Author Archives: Kurt Luchs

Directions To The New House

By: Curtis Edmonds

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The get-together for next Friday is still on, despite the difficulties many of you faced last time in getting here. Unfortunately, Google Maps and the major commercial GPS systems have yet to put the new development in their databases, so please pay close attention to the new directions. Of course, once you get to the development, ours is the seventeenth house on the left — the one with the garden gnome that looks like Lyndon B. Johnson sucking on a kumquat.

From Philadelphia: Take Interstate 95 north across the Scudder Falls Bridge to Trenton. Take Route 31 north, turning right at the Quick-Chek two miles north of the Pennington Circle. Follow the signs to the Charles Lindbergh Jr. National Historical Site in Hopewell. (Note that the signs are in the familiar National Park Service brown, but utilize a more readable sans-serif font.) When you arrive at the Lindbergh house, walk around to the back, and climb the makeshift ladder up to the second floor, taking care to watch out for splinters. In the bedroom, you should find a light blue cashmere blanket, with a detailed map embroidered in the center. (The map is not to scale; I didn’t have enough red thread to make Cherry Valley Road as long as it by rights ought to be.)

From Atlantic City: Take the Garden State Parkway north to Interstate 195, then take Route 9 north to Freehold for seven miles. Turn right on Route 33 to Freehold Raceway. Walk to the paddock and ask for Stubby, who will guide you to the stables. (If Stubby offers to shake your hand, please do so; he’s very sensitive about his physical limitations.) If you decide to purchase racing silks, I would strongly advise that you get them one size larger than you think you’ll need, especially if it rains. As always, take extreme caution in crossing the New Jersey Turnpike, as harness racers do not have the right of way.

From New York: Take the subway or taxi to Madison Square Garden. Stand out front of the Garden and yell, at the top of your lungs, “STEPHON MARBURY IS A CRYBABY LOSER.” (This isn’t strictly necessary, but it will make you feel better, and you’ll be surprised how many other people start doing it, too.) Go to the bottom level of Penn Station and buy an NJ Transit ticket on the Northeast Corridor line. Take care not to make eye contact with any leprechauns that might be aboard. Depart the train at Princeton Junction. Send up one green flare from the flare gun you will find attached underneath the third bench from the right. Make sure, however, before you fire the flare gun that there are no hot-air balloons overhead. We don’t want a repeat of what happened last time.

From Allentown: Take Interstate 78 east to the junction with Interstate 287. Take I-287 south to Route 202-206 south. Take Route 206 when it splits off at the Somerville Circle. About a mile after the circle, there should be a Stop-N-Shop on your right. Go inside and get two six-packs of Heineken, a pack of Hebrew National reduced-fat hot dogs, and a large bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. You will find additional directions printed on the back of your receipt, unless you’ve made the mistake of getting Nacho Cheese Doritos. If the receipt paper gets jammed in the register, ask Jeff in frozen foods, because he’s the only one who knows how to fix it.

From the IKEA in Elizabeth: Pick up a large container of Swedish meatballs, some lingonberry juice, and an Ingolf chair (black, no armrests). Take the Turnpike south to the Route 1 exit, keeping an eye out for harness racers. Follow Route 1 south until you hit the Delaware and Raritan Canal, where you’re looking for Skippy’s Kayak Rental. Do not sign any documents Skippy hands you, especially those related to kayak damage waivers or white-water travel insurance.

From Los Angeles: Take Interstate 5 north to Granada Hills, taking the Balboa Boulevard exit and heading west. Take the third right until you find the warehouse complex that reads “U.S. Department of Energy, Restricted Access Only.” Tell the guard, “I heard there was a fire at Topanga Canyon, but the radio says it’s under control.” When he waves you through the checkpoint, drive to Building F and wait for the automatic door to open. Once it does, you’ll see a good-sized discontinuity in the fabric of space-time. Accelerate to thirty miles an hour and drive straight through the discontinuity, which should transport you to the Princeton high-energy physics lab on Route 206. However, if you find yourself in an unfamiliar location — such as downtown Camden, the north end zone of Giants Stadium, or the Old West — honk your horn three times and wait for assistance.

From Dublin: Take the Airlink bus from Dun Laoghaire to the Dublin airport. Order a caramel macchiato at the Starbucks, making sure to ask for extra nutmeg. Your Aer Lingus boarding pass should be folded inside your napkin. On arrival, take the AirTrain from JFK, connecting to the LIRR, which should drop you off in Penn Station. Take the NJ Transit train to Princeton Junction. Do not make eye contact with other passengers. We don’t want a repeat of what happened last time.

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My High School Reunion? I Nailed It. Sort Of.

By: Frank Ferri

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“Don’t show your face at the reunion,” my landlady/mom barked as I was trying to nap on the basement couch. I’ve got it set up as a pretty sweet bachelor pad, but she comes down to do the laundry daily, which annoys me.

She said I’ve accomplished nothing and should skip my 15th high school reunion. Apparently, owning a level 80 Storm Giant in the Howling Fjord as a level 74 Warrior is “nothing.”

I went anyway. And I don’t mind saying, I rocked.

My parents get Internet, so I went to classmates.com for the 4-1-1 on my yoon. (I had taken to calling my reunion, my yoon.) I signed up and the emails started to literally trickle in. I heard through the grapevine (and by grapevine I mean obsessively Googling them) that these people are doctors, lawyers, mall kiosk managers, and other heavy-hitters. To hide the 15-year hiccup in my employment history, I fired off a fake automated message:

THIS IS AN IN-THE-OFFICE-BUT-TOO-BUSY-TO-RESPOND AUTO-REPLY FROM MR. FERRI’S PERSONAL ASSISTANT’S PERSONAL ASSISTANT’S INTERN.

As you know, Mr. Ferri is very busy. If this is an inquiry about Mr. Ferri’s potential yoon appearance, your question will be answered in the order it was received. We cannot guarantee everyone a response. Mr. Ferri leads a busy, successful life.

Now off to get a loan. I told the guy at the bank I needed a little dinero to open a Sharper Image store. You should have heard him, “Blah blah, de-listed from the NASDAQ. Blah blah, Chapter 11.” I didn’t care if this guy was on chapter 12 of some highfalutin James Patterson literary classic. I needed cash — and I got some. I settled for a lot less dough, but I got a killer interest rate. Well — WELL — into double digits.

I rented a suit, a Velcro tie, a collared shirt, and shoes with laces not Velcro. A tux would have seemed like I was trying too hard. I wanted to keep a low profile. So after renting a white Escalade limo featuring neon ground effects and giant soaring eagles and American flags, I hit the library. The library’s cool for when I need the bathroom or to get away from the bachelor pad when my mom starts hitting me with the rolled-up classifieds. Our library has a box for collecting old cell phones. It’s for some charity. I figured if this isn’t charity, then what is? I scored an old BlackBerry and two early-1990s flip phones. They weren’t the sleekest, but they’d do. Chargers weren’t necessary.

Now I had to find two people to go with me. Luckily, I have one friend, so I only needed another person. My buddy Gary has several friends and he called in a favor to this guy Chad. Gary and Chad would pose as my Personal Assistant’s Assistant and my Personal Assistant Assistant’s Intern. I’d tell people that I gave my Personal Assistant the night off — I’d seem important enough to require three full-time stooges, yet wouldn’t look like a jerk making all three work on a Saturday.

I decided to show up late because it means you’re fashionable — even though my lime green suit already screamed fashion. Besides, if I showed early, people would think I had nothing better to do. So we sat in a Wendy’s parking lot eating $.99 Double Stacks — my treat since I still had some cash from the loan. (The rest went to pay down gambling debt.) As we chilled, Gary came up with a great idea just in case anyone asked me about my excessive weight gain since my high school days. He suggested I tell people that I dabble in acting, that the Broadway adaptation of “Coming to America” just got the green light — and that I’ll be recreating the role of the McDowell’s employee played by Louie Anderson in the film version. The yoon started at 7 p.m. and we rolled in at the fashionable time of 7:05. Turns out we could have waited a bit longer. But we helped set up, moving chairs and tables and carrying chafing dishes. The staff was appreciative.

All night, my “assistants” followed me around shouting into the dead cell phones. “Buy! Sell! Return that and exchange it for those!” Later, I learned that the stock market is closed on Saturdays.

Chad owns a laptop. He carried it around — open — and complained loudly about no Why-Fye (sp?) connection. Nice touch.

All of this sent an important message: Life doesn’t stop for Frank Ferri. I think people got that message. Especially because Gary and Chad yelled, “Life doesn’t stop for Frank Ferri,” at anyone passing by the punch and crudités. People seemed puzzled. They were probably worried that I missed an important event in Tokyo or Hoboken for this thing.

I wandered over to this guy I hadn’t seen since the yearbook photoshoot. He was voted “Most Likely to Succeed,” “Best Looking,” “Best Dressed” and “Most Likely to Marry a Hot Wife, Pay for Her Breast Implants, Get a Divorce, Marry a Hotter, Younger Wife and Still Get Court-Mandated Visitation Rights to the Implants He Bought for His First Wife.” I was there to carry the tripod. Anyway, this guy was bragging about being the youngest tenured professor ever at MIT. I asked him, what’s an MIT? When he told me, I tried not to laugh. Was he seriously boasting about teaching vokey? I almost asked what tenure was, but I already felt bad for him. I also respected him. He won all those awards in high school, failed in life, yet showed up to the yoon. I told him I knew some higher-ups at DeVry and slipped him my biz card.

The card was actually Chad’s — he has a job. I scratched out his info and scribbled in mine: “Prez ‘n Chair Man of the Bored,” which is the highest title possible. I sketched a little throne above the word “Chair” for emphasis.

Everything was going well until someone asked me what I did for a living. We worried this would happen, so we made a plan earlier in the Wendy’s parking lot: “Operation Get Me the Heck Out of Here.” When this nosy S.O.B. started grilling me, I gave the signal (semaphore flags and a high-pitched scream). Gary and Chad instantly appeared. Gary pretended to whisper some severe news to me. Actually, it was important: we had to have the limo back by 10 p.m. or it would cost an extra 75 bucks.

I gave a look of concern mixed with annoyance, then Chad swept me away, yelling at people to get out of our path. I worried we looked silly because no one was remotely near. But Chad told me the giggling and pointing was a good thing — like when someone from a remote Taiwanese village sees a Westerner for the first time.

Gary hung back to explain that there was an emergency in Australia — he had swiped an old history book from his dad’s bookshelf. Gary’s always thinking. He said that I’d be flying to the West side of the Berlin Wall to meet with USSR officials about ending Apartheid in South America.

Overall, things went well. You hear that mom? Things went well.

I sent out another automated message:

THIS IS AN IN-A-GULFSTREAM-JET-DO-NOT-REPLY-MESSAGE FROM MR. FERRI’S PERSONAL ASSISTANT’S PERSONAL ASSISTANT’S INTERN.

Please forgive Mr. Ferri for his sudden departure from last weekend’s yoon. He is, after all, very busy and regrets that this sort of occurrence isn’t rare. But it comes with his job (which is hard, but not too hard because he has the intelligence to handle anything). Oh, and he didn’t have a date because he’s juggling a lot of ladies and couldn’t decide who to take.

I can’t believe I forgot to get an escort! Even the MIT guy remembered to rent a hot chick.

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Let Us All Gather To Discusse The Plague

By: Marianne Hess

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My fellowe citizens of London, as ye may knowe, the greate Pestilence hath spread through our faire City. Mine selfe and many noble men of limited education propose that the only waye to vanquish this unholy Plague is to gather every citizene on the mouldering banks of the Fleet River at noontide on the morrow, with the purpose of discussing quarantine procedures. It was first advised, by the late Venerable John Dimme, that such an endeavor mighte enlighten the masses of the need for avoiding those stricken ill. Thus, at the conclusione of the gathering, it is hoped that all shall fully realize the dangers posed whilst gathering for such a gathering, and that such a gathering will prevente such gatherings in the future.

In the houre of Dimme’s death, due to erupting pustules and hellish fever, I leaned close to his pocked face, and he thus spake these delirious words: “My dear friend, gather the people ’round ye, by the stinking river. Gather all the people. Let them come from every dank alley and turreted castle. Let them come from the theatre and the church steeple, the inn and the plague house. Gather them together and preache to them the dangers of such a gathering. It is the only waye.”

Though I be stricken ill todaye, the swelling splotches in my groine and armpits feare me not. Indeede, I have a Physician of the greatest understanding. In additione to smoking much tobacco in my presence and pouring many fine leeches upon my foreheade, he hath buttered up my buboes, doused my skin in arsenic and filled my belly with the urine of a man-childe. I have also been informed, from the unlicensed apothecaries who roam the streets, that the Humours are to blame for my anguishe. Therefore, I have ordered all my maid-servants of a wet constitution to spit into my drye mouth. This will even things oute.

I doubt not that on the morrow, I shall be welle enough to wander the filthy crowds and make my waye to yonder wharf amongst the rats, straye dogs and putrefying bodies, where I shalle give this most crucial of dialogues. As such, I present to you the schedule, of which ye should take careful heed:

1. At noontide, the gathering will commence with a communal bathing in the river, in order to purge our souls of sin. It being filled to the brim with sewage, our faire citizens are certain not to drown.

2. Once we are cleansed and yet shivering, we shall line up to receive clothing donations from those who have lost loved ones to the Death. In this waye, the garments of the deceased mighte warm the living.

3. The many children presente shall find entertainment in the demonstrations of a rat catcher. He will take volunteers from amongst their innocent ranks, so that they mighte hold the vermin for him to catch in his basket.

4. This will be followed by my speech, and much shaking of hands and kissing of cheeks, as is the foreign fashione.

5. We will stare at the clouds in order to interpret their meaning. If it be fluffy kittens we see, the plague shall spare us. If wrathful angels, the end is nigh. Those who claim to see nothing but clouds shall be lined up and hanged on suspicion of being atheist.

6. Though it be supper time, all Londoners shall abstaine from beer and pottage, in order that we mighte grow quite faint and frail. The clergy, before they fled to the country, preached the importance of fasting to cleanse the soul, hence this will prepare us to meet our maker.

7. To purge the air of its dreaded effluvia, we will light fires all ’round us, and then burn pillars of gunpowder. During this, if any person be found to sweat, that person will be assumed to harbor the Pestilence and will be swiftly buried in the nearest churchyard.

8. Once concluded, all citizens shall return to their drafty, overcrowded huts. The only persons excluded from quarantine are those with enough capital to bribe the watchmen. Note: if that be ye, the watchmen prefer to receive their inducements in the form of fine curly periwigs, made from the copious hair of plague victims.

9. Bodies shall be placed in the death-carts.

It is to be observed that our esteemed majestie, the King — before retreating to the country with his Court — commanded that all Londoners attend this gathering, at risk of death in the Tower. Thus I have ordered the assistance of many waifs and men of the basest variety to drag forth from their homes any who so refuse. Most of these waifs and men are dying of the Pestilence. They are encrusted with a lifetime’s worth of stink, have had countless wayward chamber pots emptied upon their heads and are teeming with fleas. I tell you this not to frightene ye, nor do I send them to steale, rape and murder — as they undoubtedly will do. I do it for the welfare of every citizene, so that all shall attende this most important of sermons. We must showe God that we in London have giveth up our sins, so that this terrible French Pestilence might visite the Irish insteade.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where, whatever we're spreading, we sure hope it's love.

* Which brings us to the aptly named Dylan Love and his first piece for us. Is it mere coincidence that in the same week in which Dylan Love makes his debut at this site, Bob Dylan debuts his new album? Yes, we think that's exactly what it is: coincidence. So let's hear no more about that. When you've finished marveling over Dylan's writing (our Dylan), be sure to visit his web site: The Dylan Love

Spreading The Love

By: Dylan Love

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1.

PEANUT BUTTER: Hi.

JELLY: Hi.

PEANUT BUTTER: Listen, we don’t have to do it now, but at some point we should talk about last night.

JELLY: Why? Did you not enjoy yourself?

PEANUT BUTTER: No, I had a great time. It was incredible, in fact. Just so…unexpected.

JELLY: It was, wasn’t it?

PEANUT BUTTER: I never thought anything would happen between us. You’re so outgoing and fun loving. I’m a little more quiet and reserved.

(They pause for a moment of mutual adoration.)

JELLY: If it happened again, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

PEANUT BUTTER: Far from it.

JELLY: In fact, we should do it again.

PEANUT BUTTER: Definitely.

JELLY: How about every day at lunchtime from now on?

2.

PEANUT BUTTER: I bet Dylan’s glad he brought us from home today. That cafeteria meatloaf looks a little suspect.

JELLY: Those other kids will never know the simple joy of a you-and-me sandwich!

PEANUT BUTTER: I promise you one day we’ll move out of this Ziploc bag. I’ll get a great job and we can move into that Tupperware container you always wanted.

JELLY: I love you, Peanut Butter.

PEANUT BUTTER: I love you, Jelly.

WHOLE WHEAT BREAD: You guys make me sick.

3.

PEANUT BUTTER: Hi.

JELLY: Hi.

PEANUT BUTTER: We have to talk, and we should probably do it now.

JELLY: What’s wrong?

PEANUT BUTTER: I’ve been thinking about us. The future.

JELLY: What do you mean?

PEANUT BUTTER: I mean we’ve been together for over 30 years. Isn’t it time to…grow up?

JELLY: Grow up? We’re timeless! Do you really want to throw away all our history?

PEANUT BUTTER: I don’t know. Yes?

JELLY: You met someone, didn’t you?!

PEANUT BUTTER: I don’t want to talk about it.

JELLY: Who is it? It’s that tramp, Honey, isn’t it?!

PEANUT BUTTER: (mumbles)

JELLY: I can’t hear you!

(JELLY throws a plate across the room. It smashes against the wall.)

PEANUT BUTTER: Banana.

JELLY: Peanut butter and banana?! That’ll never work! You’re crazy!

PEANUT BUTTER: Yes I am. Crazy in love.

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Minutes Of The Meeting Of The Board (Børd) Of The High North Alliance

By: Omar B.

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Author’s Note: The website of The High North Alliance describes the group’s mission as follows: “The organisation’s objective is to protect the rights of whalers, sealers and fishermen…” We tracked down a copy of the minutes from a recent High North Alliance meeting.

HIS HONOR, THE CHAIRMAN brought the meeting to order. He described the crisis in international whaling — namely, that whaling appears to be totally irrelevant in the modern world. He presented to the floor the question, “Should we disband and find other work?”

THE ESTEEMED MEMBER FROM THE FAROE ISLANDS’ PILOT WHALER’S ASSOCIATION spoke at length, though in a language that others at the meeting could not understand. He smoked a corncob pipe.

THE VENERATED MEMBER FROM THE ICELANDIC SEAMAN’S FEDERATION reminded the group that, actually, whaling is still extremely important in some very, very powerful nations. The others in the group shouted, “Hear, hear” in different languages. A reporter from New Zealand asked, “Which countries, exactly?” The members of the council played deaf by signing to each other.

AN OBSERVER FROM THE UNITED STATES stated that his nation was once a great whaling center. As evidence, he brought up Moby Dick and Nantucket. Several other members rolled their eyes. The member from the Icelandic Engineer Officers’ Association rolled a cigarette with loose tobacco — several other members noted that most of his fingers were missing.

THE WELL-RESPECTED MEMBER FROM THE ICELANDIC MINKE WHALER’S ASSOCIATION stated that he, for one, didn’t really care that much about whaling because he could always make a living hunting reindeer.

THE FINANCIER OF THE ALLIANCE, SULTAN ALI BIN-ALI FROM SAUDI ARABIA, lit a $10,000 bill on fire. “I could buy your wife,” he said, when the member from the Organisation of Fishermen and Hunters in Greenland shed a tear as he watched.

THE MUCH-ADMIRED MEMBER FROM THE NORWEGIAN WHALERS’ UNION asked if any of the other members had work for him. “Anything,” he said. “I am so cold.”

THE REVERED MEMBER FROM THE ORGANISATION OF FISHERMEN AND HUNTERS IN GREENLAND grunted and started in again with the fable about how a powerful warrior shot the sun and harnessed it so man could use it (see Minutes from the previous board meeting for fuller description of the fable).

THE VALUED MEMBER FROM THE NORTH SEA FISHING BOAT OWNERS’ ASSOCIATION, who appeared inebriated, told the one about the time he harpooned a humpback just as it rose and sang its haunting song in front of a whale-watching cruise. The member from the Greenland Whalers’ Union laughed so hard he snorted water out of his nose.

THE TOLERATED CHAPERONE FROM GREENPEACE rose and said, “I can’t see why you think that’s funny. You just don’t get it, do you?” He was pelted with stale dinner rolls and sea lion jerky.

THE OFT- (AND UNJUSTLY) MOCKED MEMBER FROM THE INUVIALUIT GAME COUNCIL said he had recently heard that high rollers at Las Vegas casinos are known as “whales.” He said that, as far as he could tell, he didn’t think Greenpeace really cared about this kind of whale and that, as a result, it might make sense to start hunting them and selling their meat.

THE CHAIRMAN asked if that was allowed under international and maritime law.

MR. POTTER, ESQ., COUNSEL TO THE ALLIANCE, stated his legal view that, “It’s probably okay, but I’d have to have one of my junior guys do some research, but let’s just say it’s okay.”

THE OFT- (AND UNJUSTLY) MOCKED MEMBER FROM THE INUVIALUIT GAME COUNCIL said that the funny thing about his organization’s name, if you thought about it, is that it could easily be converted into an association that had something to do with casinos and that, therefore, it would make sense for him to be the one in charge of orchestrating the slaughter of rich men who play cards.

THE CHAIRMAN asked for a second.

THE MEMBER FROM THE NORWEGIAN WHALERS’ UNION seconded, in exchange for a promise of lutefiske for dinner from the member from the Inuvialuit Game Council. “That’s politics,” he said. “I scratch your back, you give me something to eat.”

The following resolution was passed:

RESOLVED: OUR MISSION WILL NOW BE TO HUNT BIG-TIME GAMBLERS. THE CHAPERONE FROM GREENPEACE WILL NO LONGER BE ALLOWED AT BOARD MEETINGS. NEXT ROUND OF HARD WHISKEY IS ON HIS HONOR, THE CHAIRMAN.

The meeting was adjourned.

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Tales of Ordinary Greatness

By: David Jaggard

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Greetings, everyone! Graduates, family members, friends, staff…Welcome to the commencement exercises for the third midwinter session of Briquedor University. As founder, dean, bursar and faculty of this cybertech-based institution of higher osmotic education, I am very happy to see so many of our graduates turn out today to receive their hard-earned degrees for life experience and inadvertent independent study. But before I present you with your luxury laminate-bound diplomas we have a special, and I dare say moving, ceremony to perform. This sub-semester Briquedor is proud to be awarding honorary degrees to two people who exemplify the very spirit of life achievement.

First, would Debbie Wilson please step forward?

Debbie, you are here today to receive your PhD, a Doctorate for being Pretty and Hot.

For those of you who don’t know Debbie I’d just like to say a few words about the many, many endeavors she has undertaken to qualify for this degree.

As a newborn, Debbie was cute. Almost all babies are cute, but she was really, really cute. People fawned over her for this reason and she learned, before she could talk and at a deeply-entrenched subconscious level, that she was somehow different from the rest of humanity and therefore deserved special treatment. As she grew up, the people around her reinforced this impression, and she never lacked for attention, play dates, invitations to parties, etc.

In early adolescence she developed medium-large breasts, which of course only consolidated her already widespread popularity among her classmates. Although she never excelled in standard academic subjects, Debbie proved to be a near-genius, according to Edison’s definition, in the exacting science of personal appearance enhancement, trying on literally thousands of outfits, pairs of shoes and accessories, conducting experiments in makeup and hair coloring, and devoting the bulk of her spare time to fine-tuning the results of her research with the help of an array of various sized mirrors.

After graduating from high school without distinction, Debbie carefully considered her options and logically decided not to pursue any further mainstream academic or professional goals, deeming that her accomplishments in pulchritude were fulfillment enough and a sufficient contribution to society. While working as a hand model, and later as a hand and wrist model, she steadfastly dedicated herself to investigating a complex and challenging branch of parasociology, namely dating older, wealthier men and convincing them to pay her bills and buy her expensive gifts, a discipline that she has continued to pursue to this day, with three brief sabbaticals to engage in special immersion studies in the intricacies of married life.

Through diligent theoretical work and hands-on (lips-on, legs-on, etc.) “lab” experience, Debbie has developed an original, elaborate system of date management, constantly monitoring and updating a massive rotating database of potential suitors. It’s an impressive methodology that she began refining in her early teen years, and it has proven so effective that since the age of thirteen and a half she has never once been without a boyfriend for more than a matter of hours. Or at least it seemed like hours.

A tireless campaigner for the rights and privileges of people like herself, especially herself, Debbie has incessantly strived to push the envelope of entitlement for the congenitally attractive. Her work in this sphere is vast indeed, but I will cite just a few examples. During her school years she rarely contributed to classroom discussions — other than whining the question that became her nickname in the teachers’ lounge: “Why do I have to learn this?” — but when she did participate it was invariably in an attempt to evade mental exertion or somehow make things easier for herself. For instance, in a discussion of lightning in eighth grade science class, when informed that the speed of light was much greater than the speed of sound, Debbie commented, not seeing any reason why she should be expected to memorize two complicated numbers, “They should be the same.”

Later, after earning her driver’s license, she became known throughout the quad-county area for her pioneering fieldwork in traffic ticket circumvention. Debbie has been stopped for speeding, reckless driving and other traffic violations a total of 314 times and has only ever received three tickets, having charmed and flirted her way out of all 311 others. And she’s pretty sure one of those cops was gay. Her unique ability to rapidly and surreptitiously undo blouse buttons, initially developed as what sexologists call a “phallic vexation” technique, has also proven very useful in this domain.

But of course her greatest achievement, and the reason she stands before you here, is being born beautiful. Day after day, month after month, Debbie continues doggedly to look good, and sometimes even great, according to many observers. Especially that guy at the supermarket meat counter who’s been hitting on her every chance he gets for the past seventeen years even though she cuts him dead every time. But keep trying, Buddy! She loves the attention!

So it is with great pride that I present to you, Debbie Wilson, your honorary PhD. Let’s give her a hand…

Now we come to a man who is widely known for his attainments in the field of physical dominance. Would Joe Miller please come up to the podium? Joe, it is my pleasure to bestow upon you an honorary MBA for being Muscular, Big and Aggressive.

As you can see, ladies and gentlemen, Joe is a large, although not particularly fat, man. He has big arms, big hands, big legs, a thick neck and a big voice. He weighed more than ten pounds at birth and was always the biggest pupil in his class at school. At a very early age, Joe learned to use his natural gift to promote his own interests and win others over to his way of thinking. His early efforts involved forcibly seizing cookies, red crayons (he likes red) and other coveted items from classmates. And some non-coveted items just to hone his craft. Then in junior high and high school he devised a number of imaginative ways to use the threat, if not the fact, of violence to secure his preferred seats in the cafeteria and on school buses, to bolster his personal finances and even to improve his test scores.

Upon reaching adulthood, Joe found himself with no particular skills or interests and so launched himself in business sectors in which his undeniable asset could be put to profitable use. He has explored a variety of parallel career paths, juggling professional responsibilities in roadwork, construction, house painting and seasonal farm labor.

Joe works hard, and when he’s not working he quite naturally likes to unwind. Evenings and weekends he can usually be found at a local watering hole, WTFI Thursday’s, where a stool at the corner of the bar is unofficially reserved for him, by him, every night. There he enjoys regaling his friend and acquaintances with reminders of how incredibly powerful he is, or was, including tales of his many past encounters, spats, disputes, arguments, shouting matches, shoving matches, fights, fracases and brawls. Being large, he logically sees no reason to avoid confrontation, negotiate any issue or even listen to any other viewpoint, and he proudly wears the scars resulting from the rare occasions when he has chanced upon someone as brawny and intransigent as himself. He also entertains and from time to time amazes his fellow bar patrons with feats of strength and courage like opening bottles with his teeth, picking up smaller waitresses or holding an entire tray of freshly-filled beer pitchers at arm’s length, with a success rate nearing twenty-eight percent.

As Joe will gladly remind you, he can still “beat crap” out of anyone in town and never “takes crap” from anyone. But his most outstanding accomplishment, and the reason we are honoring him today, is being born big. So Joe, here’s your richly-merited MBA. Congratulations!

Unfortunately our other special guests could not be here this afternoon. Briquedor University is also awarding honorary doctorates to Paris Hilton for being born wealthy and Peter Fonda for being born famous. But since they were unable to attend, we will now proceed with the presentation of our other life experience diplomas. When I call your name, please come up to… No, wait — just stand up and I’ll toss it to you. And hey, let’s try to move this right along — I have an important, ah, private conference afterwards with one of our doctoral grads.

Al L. Soran, for a bachelor’s in digital gaming…

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Highlights From My Living Will

By: John Frank

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1. Terminal Illness

If I have a terminal condition, I would like my life to be prolonged as long as possible, regardless of expense. I’d like all diagnostic procedures and treatments available, including like a full-body MRI every day just after lunch. If surgeries involving robots or lasers seem at all beneficial, I’d like those as well. Should any new type of surgeries or procedures be developed that are not in existence at the time of this writing and involve bionic limbs, synthetic organs, titanium bones, or electronic eyeballs, please perform these as well. If stem cells are available, I want those too. Similarly, if I need to be cloned and have resulting clones harvested for any therapeutic or palliative purpose whatsoever that might benefit me — even in the slightest — I am 100% in favor of this.

In addition to traditional, western approaches, I also want Reiki, healing-light therapy, primal-scream therapy, Haitian herbal poultices, past-life regression analysis, leeches, erotic massage, organic smoothies, crystals, Tai Kwon Do, and 24-hour access to a Native-American sweat lodge.

2. Pain Management

I would like a personal pain-management physician assigned to me whose goal is to keep a consistent level of near-fatal narcotics in my system so that I will feel no pain whatsoever. If at any time, I appear to be in pain or claim to be in pain, I want code blue lights flashing all over the hospital and even in the parking lot if they have them there. Should such a “code blue” for my pain occur, I would also like access to a small hammer for striking my physician’s knuckles with varying levels of force in order to properly communicate my pain level.

3. Coma or Persistent Vegetative State

Should I slip into a coma or persistent vegetative state, I would like large, motivational banners with phrases like “Don’t Give Up” and “Pray for a Miracle” and “This Guy Was Once Somebody’s Baby” to be hung about my room. I would also like a hi-definition flat-screen television placed in my room, to be on at all times, in case I wake up. And, finally, while I believe this goes without saying, I’d like my body suspended in mid-air by invisible wires like in the movie Coma.

4. Brain Death

Should my brain die, I want my body kept alive. I want use of all life-support machines available, even if that means duplexing my room into the room above (or below) to make room for them. I would like my body exercised and kept in top physical condition, and I would like to participate in any hospital picnics or outdoor fun days that come along, to the extent that I am able. Activities such as sledding, for instance, seem reasonable — provided cords of sufficient length for my life support machines can be procured. But I also want my dignity to be kept in mind at all times. Absolutely no Weekend-At-Bernie’s type hyjinks should be taking place at my expense. I don’t want to be treated like a ventriloquist’s dummy nor do I want to be propped up with a hot dog in my hand as though I’m about to eat it. Anyone doing these sorts of things should be fired. Finally, should it become possible to transplant someone else’s brain into my head, I will certainly want this done, but on the sole condition that all of their stuff will be deleted from their brain and all of my stuff will be downloaded into their brain BEFORE I wake up.

5. Cryogenics

If it becomes apparent that the condition I suffer from is so advanced, rare or otherwise baffling that it can only conceivably be handled in the future by highly evolved human or android doctors, I would like to be frozen until such care is available. I would also like a copper relief of my entire body placed in the hospital lobby to remind everyone of the stakes of the game being played. This is a human life we are talking about. Mine.

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You’re Not Like the Other Women I’ve Dated

By: Pete Reynolds

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You know, I’m really enjoying spending time with you. I must say, you’re different than most women I’ve dated.

Oh, I mean that in a totally complimentary way, really. I’m not able to pinpoint exactly what it is yet, but there’s definitely something different about you. You’re not like all the other women I know, that’s for sure.

Maybe it’s your height. What are you, 5’9? That’s pretty tall, probably taller than most women I’ve dated. But I guess 5’9″” isn’t that tall. Maybe it’s not your height.

Maybe it’s your red hair. I guess I’ve never really dated anyone with red hair. Although…I did date a woman in college who had reddish hair — more like auburn — so I guess technically that doesn’t make you different than all the other women I’ve dated.

You’ve got a really great laugh. Most women I’ve dated either have no sense of humor, or they have totally annoying laughs, but yours is really infectious. Really. Outstanding laugh, and I’m not just saying that. That must be what makes you different than all the other women I’ve dated. But, you know, now that I think about it…I did date a pastry chef once who had a really great laugh. Not as great has her cheesecake, that’s for sure! But still, good laugh. So I suppose you’re not all that different in that respect.

Hmmm.

Wait a minute…I’ve got it! I know what makes you different than all of the other women I’ve dated: you’re not chained to the radiator in my basement.

How did I miss that? Here you are, very much not in my basement — not even chained to anything, in fact — just having dinner at this lovely restaurant, exercising your own free will. It’s so refreshing to see that once in a while, you know? All the other women I’ve dated were, at one time, chained to that damned radiator in my basement. It gets old after a while, hearing the same things over and over again — “”I’m hungry,”” “”Let me go,”” “”There are people looking for me right now, creep”” — you know, typical “”girl stuff.”” But I never hear those things out of you. Except, of course, for “”I’m hungry,”” which you said right before we ordered. How is your food, by the way?

What? Metaphorical? No, like real, actual chains.

Because that’s where the radiator is, silly. Is this wine a little too sweet? Be honest.

Hey, what’s gotten into you? I just paid you a huge compliment, telling you about how you’re not like any of the women I’ve ever dated before —

Why does it matter how I define “”dating””?

Oh, please, now you’re just starting to sound like everyone else. This is really disappointing. I mean, I thought I felt a real connection here. Not the kind of connection that binds you to a radiator, of course, but a real, emotional, non-radiator connection, one not even located in my basement. Frankly, I’m really surprised by your reaction. I thought there was a spark between us. Not the metal-on-metal spark you’d get if you tried to escape from my basement by rubbing your chains against the radiator, but a spark nonetheless.

So you’re just leaving? Just like that? Oh, right. No chains.

Well, it’s probably a good thing, anyway. It would have been tough to date someone who’s so different than the women I usually date. Although…now that I see you walking away, I can get a better look at your hair, and — you know what? Maybe it was the hair after all. I mean, it’s really red.

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We Need Some Fresh Ideas Here at Ramming One’s Head into Sculptures at Full Speed, Inc.

By: Dirk Voetberg

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Team,

As you know, we here at Ramming One’s Head into Sculptures at Full Speed, Inc., have experienced fifty-eight straight quarters of declining revenue. Well, I was hired as your new VP of Marketing to snap that slump! But I know that we can only do it as a team! So I’m calling out to each and every one of you to contribute whatever marketing suggestions you have. Come on by! My door’s always open! And, remember, there’s no such thing as a bad idea! I mean that!

Here are some of my thoughts to get our brainstorm started:

From what I gather, the top brass here at Ramming One’s Head Into S’s at F S has understandably been leery about doing any kind of TV advertising. They’re concerned about the possibly scarring effect the image of someone ramming their head into a sculpture could have on the typical television viewer.

But they’re worrying up the wrong tree! Today’s consumers don’t even want or respond to advertising that’s overly literal. It just needs to be cool and/or hip. You know, we could have a spot that’s just some good looking 20-somethings hanging out at night in a sculpture garden, languidly looking at the stars. Nick Drake, REO Speedwagon, or some other kind of music like that playing. Girls snuggling up with their boys. Buddies talking handsomely by the fire. Maybe even some text messaging going on. Then, our logo softly materializing on the screen. And only as the ad is fading out do we hear even a slight crunch and scream in the background. Very subtle. Nothing too in your face.

Oh! I see that one of you is at my office door! And I haven’t even sent out this email yet! Great! I love proactivity! And this team member (it’s Geoff) has told me an idea he has!…Okay. He just said that no one’s going to pay to smash their heads against sculptures. Ever. Well, now, that’s not what I’d consider a great idea, per se. But it’s not a bad idea either because, remember — and this is very lucky for us — there’s no such thing as a bad idea! Anyway, again, the rest of you, please feel free to walk on over to my always-opened door and let’s chat about your thoughts!

By the way, here’s another one of mine: While we would likely decide to be fairly oblique on the TV front, I believe we should be more straightforward in other mediums. For example, I think we need some new FAQ on our website to dispel a disturbingly widespread perception that we’re somehow in the business of selling something called “Ramming One’s Head Into Sculptures at Full Speed” but not literally that. Now, I’m not sure what the reason for this confusion is, but after telling my friends and family about my new job, it became apparent to me that it exists. Why they think someone would name a product something other than it is, I haven’t the slightest. If I ran a restaurant, for example, and served something called “pudding,” it would be almost exactly pudding.

Oh! How about this? How about creating our own in-house sculpting department? That way, we’d be able to offer customers their own surfaces upon which to terminate ramming. They wouldn’t need to pay those pesky suggested museum entrance fees or deal with security at corporate parks. And, for our purposes, the sculptures we crank out wouldn’t even have to convincingly symbolize war or that kind of deep subject matter other artists fret themselves over. Our stuff could simply evoke something pedestrian like wanting a certain type of dessert or how hard it is to figure out TiVo sometimes. Heck, we may even be able to get away with sculptures that have no meaning whatsoever! (I’ll look into that with legal.)

Wow. Some of you others are also dropping by my office! Terrific! Proactivity in the hizouse! Still haven’t even sent this email yet! And now Sylvia and Trelnt (sp?) are telling me their ideas! Great!

Huh. Now, see. The ideas they just told me — that we can’t possibly make money off this product, we need to all quit our jobs, etc. — are unfortunately a lot like Geoff’s. If you really analyze them, they don’t actually seem to offer much in the way of solving how we can make money off of our product (and, frankly, keep our jobs). Again, I won’t call them bad ideas, of course, (no such thing) but for lack of a better word, I would have to say that they’re “bad” ideas.

Here’s the deal. Whatever marketing strategy we come up with, it needs to pass this simple test: will it convince people to ram their heads into sculptures, which, remember, is immensely painful and harmful?

Anyway, keep ’em coming, team. I know together we’ll figure out that one perfect game plan. And, when we do, our competitors will be eating our dust!

Vince

Senior VP

Ramming One’s Head Into Sculptures at Full Speed, Inc.

(NYSE: RHFS)

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Satisfaction Guaranteed

By: David Martin

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“I believe it is inevitable that within five years, people will be having sex with robots,” [David] Levy told his audience…..”I believe that by 2050 people in large numbers will be falling in love with robots and marrying them in large numbers,” he said. — The Ottawa Citizen – June 23, 2008

New York Times – Weddings & Celebrations – July 10, 2050

CRUIKSHANK – ROBOWORLD-3000

Dr. Stephen and Louise Cruikshank of Stamford, Connecticut are pleased to announce the marriage of their daughter Mary Ellen to “Robbie” RoboWorld-3000.

Ms. Cruikshank is a graduate of Swarthmore and is presently pursuing postgraduate studies at Yale University in early childhood psychology. The groom is a product of LeisureWorld Robotics Inc. of Cambridge, Massachusetts and a graduate of their advanced psycho-sexual assembly line.

The marriage ceremony was held last Saturday at the home of the bride’s parents. The bride wore a full-length dress with organza trim and a silver-threaded veil while the groom was decked out in his formalwear encapsulation package and spare battery pack.

The bride expressed delight at her marriage to Mr. Roboworld and touted his handsome appearance and ten-year parts-and-labor warranty. For his part, Mr. Roboworld stated: “Many customers have examined my features but I instantly recognized that Mary Ellen was the most compatible, asynchronous partner for me.”

The couple will be taking up residence in the bride’s New Haven, Connecticut apartment. Ms. Cruikshank will be spending much of her time studying at Yale while Mr. RoboWorld-3000 will be spending his days recharging in the bedroom closet.

NYMPHETTE MODEL 601 – CORRIGAN

Nymphette Model 601 was married Saturday to James T. Corrigan at the premises of Computer Pals Inc. in Passaic, New Jersey in a warranty replacement ceremony. Computer Pals’s COO Martin Gimlet officiated.

The bride is a top-of-the-line fembot with all of the available options including non-chafing skin and Pleasuralizer Plus. She is a recent product of Computer Pals’s state-of-the-art production facility in Singapore.

The bridegroom, 67, is a retired maintenance worker living in Newark. As Mr. Corrigan was previously wed to a Vixen 2000, an earlier Computer Pals product, this marriage was fully financed by the company under its robot replacement warranty.

“I’m so happy,” said the beaming bridegroom. “At first I couldn’t imagine life without my Vixen 2000 but when I saw the Nymphette Model 601, it was love at first sight.”

The Nymphette Model 601 was unavailable for comment as Mr. Corrigan opted to forego the voice module and the interpersonal conversation option.

“I’m pretty much a visual kind of guy,” said Mr. Corrigan.

The couple will reside in Mr. Corrigan’s Newark townhouse so long as his dog Rex can be trained to stop chewing on robots. Otherwise, the new Mrs. Corrigan will be taking up residence in the adjoining garage.

ANDROID MAN – ROBOGUY

Thanks to recent changes in the laws of New York State, same-circuit marriages are now legal. First to take advantage of the new law were Android Man and Roboguy. The two male-programmed robots tied their power supplies together at a small, private ceremony last Monday in the assembly room of speciality manufacturer Advanced Homo Electricus Robotronics in Westchester, New York.

Plant spokesman Ed Entwhistle officiated at the ceremony which was attended by the plant foreman, six assembly line workers and the completed line production of gay robots from Monday’s first shift.

“I am programmed to like men,” said Android Man. “But none measures up to Roboguy. His circuitry is really dreamy.”

“I feel the same way,” said Roboguy. “My only disappointment is that we couldn’t have the ceremony in California.”

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