Missing: One Link

By: Kurt Luchs

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The search for an ancestor that might link the human to the inhuman goes on, like the search for Jimmy Hoffa (some experts feel that when we have found the one we will have found the other). What did our remote predecessors look like? No one knows, but all the indications are that in a family portrait, you’d want them to be holding the camera.

The hominid fossil record is scant — mostly jaws and teeth — and even this slim evidence was compromised by the recent discovery that these fossils are actually false teeth which the early men took out at bedtime and forgot to put back in. How and why they also took out their jaws is still a mystery.

What we do know about ancient man we have gleaned by picking through his garbage and going over his quarterly financial statements, and by talking to a woman named Maggie who knew him well. Maggie was a charwoman who became a slightly charred woman during the MGM Grand Hotel/Casino fire in Las Vegas in 1980.

“Not only were his teeth false, but his beard, too,” she said to us as she beat a still-smoldering Persian rug with a bullwhip. “I met him here in Vegas during Reagan’s first presidential campaign, sure. He was a little guy, about five-feet-two, eyes of blue — both on one side of his head, unfortunately. He was old, real old…about two million years, tops. No wonder he always insisted on the senior discount. I think it was him that started the fire. He cried on my shoulder one time and told me he was sore as all get out because he had invented fire way back when and never saw a penny of the royalties.”

Maggie paused thoughtfully. “One morning he took the blueberries off his cereal, stomped the juice out of ’em and painted the walls of his room with a dead branch — pictures of bison and ritual sacrifice, you know, but cute, like a little boy would do. He was just like a kid sometimes, always sulking because he knew his cranial capacity was about half the modern average and he couldn’t wear a hat without it falling over his ears. Also, he walked like Walter Brennan, but I told him it would never change the way I felt about him — I still hated him.”

Did this early man possess a brow only a bit higher than that of a teamster, or did he approach the human norm? Well, I don’t want to imply that his skull was pointed, but if you threw him headfirst into a dartboard he’d probably stick.

He used no “tools” as we know them today, although he was apparently able to crack nuts with his forehead and saw down trees with his eyebrow ridges. In short, he closely resembled a Chicago alderman, except that he lacked the power of speech, as did his wife — which is about the only good thing we can say about either of them, bless their hearts.

The Stupendoleum: A Visitor’s Guide

By: Raleigh Drennon

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Welcome to the Stupendoleum, the most ostentatious mausoleum and sepulchral monument known to recorded history. Unearthed in 1799 and used as a public defecation pit until 1923, it now stands fully restored in awesome testimony to the life of the monarch whose tomb is housed within, King Stupendicarchus of 4th-Century-B.C. Asia Minor.

This almost inconceivably large funerary monument was first described by Antipater of Sidon in his treatise “Affronts to the Gods” as “Affront to the Gods #1.” As Classics students may recall, the Stupendoleum collapsed under its own weight just three days after it was built. It is even more amazing, then, that this mighty necropolis appears before you now exactly as it did on the day of its completion more than two millennia ago — except for the massive, supporting framework of titanium girders. (Which are slightly radioactive.)

As you approach the Stupendoleum along the Grand Avenue, lined on either side by enormous statues of inscrutable sphinxes, ineffable monkey-faced elephants and incomprehensible winged platypuses, you’ll note that its grotesque scale really starts to hit home. It is this, the Stupendoleum’s shameless manifestation of hubris, that prompted Pliny the Elder and Pliny the Younger to write about it, Bruegel the Elder and Bruegel the Younger to paint it, and Frank Sinatra and Frank Sinatra Jr. to visit it.

As you can see, the exterior of the mausoleum is difficult to describe. It appears to be five gigantic, rectangular (?) colonnaded podiums stacked atop each other, crowned by a towering ziggurat of solid basalt, its walls crenellated with miniature ziggurats. This in turn is crowned by the gargantuan statues of Stupendicarchus and his far-from-beautiful queen, Preclampsia, in a ferret-drawn chariot, and these figures are themselves crowned by a large, stork-like seabird (possibly a stork) that just doesn’t seem to want to go away. [We have since determined the bird is also a statue — ed.]

Incorporating the worst of all ancient architectural traditions, the Stupendoleum is reminiscent of the stepped Pyramid of Zoser, the Palace of Sargon at Khorsabad, and a grossly oversized Stuckey’s. (An interesting side note: of the two or three manmade structures that can be seen from space, the Stupendoleum is the only one that astronauts refuse to look at.)

As you pass through the portico, please note the entrance gate flanked by two hideous, 50-foot colossi representing the ancient Etruscan twin demigods “Apathy” and “Petulance.”

Is your breath taken away? Then you have now surely entered the famous Hall of 1,000 Columns, a monumental hypostyle chamber (suffused with moderate levels of methane gas) consisting of 467 columns. All exposed surfaces are inscribed with a haphazard combination of hieroglyphics, cuneiform and Linear B, recounting Stupendicarchus’s weekly grocery lists for his entire reign. “Horrible to behold,” wrote Vitruvius, after beholding.

The stinging sensation you feel is a light acid rain that falls continuously from small, horrid clouds along the ceiling. Please make your way quickly (run) to the far end of the Hall (should take 25-30 minutes).

You now should find yourself at the entrance to the needlessly gigantic chamber containing the famous depiction, in freestanding marble statuary, of Stupendicarchus’s pilgrimage to Delphi. Moving from left to right, we first see the monarch, clad only in his trademark super-mini half-toga and coconut-husk helmet, putting a question to the oracle. In the next grouping of statues, the oracle cups her elbow and taps her cheek, formulating a response, while the king amuses himself with a yo-yo. Classical scholars have never determined exactly what the oracle’s answer was, but the next scene shows Stupendicarchus curled up in a fetal position inside a large pot, so obviously the news wasn’t good.

As you begin your trek down the kilometer-long, torch-lit passageway to the burial chamber, please avoid if possible the bottomless fissure at approximately the halfway point. Originally, the passage was to be lined with the flayed skins of vanquished foes, but since there was never any vanquishing, they just kept office supplies in here.

In truth, the reign of Stupendicarchus was never marked by even the smallest military victory or conquest, or any sort of achievement whatsoever. However, the king was described by ancient historian Philo of Byzantium as “fond of drink.”

In fact, Stupendicarchus’ sole triumph was in death. As is obvious from the shockingly massive burial tomb at which you are no doubt marveling this very moment. Inside lies the famed sarcophagus of white alabaster, encrusted with lapis lazuli and carved with nonsensical incantations from the Assyrian Pamphlet of the Defunct, the book that was Stupendicarchus’s spiritual guide throughout his life and was said to have brought him great comfort and peace of mind. The lid of this mighty stone coffin is formed by a sculpture of the great king himself, his hands folded serenely over his chest, each clutching a baby rattle, his death mask forever frozen in an expression that most describe as abject, craven terror.

So what can be said, ultimately, about the Stupendoleum, and by extension, the nature of time and the profound sweep of eternity? When one contemplates this grossly disproportionate shrine to the banal life of a minor ancient monarch, and the outrageous costs, financial and human, of reconstructing it, we hope you will not neglect to visit our gift shop. And come again soon!

The Santa Claus Poems

By: Ernst Luchs

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A man goes far to find out what he is. Sometimes, at the end of his rainbow (or the end of his rope), he sees only a friendly stranger shrouded in multiple layers of yellow cellophane, someone who wants to groom wire-haired schnauzers for free, someone who calls late at night asking for Gary or Bernard. I’m referring, of course, to the life of Arnold Benjamin, poet and hemophiliac. Born in the furrow of a cornfield, he had a simple, grief-stricken childhood. Even so, he grew like a weed until by the age of 12 he was 27-years-old. He sprang upon the unsuspecting literary world in 1949 with his searing expose of the new counterculture festering in the subterranean gin mills of Wall Street. It was appropriately titled The Confessions of Little Boy Blue, a controversial goose egg, to say the least.

For his carnal frankness, his flaming genius, he was blacklisted by the N.A.A.C.P. and subjected to a barrage of little white lies by the K.K.K. Finally, the Pulitzer Prize Committee managed to have his poetic license revoked. It was a crushing blow. But he’d had worse.

Seeking a total separation from all of mankind, Arnie set out on an Arctic expedition, a journey from which there was no coming back. Equipped only with a satin jogging suit and two quarts of olive oil, he trudged on and on, until at last a cab stopped and took him to the airport. Somewhere above the Arctic Circle, he lost his way. The story of what happened then will never be fully understood. Somehow Santa Claus found him, nursed him back to health, and then just as mysteriously disposed of him. But betwixt rescue and oblivion, Arnold Benjamin wrote his masterpiece.

Of the 2,000 or so poems which comprise the original Santa Claus song cycle, only a few remain. Some scholars speculate that the explicitly erotic nature of Benjamin’s work was an embarrassment that Santa could not allow to see the light of day. It’s possible, however, that the complete cycle still exists, furtively cherished in Santa’s bizarre collection of amorous mementoes. But the more practical theorists take it for granted that the elves found pages of the manuscript to be an ideal stuffing substitute for dolls and pincushions when supplies of horsehair had been exhausted. We should be thankful for the few poems we do have, for they give us a titillating glimpse into the private life of the world’s best-loved fat man. We see his handicaps, his vices, his most complex psychosexual aberrations. Our lives are immeasurably enriched by this unflinching documentation of Santa’s moral and mental frailties.

Also, as we read Benjamin’s work, we are indirectly shown the portrait of a sensitive young poet, a man who never stopped waxing his mustache, a man who, though burdened with more than his fair share of tuberculosis, was still able to joke about it. Brave, goofy, inarticulate: he was all of these and little more. But come, let us look at the poems.

The first, entitled “You,” was written during his now-famous Convalescent Period, the first week at Santa’s gingerbread house (mainly spent thawing out near the fireplace). In a morphine stupor that caused him to idealize his immediate reality, transforming red-hot fire tongs into ticklish ostrich feathers and savage vampire dwarves into mere anemic mosquitoes, he wrote these immortal lines:

You

The sea is a mistress cruel

But worse by twice

Is the northern ice

Where man is a cuckold fool.

No tales do dead men tell

Unless I dare be the first.

‘Twas you disguised as a nurse

Delivered me from Hell.

God works in ways mysterious.

You in red suit

Shiny of boot

I saw while still delirious.

Your armpits smelled like a zoo

But tamed was I by your touch

Ere I reached out to clutch

A beard as soft as the dew.

*****

There is some doubt as to whether “I Dig You” is a genuine Arnold Benjamin poem or not, it being a daring departure from his usual Victorian broom-closet fantasies. The strong Beatnik influence is undeniable, and the bondage and discipline undertones lend irresistible flavor to an otherwise wretched manifesto.

I Dig You

love me daddy

beat me daddy

nothing is too good or too naughty for your baby

kiss me daddy

shoot me daddy

make me feel at home beneath your boot heels daddy

give me candy take my money

throw anything that’s handy at me

but when I send an SOS

send a rescue PDQ

and seal the canteen with a kiss

take careful aim so you don’t miss

you dirty devil

you

*****

Skeptics also wonder if the following is a bona fide Benjamin. Who can say? Personally, I find it delightful no matter who the author is.

Chocolate Mousse

You said it was all muscle, not fat,

But I did not believe you at first.

You ate ice cream like a child

But you ate mousse like a man.

*****

The remaining poems show us a wide range of stylistic approaches. We are given a dash of Shakespeare, a drop of Edgar Allan Poe, and a generous portion of the lesser-known hacks hiding out in the tidal marshes of New Jersey. They chronicle the birth, homogenization and eventual disintegration of a very special relationship. We find ourselves elevated onto an illusory plateau where angels and demons walk arm-in-arm, hoof-in-mouth in a world of unlimited possibilities. Finally we reach the edge of the plateau only to peer downward as though through a beard, darkly. Ultimately, we fall. Reality, we find, is no velvet cushion. And the free lunch we get…is naked.

Beautiful Loser With A Monkey On His Back

When I found the syringes inside your hollow Bible

I realized that the plate of cold turkey in the fridge

Was no joke.

Is addiction the price you paid to be the Christmas angel,

Angel of bliss, angel — of dust?

Santa, how long can you smile with a monkey on your back?

Listen, you old beautiful fool,

Drop it like the bad habit that it is.

Cool it with that monkey business

Before you slip on a banana peel

And break — your soul.

*****

A Word Of Warning

You said all the world’s a stage and now you’ve

Fallen off of it (right into the orchestra pit).

You said it didn’t hurt but I know that on the inside there is pain.

Your heart has been twisted and pinched like a mangled marshmallow.

All it needs now is for someone to put it on a sharpened stick

And roast it over a slow fire. Santa, don’t go on that hayride tonight.

You’ll be sorry.

*****

A Dream, An Ultimatum

Postcards, poetry, bits of yarn with butterflies attached:

Is this the way you woo me? And how so with the others?

Sweet chocolates and lingerie, the best soft-sell forget-me-nots

That silver can afford?

I dreamt of a raven whose beak was wet but whose kiss was dry.

I dreamt of a carnival clown older than the oldest hand-me-down cliché.

“Even I have kissed the Blarney Stone,” he said.

Yes, I dreamt those things and others such

But you sended not a ring of rarest jade.

Only withered flowers bent into a question mark.

Canceled checks, unpaid bets, fictitious IOUs,

Bits of barbed wire with skeletons entwined: Is this the way you shoo me?

And how so with the others? Pray tell, my bearded wonder.

If you deny me this concession I’ll hate you to the end of time,

Or until such time as I master Transcendental Meditation.

*****

As hinted here below, some of Santa’s helpers, the gnomes in particular, took young Arnold’s presence as an encroachment on their territory. There were many grim reprisals, but Santa never knew of the bitter conflicts within his tribe. The lonely tears, the savage threats, the sinister studies of chains and fire were all kept secret from the jolly old bugger.

A Melancholy Meditation

Which was does your beard swing tonight?

When last we met beyond the fringe of light

Your lips parted like two slices of unleavened bread

And I became your butter.

Yea, if I’ve turned rancid in your bed

Will you go and seek another?

Is it the toll of time’s fierce tread

That silences the laughter of the dwarves

Or merely the contempt familiarity has bred

(Small wonder with those sawed-off whores)?

Was it the growth of fungus in one’s head?

Pray tell the gist before I die.

The horse become an ass instead,

The beauty mark, a wart in Cupid’s eye?

*****

Premonition

You went down the chimney of my life

And you went back up the chimney of my life.

You wore but one costume and very little leather

Yet you were many things to me.

When my spirit was broken you were my crutch.

When I lobbied for legalization of a controlled substance

You volunteered as attorney.

When I was hitchhiking across the fourth quadrant on the face of the moon

You picked me up like a heaven-sent cabdriver.

But when I needed help with my arithmetic

You laughed in my face

And called me the square root of zero.

I always knew it would end this way.

*****

Thirteen Ways Of Looking At You-Know-Who (Abridged)

after Wallace Stevens

I

Dinosaurs ruled the earth

When Santa Claus was but a twinkle

In his father’s glass eye.

III

As Santa Claus flew out of sight

The alarms finally went off.

The police would find only deer tracks on the roof

And no sign of a struggle.

IV

I do not know which to prefer,

The beauty of inflections,

Or the beauty of innuendoes,

The crack of Santa’s whip

Or just after.

IX

In the House of Usher

Seven green applies lie cool and straight

On the windowsill.

Before Santa arrived all was chaos.

XIII

I was seeing things all afternoon.

I was drinking and I’m going to drink.

If Santa comes down that chimney one more time

I’ll blow his brains out.

*****

I Saw Daddy Kissing Santa Claus

Of course the title is a lie.

You were always so faithful, so perfect, so unreal,

Such a prissy prude.

When I made a pass your way you played possum

So you wouldn’t have to catch it.

Some joke. I could have loved you.

I would have cleaned your spittoon

Or combed the bugs out of your wind-blown beard.

Anything to be near the maker of toys,

The famous lover of girls and boys.

Some joke. I write these words of bitterness

On every bathroom wall, in every language

That I learned when you threw the book at me.

You didn’t have the decency to say good-bye.

Don’t you know the word?

In Japanese, it’s “sayonara.”

In German, it’s “auf wiedersehen.”

In Pig Latin, it’s “ood-bye gay.”

From the Desk of Windy Pines Christmas Tree Farm

By: Raleigh Drennon

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Dear Windy Pines customer,

Happy holidays! Everyone at Windy Pines Christmas Tree Farm is looking forward to a great season. Right off the bat, let me say this: we are 100 percent committed to correcting the minor yet nagging problems that you may have experienced with us in the past. So come get your tree! The burrowing carpet mite infestation has been, to a significant degree, controlled. And by the time you read this, so has the feral cat situation. (We’re setting the traps tonight!) As for the blister beetles, well, some things you just have to live with. How they got here from South America, I’ll never know!

I’ll be honest — this past year has been a time of soul searching for the Windy Pines family. Frankly, we were a bit staggered by the mind-bogglingly consistent statements from more than a few folks last year that Windy Pines was the “worst Christmas tree farm in the world.” And by the TV news reports that said the same thing. At the time we thought to ourselves: Oh, come on now, the worst? What about tree farms in foreign countries that don’t celebrate Christmas? Then appeared the inflammatory yard signs denouncing our tree farm, followed by that reader’s poll in Parade magazine. Okay, that got our attention. Message received.

Of course, we’ve tried several times to correct problems with the help of our customer comment cards. However, most of these were simply smeared with feces, with few or no written comments provided. But thank you for that wake-up call. We know you can always choose another tree farm, one that, say, doesn’t hire employees who hurl holiday-themed insults at you. That’s why we’re making some changes to the way we do business. We want you back! Ho! Ho! Ho!

First, we promise that you will find all the major varieties of Christmas tree at our Christmas tree farm, including the universally popular Scotch Pine, Douglas Fir, and Colorado Blue Spruce. As to why we’ve never offered any of these trees before, I have no answer. But we now subscribe to several trade magazines to stay up on that.

Next, our salespeople pledge not to sulk and sigh heavily when you ask to see something “fuller,” “taller,” or “less brown.” Our nativity scene will be slightly more “traditional.” Our tree shaker will be used exclusively for its proper purpose. There will not be a dead reindeer in back of the utility shed. You will not be tailed by a mysterious brown station wagon after you drive away from the tree farm. We sold that car, so I can guarantee that. Also, prostitution will no longer be tolerated. Although this is due more to a local police initiative than to anything we did, we feel it is a positive step. So bring the kids! We hope to have free peppermint sticks!

Many people have asked us if we operate another business the rest of the year, so that they can avoid this business too. Well, that’s a discouraging attitude, but truth to tell, we’ve tied our fortunes solely to Christmas trees, come what may. So, as you may have guessed, we really need a bang-up holiday season this year. In fact, we’re counting on it. C’mon, give us another whirl! We promise no family arguments in front of customers. And we will not beat King Wenceslas, our Christmas tree farm dog. Unless he bites you, then it’s your call. His fate is in your hands!

I know that we may have disappointed you, our valued customer. I know that we have to win back your trust. I know that being named the “worst Christmas tree farm in the world” (informally and then formally and then, briefly, legally) puts us in the underdog role vis-à-vis our competition. But if you just give us another chance, I know we can make it right. The Spirit of Christmas suffuses every inch of Windy Pines. You’ll notice the change immediately, along with the absence of Asian gangs. Isn’t that refreshing!? And remember, Santa will be visiting us next Saturday and Sunday from noon till four. We hope to see you. By the way, he’s a new Santa. So don’t worry.

Warmest holiday regards,

Dave Bleemstead, Proprietor

Along with Umar, Mrs. Flanch, Mysterio and the rest of the Windy Pines Family

How To Boil Water

By: Rolf Luchs

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As editor of the “Foods and Industrial Waste” section of the Daily Movement, I often receive inquiries on how to cook various dishes. Many of you who saw last Thursday’s recipe for Hot Water have asked that I elucidate the most difficult stage in preparing the dish, i.e., how to boil water.

First, and most important, you need some water. Several of you asked if it would be all right to leave out the water. It isn’t! You must have water, if only for appearance’s sake. Besides, it improves the flavor.

Next, you should have some sort of cooking utensil in which to prepare the water — a saucepan, bedpan or yarmulke (please note: Peter Pan is not a cooking utensil, although he may be roasted over a slow fire with very positive results). Again, a few of you asked whether the cooking container was necessary. Believe me, it is. All those years I spent in the Navy weren’t wasted, I can tell you.

You’ll also need a stove, campfire, forest fire, liquid metal fast breeder reactor, or other reliable heat source.

Now then, collect the water. Any amount will do, but discriminating chefs make a point of using neither more nor less than can be drained from the lungs of a drowned man. Of course the advantages of this method are obvious.

Carry the container of water to your heat source, bearing in mind at all times that seven-tenths of the world’s surface is water, and that the Sun is 93,000,000 miles away from Earth.

Let the water cook for about three days or three shakes of a dead lamb’s tail. Stir the water constantly to keep it from burning. Use a spoon, the branch of a tree, or your fingers.

After the water has stewed in its own juices for a while, it should start bubbling (what scientists call “boiling”). At times you may hear plaintive, piteous cries for help from inside the container. Ignore them.

At last your water is ready. Pour it into porcelain teacups, if you have them, or directly into the hands of your dinner guests. It must be imbibed quickly, or it soon cools and loses all its flavor.

Now, slouch back in your settee, light up your meerschaum, and just listen to your guests compliment you. Bon appetit!

The Pensacola Pentagon

By: Rolf Luchs

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Over the last 200 years, 14,000 bags of butterscotch, 31 United States Presidents, eight maids a’milking, four-and-twenty blackbirds and three blind mice have mysteriously disappeared into the area that has come to be called the “Pensacola Pentagon.”

Many anonymous scientists have admitted they are completely baffled by these strange occurrences. The Navy refuses to comment on the matter. The Coast Guard wants to, but doesn’t know how. No one seems to know much of anything, although President Eisenhower has sometimes been heard faintly through the fog, shouting “Get me out of here!” Yet the evidence continues to mount…or does it?

In 1868, the schooner Wormwood XIII sank in a hurricane within the Pensacola Pentagon. The craft was discovered in 1969 under 300 feet of water. Subsequent investigation showed that except for a 50-by-20-foot gash in her hull, she was sound and seaworthy. What suicidal impulse compelled the crew to abandon this fine vessel, never to be seen again?

On February 28, 1955, a Romanian passenger jet vanished in mid-flight without a trace. Lost in this disaster were three persons, including the entire Romanian Olympic knitting team. The last ever heard from the plane was this cryptic message: “Knit one, purl two; knit one, purl two…Hey, either of you fellows mind if I open the window for a little fresh ai–”

On September 10, 1974, thousands of well-wishers swarmed to see the launching of the Titanic, only to find that the ship had sunk 62 years previously.

Who or what is behind these bizarre happenings? My mom? Your mom? Or is it merely a mutant horde of radioactive, flesh-eating, certified public accountant zombies that devours all in its path? Where is the Pensacola Pentagon, anyway? What is the government hiding from us, besides our names and addresses? On what three ideals was the French Revolution founded?

Perhaps an even more vexing question is why the phenomenon has confined itself to the Pensacola Pentagon instead of, for example, swallowing up Long Beach or New Jersey. We must conclude, sadly, that there are powerful alien forces working to destroy human civilization, and that should they ever unionize, we can all take a rain check on tomorrow.

My Farewell Address to the City Council

By: Raleigh Drennon

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Honorable ladies and gentlemen, fellow members of the City Council, it is with a mixture of joy, sadness and sedation that I make my final address to you as mayor of Milkweed, Kansas. There is something to be said for seeing a project through to the end, but it’s also a blessing to know when it’s time to move on. Of course, few of us enjoy the convenience of having a massive recall campaign draw our attention to this fact. So, in light of our past history, I deeply appreciate the opportunity to offer these closing words — some would say “defense” — and I would raise my hand in salute to you, were it not for the handcuffs attached to the leg manacles.

My record speaks for itself and may be viewed in its entirety at the Topeka Court of Common Pleas, docket #7643. The list of my accomplishments is surprisingly long, especially considering my record-setting 17-day tenure. The sexual harassment suits; the nepotism; the “misappropriation of funds;” the Internet pornography scandal — these are just a few of the highlights. But from the moment I was swept into power on the heels of the previous administration’s Internet pornography scandal, I believed I would make a difference to the political landscape. Who could have foreseen that I would make a difference to the actual landscape by repealing all signage ordinances, so that now virtually every lawn features a rollaway placard with liquor specials? I guess politics is an art, not a science.

As you no doubt recall, on my first day in office I hit the ground running — from the Kansas Highway Patrol. However, my whirlwind visual survey of the city at speeds between 95 and 110 mph gave me a good overview of the job ahead. From my brief but memorable stay in the Milkweed city jail, I also gained some cost-cutting ideas in regards to staffing.

It immediately became clear that mine was destined to be an administration that didn’t conduct business as usual. What’s that? “Or any business,” you say? Thank you, sheriff. Yes, I was a leader who looked at problems and asked “What if?” and “Why not?” Such as “What if we got rid of zoning?” And “Why not rescind open container laws?” So today, a family in Milkweed, Kansas, has merely to walk next door to get a tattoo or work in the battery factory. While drinking a beer. And I’m the one in chains?

Was I not responsible for the more efficient use of city vehicles? By prepositioning our lone ambulance outside my house, I drastically reduced response times. Thank God my guests (and I) required only seven trips to the emergency room. Now that was a surprise, to be sure!

Nothing came as more of a shock to me personally than discovering my talent for bridge building. I’m sorry, what? No, not real bridges. I see that you’re laughing. Yes, reverend, I get the joke. What I mean is, I span the gaps between people, building bridges of understanding, love and respect. Who can deny that I brought together the most diverse group of religious, ethnic, civic and business leaders Milkweed has ever seen? All united to achieve their one goal: kicking me out. I hope you all rot.

Finally, one would say that it’s ironic that I insisted upon this final address to the City Council, a body that I tried to disband the day after my election. And I realize that when I did manage to attend a council meeting, all I cared talk about was NASCAR. So thank you for putting me at the top of today’s agenda. Personally, I would have saved me for the end to build up interest in the meeting, but still I see there is a packed house here tonight, along with a big showing from the FBI.

Oh, speaking of that, I want to address my record on public safety. Since my election, Milkweed has seen a 15 percent reduction in crime. My own. I just haven’t had the hours to fully devote myself to it. I could go on and on about this subject, but the U.S. Marshals are — okay, okay — they’re tapping their watches. So sayonara and God bless Milkweed! You weasels. As for my legacy, let’s let history decide, shall we? And the parole board.

Nature’s Little Seismographs

By: Kurt Luchs

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I have here in my hand an article that would cause everyone a great deal of worry if there weren’t already so many things to worry about. It seems a group of scientists at UCLA have discovered a new method of predicting earthquakes based on the reactions of the common cockroach (Blatta orientalis). Regardless of what we may think of them (cockroaches, I mean), they are highly sensitive creatures. They’ve been around a lot longer than us and it doesn’t surprise me one bit to learn that they can spot an earthquake coming up to twelve hours away. After that, though, they simply make fools of themselves. They go all to pieces.

According to this article the average cockroach, when he feels an earthquake coming on, “may run in circles for hours and hours until he’s completely exhausted, then collapse on his back in a death-like coma.” What it doesn’t say is that the little fellow is probably screaming “Earthquake! Earthquake!” at the top of his tiny lungs, hoping that some responsible citizen will alert the authorities.

But no one hears him because, after all, no one listens to a cockroach except another cockroach, and even they don’t really listen — they just nod their heads and murmur “I know, I know.” So he passes out on the floor and usually has to be brought around with smelling salts. That’s when the full realization hits him. Many roaches will sit down right then and have themselves a good cry. Others turn to drink, and it’s no use trying to talk them out of it. They know.

Another sign of impending doom is that the roach “loses all interest in the opposite sex.” As soon as he feels the slightest tremor, apparently, the male drops everything and says “Not tonight, I have an earthquake.” There’s nothing for the female to do but smoke a cigarette until he gets over it. The female isn’t annoyed by earthquakes. She is only annoyed by the male.

What’s frightening about all this is that the scientists are willing to pin their future — and ours — on so chronically high-strung an insect as the cockroach. Sure, he gets the jitters whenever he hears an earthquake, but maybe he falls out of bed when a train whistle blows in the middle of the night, too. Maybe any little noise sets him off. He’s continually on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

How do we know other, more trustworthy household pests can’t be trained to do the same job? I’ll bet sow bugs can predict earthquakes just as accurately as cockroaches, yet because they don’t go pulling their own legs off and sobbing into their handkerchiefs they never make the news. Instead, they hide under the nearest rock until it’s safe outside. Then when they crawl back into the sunlight, dusting off their antennae, they can always say “I told you so.”

I say let’s give the sow bugs a chance. It’s either that or climb under the rock with them.

Your Money Or Your Wife

By: Helmut Luchs

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I don’t regret what happened. As they say, everyone does it — I just got caught. It was about a month ago. I was watching an old Fred MacMurray film on Turner Classic Movies called Double Indemnity. It’s about an insurance man who falls for a dame in a big way. They murder her husband to collect on his policy, but an insurance investigator smells a rotten egg that leads him straight to their little love nest. Do you like yours fried or scrambled? The basic idea was good, I thought; the trouble was, there were two of them. I decided I would try something similar, but without the dame. I immediately began to draw up plans. Nothing would be left to chance.

When my wife walked through the front door that night I acted as if everything were normal, as if our life together could go on for an eternity, never faltering, never changing, never drifting from its destined dreary course; and then, quite suddenly I chopped off her head with an ax. I had meant to wait until she sat down. Until she was reading comfortably in her favorite chair. She often complained that I was in her reading light, and I thought it would be fun (or at least appropriate) to hear her say one last time as I stood behind her, ax raised overhead, “Honey, you’re in my light again.” But somehow (and you’d know how if you knew her), when she came through that door I had what the amateur psychologist might call an insane compulsion to kill her. Not a bad guess. The professional, however, would’ve recognized it as merely the dog in me which instinctively desires to see an old thing buried. Preferably six feet underground with a marker to remind what and where it is.

After I was quite sure she was dead (which was doubtful at first since her head rolled around on the living room floor for several minutes, biting at table legs and pausing now and then to throw a hideous glance my way), I quickly removed all the eye shadow and hair clips from her purse to create the impression she’d been robbed. Then I called the police. I told them my wife had been horribly murdered. The Captain asked if I might be “exaggerating just a wee bit.” I admitted it was possible but insisted she had been badly murdered at the very least, and furthermore, whether it had been good, bad or indifferent the result was fatal, and they should skip over here immediately. The Captain threatened to hang up on me at the first sign of another ill-tempered outburst. After a mild debate he agreed he would come out the next day a little after lunch to check the body, but he warned me there would have to be someone home to answer the door. I promised to stick around.

It was only after I had hung up and settled myself in a comfortable chair to gloat over my accomplishments that I realized neither my wife nor I had insurance of any kind. My dreams of incredible wealth were fading before my eyes. My ship had at last come in, but it had hit the dock and was sinking fast. How could so much go wrong when I had been so careful?

I had to think fast. I called the police again. “Hello,” I said. “I’m the man who just murdered his wife. I mean, the man whose wife was just murdered. What I really mean is, she’s not actually dead at all. She’s simply suffering from extremely poor posture.” I finally convinced them everything was all right by agreeing to buy two tickets to the policeman’s ball.

It was late now and nothing more could be done tonight. Tomorrow I would go down to the insurance office and fill out their best policy in person, and then take it home and forge my wife’s signature. But the next day was Christmas and everything was closed. So I watched the parade, then went home to open my presents. Damn! More neckties, and after all the trouble I had gone through to buy her perfume and a new frying pan. If I hadn’t killed her last night, I would’ve used one of those ties on her today. I was happy I had killed her. For once in my life I was doing something for me.

The next day I picked up the policy. After experimenting a while, I realized it would take an expert’s hand to forge my wife’s name. I decided on the little neighbor boy. He had once forged my name on an ugly letter that had somehow ended up in the hands of the President of the United States and put me in bad with most of Washington.

I took the policy next door but the kid was busy watching TV. He finally signed it during a commercial break. The little bugger was good, real good. I slapped a five-dollar bill in his hand and closed it tight. “Listen,” I said, “you ain’t never seen me here, see?” He grinned and closed his eyes. “No, I don’t see,” he said. I gave him a slap in the face that sent him sprawling. I don’t like smart aleck kids.

Returning home I discovered there was quite a collection of policemen around my house. Most of them were playing on the swing set in the back yard, but a couple were removing my wife’s body on a stretcher. I was about to run but it was too late, I’d been spotted. One of the officers was calling me over to the swing set to balance off the seesaw, which had four on one side and only three on the other. Another cop who had been sniffing around for clues approached me and announced that I was under arrest for the murder of my wife. “How can you prove it was me?” I demanded. “As the saying goes,” he replied, “a criminal always returns to the scene of the crime.” “But I live here,” I said. “I’m sorry, sir, but the saying makes no provisions or exclusions for those living at the scene of a crime.” “That will never hold up,” I said, “not even in a court of law.”

But I was wrong. At the trial it seemed things were hopelessly against me, but then came a new piece of evidence. It was a letter the police had received in the mail, signed by me and claiming responsibility for the murder of my wife, as well as confessing it was I who had stolen the athletic equipment from Lincoln Elementary School last spring. All the experts agreed it was definitely my signature. I looked at it and it was, but I had never written any such letter. Then they brought out the insurance policy. The experts all agreed it was positively nothing but a cheap forgery of my wife’s name. In fact, one of them pointed out, it was so bad a child could do better. In the audience of the courtroom I spotted the little neighbor boy eyeing me with an impish grin as if he were watching an insect squirming near a hot match.

The jury deliberated for 14 hours. There was one sweet old man who insisted that someone of my apparent intelligence were going to kill his wife, he would have done it years ago. In the end, however, the jury found me guilty and the judge sentenced me to death.

I guess it’s what I deserve for watching a movie that stars Fred MacMurray. Now it’s just one hour before the State of Illinois is to execute me by means of lethal injection.

I only hope it’s good stuff.

The Mysterious Maya

By: Rolf Luchs

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The Maya have always been a mystery, even to themselves. This is partly on account of the lack of archeological information, and also because the Maya have all been dead so long that they hardly remember what it was like back in the good old days of Preclassic Mesoamerican Civilization. Recently, archeologists have unearthed numerous hieroglyphs, bits of microfilm and other refuse left by the Maya. In most cases these have been promptly buried again, but enough has survived to allow us, for the first time, to put together an accurate picture of the Maya and what they did after hours.

Their origin is still obscure. Some think they were simply Irish fishermen who lost their way in a storm around 500 A.D., entered a time warp and arrived in Mexico 250 years earlier. A radical school of thought speculates that the Maya did not exist at all, being only figments of their own imaginations. But this is just wishful thinking.

Whatever their origin, the Maya appeared in Mexico around 250 A.D., unpacked their valises and set about starting a civilization. Their first accomplishment was the creation of an organized religion, the Church of the Unreformed Sodomites, which was inspired by the consumption of enormous quantities of fermented llama drool, the local beverage. Snakes and pink elephants played minor roles in their mythology, the major deity being Kiwiwug, the great were-monkey, who swooped out of the jungle to suck the brains of Mayan peasants. Legend has it that Kiwiwug died of malnutrition.

The next achievement came in the field of architecture with the building of the first Mayan step pyramids. These were probably based on Egyptian models, which we now know were used to preserve fruit, mummies and edibles, and also to sharpen razor blades. Mayan pyramids were put to the same uses, with the notable exception of sharpening razor blades. Archeologists believe the Maya had no razor blades at all, which led to endless bickering between the peasants, who wanted them, and the ruling priests, who considered them “the pinnacle of bourgeois decadence.” Engravings from this period depict wild, bearded commoners confronting inexplicably clean-shaven officials. This point seems to have caused several civil wars.

It might increase our understanding of the Maya to describe the little man, the average Mayan and his occupations. We will call this average fellow “Joe,” because that was every Maya’s first name.

Joe Maya was a high school dropout who lived in a sombrero on the edge of town, along with his nagging wife (also named Joe), a small herd of sheep, and a somewhat larger herd of children. He was 5’7″, thirty-ish, with dark hair, horn-rims, and a tattoo on his left arm. He was wanted on various charges in 47 states.

Joe’s main occupations were drinking fermented llama drool, building sacrificial altars, and burying cryptic hieroglyphs for future generations to uncover. This work gave him a sense of purpose in life. In his spare time he took a stab at subsistence farming. When he had had one too many, he sometimes took a stab at his wife, just for laughs.

On the whole, Joe’s was a happy existence. His basic needs were taken care of, and his desires were few: wealth, position, power, and a clean loincloth every Tuesday.

One might well ask why such an advanced and thriving culture eventually collapsed. All we know is that shortly after coffee break, around 10:30 a.m., the Mayan civilization suddenly came to an end.

However, this is not the end of the story, because the Maya passed their civilization on to a warlike tribe called the Toltecs, who in turn pawned it off on the Aztecs. The Aztecs tried giving it to the invading Spaniards, but the conquistadors, being no fools, took the Aztecs’ gold instead. Let this be a lesson to us all.