is that you (and me, and millions of other people) were just named Person of the Year by Time Magazine. Remember when this award sort of meant something? Those days are apparently over. Time Magazine has decided that you, what with your YouTubing and your MySpacing and your blogging and podcasting and Web 2.0-ing, you are the Person of the Year.

Yes, you punk rocker with the pink mohawk, you Rastafarian of questionable gender, you cheerleader with the…er…pom-poms that we hope you’ll post pictures of on your Facebook site, and you, Doogie Howser, you are…well, I guess you’re supposed to be us.

The only way in which this isn’t completely lame is that it means I can officially tell my family at Christmas next week that I am Time Magazine’s Person of the Year and they (who do not use the internet and who still own a Pentium I computer that probably wasn’t turned on more than five times in its life) are not “Person of the Year” material. So I guess there’s that, though it it hardly comes as a surprise.

That, and next year we’ll have a bitchin’ opening to our Christmas newsletter -

“Dear family and friends, you’ve probably already heard, but last December, Time Magazine declared Jaime and me to be their Persons of the Year…”