Here's the thing this week - it's Tuesday night and my column was due yesterday. I'm still not in the mood for light-hearted whimsy after a gruelling weekend of pain, self-abuse and coming to terms with the fact my girlfriend actually paid cash money to see Bono ascend into sainthood on stage for all his works.

Not only that, but I had to stand in a long queue on Elizabeth St to pick up a parking ticket for her. This afforded me the twin indignity of having to share physical space with people who actually dressed like The Edge just to collect their tickets, as well as appearing to be a U2 fan myself to anyone who drove by.

I feel this should be enough evidence of my love for her to last an eternity.

Anyway, what this means for you is that I don't have the delicate touch necessary to handle another suicide attempt from an arsehole politician, that damaged teenager who bashed a kangaroo or the untimely death of poor Belinda Emmett.

Originally I was gonna do a hilarious rundown of the Chaser Annual book launch you all missed last week, but it basically amounted to 500 or so words worth of me bragging that I amassed an entourage of attractive women between the launch and the pub...and Tim didn't.

But then, as Dom said, "Shane, if you're gonna arrive with an entourage, make sure you leave with one at least as big as you came in with."

I left the pub alone, damn it.

Another idea I had for this week was an elaborately constructed joke about how every movie, TV show and music video has a "Making Of" attached to it these days. So my column was basically gonna consist of ad copy for The Making Of...Shane Cubis.

Hilarious gags would've been made about director's commentaries, behind-the-scenes stuff and candid interviews with various people involved in my creation - culminating in the punchline that The Making Of consisted solely of grainy footage of my parents conceiving me on a dirty mattress.

But my mum reads this stuff, so I won't do that.

Instead I'll take what remains of my word count to apologise for my tardiness this week and provide a glimpse into one of the things that's been concerning me lately.

I've been thinking hard about George Carlin's assertion that a house is just a place that provides a cover for your stuff while you go out and get more stuff, and it's starting to bother me.

Sounds crazy, I know. But all the albums I care about have been copied to my laptop and mp3 player. I haven't listened to a physical CD for months, so why have I kept them?

Similarly, there are piles of comics in boxes and on shelves I will never read again - not to mention the plastic crate packed with MAD magazines, tucked under the stairs here.

I'm gonna think about that for a little while, and get back to you with more information and a possible solution to my rampant consumerism and packrattiness next week.