You may not know me, but you're familiar with my work. I've been the United States Catch Phrase Emeritus for over a decade, the pinnacle of my career being when I slipped the word "Schwing" into a conversation with Mike Meyers -- the rest is culture, baby.

Popular video games are the source of much of my inspiration. While my two year campaign to get the word "pweened" into the nation's vocabulary has bore little fruit, expect to see the word "ownage" used at least once during coverage of the presidential debates. Such is my reach.

Recently I acquired the word "Marf" and decided it was essential to bring it into widespread use.

My job, you understand, is made difficult due to being both blind and bound to a wheelchair. As such, I pick my battles carefully. The Marf situation was delicate and I felt that a targeted email to 15,000 members of the handpicked cultural elite was the way to go -- people specifically chosen by myself and my people as having the reach and influence to get a good catchphrase off of the ground.

Unfortunately, being blind, I accidently made the CC: list public so that everyone on the email cound see everyone else's email address. This proved disasterous. I needn't discuss what the NRA did to Tipper Gore's email account. Then all hell broke loose when Reverend Sharpton hit "Reply to All." George Clooney retained his composure until Drew Barrymore called him a slut. But the brunt of the damage was inflicted on Sting.

See, in my business, Sting stalkers are king. They have a lot of pull with their friends and they're likely to appear on TV at some point in their life blurting out notable phrases as the cops escort them away. My email, which was copied to both them and their favorite musical artist, inadvertantly gave them access to the Stingster. The fallout was devastating. After the assassination attempt, the government confiscated my catch phrase equipment and helped me get into seclusion.

Federal agents didn't catch on that I was blind and wheelchair bound -- I told them I was lazy and senstive to bright lights. They hid me in a basement of a chocolate factory in Detroit. I knew of no way to turn on the TV, nor where in the shelter it was located -- it was only on day two that I discovered the remote while groping around limply on the chocolate scented cement floor.

I turned on the TV just in time to hear the news report. Sting was out of the hospital -- he had survived. When asked to comment on the whims of his assassin, or the terrible email that started it all, he was helpless to answer. After a moment of stammering silence, before millions of people, he could only say one thing .....

"Marf."

My work here was done.