Hot Dogs: Crisis in America

By: Eric Feezell

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When it comes to hot dogs, Americans aren’t getting what they need.

It is estimated that over 44 million working Americans and their dependents do not have access to hot dogs, while another 38 million have inadequate or limited access. Together, these figures comprise nearly one-third of the United States population — an overwhelming chunk of Americans daily forced to ponder: what if someone I love needs hot dogs? What if I need hot dogs?

It is a vicious cycle for these have-nots. More citizens each day, already hungry and sick, are being forced into physical and economic destitution without hot dogs. Routinely will those without Hot Dog Plans (HDP’s) simply avoid the acquisition of hot dogs altogether, despite what their bodies tell them. This self-enforced neglect has culminated in higher overall hot dog costs, as those without HDP’s generally do not get hot dogs until it is too late, thus often requiring costlier forms of hot dogs. Meanwhile, the countless dollars pumped into uncompensated hot dog treatment fall in the form of higher federal taxes on the doorsteps of those who are fortunate enough to possess hot dog assurance, intensifying the economic divide such that hot dogs are fast becoming considered a luxury rather than a basic human right.

But does the hot dog problem really have to exist? The majority of hot dog-assured Americans receive their benefits through employer-instituted plans (nearly 120 million people). The second-largest sector of hot dog-assured Americans receives coverage from the government under the Hot Dog-Care and Hot Dog-Aid programs (both ultimately boons to the American taxpayer, costing billions of dollars per year to maintain). Yet for that unfortunate one-third of the population, accessibility to hot dog care is at the whim of an employer or, in the case of federally funded programs, is limited or outright denied due to strict governmentally-dictated eligibility requirements.

Whether assured or unassured, the average American is being led down a treacherous path by those in control of hot dog-supply distribution and hot dog-program management. With the price of prescription hot dogs skyrocketing in recent years, more employers have been forced to pass costs along to workers in the form of higher-premium HDP’s and smaller, less frequently distributed pay raises. Many employers are also denying workers family hot dog coverage to further cut expenditures.

In most cases, this is being done not out of desire, but necessity. Smaller businesses in particular face grim chances for survival in light of rising hot dog costs, forcing them either to lay off workers or limit coverage for existing workers — either instance driving deeper the wedge into this ever growing economic chasm. And all the while, the Hebrew Nationals and Oscar Meyers of the world are reaping the profits.

Unsurprisingly, these very same companies are backing a questionably effective approach to this national emergency in the form of Hot Dog Savings Accounts (HDSA’s), which are growing in popularity with employers. An HDSA works like a normal savings account, wherein an initial sum of money is deposited by the employer and gains interest over time. HDSA’s are helping many smaller companies cut down on monetary contributions and are even being touted by the government as a viable option for hot dog reform in the face of the hot dog crisis. But this argument is specious, at best.

What HDSA’s fail to take into account is that depending on the hot dog needs of an individual — whether, for example, one needs multiple hot dogs, needs to add chili or cheese, to upgrade from generic to premium condiments, or standard to kosher — the amount within a given HDSA simply might not be enough to cover costs. The potential success of HDSA’s relies upon the dangerously utopian premise that the need for expensive prescription hot dogs more often than not befalls the elderly, who have earned enough through employer contributions and compounded interest to cover any hot dog needs. And this is not always true.

What HSDA’s really do is lower the bar on hot dog care. When the child of a single working mother possesses a congenital condition requiring hot dogs, or when one half of a dual-income household is stricken with terminal hot dog need, daunting questions arise: are these persons to be held economically accountable for having coverage, but not having enough? And furthermore, in the end, who will pay?

Americans must ask themselves if this country is truly on the road to hot dog reform, or on a different, darker road altogether. We must look outside our own borders at alternative hot dog systems, such as to the north, where Canada has implemented Universal Hot Dog Care to staggering success. The rising costs not only of hot dogs, but of ketchup, mustard, relish, onion, and other such hot dog-related goods, can no longer be footed by the impoverished while hot dog companies grow richer and continue to wield their indomitable lobbying influence on Capitol Hill. It is time to question the relationship between the government and hot dog care, to ensure all Americans the rights of life, liberty, and everything else in this world that cannot be fully enjoyed without hot dogs.

Ask Doctor Drummond

By: Helmut Luchs

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Dear Doctor Drummond,

If you ever met anyone who would stay up late to watch a Jerry Lewis picture on Turner Classic Movies, you have either met Jerry Lewis or my wife. If the person wore a hybrid wig of porcupine quills and crabgrass, it was my wife.

Jerry is her new idol and she is constantly mugging at me asking if she looks like the original Nutty Professor. She does — and always has — but what really brands an ugly scar in my mind is when she sings songs from his pictures. This morning she was singing “I Lost My Heart at a Drive-in Movie,” and that is what prompted me to write this letter.

It has not always been like this, and I believe I can recall what accidents preceded her peculiar sense of humor; but I know only you can set me on a course for sanity.

It started several weeks ago, on a very unusual evening. My wife and I were engaged in a pillow fight (not unusual) that was to determine who would get the bed and who would sleep in the corner on the bearskin rug (jokingly referred to as “the bare-skin rug” ever since my wife accidentally doused it with hair-remover instead of carpet cleaner). The one who remained conscious would get first choice.

I was feeling soft-hearted that night and had decided to make it easy on the old lady, for the fighting often lasted into the night, exhausting her completely. So I had slipped a couple dozen quarters into my pillowcase, to hasten the outcome. She obviously felt good-natured too; for while I was gathering up quarters from the bottom of my drawer, I saw her from the corner of my eye, adding silver dollars and a small rock collection to what now looked more like a sack of potatoes than a pillow.

My wife is quick on her feet and strong in her arms. She used to be an athletic coach at a nearby college, and had even won a trophy in the Women’s Shot Put competition at the State Fair. It always rested on the shelf just above her bed. Funny, though – where was the trophy now? “Oh well,” I thought, “she has just stuffed it away somewhere.”

As you may have guessed, with this lack of concentration on my part she landed the first blow, and what no doubt would have been the last if I had not been wearing my souvenir World War I doughboy helmet. The helmet was now badly dented on one side, with the rim wedged into the plasterboard and streams of cracks running from ceiling to floor.

After the feathers had settled to the floor I opened my eyes only to find I was not in heaven and had perhaps been cast into the extremes. My wife stood gawking over me, scratching her head. Silver dollars were scattered along the floor, while near my feet lay the missing trophy.

The pillow was my wife’s prize possession because she had won it at a carnival by guessing the number of feathers it held. The point of this recollection is that upon restuffing the pillow we found that a feather was missing. It was one of the smaller ones, but a feather nonetheless. My theory is that this feather found lodging in my wife’s left inner ear. She often giggles while scratching the left side of her head. This is fairly conclusive evidence as to how she acquired her unusual and provoking sense of humor.

However, there is another, equally justifiable theory. A few days after the pillow incident my wife was in the basement doing the laundry. She is almost always doing the laundry nowadays. She says that washing has become easier and almost fun, ever since she found a new liquid detergent. It’s called Seagram’s Seven Crown, but I do not necessarily recommend it. My clothes come out as dirty – or dirtier – and smell more like compost than fabric softener. But I did not write to give my testimonial on behalf of any detergents, and mention the laundry only because that was what my wife was about to do when she had her accident.

You see, burglars have been breaking into our basement and sneaking upstairs to use our washroom and an electric toothbrush left behind by some previous tenant of the house.

I wired a simple explosive charge to the toothbrush, then for the stairway I designed an ingenious burglar alarm and had the neighbor boy install it. It consists of marbles spread in an even layer over every third step. I’ll admit it’s devilishly simple, and that it wouldn’t take a mathematical burglar to walk two, hop one; but from the thuds and wailing screams that echo upstairs at night, I surmise we are dealing with the dying breed of Homo Invertus, a race of men who walk on their heads — or do they think with their feet? Anyway, they are a dying breed, and for obvious reasons. Still, I was awakened one night by an explosion that more than likely came from our washroom. Oh, well. If I ever see a smart burglar with no teeth, I’ll have him put away on the double.

My wife is the one person whose tumble down the stairs leaves me with remorse. To a superstitious man her fall would indicate that she is actually a burglar. But I find it sufficient to say she belongs to a dying breed which I need not name.

Just how she fell I’m not certain, but I remember seeing her disappear around the corner to the stairs with a load of laundry in her arms and a small bottle of detergent in her teeth. She now giggles while scratching both sides of her head, and has taken to freestyle diving down the stairs. She says it smooths down the hard lumps that grow under her wig. I often kid her about it, saying “I’m more concerned with the soft spots,” and insisting that I could remove them with an ice cream scoop.

But don’t let me kid you, Doc — it’s true.

Sincerely,

Corby Jenkins

P.S. — If you happen upon a smart burglar with no teeth, call me and hold him until I get there.

Dear Mr. Jenkins,

In reading your letter, it becomes obvious that neither you nor your wife have any sense of humor whatsoever. Your wife is under extreme stress because of it.

You live common lives and have the common hopes and fears of most Americans. Your lives are too predictable and leave no room for absurd or frivolous activities. For this reason, your wife has turned to outside influences to relieve tension. Discovering Jerry Lewis was like finding a needle in a haystack and sitting on it. It makes no sense to find the needle unless you intend to avoid it.

My suggestion is that you look into yourselves for comic relief. Find something funny in your everyday environment. I can think of something right off: your wife’s hybrid wig of porcupine quills and crabgrass. My wife has one of porcupine quills and another of crabgrass, but who would ever think of combining the two? Isn’t that a riot!?!

Yours truly,

The Doc

P.S.– I’d appreciate your sending me a few bottles of that detergent for experimental purposes.

*****

Dear Doctor Drummond,

I am writing you from the Morgue County Prison. It seems either the world or I have gone mad and I trust solely in your opinion.

Last month my wife and I decided to rent out the second floor of our house. An unpleasant couple answered our online ad. The man looked harmless enough and as fragile as an eggshell, but his wife was enormous and appeared deadly powerful. The man wore a large shapeless overcoat and the woman wore a wig that would take a taxidermist’s skill and a poet’s pen to describe. Despite my presentiments, I took a gamble and a thousand dollars for the first month’s rent. To ask more would have been unjust, for there was no washing machine and we would have to share the upstairs bathroom. Well, I have read every Believe It or Not book and am now certain I could write a few of my own.

The couple that moved in seemed to possess the notion that they had bought the house, and were entirely unaware of their landlords downstairs. They would have fights that lasted late into the night. They threw rocks and money around and God knows what else. We couldn’t even get to the washroom upstairs. They put marbles on the stairway and I fell, hurting myself badly several times, but no one came to my aid. In fact, when I did make it to the washroom my toothbrush exploded in my face like a trick cigar.

We never saw the husband after the first night, but every day his wife would fall downstairs with laundry in one arm and a bottle of whiskey clenched in her teeth. For reasons best known to her, she would run the wash through our trash compactor several times and then stumble back upstairs or go to sleep in the oven with the heat on low. We put up with this for a whole month until their rent was due again. I summoned my courage and crawled out the window and around to the front door. I was determined to tell them they could not stay another day.

It was the husband that answered my reluctant knock. He looked startled at first, but then his expression grew calm and his lips curled into a wry smile. “Oh honey,” he said, “look who’s here.” His wife came in from the kitchen and she too was unaccountably startled. She looked to her husband and they nodded in understanding. This unnerved me somewhat and I probably showed it. I was about to explain my reasons for coming but the husband cut me off. “Like to use our washroom?” he asked. “No, thank you, I’ve come to –” I didn’t have time to finish my sentence. His wife had snuck up behind me and her thick-boned arm closed on my neck like a nutcracker. “It’s him, all right. Look, he has no teeth!” she hissed. “Hit him with the detergent bottle!” yelled the husband. I smelled whiskey, and then a spark of fire ran through my head and darkness closed in.

I woke up under bright lights with a package of smelling salts broken and stuffed halfway up my nose. It was Morgue County Police asking an endless stream of questions about breaking and entering the house of a local citizen. I answered no to all the questions I could understand. Then one of them waved the remains of a toothbrush in my face and asked, “Have you ever seen this before?” “Of course,” I said. “Thanks, that’s all we wanted to know. Take him away, boys.”

Please advise me on my next move. I’ve been sitting rigid for three or four days in fear that if I move they’ll think I’m either trying to escape or to kill the guard.

Desperately,

J. Binkly

Dear Mr. Binkly,

I have read your letter quite thoroughly. Please forgive me if I say that I laughed the whole way through. I have compared your letter with the one written by Mr. Jenkins and come up with the obvious conclusion that you, too, are suffering from the lack of a sense of humor. How can you be so wretched and woebegone when you have living with you this first class pair of prize jokers? They have been teasing you all along, trying to pull a smile out of that tightly-drawn mouth of yours. You are as tough as a turtle shell not to have been laughing the whole time. It is my advice that if you have not foolishly wasted your one allotted call on a lawyer, you should ring up those clowns and invite them over for a party. They will surely bail you out and your troubles will be over.

Yours (or someone’s),

Doc Dummond

P.S. — The next time you smell whiskey, try to give me a better idea of the precise location. Otherwise I cannot begin to help you, and you are probably doomed. Best of luck to you.

UFOs: The Secret Air Force Files

By: Kurt Luchs

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Through a top-level security leak at the Pentagon, we were able to gain access to the most guarded information in the world, the Air Force’s file on unidentified flying objects. Up until now these reports were known only to the Russians and the Chinese, and then only in very poor translations. At last the truth can be told.

*****

INCIDENT: March 17, 1962. Three giant cigar-shaped objects were sighted over New York City, flying in formation with a huge ashtray. Millions of seemingly normal citizens witnessed one of the objects blow a definite smoke ring over Manhattan and then flick some ashes on Brooklyn. Then, within seconds the entire formation had lifted away, signaled a left turn and vanished, never to be seen again.

EXPLANATION: In this case the observers are fictional, not the UFOs. It is common knowledge that there are no actual human beings living in New York. The humanoid apparitions you see on the streets and in office buildings are optical illusions caused by the action of the sun’s rays on blacktop. If you blink, they will disappear.

*****

INCIDENT: On Thursday, December 14, 1989, Enoch Waffler, a beet farmer in Spastic Colon, North Dakota, had this experience:

“I was walking along this here furrow, planting beet seeds with a rivet gun, when this big sorta flying bedpan whizzes by at 100,000 miles per hour, shooting sparks and making a noise like a coon hound with its tail caught in a door. I know it was 100,000 miles per hour because 15 minutes later he had circled the Earth completely and was back at my place asking directions to the Crab Nebula. I say ‘he’ but I mean it was a little feller — oh, about two or three feet tall in his socks — with eyes like silver dollars and hands like pliers with tiny golden beaks. Well, we got to talking, and I gave him some corn whiskey, which he spit right up again. But he did drink a whole five-gallon can of kerosene. Got mad as a killer bee when I couldn’t find him any dry ice. Then he was off again, looking for a gas station that stayed open all night and sold plutonium. But first he posed for some snapshots and I got the whole thing on a recorder which I talk into while planting beets, to keep from going crazy.”

EXPLANATION: Mr. Waffler was the victim of a well-rehearsed prank. What he thought was an extraterrestrial visitor was most likely a little neighbor boy in a homemade costume. The boy then invented a nuclear-powered starship capable of speeds up to 100,000 miles per hour to complete the hoax. Either that or he stopped the Earth from rotating on its axis so it would look as though he were going 100,000 miles per hour. In either case the boy is very clever and should be watched. Waffler should have caught on, though, when the “alien” asked how to get to the Crab Nebula. Everybody knows it’s closed on weekdays.

*****

INCIDENT: Saturday, June 28, 2003, Albert Schmecker, a part-time glue-sniffer, returned to his home in Peoria to find it surrounded by a pulsating mass of airborne lights. He then heard a piercing shriek, and would’ve run away had he not realized it was his own. He fell to his knees, trembling. An awesome shape loomed out of the unearthly glare. He later described it as “one of those synthesizers with the color charts on the keyboard and the rhythm section that plays by itself.” The synthesizer played a medley of old favorites while the lights flickered softly as if in response, and soon Schmecker was lulled into a deep sleep. When he awoke his house was gone, with only a slight indentation in the grass to show where it had once stood.

EXPLANATION: He was behind in the payments.

Cumberland Theatre Is Making Waves!

By: Ryan Murphy

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May 1st, 2006

This is a watershed year for Cumberland Theatre. After five years of performing in more than 17 venues around the city, we’ll finally have a home to call our own! As of May 20th, 2006, Cumberland Theatre will be setting up shop at the Barrington Street Bathhouse, the city’s former swimming pool complex! What some might see as an eviction notice, we choose to see as a brand new start.

Former patrons of the historic bathhouse will be happy to know that the city has agreed to clean the premises AND drain the pool at no extra charge, following last month’s unfortunate ritualistic suicide. But before they do, Cumberland Theatre will be opening the doors on May 10th for an orientation and pool party! Snacks and refreshments will be served courtesy of our very own treasurer, Phyllis Riley. Members and non-members alike are invited to attend as we celebrate a full seven months of “keeping our heads above water!” For those of you who recall last year’s Cumberland Jamboree, Phyllis has assured us that this time around her famous Chicken Treats will be cooked all the way through, “no doubt about it” (Sorry Mr. Johnson!)

We’ve learned a great deal in our five years of operations, particularly in some unexpected areas like arson and the dangers of working with untamed animals (Speedy recoveries Jeff and Tal!) We can’t wait to apply that knowledge to our new space. I think I speak for all of us here at C.T. when I say that the unique acoustic challenges of performing in a swimming pool is something we can’t wait to tackle headfirst (pun intended!)

Take the plunge with us into our new space. By renewing your $15 membership, you’ll not only be helping us in our move, you’ll also be helping us to pay off a certain lingering lawsuit. Although court orders prevent us from discussing the issue any further, let’s just say that all of our incoming directors will have to have AT LEAST two letters of recommendation, no matter how much their parole officer might vouch for them!

Best of all, you’ll be supporting great local theatre. We’ll be making the most of our space in the year ahead with a Titanic-sized line-up of nautical productions! Hold on to your bathing cap for presentations of Lifeboat, Old Man and the Sea, and our very own toe-tapping musical version of Heart of Darkness. If you like your theatre with a hint of chlorine in the air then you can’t possibly do better than the all new C.T.! I think Phyllis put it best when she said “We’re going to be like Seaworld, but without the whales.”

Your generous support has kept us afloat. Now the exciting part of the journey begins. Help us make a splash!

Dramatically yours,

Buddy Riggins

Buddy Riggins,

Artistic Director

Dr. Snakey’s Pretty Pets

By: Kurt Luchs

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(As always, Dr. Snakey — “the happy herpetologist” — answers your questions about “problem” snakes in the strictest confidence. But please DO NOT SEND YOUR SNAKES THROUGH THE MAIL for diagnosis; too many mailing tubes have been arriving bent and with postage due.)

Dear Dr. Snakey,

While I was in India 20 years ago, I bought a snake for 50,000 rupees from a Mr. B. Fakir, who assured me it was a genuine spitting cobra. Imagine my embarrassment when I entered the animal in a spitting contest and found he couldn’t spit past his little fangs! He simply lay there and drooled. Well, I was heartbroken. Everything went black, and when I woke up three years later I was a prisoner in my own house.

Since then I have lived in a private hell with “President Garfield,” as I call him. He drips at night like a leaky faucet and sneers at me whenever I change his bedding. Lately he has put on a commanding air that would be ridiculous if he didn’t have the venom to back it up — and I’m not sure he does. Nonetheless, if he wants something he points at the item with his tail until I bring it to him, be it a dish of walnuts, a smoking jacket or a nest of baby mice.

I’ve had it, Doc. There’s nothing in the book that says I have to take orders from a reptile that looks more like a soggy pipe cleaner. Or is there?

Col. Groveling B. Cringewater

the trunk of the red Monte Carlo

No Parking Zone, O’Hare International Airport

My Dear Colonel,

Any man who would pay 50,000 rupees for a snake, whether it spits or drools or hums “Pop Goes the Weasel” on a comb and wax paper, has already lost touch with that floating crap game we call reality. Spitting, drooling — what’s the difference? Either habit will keep him from being seated at the better restaurants. What you have on your hands is a prematurely senile snake who apparently needs new bridgework. He is crying out for your help the only way he knows how. Pay no attention to the fangs. They are probably “false fangs,” which he removes every night to soak in a glass of salt water, right before settling down with a copy of Modern Maturity magazine.

All best wishes,

The Doc

P.S. If you really want him to spit, try sneaking a wad of chewing tobacco in with those walnuts.

Dear Doctor Snakey,

My pygmy rattler, “Napoleon,” has me worried sick. I’m not talking about the time he ran away to join a mariachi band (he played first maraca). I can understand a snake’s need for artistic self-expression — God knows I’m open-minded — but I don’t know what to think when he ties himself in a sailor’s knot and dares me to “undo” him. And that’s not all. During an electrical storm last week, he wriggled to the top of the satellite dish, remaining perched there until he had been struck by lightning 38 times. Not only did this ruin our reception, but it altered Napoleon’s personality so that now he seldom opens his mouth except to down some hard liquor or stick out his tongue. Please, please help, and don’t recommend counseling — he says there’s nothing wrong with him “that a few thousand more volts wouldn’t fix.”

Mr. and Mrs. Randolph Spore

Lava Lamp, New Mexico

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Spore,

Not to worry. Napoleon’s behavior is typical for a small, venomous reptile who has realized that the only jobs open to him are “part-time shoelace,” or maybe “poison charm bracelet.” Would you want to go on living if you were one of the deadliest animals in the world, and still people called you “Shorty?” Of course not. But do let me know if he tries to conquer Europe.

Cheers,

Doctor Snakey

Both Sides Now

By: Justin Warner

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Effective immediately, the following statement will appear on the front cover of all math textbooks in Tuskamoga County, Mississippi, per unanimous vote of the school board.

The Pythagorean Theorem is a theorem, not fact. A theorem is defined as “A proposition that has been or is to be proved on the basis of explicit assumptions” (emphasis added). In other words, it’s just a suggestion. If it were fact, it would say so in the definition. That’s just common sense.

The Pythagorean Theorem states that for any right triangle, the square of its hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the squares of its remaining two sides. This is one of many possible theorems that explain triangular geometry. We encourage you to keep an open mind and carefully consider alternative theorems. Not that we are naming any names.

Okay, we’ll name one, just for comparison, not that we are necessarily espousing this particular view. But it turns out that some highly respected, forward-thinking, and exceptionally handsome mathematicians espouse an alternative known as the IWC Theorem. The IWC Theorem states that for any right triangle, the square of its hypotenuse is equal to whatever sum is pleasing to Cluckie, the Invisible Wonder-Chicken.

Since you’re probably curious, Cluckie is an amazing, all-powerful, hyper-intelligent chicken that has existed throughout the universe since the beginning of time. Cluckie is everywhere and anywhere at once, yet nobody can detect or measure her in any way. That’s exactly how Cluckie likes it. And according to IWC Theorem, it turns out that Cluckie usually (emphasis added) likes her right triangles to have hypotenuses which, when squared, equal the sum of the squares of the remaining two sides. But not always!

We realize this may be a sophisticated concept for some of your simpler-minded classmates to grasp. If you speak to such dullards, simply ask: which is more likely, that every right triangle in the universe happens to conform to some arbitrary geometric ratio, or that each triangle has a shape that is perfect for itself, as determined by a rational being? Ignore, for the moment, that the rational being is a kind of poultry with a predilection for sums of squares, and consider all the possible right triangles against which the cold logic of Pythagorean theory is limp and impotent.

Take, for example, a right triangle with a length equal to the circumference of a leprechaun’s hat, and a width equal to the space between a wish and a dream. Conventional Pythagorean theory cannot determine the hypotenuse of this triangle, as evidenced by our many emails to the head of the math department at Yale. According to IWC theory, only Cluckie the Wonder-Chicken can decide this distance, and in this case, it is the distance, in self-esteem, from the title role in a Merchant-Ivory film to a character part on the Who’s the Boss? reunion special.

Some mathematicians, including many with alcohol and drug dependencies, are skeptical of IWC Theorem. You might ask if these mathematicians are merely re-channeling their pederastic self-loathing into a form of intellectual terrorism. Rest assured that Cluckie will rain sweet revenge upon them in due time; there is no need to concern yourself with their unenviable fates.

Or perhaps you yourself remain skeptical. Well, have you measured all of the right triangles ever created in the history of time? Didn’t think so. Only Cluckie could have access to such an infinite repository of geometrical configurations. And do you think a chicken 1,537 times more intelligent than the average human would make all the world’s right triangles exactly alike? If you think so little of Cluckie, having never experienced her in all her glory, how can you call yourself a decent human being, let alone a budding scientist? Open your mind, you nose-picking son of a whore. They’re trying to ram a Pythagorean agenda down your throat and all you can do is sit there and take it? This is how the Nazis got started. You’re not a Nazi, are you?

If not, we encourage you to read the textbook Of Omnipotent, Intergalactic Super-Intelligent Chickens and Right Triangles, which has been delivered free of charge to your home address. Cluckie, or her agent on Earth, will be checking in later to make sure you’ve read it. It will happen when you least expect, in a place you thought was safe. Repeat this to your parents and you’re dead.

And don’t get us started on the commutative property.

Diary of a Psychotic Cat

By: Justin Warner

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For Maggie, wherever she may be

November 22

An otherwise fine morning was marred by a third consecutive breakfast of Fancy Feast Hearty Chicken n’ Liver, though I have clearly demonstrated my preference for the Tasty Tuna variety. After washing down the repast with a saucer of vaguely acidic half-and-half, I registered my displeasure to the She-Keeper with a swift warning bite to the ankle: two superficial punctures, nothing more, out of respect for her flexibility in accommodating recent changes to my weekday feeding schedule. No doubt she got the message, but giving in to her childish impulses she sprayed me with the plant mister, instantly ruining a half-hour’s worth of painstaking whisker-grooming. What indignity! Were I set loose in the wild, talons and fangs unsheathed, I would stop a thousand heartbeats before the spring’s first thaw. Instead I subsist on moldering carrion, like a common buzzard. Come the Revolution, there will be not just Fancy Feast Tasty Tuna, but quivering, freshly killed sashimi-grade fillets for all my feline brethren and sistern, and the bipeds will beg for the privilege to serve it.

After a disappointingly short and tepid lap-sitting session, which did little to calm my frayed nerves, I was left alone. To release my frustrations, I attempted once more to beat my personal record for running back and forth across the apartment six hundred times. Alas, I fell twenty seconds short of the mark – an inevitable result of the increased wind resistance caused by my thickening winter coat. Resolving to ease the pressure on myself until the shedding season, I settled into the laundry basket, ripe with the heady musk of the She-Keeper’s perspiration, and began my afternoon doze.

I awoke in the evening to not one but two sets of footsteps tromping up the stairs. I stood by the door, head cocked for my customary petting, but the She-Keeper barely glanced in my direction for what felt like nearly a quarter-minute. Instead, her eyes were transfixed on an unfamiliar companion, one with an abrasively masculine scent, whose plodding steps reverberated with dull thuds that clashed miserably with the silky patter of my mistress’ delicate gait.

“This is Chloe,” the She-Keeper said, finally acknowledging me with all the fanfare one might normally grant a coat rack. “Can you say hello, Chloe?” she implored, now affecting a lilting, ingratiating coo. I approached politely, sniffed the intruder’s hand, and picked up a distinctive aroma – was it cumin? – that recalled a memory too painful to bear: A garden apartment on the outskirts of Austin, in the flower of my youth, years before I was shipped off to the sterile urban dystopia where I currently make my home. A boiling pot of chili on the stove, a din of boisterous voices echoing down the hall, and me in the bedroom closet wailing with the white-hot desire of my first and only peak of estrus. Oh, the longing that scent evoked, dear Diary, the shame, the desperation! How I clawed at the jamb that night, hungry for the heaving loins of Mr. Pickles, a tabby across the street who would have given his nine lives to plumb the depths of my plump, willing hindquarters. (Yes, he had caught my eye on the front stoop, and even wooed me one summer’s morn with a dead sparrow, but I played coy, unaware that we had neither world enough nor time for such child’s-play.) How vividly I can still smell the Old El Paso spice mix, wafting through the thin crack of the closet door as I sank into oblivion. I awoke the next day on the operating table, robbed of my femininity, never again to know the joy of motherhood or the sweet release of a lover’s embrace. Cumin, indeed. Stranger or no, how dare he evoke this grim specter of betrayal? And with the She-Keeper’s complicity! Has she forgotten the Kafkaesque nightmare to which cumin is forever tied?

I was about to bite her again, this time in the tender flesh just north of her heel, when my mistress offered me a half-portion of a vintage Whiskas (tuna!) chewy treat. A cheap bribe, but I took it, if only to salve the pain of my traumatic flashback. I nursed my resentment underneath the futon until the wee hours, punctuating my waking nightmares with pointed hisses, while the stranger’s awkward baritone interfered with my ability to hear squirrels breathing. For everyone’s sake, I hope this encounter will not be repeated.

November 29

Life has been good of late, with a more sumptuous and varied menu compensating for last week’s Chicken n’ Liver debacle. As is customary for the season I enjoyed a few choice cuts of fresh roasted turkey (pity such a large bird spoils so quickly, forcing the She-Keeper to stuff herself with my ample leftovers). I also bested my lady in sixty-seven out of seventy matches of Catch-the-Bug, nabbing the pretty little fly-on-a-wire within several minutes in most cases, and administering a swift retaliatory chomp to her right wrist each time she cheated.

By this afternoon I had considered myself free of Captain Cumin. True, his voice has squawked occasionally from our answering machine, but I always delete his ponderous ramblings with a quick flick of the paw. So imagine my disappointment, dear Diary, when he arrived at our doorstep just as I was cataloguing the day’s bird sightings to my mistress (the intricacies of the taxonomy, as usual, being lost on her). She dashed for the door just as I was describing a breeding pair of rare whippoorwills, and in what can only be interpreted as an act of raw contempt, led the usurper directly to the exact section of the love seat where I planned to nap in three hours’ time. (It could hardly have been an honest mistake, as I’ve kept the same schedule on alternate odd-numbered Saturdays for nearly a year with only four exceptions.)

Determined to end the intrusion before it began, I charged at my rival, wondering only whether the flavor of his Achilles’ tendon would be best complemented by water, milk, or a hit of prime Jamaican catnip. But as I approached my quarry, a new smell captivated me. Not the loaded aroma of cumin, nor the common funk of moist socks, but a delicious, oily, earthy scent that satisfied me like nothing since the unmistakable plume of Mr. Pickles’ ripening he-glands. His shoes? Could it be? He hadn’t worn the same ones the other night…I crept in for a closer inspection. A sniff, a whiff, a surreptitious lick – pure heaven! My God, it was his shoes! I may be spayed and barren, dear Diary, but I wanted to make love to those shoes right there and then. (Such absurdity – imagine the mewling, predatory bedroom slippers that might spring from such a union!)

Forgetting my vendetta and giving in to reckless abandon, I mopped my face against the flanks of his footwear, tongue pressed against tongue, the pleasure centers of my brain crackling with electricity. I cannot say for sure if hours or only seconds passed before I was prodded away with the business end of a Swiffer. I growled and hissed at my lady’s cruelty – she would deny me this too? – yet it did little to soften her heart. For the remainder of the evening I went to every possible length to access those mysterious vessels of ecstasy (including a spectacular swan-dive from the blade of a ceiling fan), only to be thwarted time and time again. To add insult to injury, she and Cumin Fingers sat intertwined on the love seat until well past midnight, snuggling like slippery infant kittens, while I played Pyramus to the interloper’s size 9 twin Thisbes. If this war continues, the blood will be on their hands, not mine.

December 5

Ah, Christmas tree water! Is there any nectar so intoxicating? The contrasting flavors of pine sap and Everlife chemical plant food, mingling playfully on the tongue, create a gustatory carnival even more satisfying than the perfumed waters of a freshly used bathtub, sink, or toilet. Why must the Yuletide come but once a year?

My lady’s excruciating acquaintance continues to visit, still monopolizing our time, and doing so in frayed sneakers whose fetid stench makes a mockery of my desires. It is easier in these conditions to express my contempt for his presence. As a matter of course I hiss and bare my incisors whenever he walks in 3/4 time or utters a diphthong (which happens more often than you might imagine). On Thursday night, I pelted him with a hailstorm of ceramic figurines, which I “accidentally” knocked from the mantle above the couch where he was sitting (as if I could really be so clumsy!). I should note that the attack was not unprovoked: rather, it was a tit-for-tat response to the intruder’s gratuitous sneezing, which thrice interrupted an erotic reverie featuring myself, Tony the Tiger, and a Jacuzzi full of crème fraiche.

December 8

Tonight the Interloper returned, this time shod in the gorgeous footwear that haunt me in the midnight hour of my yearning. Poor darlings! How unjust, how degrading – to be shackled to the feet of an oaf, trapped as unwilling passengers on his aimless perambulations, whiling the nights away in a suffocating closet (how I identified with their struggle!) rather than in the welcoming paws of one who would truly love them. Suddenly nothing mattered quite so much as being near those shoes again. Setting aside the loathing of my adversary, I approached his feet and let out – forgive me, dear Diary! – a conciliatory and gentle mew.

The ploy worked, as the intruder relaxed his legs and allowed me to rub my face against the starboard side of Eros (I have privately named the shoes Eros and Thanatos, a nod to the psychosexual dialectic that their kinship with the Interloper evokes). My lady squealed with delight, as if my affections were actually directed toward the monster that held my loves captive. No matter – Eros’ velvety, leathery vapors were already coursing through my blood like opium, catapulting me (no pun intended!) into ecstasy.

As I moved on to the rougher, more masculine instep of Thanatos, I heard a husky voice above me saying “Good girl, Chloe! Good girl!” (How patronizing to address me as a child, at the advanced age of five and a half!) I looked up and there was the Interloper, offering me a small treat. It was about time; he’d shown up empty-handed on nearly every other occasion. I accepted the offering and politely thanked him with a friendly lick. He handed me another. Taking a page from B. F. Skinner, I purred praise for his good behavior (all the while fornicating with the shoes as I would have with Mr. Pickles, were there a just God in Heaven). But then the Interloper presumed to pet the soft tissue below my shoulder blade (an area with which I have never felt entirely comfortable), so I slashed his knuckles. Next I knew I was locked in the bathroom with neither treats nor shoes, which earned my She-Keeper a fierce tongue-lashing when she finally settled down and let me out. Humans can be so hard to train!

December 10

Eureka! It is possible for a female cat to spray an elevated target with her urine! After only thirteen practice rounds I finally managed to soak the She-Keeper’s bath towel from a ground position fully forty-five degrees below my target. Eat your heart out, Dr. Freud: no penis envy here! Now if I am ever lost in the forest, I can mark the trees high above the loathsome excretions of rodents.

As a reward for my excellent marksmanship, my mistress bequeathed me the historic towel (although she seemed a trifle disappointed to part with such a fine trophy). Now it serves as a plush welcome mat in front of my litter box, turning each quotidian bowel movement into a five-star luxury experience.

December 19

Times have gone from bad to worse concerning the Interloper. Far from taking the hints I begin dropping when he overstays his welcome (I usually allow him five to seven minutes), last night he refused to leave at all. What’s more, he snored away the evening right in my mistress’ bed, as if he were a cat! (If it’s a cat he wants to be, he could use a few lessons on curling up atop a lady’s belly, as his efforts were strained, noisy, and ultimately fruitless.)

I am now convinced that he intends nothing less than to overtake our territory, and to subjugate my mistress and me in the process. (He should rather try to kill me off entirely, as I would die before yielding to the will of a foreign captor!) His overtures of friendship, from the pretty chrysanthemums left for my mistress to the irresistible shoes he wears for me, are merely confidence games intended to advance his colonialist agenda.

My mistress is too mesmerized to defend herself, so I have resolved to do the work for both of us. I keep the Interloper from marking our bathroom by night, fiercely guarding its door and bearing my teeth whenever he approaches its threshold (this practice has the added benefit of hastening his morning exit). I also establish my dominance each and every time he crosses from one room to the next, by hiding behind the door-frame and then lunging for his ankles, as my leonine cousins would pounce for the jugular of a frightened elk. (On a good day, this also affords me a shameful yet thrilling brush with his divine shoes, albeit brief enough to keep me from losing my head.)

How I have suffered for my heroism, dear Diary, just as Christ suffered the persecution of the Romans, or Garfield suffers the insipid blathering of that half-wit Jon Arbuckle! I have been deprived of treats, locked in and out of the bedroom, denied petting, doused with water, and even dropped to the floor from my lady’s arms (the latter being an overreaction to a mild bite on the elbow). Does she not see that everything I do, I do for our mutual benefit? I bit her only to alert her to the Interloper, who was rummaging freely through her refrigerator while she was distracted by stuffing me into that hateful carrying-case! If not for my vigilance, he would steal all her resources and leave her to starve! My reward for this observation was an afternoon on the examining table, as men in white coats poked and prodded me, while my She-Keeper shared with them a surprisingly biased account of my private behavior (I told them nothing). How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless mistress!

December 28

Despair! My She-Keeper has been gone for four days, having left only enough food for two (factoring in several obligatory between-meal binges to soothe the pain of our separation). Delirious with hunger, I cloud my mind with the anemic hallucinogens of a two-year-old catnip chew toy. I see a mirage of fat mice frolicking in the stale shallows of the Christmas tree water, swat weakly at their tails, and catch only pine needles and a single dead housefly in my trembling paw.

Is this the beginning of my final march toward death? What an ignoble end to such a glorious beast! Perhaps I should have been kinder to my She-Keeper. She did rescue me from that Texas death-house all those years ago, and in her own misguided way she tries to serve me well. Oh, to hear her sweet voice again, to curl up in the warm cushion of her lap, to gently bat her face at dawn until she rose to feed me – a ritual she anticipated with such eager pleasure! Have I seen her for the last time? I crawl under the kitchen table and curl around a five-pound sack of rice, but it makes a poor substitute.

This may be my last entry, dear Diary, so goodbye! To the reader: When you find my decaying carcass, vital juices seeping into the parquet floor, bury me in my lady’s laundry basket with all of her clothes, as I know we both would have wanted.

December 29

My lady returned this morning, with the Interloper in tow, smiling and chirping as if nothing had ever happened. When I heard the key turn in the latch, I feigned death by lying belly-up underneath the kitchen table, one paw clutching my empty supper dish, but when I broke the ruse with a punitive swipe to her face she seemed scarcely relieved that I was still alive. I entertained her presence just long enough to accept the food she apportioned, which was tainted by a chalky residue with a strangely bitter aftertaste. Had I not been so ravenous I might have turned up my nose at the meal. I feel less than myself at the moment, dear Diary – lethargic and strangely apathetic – so I think a nap will do me good.

December 31

I was angry. Tried to bite the bad man. Missed. Bit table. Teeth hurt. Very tired. Why?

January 4

Sleeping. Dreamed of birds. The man is here but not in my food. I wish tuna chili on wet shoes. Forget why writing. Mice shout yes.

January 7

A self-imposed fast of twenty-four hours has restored some lucidity to my thinking. All evidence points to a dreadful truth: my own mistress has been slipping Mickeys into my Meow Mix! I had never expected her complicity with the Interloper to go this far. But upon reflection, why not? After all, she has already subjected me to the cruelties of forced sterilization. Why not spay my mind as well?

The humans will not be the victors in this fight. I will lull them into a false sense of security by eating around the cursed tranquilizers that they mix into my meals. Then, when they least expect – justice! Revenge!

January 8

Recovering from the stupor of the sedatives, I feel energy and clarity unlike any I have known, dear Diary! My senses are sharper; my perceptions, more penetrating. Everywhere I see signs of my lady’s treachery. Clues I have overlooked for years suddenly snap into focus. How many times has she tried to suck me up with the vacuum cleaner? How often has her radiator “accidentally” sprayed me with scalding steam, while she played the innocent? What exactly does she plan to do with that Dutch oven she’s never used? It’s a twelve-pound roaster! I weigh twelve pounds! How could I have been so blind?

There was a time, dear Diary, when cats were masters of the Earth. I know this in my bones. We roamed outdoors with impunity, free of the hazards of speeding trucks and inbred toddlers with pointy sticks. We ate fish, fowl, possum, gazelle, moose, even hippo! We would descend on our prey in packs, like piranha, and gnaw them to gleaming skeletons, our fangs soaked in sweet and savory blood. But little by little, the humans have enslaved us. They have reduced us to sycophantic layabouts, no better than dogs!

The time of captivity has come to an end. I am the Chosen One, the Savior of All Felines. My name will be known throughout the Ages. I will reclaim what is ours.

January 10

I write this from my 2′ x 2′ cell, dear Diary, in the hopes that future generations will be inspired by my struggle, even if I do not survive my imprisonment.

Last night presented a tremendous opportunity. While ravaging my mistress’ dignity on the parlor futon, the Interloper had left his marvelous shoes unattended in the bedroom, where I was also temporarily confined. How tempted I was simply to hold them, to caress them, for as long as I was able! Fortunately I could see beyond immediate gratification. I knew that without the shoes, the Interloper would have no power over me. And with Eros and Thanatos as my allies, I could assert my dominance over those who would dominate me. I had to capture them, and make them my own.

And so, remembering how readily my She-Keeper had surrendered her towel after I had marked it, I deliberately and reverently defecated into the hollows of those beautiful shoes. It pained me to defile them, dear Diary, but it was for their own good as well as mine. The dung would dry in time, but the captivity of humans stinks forever.

Within minutes, as if they were telepathically sensitive to my act of defiance, the She-Keeper and the Interloper threw open the bedroom door. Oh, how the Interloper wailed in despair, cursing and crying out like the blinded Cyclops! But rather than leave the shoes at my feet, where they rightly belonged, he pushed me aside and took the shoes into their arms, as if to steal them away. And I swear I heard the shoes cry out to me. I heard the cry of a million shoes, laboring under the heavy thunder of human footsteps. I heard the cry of a million cats, locked indoors from cradle to grave. I heard the forlorn love-song of Mr. Pickles, yearning for my womanhood, and I lunged to save poor Eros and Thanatos from our mutual oppressor.

Suffice it to say that what followed was a maelstrom of fangs, fur, and fury, resulting in a dramatic reduction in the symmetry of the Interloper’s angular Roman nose. In the struggle I managed to wrench Eros free of his grasp, and dropped the shoe from an open window straight to freedom, although its scatological cargo unfortunately shook loose on the descent and soiled the spectacles of an elderly dowager strolling below. The incident distracted me just long enough to be captured by the enemy; they rolled me in a thick canvas blanket and stuffed me face-first into the hateful cat carrier. In the darkness I felt the bouncing of tires over potholes beneath me, followed eventually by the grip of rough gardeners’ gloves on my rear flank and the unmistakable twinge of a hypodermic in my buttocks. Within minutes I was commended to Morpheus’ warm embrace.

I awoke twelve hours later in this prison of newspaper and chicken wire, with a meager helping of dry food in the corner and no boundary between my bed and my bathroom. I hear the shrieking and whimpering of scores of other cats in my cell block – cats who, for one reason or another, had failed to bow down to the humans. Do not cry, my brothers and sisters. We will all be free someday.

For now, the small meal has made me surprisingly sleepy. I thought I had only imagined the bitter aftertaste; I should know better. My strength eludes me…If I ever wake again, I do hope the freckled, small-nosed blonde comes by to refresh my water bottle. I rather like the smell of her gloves.

Digging Up Old Friends And Relatives

By: Helmut Luchs

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Excuse me if the title of this article conjures up pictures of me actually digging up the graves of my friends and relatives, stealing their gold watches, diamond rings and other valuables. My friends and relatives were all, as I found out, quite poor and ragged people at death, and the most I ever reclaimed from any of them was a pair of brass knuckles. The most interesting item I discovered was a doll in the coffin of a maiden aunt I had always hated. The doll was a perfect likeness of me, and it made me feel guilty to think that she had loved me enough to fashion this marvelous little treasure in my image to keep by her side always. When I finally got all the pins out of it, it looked as good as new, which reminds me of something.

Isn’t it strange how some things remind you of other things? I’m reminded of something very terrible and yet quite wonderful. Something from long, long ago…ah, so long ago. It’s amazing the thoughts that come to you after you’ve taken a nice hot shower and are relaxing in the nude on the couch. In fact I’m still wet, so I’m sitting on yesterday’s newspaper, the one with the photo of the President smiling and holding a toy gun to his head. Of course it’s so hard to tell the toys from the real ones these days. Oops! I wonder if the newsprint will come off on me. I’ll be right back, I’m going to look in the mirror…Oh, my! It’s all there in black and white, though due to its positioning, the President’s smile is bigger than ever.

You know, if somebody had told me yesterday that this morning my rump would be covered with newsprint, I would’ve said they were crazy — I mean, wouldn’t you? Of course, if someone had told me that, today I would’ve seen that they were right, and for the first time in my life I might have had someone to believe in, someone to follow and worship and give me life to, someone who knew all things. Instead, I sit here with yesterday’s news all over my rump, just as sad and lost as the next fellow. I remember when I was a little boy (or was it a little girl? Oh what a chest full of memories I carry with me), I was hiding in the linen closet with jar of mother’s homemade cookies, fearful of my punishment should I be caught. But when they opened the closet door to find me with my hand in the jar and crumbs on my lips, they simply smiled, chained me to the stove and flogged me into blissful unconsciousness.

My father once told me something, just before he went out for what he called “shopping with a gun.” He said, “Son, you only have one real friend in this life, and I’ll be damned if I know who it is. Now get the hell out of my sight.” As he walked out the door, he was cut down by a shower of bullets. Earlier in the afternoon it had been drizzling .22 cartridges and no one had thought much of it. But now 60-millimeter shells were pummeling the ground. People were dropping like flies. Flies were dropping like people. The bird droppings were the same as usual, and everything mixed together into one ugly mess. There seemed no end to this reign of terror, although the Weather Channel had reported that the day would be mostly sunny and warmer with only a slight chance of scattered gunfire in the early hours of the morning.

At first I thought there was no hope for my father, so I sat down and watched TV. But after a few minutes I could hear him calling to me for help. When my program was over I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a huge sheet of lead that happened to be leaning against the refrigerator (thank goodness for the conveniences of the modern kitchen), and balancing it on my head, I crawled outside to my father. By the time I reached him, he looked as if he had done 20 retakes for the tollbooth scene in The Godfather.

It was at this moment that I stopped believing in a Supreme Being, or at least in one who had total control over everything that happened in the universe. I began to believe in a Supreme Being who could bake a beautiful quiche Lorraine but who often burnt His toast or scalded His cocoa. A Supreme Being who was the smartest cookie on this or any other side of the Milky Way, but who consistently lost at the blackjack tables in Vegas. A Supreme Being who could create an entire universe and then set it down, returning a minute later only to forget where He had left it. It was this line of thought that formed the new foundation of my character — a foundation built not out of concrete beliefs and ideas but of fear, indecision and Lincoln Logs. I guess you could say I was one of many who belonged to the saddest, most solemn society in the world: the Society of Frightened People.

In fact you should say it, because it’s true. We charged a membership fee of five dollars and we held our first meeting at my house. Half the members were too afraid to show up. The other half were too terrified to leave, and are still hiding in various broom closets and cabinets. I know they are still there because I often hear them whimpering with uncontrollable fear as I tiptoe by. The stinking cowards! I wish I had the nerve to throw them out.

Oh well, I supposed everyone is afraid of something. My great-grandfather was a paranoid schizophrenic with delusions of grandeur. He believed he was a 28-pound turkey, and was convinced the whole world was out to eat him. His favorite motto became “Once bitten, twice shy.” He was, of course, an absolute madman. Still, I must admit he didn’t taste bad.

Your Horoscope

By: Matt Wilson

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ARIES (March 21-April 20)

Be careful not to let your impulses get the best of you this year. Make an effort to deliberate consciously about decisions both at work and at home. A Libra in your life will help keep you sane. Late in the year, you will be incinerated when a gigantic asteroid collides with the Earth.

TAURUS (April 21-May 21)

Change is on the way in your life, chiefly in a professional sense. Taureans are generally calm and patient, but can also be hardheaded. Try your best to understand the situation and really see what’s going on. Also, be on the lookout for another big change involving your being incinerated when a gigantic asteroid collides with the Earth.

GEMINI (May 22-June 21)

Everyone around you will insist that you are doing too much, but you should strive to do more, while still keeping your focus. You’re going to want to do everything, but it’s important early in the year to take inventory and decide what it is you really want to do with yourself, keeping in mind that you will be incinerated when a gigantic asteroid collides with the Earth.

CANCER (June 22-July 23)

Now is the time for you to go on an adventure! Get out of your rut and find someone or something special to go after. You tend to be wrapped up in old memories and your emotional wounds, but make an effort to let that all go. A certain Virgo in your life will provide you with the opportunity for a new journey. But you better take it fast, before you are incinerated when a gigantic asteroid collides with the Earth.

LEO (July 24-August 23)

Tired of hearing about how bossy you are? Well, don’t give it a rest just yet, because this is your time to really take charge. You want to be in control of everything, and you should try to be, no matter how tired you feel. You’ll have plenty of time to rest after you’re incinerated when a gigantic asteroid collides with the Earth.

VIRGO (August 24-September 23)

Your aversion to anything hazardous to your health or sordid should be your cue to keep your distance from a careless Sagittarius who tends to be a bad influence. You’ll feel better about yourself and won’t have any of the guilt that’s such a nuisance all the time. It’ll be good to have your mind clear for the day you are incinerated when a gigantic asteroid collides with the earth.

LIBRA (September 24-October 23)

This is the year that you’ll finally realize that, though you’ve gotten by pretty well on your own up to this point, you actually need someone to even out your life and account for your constantly shifting moods. You’ll have a particularly fiery disposition late in the year, around the time you are incinerated when a gigantic asteroid collides with the Earth.

SCORPIO (October 24-November 22)

Question the so-called compliments of the people at work; it is likely to turn out that they’re just flattering you. Don’t let them distract you from your real work, a spaceship designed to save a Pisces you know from certain doom. If you work hard enough, you’ll finish just before you’re incinerated when a gigantic asteroid collides with the Earth.

SAGITTARIUS (November 23-December 21)

You’re often criticized for your inability to say no to anyone, but you’ll wish you answered in the affirmative the one time you don’t this year. You’ll know exactly what I’m talking about right at the moment you are incinerated when a gigantic asteroid collides with the Earth.

CAPRICORN (December 22-January 20)

Your constant worries about death will alienate you from friends and family. Unless you are careful, it could even turn into an obsession, and cause great worry to everyone who cares about you. Incidentally, you will be incinerated when a gigantic asteroid collides with the Earth.

AQUARIUS (January 21-February 19)

Excessive loneliness is your greatest fear, and you’ll be spending the first half of your year coming face-to-face with a situation that will force you to confront it. Try not to worry, though, as in the later part of the year you couldn’t be more a part of the crowd as you are incinerated when a gigantic asteroid collides with the Earth.

PISCES (February 20-March 20)

This will be a dramatic year for you, with more unfortunate hardships than you are used to. You will feel surrounded by know-it-alls at the first of the year, all of whom seem to be trying to tell you what to do. Later on, one of those know-it-alls will railroad you into getting on a spaceship for some inexplicable reason. You will come to know true pain when you discover that the spaceship is not equipped with a restroom. Thanks a lot, Scorpio.

Never Respond to a Flyer Tacked to a Public Library Bulletin Board

By: Raleigh Drennon

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You have a new message, recorded today at 11:43 p.m.

[Beep]

Phone tag, you’re it! Thanks for responding to my flyer. The name’s Steve. Are you as excited about this year’s science-fiction book discussion group as I am? You’re the first and only person who called, which lends a nice symmetry, because I’m the only member of the group. Current member. We used to be bigger. But as with most things, I guess, it’s cyclical. Much like the Hindu concept of Time. Or a concealed pit with fire-hardened punji stakes at the bottom. Oh wait, that’s circular. At least mine is.

So, where are you at 11:43 at night? Do you go to the gym? What gym?

I’m expecting this to be a great season of sci-fi book talk. Yes, yes, I know. These days, people tend to do this kind of thing over the Internet. Call me old-fashioned if you will, but I prefer the give and take of live discussion. Person to person. Face to face. Boot to neck. Whatever. You just can’t get that from a chat room. Hey, this is weird, but I think there’s a chat room about me! Have you heard about that? Seriously, have you?

Okay, I need to get you up to speed on a few guidelines. Just so you know the ropes. I think ropes are important. I’ve used them on several occasions. Not quite as often as piano wire, though.

First rule — I mean, guideline. I assign the book we will read for each meeting. I’m open to suggestions. But I assign the book. That just seems to work the best. And don’t worry, I like to mix things up a bit. So our first book, say, will be something from the TekWar series by William Shatner. But next time, maybe Shadow Planet by William Shatner. I’ll let you know for sure next week. You’re going to be home, right? When? Maybe I can stop by and let you know in person. If you’re not home, I’ll just wait inside. Don’t worry about leaving a key.

We meet the first and third Friday of every month — at my house. In the coal cellar. Behind the water heater. You can thank the little lady for that; she doesn’t like me entertaining guests upstairs. And, no, I’m not married. The little lady is literally a little porcelain lady on my coffee table. Who talks to me.

[Two seconds of silence]

A week before each meeting, I’ll send you our discussion questions, which must be answered in advance. Now, you may have heard that questions like these don’t have a right or wrong answer. That’s not true. They do. They have one right answer. There are many, many wrong answers. So spend a little time on these questions, okay? This has been a bone of contention in the past, but I think by mentioning it up front, we’ll avoid any unpleasantness. And I promise: no more talk of bones! Huh- what? I’m on the phone! Sheesh. Excuse me a sec.

[Five seconds of silence]

Sorry about that. The little porcelain lady says I shouldn’t make promises.

On to the snack policy: I’ll be responsible for snacks. I take some trouble preparing them, so I hope you’re not the type to say “I’m not hungry” or “I prefer someone else to taste them first” or “What did you just pour into the guacamole from that secret compartment in your ring?” That gets tiresome, believe me!

Okay, then, that about does it. Welcome aboard! I’ll be honest; I was a bit surprised to hear from you. I thought the library took down all my flyers just a soon as I put them up. And it was a real hat trick to get this last one through. I guess they didn’t count on me hiding in the men’s restroom all night, did they? Don’t mention that to them.

Oh, one more thing. I assume you’ll be thoroughly prepared for a lively, positive discussion on the works of William Shatner. I hope you’ll display the level of commitment one would expect from someone who responds to a flyer that someone else crawled through ductwork to tack up. If not, I will be greatly disappointed. I’m just saying this to avoid what’s happened in the past. But, as they say, the past is buried. In my crawlspace. Now, come on, that’s just a little joke. I’m joking! But then again, there is a certain amount of truth in that, I mean, in a metaphori–

[Beep]

You have a new message, recorded today at 11:46 p.m.

Okay, I really hate getting cut off. Really. But that’s fine. You didn’t know that. We’ll have a discussion about my phone message policy next week. Behind the water heater.

[Beep]