MY 15 SECONDS OF FAME

Okay, it's official. I'm now a celebrity.

No, my brilliant writing didn't suddenly win me a Pulitzer prize or a six-novel contract from Random House. No, I've bypassed such petty mileposts along the road to immortality.

You see, I've had a food item named after me.

No, really. A friend of mine runs a restaurant in the Shenandoah Valley, and after a lot of back-and-forth on the virtues of the local pallete (i.e., chopped steak), he added the item to his menu. With my name attached.

Sure, it's an honor (though I think my friend, who will go unnamed, meant it as a dig). At the same time, though, it's kind of like naming a double-decker cheeseburger with bacon after the Smiths. Not that I'm a vegetarian or anything -- I'm just not a fan of food items that are typically made up of the scraps of meat not even our Bizarro grocery store would try to package and sell.

Though strangely enough, the Mark Toner(R)(tm) is made of sirloin -- a quality meat item, that. And it's the most expensive item on the menu. Which, as another Right-Thinking American knows, is the true meaning of Quality(tm)(R).

So today, it's a sandwich. Tomorrow, you'll see my name on a skyscraper or two. Just smack me if I start hanging out with supermodels, okay?

SUBTLETY, THY NAME IS KEANE

It's been a while since I've commented on this bastion of Right-Thinking humor, but this Thanksgiving depiction of life within the sad little circle really made me stop and think:

Wow. Call me one to read between the lines, but the American flag in the background makes me think he's alluding to... to something. And in these difficult times, this makes me feel as warm inside as the fuse point of a daisy-cutter. The truly scary thing is that I heard a sound bite on the news from my archenemy discussing the challenges of responding to recent events within the "parameters" of his sad, sick little cartoon universe. Which really surprised me -- after a lifetime of reading Mr. Keane's literary output, I wasnt aware that he knew any four-syllable words.

But wait! Am I too quick to mock the subtlety (or lack thereof) of this seemingly simple panel? Look at the seemingly random assortment of blocks scattered across the floor. I see an O, S and an A -- "Osama did it?" A C, an I and an A -- could this be a hint of a coverup? A P, an A and a K -- Pakistan, perhaps a clue to the Evil One(R)(tm)'s true whereabouts?

We're through the looking glass, kids. If I want to stop the blood from coming out of my eardrums, I guess I need to stick to more simple political statements.

WELCOME HOME

"So, let's have a baby today," was how the doctor's appointment began the morning of Nov. 7. "Wanna have a baby right now?"

Just four hours later, our second daughter, Sara Frances, was born, weighing in at 6 pounds 13 ounces and stretching out to just a hair under 20 inches, for those of you that keep track of such things. She's absolutely perfect, though for the life of us we still can't figure out what color her hair's going to be (so long as it's not purple -- at least not for another 14 years or so).

I was going to start writing about what an amazing thing the birth of a child is, about how no matter how many times you hold a newborn in your arms, it's an entirely new experience. But then I remembered where I'm writing these things and decided to share a moronic, vaguely irrelevant anecdote instead.

With recent events, it's a strange, almost bittersweet time to bring a child into the world. But I take strange comfort in the fact that the big news event of the day that got the most coverage on MSNCNNAOLTBSTNNFOXSPICE Nov. 7 was not anthrax, not Afghanistan, not another idiot waved through airport security carrying more cutlery than a Ginsu salesman trying to make quota at the end of the month. No, it was a nationally televised, low-speed, hour-and-a-half car chase featuring a flaming 18-wheeler, complete with helicopters, police cars and a random deputy trying to shoot at the truck with what appeared to be a varmit rifle.

Sadly, we missed all the fun because we were, um, otherwise occupied. But I take this as a good sign -- if a televised car chase isn't a sign that the country's going back to normal, I don't know what is.

COLLECT 'EM ALL!

At long last, I'll have something to place on the mantle next to my Gulf War-era souvenir lighter depicting Bush the Elder dressed as Rambo standing atop the immortal slogan NO SLACK FOR IRAQ. Check out these fun collectors' cards.

Not only do I love the obvious propaganda value ("Kids need to understand that the President--and his team--will keep them safe and that evil-doers will be punished," says the breathless marketing copy), but I think these suckers will be the biggest eBay bait since people started entombing the tags on Beanie Babies in hermetically sealed plastic to preserve their value. I know I'll be going nuts, buying package after package until I get the elusive "FEMA Director Allbaugh Meets With Bush" and "German Police Search for Clues" cards (no, really -- they're on the checklist, along with the shots of cool jet fighters blowing stuff up that you'd expect).

I'm just a Right Thinking-American, mind you, and not a Madison Avenue marketing guru or anything. But what 9-year-old isn't going to scrimp and save his allowance until he can get his own "Transporation Secretary Norman Minetta" card to put between the spokes of his bicycle wheels?