As with television, the best humor that anyone can expect from the regularly comedic Diaryland journalist is the type that only elicits a half-chuckle. Their material is usually comprised of hackneyed observations on the mundanity of life that have already been noted by wittier and funnier people. Riding on the coattails of the slowly disappearing Jerry Seinfeld and National Lampoons, these self-proclaimed purveyors of wit sit hunched over their keyboards praying to the media gods that no-one recognizes their journal for the complete prime-time television rip-off that it is. No-one is original these days; not to be redundant, but how many reincarnations can dick-and-fart or "Dubya" jokes accomplish? And not to be ironic, but even this lament, I'm sure, has already been uttered before. Then, there are the witty, pedantic journalists, a much worse breed. Constantly waging war against lowbrow mental pabulum, they arm themselves with Oscar Wilde and Moliere quotations, fortresses of pretense and specious arguments of better-than-thou shields. Their audience laughs and perpetuates the sick cycle of unoriginality, but they only laugh to convey that the rearranged Shakespearean dialogue is something that they 'get,' thereby proving their mental prowess(and group-think mentality).

These "make it new" diarists are prime examples of regurgitation and are representative of the humorous community of journalists, which is why my Diaryland buddy list remains a low number. Still, I'll take funny over the self-serving craptacular buffet that many Diaryland establishments put out by the millisecond.

And I'll gladly take TheCritic.

I've developed a habit of equating certain diarists with alcoholic beverages, and drinking said alcoholic beverages with their respective books. For example, Hemingway literature written about or during expatriation goes well with whiskey. Cynthia Heimel is best enjoyed with a cosmopolitan or a vodka martini, and F. Scott Fitzgerald is perfect with summer night mint juleps. And if TheCritic makes it on my list of witty favorites, I think a nice bottle of Mike's Hard would do the trick. Why? Because it tastes good and it doesn't make me want to vomit.

His journal is genuinely funny and silly, a balanced repertoire of intelligence and slapstick. He makes humor seem effortless, natural, in the midst of literary references and downright sophomoric humor. How can one NOT appreciate an FBI agent at the tender age of seven with a murderous family and devil pets, I ask you?! Have you a blackened heart of stone?!

Also, he has this way of capitalizing Nouns and Metaphors which I haven't seen before on a non-German document. It isn't just a one-time intentional error, oh no. There are Unduly Capitalized Nouns with every entry. At first, reading it was odd, and I even thought that he tried too hard to emphasize humor while inadvertently insulting his audience by Pointing Out What Is Supposed To Be Funny. But, I soon stopped minding that. And his usage of the word "oxymorons" irked me; it's supposed to be oxymora. Mora; they always ruin everything.

I like the way he doesn't take himself too seriously, despite the evidence showing he has the potential to be a full-pledged member of the Dark Side. Rarely does this journal employ affectations, and despite the occasional "*cough*" and spelling errors, I can't help but think that this is how all 18-year old smart(geeky?) boys should be: clever and insouciant.