To her parents, her shrink and her orange-wielding stylist she's Heather B. Armstrong, a lanky, Mentos-fresh-haired thirty-four year old Salt Lake City dweller with a web wizard husband, two striking young girls and a duo of dogs more prone to flashbulbs than Brangelina.

To the rest of the world she's Dooce, a Mormon-resistant, mega-blogging force of nurture who recently landed herself on Forbes' list of Most Influential Women in Media (number twenty-six).

During her nine-year web presence, Dooce has amassed a monthly readership rivaling the population of Lebanon (4.2 million) and written a veritable tome of delectable web log fodder, the topics of which range from parenthood and "Purple Rain" to baby poo and BYU, the latter being Dooce's alma mater and a place she considers "worse even than Disneyland."

Because her followers are aplenty and her blog subjects far-reaching, Dooce thought it necessary to create a community section at Dooce.com "for the readers of this site to connect and interact with each other, to get to know each other better, for me to get to know you better, and for little bunnies to fart sunshine."

Although I've yet to traverse even a single flatulent rabbit during my lengthy Dooce Community loitering sessions, I did stumble upon a topic of discussion slightly rarer yesterday evening.

Certain I was being victimized in a ritualistic bout of Internet hazing, I rushed into the discussion, dukes raised.

Shocked by the mock-less nature of the Doocers' comments, I unclenched my fists and read on.

Sensing a tonal change unlikely to result in further flatterly, I took action.

Despite my best efforts to thwart the conversation with redirection toward magic and war, the Dooce Community could not be stopped.

In all fairness to myself, the odds were stacked nine to one in their favor. 
Ten if you count the booger.