“Good Lord,” I said. “What have I done now.”

The idea that Mr. Schmidt was mad at me curdled my blood. You don’t tug on Superman’s cape. You don’t spit into the wind. You don’t pull the mask off the old Lone Ranger. And you don’t mess around with Goog (GOOG).

I haven’t read the story yet, so I’m still in the dark about what I might have done to get ripped in this fashion. I’m a faithful Googler. I spend hours a night cruising YouTube for tiny tidbits of video arcana. Some of my friends even work for the place. And I’ve never said a bad thing about Sergey, Larry or Eric. I’ve heard they’re all very nice guys, and that Google is a terrific place in which to work. They let you bring your dogs to the office, I think. And some significant percentage of your time can be spent investigating your own mental vapors. I like that. Of course, I’ve been doing that for years, but it’s nice to see it’s been institutionalized someplace finally.

So I fail to see why Google is mad at me. Perhaps you can enlighten me. As far as I’m concerned, they’re okay. I’m okay. Can’t we all just get along?