Ruminations of “Shaolin Monk #13,” Awaiting the Order to Attack Jet Li

By: Dan McArdle

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How dare this arrogant warrior stroll uninvited into our monastery, and openly challenge our exalted Master Fu in front of his assembled acolytes. Let us teach him a painful lesson in humility, my brothers!

I am honored beyond measure that the Master has allowed me to stand by his side, despite my being shamefully knocked unconscious in training mere moments ago. I awoke dazed, with only hazy recollections of my enigmatic name, “Shaolin monk #13,” and my purpose, “extra for the battle scene at Shrouded Dragon Temple.”

But looking around at my assembled brothers and the majestic temple grounds, I now realize I truly am a Shaolin brother of the legendary shrine, chosen as extra protection for Master Fu himself! He must have foreseen this — truly his wisdom and cunning are unrivaled. And with the arrival of this grave threat, I have been given the perfect chance to redeem myself in his eyes! Despite this fighter’s obvious prowess, we shall overwhelm him soon enough.

Then why are we all standing around? Why won’t Master Fu order us to attack as one? No! One must never question the Master! Recall the gruesome fate of Hum Bao, when he dared speak out of turn, or when Chow Fan returned in shame after his unsuccessful assassination attempt. The fury and skill of Master Fu are boundless!

But what are we waiting for? This single enemy, skilled though he is, cannot possibly hope to block all of our weapons and blows simultaneously. Why are my brothers feinting uselessly as they encircle him, even allowing him to grasp a spear and sweep six of them off their feet? I saw that move coming a mile distant!

Outrageous! My brothers time their blows precisely so that our foe can seamlessly parry them! It is as if they are intentionally losing! Where is their pride? Where is their devotion to the Master?

Enough! I cannot abide this shameful display any longer! I must strike for Master Fu, even if he will not strike himself!

Yes! I have done it! The rogue warrior never saw my blow coming! See how he staggers about, holding his bleeding head and gaping at me in wonder! Strike now, my brothers — we have him!

Why are we stopping again?! Who is this crazed man screaming in my face, demanding to know what my problem is? Why is Master Fu kowtowing and referring to him as the “Director?” Why are several of my brothers actually aiding our injured foe, and reverently calling him “Jet” and “Mr. Li?” How do they know his name? And who are these men with badges and odd hats, holding tiny weapons crackling with electrical fire? Master, I don’t under–

I awake to find myself upon a strange wheeled pallet, surrounded by white garbed men who seek to strap me down upon it. They hope to imprison me in a white metal wagon, festooned with flashing red lanterns, and wailing like a demonic animal!

I cannot allow them to take me prisoner! I realize now that the man I so bravely defended is but a cowering impostor, no doubt planted by the insidious “Director.” And this “Jet” must have come to unmask the treacherous cur; no wonder my brothers were so reluctant to strike. They must have known Jet’s true mission, and were letting him win! I must return to Shrouded Dragon Temple, and help rescue the true Master Fu!

Yes! Again I have done it! By feigning unconsciousness, I have surprised my unwary foes. See how they stare dumbfounded as I leap from their pallet, easily escaping their feeble attempts to recapture me. See how I overpower their “security guard,” and use his own devilish lightning baton against him. How does it feel to be jerked about like a child’s puppet yourself, arrogant badged man?

Now to return to Shrouded Dragon Temple and aid the noble Jet in defeating the evil Director. I am coming, Master Fu. Vengeance is at hand!

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

By: Megan Amram

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Little is known about the fifth Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, Picasso.

MICHELANGELO: Totally rad — this toxic waste has made us into, like, super-turtles!!

PICASSO: Bros, I don’t feel so great after all that toxic waste.

LEONARDO: I’m stronger than ever and I can easily wield this Japanese sword I just found. How about you, Picasso? What’s your special new power?

PICASSO: I’m nauseous, and all my hair is falling out.

DONATELLO: In Japanese, “hair falling out” is “hea-shikkyaku-auto.” My awesome new power is knowing Japanese.

LEONARDO: Doitashi mashitay. Ha ji may ma shitay!

DONATELLO: Good one. Japanese is easy.

RAPHAEL: And I feel super light and agile. Cowabunga!

PICASSO: I also feel totally light, bro. But I think it’s totally less due to a new power and more due to a lack of red blood cells, white blood cells, and hair.

DONATELLO: And it’s totally cool that we all have our own colors now!

LEONARDO: Yeah. Like, Raphael is red, Donatello is purple, Picasso is albino and bleeding uncontrollably, and Michelangelo is orange.

RAPHAEL: How about weapons, dudes? I just have this feeling that I am going to kick tail with Ninja daggers.

PICASSO: Does having too many chromosomes count as a weapon? I have five too many chromosomes.

MICHELANGELO: The bo staff counts. I am good at the bo staff.

The Subroutine Not Taken

By: Matthew Sewell

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10 HOME

20 PRINT “Two roads diverged in a yellow wood.”

30 INPUT “Which would you like to travel (L / R / BOTH)? “; A$

40 IF A$ = “BOTH” THEN 70

50 PRINT “Are you sure? Try to be more philosophical.”

60 GOTO 20

70 PRINT “Sorry, you cannot travel both and be one traveler. I would think that’s obvious, actually.”

80 INPUT “Would you like to look down one as far as you can (Y / N)? “; B$

90 IF B$ = “Y” THEN 120

100 PRINT “What, you’re too good to look down a road? That yellow could be urine, you know. Best to take a peek.”

110 GOTO 80

120 INPUT “Hm, a lot of undergrowth that way. Do you want to look down the other one (Y / N)? “; C$

130 IF C$ = “Y” THEN 150

140 PRINT “You’re a stubborn one, aren’t you? I guess it’s true what they say about New Englanders. Fine, I’m going to tell you anyway.”

150 PRINT “A bit grassier in that direction. Though really about the same. Pretty leaves on both, too.”

160 PRINT “A stumper, this. Let’s mull it over.”

170 FOR X = 1 to 10000 STEP 1

180 NEXT X

190 INPUT “Tell you what, how about we keep the first for another day? “; D$

200 IF D$ = “BUT YOU KNOW HOW WAY LEADS TO WAY. I DOUBT IF I SHOULD EVER COME BACK” THEN 230

210 PRINT “Maybe, but somehow your answer isn’t giving me quite the right frisson. The trick is to be both literal and symbolic at the same time. Give it another go.”

220 GOTO 190

230 PRINT “Whoa, shallow and deep all at once. That’s the high heat there!”

240 GOSUB 350

250 IF E$ = “S” THEN 400

270 PRINT “Ok then. You are in a maze of twisty little passages, all alike. Time to panic, if you can, my taciturn friend.”

280 PRINT “See? There is a Wumpus here. He looks hungry.”

290 PRINT “*** You have died. ***”

300 GOTO 450

350 PRINT “Now that you’re here, I should probably mention that I smell a Wumpus.”

360 PRINT “And, well — this is awkward, I know — I’m pretty sure that the only thing down the other path was a lemonade stand. Didn’t you see the sign? Kind of makes sense that more people would choose that path, when you think about it.”

370 INPUT “Anyhoo, I still smell that Wumpus. Shoot or move (S / M)?”; E$

380 RETURN

400 INPUT “Shoot with what? Your bare hands?”; F$

410 IF F$ = “USE OVERPOWERING SENSE OF ENNUI” THEN 440

420 PRINT “Nothing happens.”

430 GOTO 400

440 PRINT “Aha! Your hopeless sigh got the Wumpus! I can hear the faint sound of his weeping. Good for you; now you’re both dead inside.”

450 PRINT “And somewhere ages and ages hence the lament shall be coded:”

460 PRINT “Two roads diverged in a wood, and you –”

470 PRINT “You took the subroutine less traveled by,”

480 PRINT “And that has made ” RND(Z) ” the difference.”

490 END

Years Later, The Guy Who Wrote “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” Still Has Regrets

By: Frank Ferri

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Slut. Slut!

The woman gets a little of Uncle Jerry’s famous eggnog in her and she’s easier than flicking a light switch. Alcohol and her fetish for holiday icons. Disaster.

Now I’m the one who pays for it every damn year. Christmas dinner at Mom’s, then trek 45 minutes to Dad’s depressing apartment in the hinterlands to eat supermarket pumpkin pie while he pumps me for info on Mom and Alan. Are they happy? Did they talk about me? Does Alan have a job? Can he get me one?

Please someone shoot me.

I hate this time of year. I seriously hate it. Guess it’s good my own kids are with their mother. I’m not much fun around the holidays.

Don’t blame myself? That’s easy for my therapist to say. He didn’t write a song about his mom’s infidelity and effectively ruin his family. What was I thinking? It should have been obvious that my dad would hear the song, find out that I wrote it and put two and two together. I might as well have just called the song “My Mom Boffed Santa in My Dad’s Favorite Chair While My Old Man Was Out Busting His Hump Pulling Another Double Shift at the Factory for a Little Extra Pay So He Could Give His Family the Best Christmas Possible.”

It’s not like it even paid off in other ways. I’m not rich and I’m not famous. Here I am driving a beat up Kia Spectra and the only time my name is in the paper is when the police blotter reports my domestic disturbances and DUIs.

I mean, look at me. I’m reduced to answering my own kids’ questions about Santa with a bitterness that frankly scares me. “Daddy, is Santa real?” He’s real all right. A real home wrecker. Oh yeah, the guy’s great. He’ll really give it to you good. Especially if you bake him a batch of pecan sandies and serve them wearing nothing but an apron that says “Santa’s Little Helper.” Cookies and milk? Give me a break. They were chugging White Russians when she wasn’t keeping his chestnuts warm. The family court was right. I’m warping my own children’s minds.

I can’t blame mom. I mean not totally. Dad never paid much attention to her. Sometimes I think he drove her into the arms of Santa. Besides, Dad doesn’t even know how far things went that night. He thinks it was just a kiss, and he moved out anyway. He never even tried to move past it, never tried to make things work. At least she apologized. At least she tried.

When writing the lyrics, I thought I exercised judgment in stopping at the kiss under the mistletoe. Well, I did mention the tickle under the beard. But who knew Dad would flip out like that. Over a kiss! I thought he’d think it was funny. I mean, I even said so in the song: “Oh, what a laugh it would have been/If Daddy had only seen/Mommy kissing Santa Claus last night.” Boy, did I misjudge that reaction.

Guess it could’ve been worse. I could’ve written a song about what I saw that overgrown rabbit doing to my mom the Easter of ’54.

Shocking Excerpts From Santa’s Secret Mission Logs

By: Mike Richardson-Bryan

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December 26, 336

They said it couldn’t be done, but I did it! Thousands of toys, all hand-made and hand-delivered to every home in Christendom, and all in one night! Oh, to see the looks on the faces of all those little boys and girls.

Maybe I should do this every year.

* * * * * * *

December 26, 339

What a mess out there. Rome has fallen and civilization is in ruins. Also, I lost a mitten.

* * * * * * *

December 26, 799

I’m exhausted. There sure seem to be a lot more Christians out there than there used to be. If this keeps up, I’m gonna need some help around here.

I wonder if those goblins that live on the other side of the Pole are any good with their hands.

* * * * * * *

December 23, 800

What a difference a year makes. Those goblins (sorry, elves) are miracle workers. All the toys are in the sack and ready to go with a day to spare. I’m gonna get those guys to help out every year, if they’re up for it. It’s too bad they subsist on fermented seal blood, otherwise I could really see them becoming a beloved part of Christmas lore, but oh well.

* * * * * * *

March 15, 1045

What a week. One minute, I’m a perfectly happy bachelor. The next, I’m hitched to some sturdy Ukrainian woman with one big eyebrow. She’s already riding me to lose weight and get a “real job,” too. That’s the last time I get wasted in Kiev.

* * * * * * *

June 5, 1388

A sad day out in the barn. After a long struggle, Comet finally succumbed to terminal antleritis. But on the bright side, the missus makes a fine stew.

* * * * * * *

June 12, 1388

Training a new reindeer. He’s not too bright, he’s blind in one eye, and he might have an inner ear problem, but he’s all I could get my hands on this year. The elves want me to name him “Comet II,” but I’m leaning towards “Ballast.” I’m not expecting much from him, but hey, maybe he’ll surprise me with one of those Christmas miracles. Fingers crossed!

* * * * * * *

June 22, 1388

Lost Ballast on a training run over the Black Sea. Poor guy corkscrewed in, bleating all the way. No Christmas miracle this year, I guess.

* * * * * * *

December 13, 1930

Just got a “cease and desist” letter. Turns out some sugar water company called Coca-Cola owns the exclusive rights to my image. How the hell did that happen?

* * * * * * *

December 26, 1941

What a rotten night. Lost Donder, Bonehead, and Meatball over Germany (stupid anti-aircraft fire), had to jettison most of the toys just to stay aloft, and when I got back home, I blew my landing and took out a wing of the workshop. Boy, nothing clings to your hair and clothes like the smell of burning elves.

* * * * * * *

December 20, 1947

There sure are a lot of kids asking for their two front teeth these days. It was cute at first, but I’m getting pretty tired of hanging out at the pub waiting for drunken brawls to break out, then crawling around on the floor looking for stray incisors. Still, lucky for me that elf teeth are child-sized.

* * * * * * *

March 2, 1952

I’ve been subpoenaed to appear before something called the House Un-American Activities Committee, whatever that is.

* * * * * * *

March 17, 1952

This is madness! I just spent the day defending myself from all manner of crazy accusations. So what if my suit is red? It’s been red for over a thousand years and no one’s complained. So what if I make frequent trips to Eastern Europe? There are millions of little boys and girls in Eastern Europe, aren’t there? So what if Mrs. Claus is from Ukraine? We’ve never discussed her politics, and if we had, it’d be our business and ours alone. What part of “I’m Santa Claus, dammit!” don’t these people understand? Arrgghh!

* * * * * * *

March 22, 1952

I’m so ashamed. Those awful men and their awful committee just kept at me until I couldn’t take it anymore. God forgive me, but I named names. Eskimos, mostly, but I think I may have mentioned the Easter Bunny, too. Oh, he’s gonna be pissed.

* * * * * * *

December 26, 1965

I’ve got to start reading those wish lists more carefully. But if you ask me, if a kid asks for “a barrel of monkeys,” he shouldn’t be surprised to wake up on Christmas morning to find his living room crawling with angry, feces-throwing monkeys plus a big barrel with a few dead monkeys at the bottom (they really, really don’t like it in the barrel, apparently). Oh well, live and learn, I guess.

* * * * * * *

December 1, 1994

Note to self: kill Tim Allen.

* * * * * * *

December 26, 1999

Another rough night. Blitzen gored some kid in Manila. I tried to buy the parents off, as usual, but they weren’t having any of it. One thing led to another, and I ended up beating the whole family to death with a sackful of Beanie Babies, which took, like, forever. So, long story short, Christmas won’t be coming to the Philippines for a while.

* * * * * * *

December 16, 2008

Why the hell didn’t anyone tell me about this “Amazon.com” thing before? Here I’ve been busting my hump for 1672 years, but now I can just “point” and “click” and be done with it. Hallelujah! I can finally fire the elves and free the reindeer and get myself that wicked tattoo of a naked chick riding a polar bear that I’ve always wanted. I just hope they accept payment in 4th century Lycian drachmae.

My Groom Speech

By: Eric Feezell

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Friends, family, thank you all so much for joining Monica and me here today for our special day. I’m not the best speechmaker, and so will try to keep this short and sweet. Hey, the hard part’s over, right? I’m so happy to have found you, Monica. This really is the fourth-greatest day of my life.

I don’t mean to sound insensitive, but I’ve been lucky enough to have had a few pretty awesome days up until this one. Take my 21st birthday, for example. It’s five in the morning and I’m wandering around the Luxor in Vegas by myself after having gotten booted from Crazy Horse Too. On a drunken whim — and I was very, very, very drunk — I decide to pull out every last dollar and cent I have on me, which was my rent money, by the way, and place it on the Roulette table. Twenty-one black! Can you believe it? A little irresponsible on my part, but good God, did I win a crap-load of money! That was a pretty fine day, people. Third-best.

Now, not to bring the mood down or upset you, Monica, but I should probably also tell everyone about the time I almost died. Almost…had it not been the second-greatest day of my life! I was walking around downtown San Francisco, completely lost, looking for this massage parlor a friend had recommended to me in Chinatown. I’d only been to Chinatown a couple times, and the way he described the “service” at this particular parlor, well, I had to find this place. Anyway, so I stop this old Mexican dude, and I’m like, “Hey, hombre. Donde esta el Chinatown?” Unbeknownst to me, or this other poor bastard, a window washer’s scaffolding had broken off twenty stories directly above where we stood. Well, obviously it missed me! And I was able to get enough information out of him before he was crushed to find the massage parlor! Bonus! Talk about a happy ending.

So you might be thinking, “that had to be the greatest day of his life; what could be greater than that?” Nope. Second-greatest, folks. Second. The greatest day of my life was when I went skydiving in the Mojave Desert. That might sound fairly unremarkable to those who haven’t done it, but seriously, what a rush.

So now, before everyone here today, I proclaim proudly and without hesitation that this is by far the fourth-greatest day of my life. Yes, sir, I’m a lucky man. Not the luckiest — that would be ridiculous to suggest. People who win the lottery are generally a lot luckier than I am, if you want to split hairs about it. I mean, the odds of a guy like me finding someone as wonderful as Monica are pretty slim. But that’s nothing, and I mean NOTHING, in comparison to the odds of winning the freaking lottery. It’s something like one in 18,000,000, right? No damn way that’s happening in my lifetime. Me and Monica, though? Probably one in 150 or 160.

Speaking of whom, can you guys believe how beautiful she looks today? Way better than anybody else in attendance, for sure. I can honestly say, Monica, that I love you more than anything else in the world I have loved up to this point. There could be other things down the line I end up really enjoying or getting a kick out of, but for right now, in this moment, the highest share of my affection is reserved for you. Imagine a pie chart of the things I love — you are the largest portion of that chart. You are nearly my everything.

Sorry about the food, by the way. I know it sucks. I mean…cold soup?! It’s actually supposed to be cold? What gives? Not my idea, for the record. I won’t say whose, but not mine.

I’ll bring this to a close with a little story about the time I met Monica. It was at a company Christmas party a few years ago. Admittedly, I was a little blitzed. Like, the-bartender-had-wrestled-my-car-keys-away-from-me blitzed. At the time, Monica was working for a catering company, and as luck would have it — not like lottery luck, but pretty good luck, for sure — Monica was working our party! She looked smokin’ hot in her uniform. Anyway, she didn’t take too kindly to the kinds of advances I was making and told me I should sober up. I think I may have been on blow, too. Was I, honey? Well, long story short, the truly caring person we all know Monica to be ended up giving me a ride home that night — even walked me, a total stranger, to the door! The only thing she could have done to top that was come inside and make sure I was OK, which, in hindsight, she probably should have done, as I had pretty bad alcohol poisoning and probably should have gone to the hospital to get my stomach pumped. Which, take it from me, is no fun, for the record.

Anyway, I’ve been up on this mic long enough. Let me just say, I love you, Monic — hey, anyone see where she went? Probably the bathroom. She’s got Irritable Bowel Syndrome for those of you who don’t know. Don’t say anything, though. She’s sensitive about it.

Thanks, everyone. Enjoy!

Hurley

By: Brian Beatty

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My dog Hurley knows two commands: “Feed me!” and “Bring me my fetch toy, owner boy!”

Everybody thought it was so cute when he was a surly little puppy. “Oh, look!” they’d say. “He thinks he’s your master.” But two years later he’s grown into an eighty-five pound dog with an inflatable swimming pool of a slobber problem and this booming voice like James Earl Jones — and his authority issues aren’t as adorable somehow.

It’s like living with a benevolent but ill-mannered drunk. Especially when he’s staggering around the kitchen after one of our long morning walks.

I need to establish my role as pack leader. That’s what all the library books suggest. And all the dog trainers and animal behaviorists I’ve hired. And all the friends and family members I now consider dead to me.

It didn’t take too long for all the people who used to be my sounding boards to wind up wondering aloud — often in the same bullying tone — how I had let myself become bullied by a dog that enjoys reality TV garbage like America’s Got Talent and Dancing with the Stars.

It’s his remote control, I reminded them. He paid for that flat panel with his money.

And boy did they feign hurt and offense when I dared to wonder aloud why I’d let them into my house in the first place. And who had made them the boss of me and the critic of my dog’s TV viewing habits anyway. If I feel like hiking my leg and soiling the end of the couch where guests sit, that’s what I’m going to do.

I’ll hump whatever I choose, too. Lecture someone else about displaying dominant behaviors. Because this is still my house — until Hurley tells me otherwise.

The other day we were rolling around in the yard, sniffing each other’s butts when he said, “Brian, I feel terrible that I’ve come between you and your family and you and those loser friends of yours. They weren’t much, but they were all you had, really, besides me. It must be lonely for you now.

“You’re looking like hell, too, man — like you haven’t slept in months. Is it my late night poker games? Be honest. Seriously, let’s talk about it. You’re worrying me, bro. You can’t lose another job. Those chew toys don’t pay for themselves.”

Then he sort of smiled.

That was when I realized that despite his gruff exterior, Hurley really is a good dog. And he is looking out for me, his master. Because there’s nothing I love more than getting my teeth into a rawhide or a rubber bone.

Words of Wisdom

By: Mark Peters

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If you cannot command yourself, you cannot command an army of killer robots.

Men argue; female polar bears act.

A painting of cheap scotch does not satisfy hunger.

It’s not polite to talk with a full mouth or a face like the back of a bus.

If you live fearing poultry yards, then you do not live.

There are as many definitions of love as there are people practicing dentistry without a license.

Pimpmobiles say a lot about self-confidence.

Twin gynecologists of few words are the best twin gynecologists.

Be who you want to be, not what Portuguese nuns want you to be.

The only interesting thing that can happen in a Swiss bedroom is an alleged CIA-backed atrocity.

Frivolous fireballs are hurtful fireballs.

Respect other people’s ape masks.

In California, everyone goes to a therapist, is a therapist, or is smothered with goat cheese.

It takes a whole village to eat a child, if the child is obese.

Once a pancake, always a pancake.

Making money selling manure is better than losing money eating manure.

You cannot prevent the birds of sadness from flying over your head, but you can prevent them from being served in your restaurant as appetizers.

The average dog is a nicer person than the average scheming barber.

There are times when you have to choose between being human and having a pet eel in the family bathtub.

They say you can’t polish a turd. But maybe they don’t have the proper turd-polishing equipment.

An optimist is a person who is always looking for new definitions of the word “super-honkie.”

Beware of the half-Pope — you may have gotten the wrong half.

A helping neighbor is better than a helping mole monster.

Until you place someone in a rat pit, most people believe that you can’t do it.

So many mistake sex for love, money for brains, and intelligent bass players for civilization.

The problem about a slumber party massacre is that if you tell too many people about it, it ceases to be a good thing.

“Thank you” won’t pay the exorcist.

There are five enemies of peace: avarice, ambition, envy, anger, and batcrap-loony thugs.

I Try Unsuccessfully To Solve Everyday Problems After Watching An Entire Marathon Of Law And Order

By: Dan Shea

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Problem: The shower won’t stop running in the morning.

Rational Solution: Use wrench, call plumber, put bucket under drip, etc.

My New Law and Order Solution: Tell showerhead in low but firm tone that SOMEONE here was going to stop leaking and that the toilet was on the other side of the curtain at this very moment spilling its guts about the rusted pipe in the wall, so now’s the time to start playing ball, son…(I’m bluffing, of course).

* * * * * * *

Problem: My girlfriend and I argue over who is taking the car to work that day.

Rational Solution: Calmly discuss a compromise involving rides, a future schedule, or possibly switching off at lunch.

My New Law and Order Solution: Yes, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, a good man who fell through the cracks of The System finally got pushed past his limit; that much is true. But the moment he brought up her cycle, HE…WENT…TOO…FAR. And so your civic duty here today is obvious: he must be made to take the bus, pure and simple.

* * * * * * *

Problem: My boss calls me into his office to discuss both my being late for work again and the matter of some missing supplies.

Rational Solution: Apologize and explain that I’ve been having some transportation issues since my girlfriend wrecked her car. Also, point out that no, in fact, I don’t know anything about a lost case of printer ink, why does he ask?

My New Law and Order Solution: Treat my boss with contempt as I repeatedly point out that he ain’t got nothing on me and that he better get a warrant if he wants to search my bottom right desk drawer. Then refuse to answer any more questions and demand to be taken back to my cubicle.

* * * * * * *

Problem: My girlfriend’s cat has killed a mouse and left it on our couch while we were at work.

Rational Solution: Calm my girlfriend down by explaining that it’s only meant as a gift and then humanely and sanitarily dispose of the remains.

My New Law and Order Solution: Call roughly a dozen friends to come over and sip coffee while we look at the body and make hard-boiled comments like, “That’s one cat not going hungry tonight” or, “I hope that piece of cheese was worth it” or maybe even, “Let me guess: crowded alley on the night before garbage pickup but not a single witness? Yup, that’s Kittytown for ya.”

* * * * * * *

Problem: Despite (or because of) it being “Nookie Wednesday”, my girlfriend and I grapple with the same old intimacy problems we’ve had for several months now.

Rational Solution: Stop going through the motions, turn on the bedroom light, and really talk to each other about where we think this relationship is headed. And if that includes going our separate ways, then so be it.

My New Law and Order Solution: Start referring to her as “The Perp” and threaten to “take [her] downtown and jam [her] up” and then inquire “would [she] like that, [honeypie]?”

* * * * * * *

Problem: My girlfriend gets seriously fed up with my “stupid little CSI routine” and wishes loudly that I would “drop it already and just grow up and behave like a normal adult.”

Rational Solution: Immediately stop acting like a composite of fictional characters from a television crime-drama and apologize for my childish behavior. Also, stop ending every other sentence with “Chung-chung!”

My New Law and Order Solution: Offer her a deal: I’ll act like an adult for three to five if she cops to Being Controlling. Also, remind her that if this trial goes all the way then the jury is sure to hand down a verdict of Being Totally Just Like Her Mother, chung-chung.

* * * * * * *

Problem: While trying to fall asleep on the couch, I hear our shower floor collapse into the downstairs bathroom as the result of a severe, unchecked leak.

Rational Solution: Call the landlord and the plumber and check on the downstairs neighbors before shutting off the main water valve.

My New Law and Order Solution: Hold my breath, cover my ears, and squeeze my eyes shut so tightly that I can literally see white closing credits on a silent black screen. Coming up next, another ripped-from-the-headlines episode of Law and Order: WNHTS (We Need to Have a Talk Squad)!

The Thing About You Birds

By: David Holub

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You know, the thing about you birds is that you sit on that branch for hours, whistling the same song.

TWEE-twee. Two notes. The same two notes. Over and over. First the high one and then one a little lower.

But, my small, feathery acquaintance, let me ask you this: What do you think will come of all this so-called singing? That you’ll attract a mate? That some female bird will be so taken with your little tweedle-dee routine that she’ll just offer herself no questions asked? That she’ll hear your call and then swoop in and say, “Hey Mr. Bird with no job and no prospects, wanna have some sex?”

Well, good luck. Because I’ll tell you, women don’t seem to like it when guys sit around all day, whether it’s in a “tree” or in what they refer to as “filth” and “crumbs.”

And don’t just dismiss everything she says, because she may have a point about the job. Just loitering on that branch all day whistling isn’t going to get you any closer to becoming a contributing member of society. And even if it did, I wouldn’t show up to your first job interview in months looking anything but your best. Those red and brown feathers may do the trick in the forest but you come like that to an interview and they’ll eat you for lunch (not literally, though I wouldn’t show up around lunchtime. Just to be safe).

Just be careful not to overdo it. I know the logic. When getting dressed for your interview you’ll say, “I should wear something nice, and what’s nicer than a tuxedo?” So you show up in a tuxedo and they, in their corduroys and turtlenecks, ask, “What’s with the tux?” and sensing a fashion gaffe, you feel the only way to save face is to perform that magic trick where you make the baby kitten “laugh,” which, if you knew you were going to be performing it, you would have practiced a little harder and the kitten wouldn’t have stopped breathing.

But those are the chances you take when reaching for your dreams. Unless it’s that dream where you’re walking down the halls of your high school naked but really, you’re more embarrassed because you’re facing allegations of human trafficking. I wouldn’t tell too many people about that dream.

But certainly your dreams are more than this, more than standing on a branch and singing the same two dumbass notes on a loop. Do you think this song of yours is going to make someone stop and say, “Hey bird, quite the song. Here’s a blue ribbon.” Sure, you might be filled with a sense of accomplishment, but then you find out that the blue ribbon is not for musical achievement but for prostate cancer awareness and you freak out and start frightening pedestrians and their children because you get the impression that the ribbon means you actually have prostate cancer, which you don’t, but you didn’t know that at the time. You just wondered how they got all this information about your prostate.

Believe me, your prostate is fine. The point is that you’re a bird and you have wings and you can fly so why would you choose to stand on the same branch and sing the same two notes? Unless it’s because you’re injured and if you are then I’m sorry, but you were probably doing something incredibly stupid, like flying repeatedly into a plate glass window. Why would you do such a thing? Perhaps you were turned down for a job because you dressed inappropriately and might have harmed a young cat during the interview. But that’s no excuse to get all drunk and aggressive and instigate a shoving match with your reflection in the bar window.

If there’s one piece of advice I could hand you, something that will allow you to realize your potential and make your tiny winged life more successful and less complicated, it’s…Oh I see you’ve flown. And I’ve been talking to myself.

You know, the thing about you caterpillars is those creepy-looking cocoons…