Cigar Dream Journal Contest Winners

By: Eric Metaxas

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The First Annual Cigar Dream Journal Contest has exceeded our wildest expectations. Although our proposal to sponsor a contest of dream journal entries featuring cigars was initially greeted with derision (and then, later, with scorn) we were confident of success from the outset. More and more people are smoking cigars; more and more people are keeping dream journals. It was only logical these trends should converge and a number of these dream journal entries feature cigars. Q.E.D. The entire editorial staff of Smokin’ wishes to thank everyone who submitted entries. (Note: Until such technology exists as can verify the contents of dreams Smokin’ thanks contestants for abiding by our strict honor system and surprise polygraph tests.) And now, the winning Cigar Dream Journal entries!

* * * * *

Dear Cigar Dream Journal,

In my dream I’m me, only different, and although I never smoke cigars before dinner in real life I am smoking a cigar before dinner in the dream — only I’m conscious of how strange it is, as though I were awake. Anyway, the cigar in the dream reminds me of someone I went to 3rd grade with, and who I read in the papers had recently been arrested for drunk driving, and I want to bring it up, but I’m afraid it might be awkward, so I just stare at the cigar meaningfully to communicate my thoughts and the cigar gets embarrassed and blushes and burns down to nothing in like one second flat and I’m left with nothing to smoke so I run to my tobacconists and right outside there’s a cigar store Indian and it looks just like Al Gore and then I realize it is Al Gore and I scream and wake myself up.

* * * * *

Dear Cigar Dream Journal,

Last night I dreamed that I opened up a box of cigars and when I looked inside there was Freud’s prosthetic jaw! The phony rubber jaw that smoked all those monster stogies! And was their sad result! Anyways, before I know what’s going on the ersatz jawbone starts a-yakkin’ away like there was no tomorrow — in German, only in the dream I could understand German because it was in English — and he’s going on and on about how he would be remembered by history and so forth, and then he stopped short and said he had a real hankering for a cigar and would I mind providing him with one — but I got all creeped out at the thought of putting a cigar in that rubber jaw, only it was like he could sense I was hesitant and he started chewing his way out of the box and howling and chasing me around the room — the rubber jaw! In the dream I couldn’t run very fast and the rubbery jaw was just about to bite my ear lobe — which was huge and dragging — when I screamed and my wife woke me up and Katie Couric was tickling Al Roker.

* * * * *

Dear Cigar Dream Journal,

Last night I dreamt that I was Rush Limbaugh’s stomach — except with full consciousness and my own “identity”. In the dream Rush and I are real pals — we do everything together and have a real time of it, though I “morph” out of his body now and again to sneak a smoke on my own. (Somehow in the dream the idea of a smoking stomach seemed perfectly normal.) When Rush finds out about this he gets ticked and decides to have me amputated. Then I realize you can’t amputate your stomach, but Rush says this is a dream and he can do whatever he wants.

* * * * *

Dear Cigar Dream Journal:

I am smoking a magnificent twelve-inch Brazilian “Blackie” while my Mutti is away at the beauty parlor. I am a child again — although in the dream I have retained several adult features — including an outrageous dressing gown and perfumed beard. But somehow, in the context of the dream, being a bearded child seemed perfectly normal. I thoroughly enjoy the cigar, puffing wildly and filling the room with smoke. When Mutti returned home she was furious! I suddenly realize she’d been saving that cigar for Papa, who had just been killed in the Africakorps. Her memento mori was now ash! Mutti shrieked, then tore the stub from my fingers and ripped off my beard, and I woke up. P.S. When at last my eyes adjusted to the light, there was Mutti (now eighty-eight) standing over my bed with a pair of large shears.

* * * * *

Dear Cigar Dream Journal:

Last night I dreamt that George Burns was playing Luke Skywalker in some new Star Wars movie. When he pulls out his light saber it’s a huge freaking Cohiba with a flaming tip. (Castro is Darth Vader and Foster Brooks is Chewbaca.) Chewbaca roars something to George at the very moment when George is squaring off with Darth. So George turns around really quickly to hear what Chewie is saying and he accidentally decapitates Castro with the flaming stogie! But Castro’s head keeps talking very calmly, as though he’s accepted it all and is willing to change with the times if that’s the only way to stay alive. We all sit around and have a nice smoke and then Castro’s head says to Darth: ìWho do you think you are playing God and killing people?î And everybody laughs because that’s precisely what Castro did, and then I realize hey wait a minute, George Burns also played God in all those movies with John Denver, and then we realize that George Burns and John Denver are dead and the whole thing just seems so ironic, except in the dream the word ironic means something totally different.

* * * * *

Dear Cigar Dream Journal,

In my dream I dream that while I’m smoking cigars they get longer instead of shorter. Then in the dream I fall asleep and I have another dream where the cigar is getting really really long because it’s still lit and I’m asleep and I sleep for like a thousand hours — Rip Van Winkle-style — and when I wake up — in the dream — the cigar is now twirled around my body like a boa constrictor and it’s still growing. Then I shift my body and it starts growing away from me and shoots toward the horizon out of sight, but I know that it’s putting others in danger so I get on the phone and try to warn people about it and I learn that it’s constricting someone on the other end, twelve thousand miles away, and then I realize that it’s gone all the way around the world and is constricting me again and I don’t know what to do and I wake up.

* * * * *

Dear Cigar Dream Journal,

In my dream I dream that a cigar is just a cigar. Then I wake up.

* * * * *

[If you have enjoyed these Cigar Dream Journal Entries please be on the lookout for our upcoming sister publication, Cigar Dream Journal Journal, available on-line and at fine tobacconists everywhere. Eds.]

*****

Eric Metaxas is the author of Everything You Always Wanted to Know About God (but were afraid to ask). His humorous essays have been published in The New York Times and The Atlantic — Woody Allen has called them “quite funny” — and during college he was the editor of The Yale Record (the nation’s oldest college humor magazine). He has written for VeggieTales and is the author of over 30 children’s books, including Squanto and the Miracle of Thanksgiving. Eric lives in Manhattan with his wife and daughter and is the host and founder of Socrates in the City, a monthly speaker’s series on “life, God, and other small topics.” For more information or to contact him, go to: EricMetaxas.com

Regrets

By: Eric Metaxas

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Dear Classmates,

I am so sorry I couldn’t be with you this evening for this important reunion! I’ll never forget all our good times together! Anyway, I thought I owed you all an explanation for my absence, and perhaps one of you will read this letter to the Class for me. There are actually several possible reasons I am not with you — unless I suddenly do in fact show up, in which case please stop reading this letter immediately! Otherwise, please continue. (Why not scan the room one last time? Am I still absent? Excellent. Proceed.) As I say, my absence is almost certainly due to one or more of the following reasons, listed here in the approximate order in which they were typed.

1) I got lost on the way over and just turned around and headed back home, totally frustrated. I’m kicking myself for not asking directions. Doy!

2) Tonight is the night — yes, I am blushing — they usually update the section on eBay that deals with antique corduroy plush animals. Frankly, I don’t trust my wife to bid for me. Last month while I was indisposed she let a handsome narrow-waled lemur slip through her fingers. He was Edwardian-era and in the original box — ouch, ouch, ouch! I will not let that happen again.

3) I got lost on the way over and turned around and headed home. And then I got lost heading home! Ugh!!! In this case I may be on my way over after all — but I have no way of knowing. guess you shouldn’t hold your breath.

4) I got lost on the way over and almost almost made it to where you are. In fact, I got as far as just next door to you! I am so furious with myself! Anyway, I’m there right now, unable to get out, because whoever just shut the place down and turned out the lights when they left simply didn’t know I was trapped in here — ugh! If this is the case I am likely attempting to smash through the wall to get to you this second. If so, please step away from the wall now. Go! I am using a large handtruck which I’ve loaded up with some cases of Enfamil. I should be able to get enough momentum to crack through the sheet rock — unless, of course, I hit a stud, in which case I’ll be a few more minutes. Please go ahead and start eating.

By the way, all the Enfamil here leads me to believe this is a Duane Reade or CVS, which makes no sense. Wasn’t there a Mom-and-Pop bookstore here, like, yesterday? I could really use a stud-finder. Of course, I own one, but where is it now? At home in my toolbox!

5) I am stalled on the shoulder of that big interstate near you where you all are and I could really, really use a jump. Hello? If you have jumper cables and can get here really super quickly I’d appreciate it. I’m not sure exactly which exits I’m between, but I know I just passed one about a mile or so back, if that helps. Also, there are lots of cars whizzing past — I just saw a rust-colored El Camino! — and there is a guardrail to my right. Just beyond the guardrail there is some kind of bush. No, wait, it’s not a bush, it’s…sorry, turns out it is a bush after all. There’s a Waldbaum’s plastic bag caught in its branches. You can’t miss it. There are some buildings in the distance and there’s a little bird nearby. Anyway, I’ll probably be inside the car writing this when you get here. A U-Haul truck just drove past. I’m really freezing. Please hurry!

6) I’m very ill with something embarrassingly, horribly gastric and the mere thought of the rubberized yellow-skinned chicken and wax beans I know you will be served shortly makes me want to scramble to the commode except I’m on the couch sweating with pain and can barely move. I suppose if I had to I could use a mechanic’s creeper. Of course, I have one — but where is it? In the freaking garage!!

And finally — 7) One of you blasted me to Kingdom Come on the way here. I believe you know who you are. And because of the look on your face right this second — now! — the others in the room are on to you! Seize him! Incidentally, just before I coughed up the ghost, gargling your girlfriend’s monstrously pretensious name, I dialed 911, so the authorities are pulling up outside where you are right now…(Nobody kills me and gets away with it — understand, fat boy?) Hey, when the cops show, could someone please ask them to check the basement next door — just in case I’m actually still in there! And hey, by all means, have a super time tonight. Again, my sincerest regrets to everyone! You guys are so awesome!

*****

Eric Metaxas is the author of Everything You Always Wanted to Know About God (but were afraid to ask). His humorous essays have been published in The New York Times and The Atlantic — Woody Allen has called them quite “funny” — and during college he was the editor of The Yale Record (the nation’s oldest college humor magazine). He has written for VeggieTales and is the author of over 30 children’s books, including Squanto and the Miracle of Thanksgiving. Eric lives in Manhattan with his wife and daughter and is the host and founder of Socrates in the City, a monthly speaker’s series on “life, God, and other small topics.” For more information or to contact him, go to: EricMetaxas.com

Baby on Board

By: Justin Warner

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Congratulations on your purchase of the SafeTot Infant Car Seat: the safest, most reliable car seat that a reasonable amount of money can buy. IMPORTANT! PLEASE READ AND MEMORIZE THIS INSTRUCTION MANUAL, INCLUDING THE SPANISH AND GERMAN TRANSLATIONS, PRIOR TO YOUR CHILD’S CONCEPTION.

1. Important Warnings

Although SafeTot is by far the safest way to transport your child in a motor vehicle, its safety cannot be assured or implied in any way. Unless you would prefer to live with the tragic consequences, lifelong guilt, and social humiliation that arise from easily-prevented injuries, always follow these important guidelines:

1.1) Use ONLY a REAR-FACING car seat until your child exceeds 22 pounds in weight, 29 inches in height, or 34 weeks of age, whichever is intermediate, AND when the sum of the squares of the three values exceeds or equals the volume of water, in fluid ounces, that the child displaces when fully clothed.

1.2) Install the SafeTot ONLY in a suitable location in your vehicle. Unsuitable locations include but are not limited to: front seats; seats equipped with air bags; seats without vertically retracting “J”-lock seat belts; upholstered seats with a fabric pile less than 700 nanometers; seats in certain vehicles manufactured in Japan or North America between 1994 and 2003 that may not conform to federal HMPAC regulations (consult FBI records for details); any seat that has ever been touched by any infant carrier other than the SafeTot.

1.3) Secure the SafeTot car seat and the infant passenger with all necessary harnesses, restraints, and bungee cords (where applicable). Restraints should be tight enough to prevent any motion whatsoever (including motion due to flatulence, rapid breathing, or, in summer, excessive molecular vibration), yet loose enough for comfort.

1.4) SUFFOCATION HAZARD: Failure to properly secure infant in car seat may cause cushions to spontaneously dislodge and force themselves down infant’s throat. Always make sure infant’s head is neither above nor below the inner lip of the northernmost cushion before moving or turning your vehicle.

1.5) STRANGULATION HAZARD: Incorrectly attached harnesses may contort into a slipknot that will hang your baby like a cattle rustler in Deadwood. To prevent this, ensure that harnesses are properly crossed but do not intersect.

1.6) Never leave the SafeTot Infant Car Seat out in the sun. At temperatures above 30 degrees Celsius the SafeTot emits a neurotoxic gas that can be absorbed through the skin for up to five weeks. If you have left the car seat out in the sun, consider eliminating Harvard and Yale from your baby’s college list.

2. Installation

2.1) Installing Base

Thread lap belt (1) through slots (A), (B), and (C), taking care that the grain of the belt stitching remains perpendicular at all times to the UPC code (D) on the underside of your vehicle’s transmission. Connect lap and shoulder belts with locking clip (E) on passive-restraint sliding-latch combination belts ONLY; if you are unsure which type of belt your vehicle features, perhaps you lack the basic responsibility to care for another human being, dumbass.

2.2) Attaching Car Seat to Base

Simply push seat into base until you hear a click. The click should be sharp and crisp, with peaks in the 1000-1200 megahertz range; a lower frequency may indicate that the plastic has cracked internally, rendering it completely useless. If this has occurred, you may have incurred the wrath of the Destroyer god Shiva; to avoid retribution, incinerate the car seat and scatter its ashes across the Ganges.

3. Harnessing Infant in Car Seat

WARNING: Have you ever dropped a cantaloupe from a tenth-story window onto solid concrete? That’s your baby’s head, if you fail to follow these instructions correctly.

Unlock the infant restraint handle (F). Open the harness clip (G). Retract the grappling jaws (H-K inclusive). Place child in seat such that the spine and calves form an angle between 100 and 110 degrees. Insert buckle tongues (L) symmetrically yet contrapuntally into inverted crotch strap (M). Tighten both shoulder straps (N, O) by pulling straight down from the back, simultaneously, with a pressure differential not to exceed 3.7 psi. Snap together harness clip (G) directly over the center of child’s sternum, steering completely clear of the four lowermost ribs, which may rupture child’s pancreas on impact. Attach grappling jaws to child’s ears, elbows, hands, feet, and external genitalia (as applicable).

4. Final Safety Checks

— Pull on all harnesses to ensure a tight fit. If harness yields approximately 3 percent of its length in slack, you had it right the first time.

— Check level indicator (Q) to ensure that seat’s center of gravity aligns with the center of gravity of your vehicle and its intended passengers; make other transportation arrangements if necessary.

— If child has shifted position or density of the air has changed at any time during harnessing, uninstall car seat and repeat entire process, beginning with your ill-conceived plan to have the baby in the first place.

Bon Voyage!

Tom Cruise’s Answering Machine

By: Matt Blair

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Well, ‘ello, Tom! Bryan Brown calling. Listen, mate, I heard your career’s takin’ a bit of a nose dive, what with all this Scientology hullabaloo you’ve been on about. I just wanted to say that if you ever need to talk, or if you need some advice on slipping away into a cold, lonely life of obscurity, then I’m your man. You can call whenever, mate. These days I spend a lot of time puttering around the house. So, um…Yeah, just give me a call. Oh, and I don’t know if this is a good time, but I really think the time is right for Cocktail 2. “Fancy a go of it?”

“Yo, Tom! Tommy, it’s Cuba! Don’t play me like that, Tommy, I know you’re there! Tom! All right, man, I guess you’re not in. Listen, I’ve been watching you giving it up out there, and I’m diggin’ it! I’m diggin’ it! But Tommy, from one brother to another, you’ve got to start reining it in, you know what I’m sayin’? This is me, Cuba Gooding, Jr., telling you to tone it down! Man, when you’re crazy compared to me, you know you’re crazy! I did a hundred pushups for Regis this morning, baby! And you know what I’m doing this weekend? I’m wrestling a gorilla! A gorilla, Tom! That’s how I’m livin’, baby! I’m crazy, I’m out there! But Tommy, I’m tellin’ you, man, you are crazier than me! You’ve got to relax, dawg! I’m all about lovin’ you, and you’ve got to take care of yourself. It’s all you, baby! Whoo! Listen, I’ve got to go jump off the roof of this building, but you call me!”

“You think I’m glib, Cruise? You won’t think I’m so glib when I’ve got my foot buried in your ass! You’d better change your mind about morphine real quick, because you’re going to need it after the world of pain I’m going to put you through! Oh, and get yourself a couple of psychiatrists too, because I’m going to beat you so hard it’s going to blow your mind! Nobody makes a fool out of Matt Lauer!”

“Mr. Cruise? Hi, it’s Beck calling. Look, uh…I know you’re a really busy guy, but I was wondering if I could, like, ask your advice. You see, before you started getting all these headlines and stuff, nobody knew I was a Scientologist. And it’s like, now that everybody’s talking about you, and the press keeps writing these articles where they, like, mention the names of other famous Scientologists, all of the sudden I’ve got all these people asking me questions about it. It’s like, people have all these questions about Scientology because it’s, like, really weird, and I know we’re not supposed to talk about it, so I was wondering what you thought I should do. I wrote a song about it called ‘Champagne Shantytown Autobump Funk,’ but it didn’t seem to clear anything up.”

“Mr. Tom Cruise! Honey, it’s Oprah calling! I just wanted to thank you so much for coming on the show. People can’t stop talking about you! Now, baby, I hate to have to do this, but we need to talk about the damages from the interview. You know I love you, honey, but I’m going to have to bill you for the couch you set fire to after the taping. There’s also Bobby, the cameraman that you punched out. I know that was all in fun, but he’s talking about suing for damages. I bought him a lovely little new red Miata, but I think it would still be nice if you gave him a call. Oh, and I got a call from your people about featuring Dianetics in the book club, and I love the idea! But to tell you the truth, I just don’t know if our viewers are ready for it. Maybe if you replaced the volcano on the cover with a country lane, we could talk. Call me, sweetheart!”

“Hello, Tom? This message is from Penélope Cruz. You may remember, I am the woman who you dated between the woman you were married to for many years and the twelve-year-old girl who you are dating now. And nobody seems to remember any of that, even though it was in all the papers at the time when it was going on, and I just want to say that I am okay with that. And if you don’t know why, it is because I did not know then that you would be nuts. And now, whenever I turn on the television, I see that you are, and for each day that I am not with you, I am thankful. Because I do not want to be the woman on the arm of someone who is nuts. So I am not bitter, I want you to know that, and I hope that you and your daughter – I’m sorry, I mean to say your new girlfriend – will be very happy together.”

“Tom, what’s up? It’s John T. calling. I just want to say, I think the way you’re going to the wall for the Church at every opportunity is really impressive. It’s great that you’re not worried about your career, or your public profile, or how many people think you’ve suddenly gone completely insane. I’m glad I’m not the only one out there anymore, you know what I mean? I thought I’d made some waves when I compared Germany’s campaign against the Church to some kind of Fourth Reich, but you…I mean, you’re out there, and that’s really great. Like I said to Tarantino after the opening weekend gross came in for Pulp Fiction: thank you, thank you, thank you! By the way, did you get a call from Beck this week? That kid seems really stressed out. Well, stressed out in the mellowest possible way, but you know what I mean. Anyway, I’ll race you to the next OT level, what do you say?”

How To Prepare Rabbit For Dinner

By: Kevin O. Cuinn

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You will need: a rabbit.

You will also need: carrots, Calvados, flour, celery, salt and pepper, Tabasco, Worcestershire sauce, tomato juice, and a very sharp knife.

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Get a Good Specimen.

Like poultry, rabbits must be cooked fresh; if not, they are unwholesome. Older rabbits are best for soups and stews, younger ones are more suitable for roasting. The ideal rabbit for roasting is two years old, with soft, thin ears that are easy to tear and smooth, pointed claws. Be warned, though: paying too much attention to either area will arouse suspicion and make your specimen jumpy. Also, the pad under its paws should be well developed (it disappears with age). Having identified an attractive specimen, call him up and invite him over; not too late, though — rabbits are early risers.

2. On the Day.

Serve crudités. Carrots are a perfectly acceptable amuse-gueule, though younger rabbits will be keen to try local garden specialities. Broad-leaved garlic stalks are currently very popular, as is rocket salad. Rabbits, remember, are strictly vegan: no wings, no jerky, no cheese on the nachos.

2.1 Concerning Cocktails.

Yes, always good; most rabbits love a tipple at sunset. Be wary, however, of rabbits over-indulging in Pink Gin, for example. An inebriated rabbit is a giddy rabbit, and there’s a lot of cutting ahead, for which you will require a steady hand and as few complications as possible. But a single Bloody Mary, served with a celery stick, is perfect. Lots of cracked pepper, heavy on the Worcestershire, but for heaven’s sake, go easy with the Tabasco.

3. Conversation Don’ts.

Always address your specimen by his given name, and never as Doc or Bunny. Do not comment on overbites. And please, no jokes involving speech impediments. Do not commend your rabbit on his species’ propensity to breed; steer clear of sex, Playboy, and the Easter Bunny. Also, The Mad Hatter had tea with the March Hare. You bet there’s a difference. And while we’re on the subject, the old hare-in-the-soup joke? Please, refrain.

4. Conversation Dos.

You may be surprised how many rabbits have read Sartre — do comment on the futility of life and sigh. Apologize for not having made a bigger effort with the finger food, but like everything these days, what’s the point? I mean, we’re all going to die — yes, all of us — so really, what’s the point? This is an ideal moment to leave your rabbit for a moment of quiet contemplation, just long enough for you to change the music from Sounds of Valley Streams to Watership Down. Dim the lights, smoke a cigarette, check that the curtains are closed.

5. The Fine Points of Preparation.

Take a good sharp knife and make a slit from your rabbit’s collar to his scrotum. Having done so, remove his stomach and intestines. This is best done when rabbit least expects — maybe tell him you’re not so hungry after all and invite him for a game of billiards in the library, or perhaps offer to demonstrate some Greco-Roman wrestling moves. Expect a struggle, though nothing you shouldn’t be able to negotiate. He, your rabbit, may well accuse you of being a cad and a scoundrel and allude to false pretenses. Don’t let it deter you. Drop him from a height, because, unlike cats, rabbits rarely fall on their feet and broken backs are not uncommon. The perfect alibi, should the constabulary arrive at this moment. You can’t be too careful. Deep-freeze his liver for a rainy day, and wipe the innards well with a damp cloth. Remove tail close to body, limbs at first joint. Yes, young boys love them, but evidence is evidence; don’t be tempted to keep them. Loosen the skin and work toward the hind legs. It’s okay, he’s dead. Turn the hind legs inside out and pull off the skin. Retract skin towards the shoulders, skin fore legs as hind legs, decapitate. Voilá! Having laid aside the skin, extract the kidneys, break the diaphragm and discard his heart and lungs. You’re nearly there! Wash him down in tepid water and leave him to steep for an hour. Add a dash of Calvados as it settles the oxidants. And you know what? Have one yourself. You deserve it. You will need to clear the scene of prints and consider how best to dispose of remain-, I mean, leftovers. A good time to ponder this is definitely not while:

6. Cooking Your Rabbit.

Your rabbit is now ready for cooking. The slightly bluish tinge is perfectly normal and denotes freshness, not bruising. Toss the carcass in flour, then sear it in hot bacon fat before popping him in the oven (gas mark 6/220 degrees, 1.5 hour). Add salt and pepper to taste, and serve with a freshly baked potato, snow peas and strong English mustard. A nice chilled Chardonnay will wash him down nicely. Now, wasn’t that worth it? Bon appetit!

The Harder the Better

By: Michael Fowler

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I resolved that instead of making something easier, I would make something harder. — Soren Kierkegaard.

Tried putting on my pants two legs at a time, holding them by the waist and then jumping into them. Ruined three pairs and then gave up, fearing I would soon have nothing to wear to church except my Bermuda shorts.

Wrote through the night with a pen that has a split nib. Ink flowed everywhere, and I had to dip the pen in the well after each word. By morning I was a mass of blue stains and couldn’t read one word of my scribbling. It was great.

Meeting Martensen on the square, I fell in with him, walking backwards as he continued frontwards, so that we proceeded together while facing in opposite directions. My stepping thus appeared to disconcert Martensen, who, however, mentioned only that I was barefoot on the coldest day of the year. Did the icy flagstones not sting my feet? he wished to know. Did they ever! But I said nothing. When we finished our conversation, which concerned Hegel’s use of adverbs, I hopped home on one leg for the heck of it.

Shaved with my left hand this morning. What does the loss of a piece of one’s nose amount to, sub specie aeternitatis?

Forced myself to sing all the hymns at church today in falsetto. This proved painful to my throat, and caused many to fix on me an uncomprehending gaze. But it was more than worth it in soul points.

Read The Phenomenology in my study by propping up the opened book on the windowsill while I sat in a chair twenty feet away. Besides having to squint at the text for all I was worth, I had to cross the room every time I wanted to turn the page. After an hour, I increased the difficulty by placing the book upside down. Hallelujah!

Played two-handed gin with Bishop Mynster at his home this evening. After losing the first five games, the good Bishop took exception to my dealing the cards with my chin, saying it took too long and possibly was cheating. I explained that I did it only to develop my spirit, and he seemed satisfied, but he insisted anyway on looking down my collar for hidden cards. Praise the Lord, none were there tonight.

Paid a prostitute to spread the word that she had lain with me, though she had not. With luck, the story will make it into society, ruin my reputation, and turn my engagement into a long, dismal affair. Indeed, Regine may have to slap me in public to save her good name. Here’s hoping!

In a restaurant, I showed my waitress those items on the menu that I did not want, rather than those I did. She lost patience and left me, sending over a just-hired girl. In future I must remember to pain only myself, and not others. Still, I left no tip.

Took a good, strong laxative before heading out to the theater to see a comedy. Once there, I sat in several wrong seats before an usher finally escorted me to mine. I heard some gratifying tittering at my expense, no doubt about the “disoriented drunken party.” By the middle of the first act I sat folded over in cramp and broke a steady wind. If those around me put it down to merriment, so much the better.

Spent all day Saturday without once opening my eyes. What an unfamiliar place one’s own home becomes when one cannot see! Sustained quite a nasty cut inserting my hand into what I thought was my desk, but was instead my knife drawer. Then I went headlong against some stairs, thinking they should have descended when in fact they ascended. Most embarrassing of all, as I returned from a blind walk, I entered not my home but my neighbor’s, who raised a fuss when I interrupted her bath.

I resolved to raise all my own vegetables, hunt down my own meat, and manufacture my own wine. I decided on venison steak with boiled potatoes for supper, with a nice bottle of chardonnay. I then calculated that by the time I planted, harvested and cooked the potatoes, hunted, killed, cut, seasoned and fried the deer, raised, cultivated, and pressed my grapes, allowed them to ferment into wine, and then bottled the result, it would be six to eight weeks before I had dinner on the table, given luck on the hunt and a good growing season with plenty of sunshine and rain. By then I would most likely have a massive headache from not eating. I gave up in despair and told my manservant to bring me some of last night’s leg of lamb warmed up and a chilled bottle of 1847 Lafitte. Tomorrow I’ll try to forge myself some garden tools.

Swallowed my communion wafer whole without moistening it in my mouth first, then turned blue with choking. Hope you enjoyed it, God.

“

Mickey Mouse Fights Bugs Bunny In Vegas, As Reported On By Norman Mailer

By: James Warner

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The likelihood was that no city but Vegas could have contained a spiritual conflict of these dimensions.

Which was why your correspondent, let’s call him Mailer, was in Vegas. When Mailer took his seat, Bugs was already inhabiting the ring, shadowboxing, winning some cheers from the crowd. Vegas is Bunny territory, except of course that the Mob were for Mickey. But the existential money, hot diggity damn, was on Bugs.

Donald and Daffy, the trainers, were both ducks, which must have portended something, Mailer thought, in these apocalyptic times, but now Mickey was strutting into his corner and opening combat, with a psychological gambit. He blew a raspberry.

Bugs just smiled, like the outlaw he is. There is something mythical, even apocryphal about him.

While what spoke loudest about Mickey was his blackness. Mickey sold out to the corporate execs long ago, but here we enter the terrain of high contradictions, because Mickey still has enough fighting instinct that he would sooner succumb to a knockout blow than to a suburban plastic smear campaign, our more usual, deadening, American fate.

It was Mailer’s theory that Americans no longer punched each other enough. He blamed the feminists.

Now the bell rang for the first round, and while Mickey charged into the center of the ring, Bugs slipped away to the other corner. Mickey followed him and, in the biggest surprise of the first round, smacked Bugs with a baseball bat.

Crazy. No-one expected this super-octane style of attack from Mickey, but then, Mickey can wear opponents out by the ease with which he reinvents himself. He’s been a write-in candidate in the last dozen Presidential elections, as have I. To the opponents he vanquishes, Mickey must resemble the Angel of Death, all whipcord and Teflon. Mickey can come close to awing you by his very virility, not to mention his beauty, a beauty that comes close to being a major political fact of our times.

Mickey understands power, and he has more rage in him than Bugs, but Bugs knows in his entrails things that Mickey may have forgotten, that the magical world intrudes on our reality when the stakes are high enough, that to win you must have angels on your side as well as devils. And as the first round ended, Mailer was granted this further nugget of insight, undeniably a subterranean one, that Mickey’s great fault is that he accepts technology.

If so, he was paying a price for it. For it was Bugs who now appeared in charge. The corporations keep recordings of Mickey’s past fights out of circulation, which could have been a problem for Bugs in training, except that Bugs has never relied on technology. Bugs will steal your style and make it your own. He’s a fakir messing with your psychic circuits. He’ll turn your moves inside out for you, and hand them back to you in the form of a revelation. Mailer would have developed this thought further, but the bell had rung for the second round.

Right off, Mickey got Bugs with a left jab, and for a moment Bugs was down. There is an art to watching Bugs fall down. He seems to pull the ground up to meet him. Pound Bugs into submission, and you can still feel him looking over your shoulder, saying, hey, I’m taking some punishment, aren’t I? On his feet again, Bugs pushed Mickey back into the corner, Mickey full of violence now, Bugs looking abstracted, a little grayer than usual. Mickey threw some hard punches but Bugs weaved out of his way, and counter-punched, and Mickey fell back into the ropes, disheartened.

Daffy and Donald were fighting now, and Bugs and Mickey sat down to watch them.

“There was confusion among the crowd.” — Las Vegas Sun

Yup, because what happened next would defy the descriptive power of any genius but myself. Bugs was graceful but Micky was an explosion. Every punch conveyed an epiphany. Bugs was an Indian magician, burning with schizophrenia, but Mickey was a Negro artist, athrob with jungle cat intuition and trailing glory. Circling, they were equal to two great lovers or double-agents making inroads into each other’s psyches. The fight began to remind Mailer of his third marriage.

After Bugs clapped Mickey on the head with a pair of cymbals, little vultures flew around his head. Then Mickey pulled a lever, and oh crap, an anvil almost landed on top of Bugs. It was a brilliant move, but Bugs dodged it and slugged Mickey so tenderly it was equal to a sermon dating from the moment of creation.

“Knockout!” — Las Vegas Sun

The crowd cried insanity. Who knew what, when the corporation lawyers were through with it all, would be the official result of this match? But for now everyone was cheering Bugs, bearing him aloft, and Mailer climbed into the ring and made a speech which went to the root of America. Mickey is America, but Bugs is what America should be, was the gist of Mailer’s speech. It was his way of saying that Mickey had class, but Bugs could hustle, that Mickey was Chuck Lindbergh, but Bugs was the Risen Christ.

You’ll never see Bugs do a double-take. It is no small part of his strength that there is no way to humiliate him. Not even when Donald turned out to be the referee, an arrangement Mailer considered a clear violation of the divine economy. But God has been on the defensive since the millennium turned, so it should have surprised nobody when Donald declared Mickey the prizewinner. That’s all folks.

Daffy was heard to utter the word “despicable.”

Mailer, heading for the bar to make more speeches, could detect the seed of an idea germinating, this idea being that it is the logic of pain that, by some telepathic communion, forces the direction of the Universe.

Eat or be eaten. It was getting colder, do not doubt it, and if it was a sign of Mailer’s deep cosmic pessimism that he let Daffy order him a Bourbon, it was a sign of his bravery that he put together the feat of drinking it.

The Vulgar Boatman, or: One Potato, Two Potato

By: Kurt Luchs

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The following play marks the first appearance in English by the brilliant young dramatist Basil Dung. Mr. Dung is English, but by a court order (People of the United States vs. Dung) all of his works to date have been translated into ancient Egyptian to keep them out of the hands of children. Since the ban was lifted, Mr. Dung has graciously consented to translate his most famous play into English again. After seeing it, the editors are taking up a collection to have it translated back into ancient Egyptian, where they hope it will remain.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE:

ALFREDO The human gyroscope

TARTINI A man trapped in another man’s body

SACCO AND VANZETTI Two innocent bystanders

THE EMERSON QUARTET The Emerson Quartet

MAXWELL An usher

MICHAEL An archangel

WARING A blender

OTHELLO A bellhop

ACT ONE

The time is 8 p.m. on a murky stage in New York. Two starving actors are silhouetted in the moonlight streaming through an unrepaired roof. They are lying stage right, moaning and holding their stomachs. Every few minutes they stop to cut out pictures of food from a women’s magazine. As if by accident the first one speaks.

TARTINI: Anyone here have change for a twenty? Just asking, of course.

In the meantime, Alfredo has died and been given a full military funeral. The curtain falls on Tartini, killing him instantly. A voice announces that there will be refreshments served in the lobby, and then we hear a blood-curdling laugh. End of Act One.

ACT TWO

The same stage a few minutes later. Most of the audience has been poisoned, but not so you’d notice. A light spring rain wafts through the hole in the roof. As if through a cheesecloth, an old song-and-dance man barks these words:

OLD SONG-AND-DANCE MAN: Program! Get your red-hot program here! Can’t tell the action without a program!

No one answers. He exits stage left, a disillusioned and embittered man. Enter the Emerson Quartet, playing crab soccer and Haydn’s Opus Number Two in E Major. They are drunk. After falling into the orchestra pit, they lie down and go to sleep. Eventually, some attendants dump them into shopping carts and roll them backstage, where we hear a sudden burst of gunfire. All this time Sacco and Vanzetti have been in the second balcony stuffing detonator caps into potatoes. Sacco leans over to Vanzetti to whisper something in his ear and Vanzetti breaks out laughing. Then he whispers to Sacco and Sacco does the same. Apparently it is some private joke between the two of them.

ACT THREE

A flourish of trumpets. Enter two heralds.

FIRST HERALD: The King!

SECOND HERALD: (as if hit from behind with a pipe wrench) King? What King?!?

The curtain is lowered for several months while repairs are begun on the roof, but it is no use, the Revolution can never succeed now.

ACT FOUR

An usher named Maxwell limps onstage to announce that the play is about to begin, and suddenly there is a rush for the lobby. Time passes. The continents continue to drift. Soon the Christmas holidays are at hand. Maxwell crawls back onstage and says that curtain time will be any minute now. There is a note of urgency, perhaps even of warning, in his voice. Somehow we know he will not live to see Paris. The gods become angry. We hear the rumble of distant thunderclouds — or perhaps not so distant. Through the still-open hole in the roof, lightning suddenly strikes a man in the first row, but amazingly, his watch still works. From the wings, a clothing dummy delivers Hamlet’s soliloquy in pig Latin, while an aging custodian pushes a dry mop across the stage. There is not a dry eye left in the house.

Disclaimer

By: Justin Warner

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For external use only. Harmful or fatal if swallowed. Keep out of reach of children. Eye irritant. Contents under pressure. Do not expose this product to extreme temperatures. This product has not been evaluated by the FDA. Not to be used as a flotation device. For amusement purposes only. This product is not intended for the prevention of pregnancy or sexually transmitted diseases.

Do not insert in ear canal. Do not swaddle around nose and mouth; breathing may be obstructed. Do not grind into cornea. Not to be used as a substitute for food and/or water. This product is not designed to cure hepatitis, amoebic dysentery, or social ineptitude. Do not permanently store in throat, anus, urethra, or other body cavities. Not to be used in actual thoracic surgery. This product may cause irritation if stapled to genitals.

Do not submerge in water. Avoid prolonged exposure to acids, raw sewage, or nuclear waste. Do not attempt to repair this product while operating a forklift. Do not assemble while being pursued by a burly Mafia enforcer. This product is not intended for professional or amateur juggling. If you serve with Pinot Grigio, do not serve with fish. If you serve with fish, do not serve with Pinot Grigio. Avoid proximity to flamethrowers, welding torches, or active geothermal vents. This product may malfunction if subjected to repeated pounding with a hammer.

This product does not confer powers of flight, invisibility, telekinesis, or extrasensory perception. There is no evidence that this product will make your spouse wash the dishes. Not intended as a substitute for friendship. Use of product does not entitle user to cut in line at the Department of Motor Vehicles. Not to be used as a bargaining chip in negotiations with rogue terrorist nation-states. Do not speak to this product unless it speaks to you.

Not intended for protection against fire, armor-piercing bullets, or collapsing buildings. This product has not been consecrated by the Pope. Do not quit your day job to spend more time with this product. Product may function sub-optimally in outer space. Not recommended for use in spelunking, asbestos removal, or the capture and taming of sharks. Do not store this product in a meat grinder, crematorium, or internal combustion engine. May cause injury or death if loaded into a pistol and fired into temple.

My Love Is Green

By: Rolf Luchs

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My latest client was a short bald guy in a pinstripe suit. He had knobby hands, smooth green skin, antennae and eyes like silver dollars. He wore an “I Like Ike” button on his left lapel — a good private detective notices things like that.

“My name is John Doe,” he began. “I am a shoe salesman from New Jersey.”

The story fit, but somehow I just couldn’t buy it. My brain shifted into high gear as I drew on my five years of experience as a private eye and ten as a busboy at the Brer Rabbit Motel. Then it hit me: He spoke English well — too well, and with a slight fourth-dimensional accent to boot. A foreigner for sure.

“I am looking for my wife,” he said.

“That’s unusual.”

“She disappeared a week ago. That is all I know.”

“Can you describe her?”

He took out a photo and casually flipped it in my direction. It stopped in mid-air and hovered about a foot in front of me. I think I jumped a little when I saw the face. Mrs. Doe was bald with green skin, antennae, and eyes like silver dollars.

“Are you sure you want me to find her?”

He snatched the photo back. “Will you take the case,” he asked evenly, “or shall I go somewhere else?”

Good question. The more I talked to this guy, the less I liked him. He was cool as a cucumber — about the right color, too. There was a gleam in his eyes that made me glad I had a .38 in the top drawer, just behind the family-size bottle of rye. That reminded me: the bottle was about half empty. That would never do.

“Sure, I’ll take it,” I replied, “for a price. Two hundred bucks a day plus bus fare.” I figured his bank account was no bigger than he was.

“Agreed. I will return tomorrow to check on your progress.” He walked out.

He was pretty interesting for a midget, and I guess my curiosity got the better of me. I pocketed by gun and followed, quietly. He left the building and walked straight towards the bad side of town. I tailed him unobtrusively, stopping every so often to look up at the sky or pretend to take a stone out of my shoe.

After a few blocks he met a woman on a street corner. She didn’t look like his wife. She didn’t look like anybody’s wife. They went around the corner to the Seven Sins, a seedy little nightclub known for its sloe gin and fast women. The place was packed with the dregs of humanity: drunks, hookers, battered wives, battered husbands, retired schoolteachers — you know the type.

I pushed through the crowd and took a seat near my client. He was sitting alone, but I didn’t wonder why for long. Some canned music started playing too loud, and suddenly his friend appeared on stage in a natural pink outfit. It was worth seeing. Luckily I had gotten used to that kind of thing years ago, but you could see it was new to the little guy. His eyes popped out as if they were flying from a slot machine, did a dance in time with the music, then popped back in again so as not to miss the finale. He was hooked. I’d seen enough.

I walked back to my place and called the precinct station, but they didn’t have anything on anyone matching Mrs. Doe’s description. I was stymied. I played a couple hands of solitaire and lost, so I drank myself to sleep.

The phone rang early the next morning. I was still trying to remember why the Munchkins had tied me down and let Sydney Greenstreet walk all over my forehead when I picked up the receiver and said, “Talk fast.”

“This is Lt. Orkin, Twelfth Precinct. I hear you were looking for someone yesterday. Green skin, antennae, eyes like silver dollars?”

“That’s right.”

“She’s in the morgue. A couple of sailors found her about an hour ago in back of a tattoo parlor. Maybe the tattoo artist got drunk and set his needle on automatic.”

“Very funny, lieutenant. How’d it happen?”

“Can’t say. Third degree burns all over the body. Got any ideas?”

“Must’ve been playing with matches,” I replied, and hung up.

I sobered up fast and took a taxi back to the nightclub. It was easy to find the girl — I just followed the scent of cheap perfume and expensive lingerie.

“What’s your name, baby?”

“Candy. What’s yours?”

I flashed my badge. “Maurice Hohenzollern, private detective.”

“What’s this all about?” she sniveled.

I pushed her against the wall. “It’s about knives, stiffs, cold marble and cold blood. It’s about a quick trip to the next world. It’s about murder, honey.”

“You mean…”

“Yes. Your boyfriend finally found his wife, without my help. Tough luck for her — she’s cooling her green heels in the morgue right now. You’d better talk.” She fell into my arms like a rag doll, sobbing.

“He came here about a week ago. He seemed so nice, so polite. Of course he fell in love with me right away. And then…he started talking about home, about all those long hot years living by a canal in the middle of a desert, with only his wife for company. It must have been horrible.”

“A desert?” I asked. “Where?”

“Don’t you understand?” she cried. “On Mars.” She broke down.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” I said, giving her a brotherly hug. I made a mental note to look her up next time I was in the area. So that was it: Martians. Everything began to fall into place. It explained the accent and the “I Like Ike” button, to start with.

Suddenly I felt a pressure in the small of my back. I turned around and found myself staring down the nozzle of a mean little ray gun held by a knobby green hand.

“So now you know,” he hissed. “But before I fry your brain I may as well tell you the rest. My name is not John Doe, it is Xanthu. Yes, I come from Mars. It is a dying planet. You would believe me if you had met my wife. I lived with her for 3,000 years, raising sand worms for export. When I finally built a ship to escape to Earth, she made me take her too. After we landed, I managed to lose her, but then I decided I must kill her instead. I hired you to give myself an alibi. When I finally caught her it took hours for her to die, even with my gun at its highest setting. Eventually her brain melted. Now I will kill you as well, and then I can live with Candy in peace forever.”

“But she’s going to join the Marines,” I said. It was sheer inspiration. He nearly dropped his gun. I took the opportunity to give him an elbow in the throat, a trick I learned in the Pioneer Girls that has never failed me yet. He crumpled to the ground like last week’s flowers.

It was hard to explain things to the police. I ended up telling them he was a shoe salesman from New Jersey, since nothing else seemed possible. When I got home, I opened my top drawer and took out the bottle of rye. Now it looked about half full.