Scoble has a man crush on me. And I’ve got one on him. Scary!

See here. Robert Scoble, king of all bloggers, admits he loves me, even when I’m bashing him. Okay, I’ll admit something too. I’m strangely obsessed with Scoble, and I don’t know why. What is it about Scoble that once you start thinking about him you can’t stop? Why do I tease him incessantly on my blog? Why do I walk around the house muttering Scoble, Scoble, Scoble? Why do I dream about him, and wake up in a cold sweat? Why do I keep writing his name in my notebook, or writing “FSJ+RS” with hearts around it? Why do I sit at my desk twirling my hair and writing “Mrs. Scoble,” and “Mrs. Robert Scoble,” and “Steven P. Scoble” just to see what it looks like?

Scoble says I should go on his show, and we should do some panels together. I totally agree but I have an even better idea. Scoble, we should take this show on the road. Sell tickets and tour the country doing two-geek entertainment or something. Is Bill Graham still booking shows at Fillmore East and Fillmore West? We could open for Hendrix. Or the Allman Brothers. Don King could book us at Caesars Palace in Vegas.

We should at least do panels together, but preferably ones where we get paid a huge amount of money. Even more preferably ones where we can travel to exotic locations with warm weather and speak to audiences of insurance company executives. Or something.

Scoble, I am dead serious about this. Have your people talk to my people. I’ll even talk about my huge Damascene conversion from blog hater to blog lover. Let’s start at CES in Vegas in January. Find someone to host this thing and let’s make some rock ‘n’ roll history. You think any vendor at CES would dare to bring the noise? Time to step up, people.

Because here’s the thing, Scoble. We’re meant for one another. You know it, and I know it. Don’t give me this guff about being married. I’m married too. That’s not going to stop this sweet crazy monkey-man love affair from happening. Have you seen Brokeback Mountain? It’s like that, baby. It’s in our genes. And in our jeans. You will be mine. Oh yes, sweet cheeks, you will be mine.