Gramsci looked up, bemused, the full moon in his eight simple eyes. He had his own theories, but suspected that airing them at this point might provoke some of the Cow's own lunacy in return.
"And blogs, it seems, seem to attract nutjobs more than any other medium. As bloggers and as readers!"
Gramsci edged a little closer to the safety of the keyboard, just in case. "You mean the first years?" he asked timidly.
"Not only," shrugged the Cow. There had been a recent rash of posts that had had editorial control exerted over them because of dubious content - revealing attitudes more than a single dumpy short of a sixpack - but those were not uppermost on her mind.
"Some fruitloop who'd once lapped at the Butler's heels decided to air the fragility of her mental health on this very blog," she sighed. "Posted some pretty whack comments. When confronted with proof that it was her, finally confessed and whimpered into a corner, but expect to see the suicide video on YouTube pretty soon!"
Gramsci leered. Given the content of the loon's last comment - excised for its sexually explicit nature - he thought it could be something that might finally wean him of all those tiresome Paris Hilton videos. Assuming, of course, there was enough bandwidth to download it.
But the Cow was less upbeat. "The same thing happened on another blog where the mention of Ingrid Jonker unleashed some wobbliness in a reader, who seemed overly attracted to her suicide."
Gramsci recalled the concerned passage discussions that provoked at the time. What was the blogger's responsibility - if any - towards their readership? Should they refer on the patently ill, or quietly delete the comments and trust karmic process?
He shrugged. "Perhaps one of our colleagues can be persuaded to resuscitate his blog," he suggested. "There seems to be a real need for an injection of mental health?"