrow.