"WHERE IS SHE YOU SCABBISH KNAVE?"  I cried, nearly throttling the man caught within my machine-like grasp.  He was short and frightened looking, a perturbed brow fitting neatly between dark, shell-like hair and gold-rimmed spectacles.  The spectacles decorated a round, boyish face with freckles and a short rubbery nose compacted even further by my menacing pointer digit.  The rest of his body disappeared beneath a red apron, embroidered with white lettering mostly blotted out by the harsh imposition of my left elbow.

"I. . . I don't know," he stuttered, causing me to widen my gaze and flare my nostrils, like a bull sizing up its next charge.

"You do know! You know everything! It says so right here!"

I menaced him with a button I had previously ripped from his lapel. It was bright and yellow and said "Ask me!  I can help!"

I tightened my grip on his collar and lifted his gaze to meet mine.  His eyes rolled up and he passed out.  Inconsiderate.

I gently stowed the unconscious clerk beneath a shelf of rainbow colored cereals of dubious nutritional merit, and brushing aside some drool on my shirt, resumed a towering stance above him.

"This is not going to work if I strangle the informants," I murmured to myself thoughtfully, "I need to tie them up and torture them.  But that means. . . the adhesive aisle."

Laying hold of the shelving I propelled myself up, up, up until I stood on top with a view that encompassed the entire store.  I scoured the shelves for duct tape, cattle prods, anything to aid me in my cause.  Then I saw something that rattled my knees and froze my skin.  A woman was putting all the fudge bars in her cart.  "HEY!" I shouted.  I shoved off from my perch atop the cereals.  "HEY, MY WIFE WAS GOING TO GET THOSE!"

Landing deftly I sank into the linoleum and sprang into a charge down the aisles toward the imperiled fudge bars.  I imagined a terrible alien maw gnashing them to bits, capturing the remnants with a dripping red tongue and forcing them back into an unwholesome esophagus. Meanwhile, the rack where I might have purchased them for myself lay desolate. Not on my watch.

While en route I snatched several mops to employ as weaponry.  I helmed myself with a bucket, but lacking eyeholes it was less than I envisioned, and in consequence I barreled through a number of display racks and browsing patrons and their children.  Their calls of distress reminded me that war is a grim undertaking. Yet my banner did not waver, for my cause was just.

As I careered into the avenue which housed the fudge bars I was shook to see their shelf was as empty as I feared.  But before despair overcame me I caught glimpse of a cart brimming with the errant boxes. I extended my gaze to a woman, the thief, the warmonger, and wait, no, she was merely my wife.  She must have fended off the interloper and recaptured the prize.  This reminded me that I had been looking for her.

My wife forced me to remove my adopted raiments of war and accompany her to the checkout aisle.  I demurred.  As we were leaving a group of police constables burst into the store, shouting something about a madman on the loose.  I almost corrected them that it was madwoman poaching fudge bars, but my wife gave me a look which said the matter was well-in-hand.

July 5th, 1776. A dishevelled Thomas Jefferson stumbles to his feet, pulling a pair of star spangled pantaloons off his head. He also wakes George Washington, who lays in an inverted slump in a recently emptied cistern of beer. Somewhere in the rafters, John Hancock moans miserably, then crashes down into a pile of hay.
 
"Ugh. . . that was quite the party."
 
Thomas Jefferson: "You aren't kidding. Good idea on the fireworks. Hey. . .why are there all these inkstains on my hand?"
 
"Don't you remember? You wrote that letter.
 
"What letter?"
 
"The one declaring independence from Britain."
 
"Haha, no seriously, how did I get these inkstains on my hand?"
 
There is awkward silence.
 
"Crap. Where is it."
 
Benjamin Franklin: "I already posted it!"
 
"Ben, how could you do that! We all signed our names!"
 
"We are so dead."
 
Sam Adams: "This is awful. I need some tea. Hey, where's my tea?"
 
"You dumped it all in the harbor."
 
"HOW DRUNK WAS I?!"

Thomas Paine: "Don't worry guys, I can come up with a perfectly reasonable justification for all this."

[Hello, everybody! I am temporarily unretiring to share a column I wrote for my school newspaper. Keep waiting for my true return.]

As a polished man of the world, it is my burden to look on the missteps of other well-meaning chaps with a twinge of dread. To this end I have decided to invest my mesmerizing powers of psychoanalysis to pull forth from the ethereal domain of knowledge all the salient facts which can set a man on his proper course. In the interest of the propitiation of the species, I am gratified to share with you, the beleaguered gentleman, a few golden insights into the sphere of human romance.

Before sending off on our intrepid journey, it will be necessary to handle a few basics which have been overlooked in a surprising number of cases.

One common error made by our school's aspiring gentlemen is to smell like the gym shorts of a dead skunk, a habit which reduces their romantic prospects to (approximately) Barbara Streisand. Fortunately, the smell-encumbered fellow can ameliorate his musk with a clever spritzing of Febreeze. He may also wish to buffer his aroma by spending some time circuiting the inside of a shoe store. Shoes naturally secrete special pheromones which are attractive to women, and a lingering scent of Gucci or Prada can supply an almost irresistible appeal.

When engaged in the task of wooing, today's man will also benefit from wearing brightly colored clothing. Nothing is worse than approaching a girl he has strategically sat next to all semester only to learn she never noticed him because he wore the same Tapioca Creme as the shelving in the background.

Finally, he must be sure to always wear warm socks. One of the leading causes of not-asking-girls-out (so I have been told) is getting cold feet.

Now, as we are fixed on the cusp of yet another tribute to Saint Valentine--the man whose martyrdom is yearly commemorated by the disbursing of stale candy hearts--no doubt the reader is anxious about the soundness of some of the common traditions. Here, too, I will provide a wealth of established insights.

Today we live in a gilded age of flim and flam. Spiritual beauty does not show up very well in photoshoots. It is therefore preferred for a gentleman to maintain his intended as of a north-south, rather than east-west, disposition, and this is hardly possible if he bombards her with candied truffles on each and every 14th of February. (He may also complain that chocolates exceed the discretion of his budget.)

What I recommend is that he can instead purchase an excellent assortment of peeled carrots at a grocery emporium for less-than $3. For a dash of romantic flare, he could consider attaching a small note, which would begin by saying something nice, and finish with the recipient's name being correctly spelled.

If, however, his lady remains stubbornly attached to the idea of confections, it would be prudent to remind her of the countless children who perish each year excavating fresh ingredients from the harsh cocoa mines of Guatemala. This reflection will also cause her to feel guilty for doubting him, an association he should if at all possible cultivate.

When nutritious vegetables have run their course, it will be time to effect something more daring. In the seventeenth century, a flowery manner of speech--"But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east and Juliet is the sun."--was very successful in precipitating the sort of full-blossomed love to which Shakespeare attributed double-suicide. Today, however, it is merely the sort of bilge which leaves one the subject of numerous restraining orders.

In place of poetry, our twenty-first century gentleman should consider composing a jingle featuring himself as the subject. The essence of the concept is to create an inextricable virus which targets the human brain. Even if a damsel does not fancy the author at the onset, perhaps likening him to "a foul-breathed troll-footed garble of puke", with a catchy enough jingle, she will find herself unable to dislodge his impression from her mind. (A small postscript for all the lovely young ladies out there--♫ doo-whop doo-whop♫ Ryan Shea is a super cool dude ♫ doo-whop doo-whop ♫--thank you.)

The sir who has been operating under these invaluable cautions and guidance is, more than likely, now in the position of entertaining an eager date, so I shall advance to the subject directly.

When our near-ancestors dated, a popular choice was dinner and a movie. In the present economy, however, the conjunctifying 'and' has been reduced to a less accommodating 'or.'

In the first case, it is happy to note that a prandial excursion provides an excellent opportunity to appear sophisticated by knowing all the ins-and-outs of modern food etiquette. Of course, as previously observed, practices must adapt to a diminished budget. But when silverware is in want, it still conveys a superb class to attend that mustard packets must sit on the left, ketchup packets on the right. Our refined sir is further advised, when passing the salt and pepper, to courteously ascertain that the lids are not unscrewed, as small children are known saboteurs. Last, if he would wish to observe some conscience of health, he may prefer to avoid the menu entirely, in favor of having earlier pocketed some peeled carrots--a highly versatile root.

The occasion of a movie is far simpler to arrange, as there is only one movie which could possibly achieve satisfaction: Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. For the sake of appearing considerate, one may of course wish to consult his date's sentiments; however, having posed the question frequently, I have yet to encounter the young woman who has preferred a different Star Trek movie.

I hope my reader will find that, in his plot for successful romance, I have accurately markered the path. Yet, what advice can be offered to the bachelor who has studied my remarks of unimpeachable wisdom with diligence, only to fall flat in- and on-the-end? The essential conclusion, which I present as even less assailable than any of those preceding it, is as follows: women are loony to the eyebrows. Rational analysis is moot: your theories will be upended and your pittering heart reduced to flaming rubble. Give up, go home, and become a professional newspaper columnist.

I find it is quite bearable.

(Ryan Shea is also author of "Non-extradition Countries: Nature's Cure for the Alimony Blues" and a paid spokesman for Carrots of America)

Guys, I'm not sure why I am even posting right now because it is entirely possible that at this very moment there is shark related programming going on that I am missing.

In fact, I think it probably started earlier today in which case I am so despondent I would probably kill myself except for then I would miss the next SIX DAYS of shark related programming on the Discovery channel.




Anyway, I am going to go wake up the neighbors and let them know that it is shark week.

SHHHHAAAAARRK WEEEEEEEEEEK!!!!

The trouble with throwing axes is that if you miss, you've just given your enemy a throwing axe. Plus, you only get one shot.

What makes infinitely more sense is a throw a man holding an axe. He will be able to use it repeatedly and he won't just hand it over to the enemy (unless he is a pansy but then good riddance you'd rather have that pansy on the enemy's team anyway).



See?

Common sense.

Ghetto medical equipment has two principal advantages:
(1) It is much cheaper than officially tested and certified equipment.
(2) Using it instills your patients with an appropriate sense of fear.

First, I present my weekend project, an ophthalmoscope:



Made from PVC, binoculars, a digital camera, a child's toy, and some miscellaneous salvaged electronics parts, this device comes with an ON and OFF setting.

Now, of course, you can't be a doctor with just an ophtalmoscope, but I have some other ideas, too:

ECG (electrocardiograph): basically just an oscilloscope, which I already have. Granted, an oscilloscope won't beep when the patient flatlines, but in this economy we cannot afford to entertain such needless frivolities.
Colonoscope: a plumber's snake and a webcam should do the trick.
Anesthetic: ice for topical/local anesthetic, booze for general anesthetic. (being a ghetto physician in the 21st century is a lot like being a perfectly respectable physician in the 19th century)

Anyway, if anyone wants some free medical treatment, I am going to need some practice before I open my doors to the general public.

As you may know, I am a scientist, and as a scientist, I would like to share with you some of the things that scientists have discovered about earth:

*Earth may be the awesomest planet, but it is not the coolest. The coolest planet is Neptune, which has an average temperature of -225 Celsius.
*Earth is also not the largest planet. That would be your mom.
*If you were to observe what earth looks like from the perspective of its moon, you would immediately asphyxiate and die because the moon has no atmosphere.
*Earth is home to millions of living species. An example would be the blobfish.
*If you ever vacation on earth, you should take a towel, because most of earth's surface is covered in water.
*Water on earth is near its triple point conditions, which means it exists in three phases and nine unique flavors.
*Some cultures have worshiped earth as a deity. But these same cultures probably pooed on it, too, so take that as you will.
*Earth has a powerful magnetic field. This helps large metal objects such as washingmachines stick to its surface without floating away.
*The best way to save the earth for our posterity is to recycle. The best way to recycle is to stop consuming new things and instead use old things which are no longer serving a purpose. For example, you could use the fossil byproducts of ancient plant matter to power a joyride to the mall.
*The earth is not a perfect sphere. Its shape is actually that of an oblate spheroid, i.e., a sphere that is a little chubby around the mid-section. It also weighs approximately 5.9736 × 10²⁴ kilograms, so, yeah, not gonna win any swimsuit competitions.
*If you're stuck on earth, don't worry, outer space is only 73 miles away.
*Earth has survived solar storms, asteroid impacts, and magnetic pole reversals, but may ultimately be rendered uninhabitable by cow farts and oversize passenger vehicles.
*Earth's highest point is Mt. Everest. Earth's lowest point was when Dr. Phil appeared on the Tonight Show.

I feel we may want to stage a few armed guards in the area. Barbed wire, spotlights... setup a perimeter. I mean, we are talking about the veritable linchpin of our civilization. Saboteurs could wipe us out with a little sprinkle of silicon carbine on the axle bearings. No use taking chances... defend and fortify.

I don't like that we're leaving it out in the rain either. And those chickens, has anyone checked out their security clearances?

Run some background checks and get back to me.

There was a boy with saggy clothes
with sleeves that stretched down to his toes
whose belt and buttons could not be found,
whose pockets trailed down on the ground.

His classmates all would laugh at him.
His grandma said it was a sin.
His teachers told him that he could not,
(But Sally thought that it was "hot.")

At last the boy had had his fill
Of such unpleasing ridicule.
So he grew to be twelve feet tall,
and then his clothes were all too small.

"Mr. and Mrs. Bates?"

There was the small commotion of two people rising and gathering their things.

"This way please."

Mr. and Mrs. bates gladly followed the orderly out of the chaos of the hospital's patient waiting area and into the privacy of a small examining room. The orderly was stout and cordial and obviously tired.

Once they were situated they were told the doctor would be with them shortly. Mrs. Bates was still inconsolable.

Eventually, the doctor entered, closing the door behind him. His expression appeared somber.

"The good news is that we were able to save your son. The bad news is that... we were forced to amputate."

"Am... amputate?"

Mrs. Bates burst into tears.

"My baby! Oh, my precious baby!" Mrs. Bates wailed, "How will he ever live a normal life?"

"It's alright! It's alright! " the doctor reassured them. "We expect him to make a full recovery."

Mr. Bates began a violent tremor in his lower lip, which quickly spread to his whole frame, and then he was blubbering so as to put Mrs. Bates to shame.

"There, there" the doctor said, patting them on the shoulder, "I know just what will make you feel better."

He left the room to the tune of great heaving sobs, and returned sporting a big grin and two giant red lollipops.

* * *
In the end, the doctor's prognostications turned out to be true. Bridger Bates was out of the hospital within the week, and back at a school in two. He was well, and smiling, and seemed to get on much better than Mr. and Mrs. Bates, although they too eventually warmed to the child's condition, and began to think that things might not be so bad afterall.

"So, what's it like?"

Bridger was busy forming the keep of an elaborate sandcastle, which he imagined to house a race of friendly sand people who ate only algebra teachers. The address came from the freckled face of one Joanna Perkins.

"What's what like?"

"Having your belly button amputated."

Bridger began searching for twigs with which to build his portcullis.

"Oh, it's not that bad. I can't do all the things I used to do. Leastwise, not the things that require a belly button. But I don't have to clean it anymore, so that's a plus. And I got to eat ice cream for a whole week when I came home."

The other kids on the playground were clearly impressed.

"But I'm getting a new one."

There were immediately gasps of disbelief.

"A new one?"

"Is that possible?"

"A new bellybutton?"

"Will it go where they old one went?"

"How do they attach it?"

"When are you getting it?"

Bridger began digging a moat.

"Tomorrow. I have an appointment to see the doctor. It's not a real bellybutton, just a prosthetic one. But the doctor says that it will work the same. Mostly."

The news spread like wildfire. Boys made way for him in the hallway. Girls shyly averted their eyes. This was significant. This was monumental. This was the most interesting thing to happen since Samantha Puddings had lost three of her teeth at the same time.

The next few days the school yard was full of apprehension. When at last Bridger returned, there was only sheer-unadulterated awe reflected in the faces of those who saw him. Somehow he seemed more confident, more purposed, more awesome. This time, no one asked questions. They waited expectantly.

All except Victor Brassario.

Victor was the classic brute, an oversized bumpkin with a distinct sense that if he wasn't throwing his fist at something, he just wasn't making a contribution. And he didn't much care for upstarts like Bridger being doused with sudden awe and popularity. It would be Victor's job to set everything back in its proper place.

With a thuggish jaunt, he approached, stopping with his nose just inches from Bridger's face.

"I don't care if you have new belly button," said Victor, "You are still a mega-doofus. " And with that, he cocked his fist to lay Bridger out with a fantastic punch.

The onlookers flinched. Some covered their eyes. Others ran to go get a teacher. The next few seconds were not looking so good for Bridger.

Suddenly, Victor was tackled by two brawny men in suits, who immediately began to pommel him with their fists. Everyone was quite surprised, except for Bridger.

"My belly button is a very expensive government prototype," Bridger explained, "Those guys make sure it doesn't get muffed up any."

There was a general round of approval at this development, although the students were disappointed that Bridger had not actually used his new bellybutton to defeat the bully. As the school bell rang the crowds grudgingly dissolved, ambling back into the interior buildings to begin classes.

Bridger, however, thrust up his arms, and hurled himself into the sky, flying off into the city. The two men in suits jumped into a rocket powered scooter to follow him.

"Eh, Jibes, that Mon Calamari molding is just ghastly! Look how it clashes with the duct flashing and the ornamental flanges, will you?"

"Makes me eyes bleed."

"And the paneling, who did the paneling is what I want to know. It's garish."

"Same twat who done the conduit, most likely."

The two conversants were huddled over the entryway viewport of a hydraulic docking station on The Executor, Darth Vader's flagship. They were taking turns peering in, confirming each other's examinations. On the opposing side stood the interior of a rebel blockade runner, forcibly docked by the star destroyer's massive tractor beams.

"They couldn't even get the lighting right. It is without a doubt the worst decor I have ever seen. What do you say?"

"I say we shoot it up a bit."

"Shoot it?"

"Put it out o' its misery."

"Don't you think that's a bit extreme?"

"What, just a few dings in the ship. No harm."

"I suppose it's not possible to do any disfavors to that decor."

"Exactly."

"Ok, so the plan is... open the blast doors..."

"Check."

"Run inside..."

"Check."

"And shoot the walls."

"Check."

"Well, are we we ready?

"Ready."

"Right, then, CHAAAAAAAAAAAARGE!"

--My theory on why, in the opening battle scene of Star Wars a New Hope, the Imperial Stormtroopers utterly missed the rebels standing 20 feet in front of them.

An ongoing series which offers practical insights divest of traditional human romanticisms.

It's all well and good to spend Friday the 13th running away from some crazy guy in a hockey mask who is violently dismembering people, but after he kills everyone else, and you slay him in the climactic final showdown, who is going to help you clean up the mess?

I want this:



My plan is to become a superhero who can fly over any puddle of sufficient depth.

When your head is lopped off,
You may lose some weight,
You may float away,
You may think it is great.

When your head is lopped off,
You can skimp on your bills,
You can chase after cats,
You can work on your skills.

When your head is lopped off,
You will not need to wear socks.
You will party all night,
You will think that it rocks.

But when your head is lopped off,
You might possibly sneeze,
And fly off into space,
And there you will freeze.

Upon entering my house, you might find the atmosphere mildly inviting. A big comfy chair in the living room. A pool of sunlight filtering in through the branches of the trees out front. A thin, lightly splotched carpet, which eeked out the last of its useful life during the 60s, but which will probably never be replaced.

By the time you have noticed these things, the light from your eyes is already fading, your cheeks have paled, your forehead is clammy, and you peer up from the floor amidst a discombobulated pile of your own limbs, gazing into four pairs of dark, unfeeling eyes. You have met my cats. They killed you. Sorry.

You may be thinking that this scenario is mere hyperbole. Permit me then, Mr. Skeptic, to introduce the ferocious felines with which I cohabitate:

Sassy Shoelicker.
A sexy double agent who has racked up a fish and lizard body count to rival Thug Behram. Reach down to stroke her supple, alluring belly, and you will find yourself in a death grip, her powerful back feet rending you at their leisure.


Joe 'Sharpclaws' McMuggins.
A retired brawler, Joe is known inside and outside of alleys all the way to the east coast. His thick coat makes him impervious to most forms of attack, and his sharp claws are the last say in any dispute.


Shaykh Muhammad al-Haafidth.
An Islamist convert and militant formerly known as "Pooty Scruffball." af-Haafidth has a talent for disappearing and operating behind the scenes. She frequently uses biological agents to disable footware, leaving the unsuspecting target to hobble back to safety, if he can make it.


Dr. Lisa Mindrender.
Packing 27 pounds of pure hatred and an IQ that can only be described as evil, Dr. Lisa Mindrender is one of the most villainous characters in modern history. Her league of disreputable henchcats has terrorized the globe, decimating the sock market and advancing global warming through a calculated pogrom of potted house plants.


And I live here, too!

A more wretched hive of scum and villainy there never was.

Inspired by the History Channel and Geoffrey Chaucer.

When the Jews once slaved on Egypt's soil,
God spared them from their life of toil,
But just as quick they were downbeat
To find they had no food to eat.
So the Jews, they cried "Hosanna!"
Therefore God then sent them manna.
But what if rather than holy bread
God had sent them cheese instead?
Feta brought in blocks from Crete,
Great balls of Gouda, smoked and sweet.
Romano, Münster, and Gruyere.
Colby-jack (to name a pair),
Roquefort with its striking veins
And Danublu, made by Danes.
Ricotta cheese that comes from whey,
Camembert culled soft and grey.
Cheese that varies in how it ripes
Producing untold tastes and types
Salty, piquant, or a subtle nut,
Plus Limburger, which smells like butt.
Now imagine Moses in his great surprise,
When hurling forth from Heaven's skies
Drops wheels of every kind of cheese
Causing serious injuries.

INTRODUCTION
A lot of people seem to think that the world will end now that Obama is president. My attitude is, come on guys, what is the worst that could happen? Giving Obama the keys to the Whitehouse is like giving a two-year-old an Abrams tank. Sure, it's not the most prudent decision, but what damage could the little tyke possibly do? He's only got two years of experience!

Unfortunately, Obama is much taller than your average two-year-old, which means he can reach places a two-year-old normally couldn't, such as the top shelf of the pantry, or the launch button of a nuclear missile silo. So it's actually a bit more dangerous than I've made out.

Even so, our nation should be pretty safe through to the next election. Unless. . . .

The Mummy IV:
A President's Curse

It was not far from the outskirts of the nation's capital that a group of men were digging furiously under direct orders from the president. Their shovels pattered and clanged against hewn stone as they excavated the encompassing earth. A pitched tent obscured their work from any intrusive onlookers.

At last, as the night drew close to morning, their efforts were rewarded. Before them was a small marble door, plastered over with lime.

A man who had been watching them, tall and gangly and wearing an expensive suit, stepped forward to assume the honor of breaking the seal.

"No, wait!"

Biden grabbed hold of Obama to pull him back.

"The ex-president was no fool. Why don't we let the illegal immigrants open the tomb?"

"Oh, good thinking Joe. You're so smart."

Obama gestured to the workers, who had been shoveling tirelessly and were now smirched with dirt and sweat. "¡Ándale! ¡Ándale! ¡Arriba! ¡Arriba!" he said, pointing at the tomb.

The workers stared at him blankly.

"Get over there and open the tomb right this instant or no salsa for you!" commanded Biden.

"¡Odio a los putos gringos!" muttered one of the illegal immigrants as they picked up their tools and went over to break open the seal on the tomb.

Predictably, they were dissolved by salt acid, or impaled by giant spikes, or forced to listen to the latest Linkin Park album. Obama and Biden continued on into the tomb without paying particular attention to the workers' horrible fate.

"At last!" declared Biden, "We are inside the tomb of the the thirty-second president!"

"That's not very long to be president," remarked Obama.

"No, you fool. This is the tomb of Franklin Delano Roosevelt, America's first socialist president. Because of his efforts to pack the Supreme Court and override the Constitution, at his death he was mummified and placed under a horrible curse. He was buried here, along with his presidential cabinet. Once we release the curse, he will rise again from the dead in order to feast on the paychecks of the living!"

"I thought you said we were coming down here to find cookies?"

"Never mind that now!" snarled Biden angrily, "I will buy you cookies later! Thousands and thousands of cookies! But what we are doing right now is raising an army of the undead!"

"My favorite is chocolate chip," sung Obama happily, following the perturbed Biden down the dark corridor into the lower recesses of the tomb.

At the end of the passage they entered a large antechamber. Biden handed his torch to Obama and stooped down in front of an elaborately engraved wall.

"What are those strange symbols?" asked Obama curiously.

"That is the atrocious handwriting of James F. Byrnes," replied Biden, "Truman's secretary of state. I will need a few a minutes to decipher the inscription."

As Biden was poring over the lettering, an eerie breeze circulated the chamber. The torchlight flickered, and a sinister silhouette emerged from the entryway.

"Rrrrugh!" it said.

Obama lept back in fright and tried desperately to seek refuge behind the figure of Joe Biden.

"It's the mummy!"

"No, you idiot, that's John McCain."

"Rrrugh!" said John McCain again, lurching forward in his old person gait, arms raised at shoulder height.

"I've come to stop you, Barrack Obama!"

"It's too late, McCain!" hollered Biden, "We already have the electoral votes we need to unlock the curse! Nothing can stop us now!"

With that, he read the last of the inscription--something quite boring about agricultural futures--and the whole tomb began to shake. The rocky wall of the antechamber receded, and beyond it was a room filled with all sorts of gold and gem-encrusted artifacts from the 1940s. At the room's center, surrounded by the mummified remains of his cabinet, was the sarcophagus of Franklin D. Roosevelt.

"A ha ha ha!" Biden charged into the room, followed closely by Obama.

"Rrrrugh!"

McCain tried to lunge after them, but while he'd been distracted something had latched onto his feet.

"Gah!" he yelled, seeing that it was George W. Bush, "Why are you always holding me back!?"

"It's my legacy!" Bush replied.

Meanwhile, Obama and Biden were summoning all of their strength to slide open the lid of the sarcophagus. Inch by inch it gave way, until finally, with a loud cladder, it slid off onto the rocky floor.

"Rrrrugh!"

"Oh no!" cried Obama, looking around fearfully, "It's John McCain!"

"No, stupid, it's the mummy!"

Franklin Roosevelt rose purposefully from his sarcophagus, crackling his deceased, mummified joints. A grisly chill came over the room, as if someone's mom had just turned the thermostat back to 60 again.

Meanwhile, McCain was still struggling to get free of Bush.

"Bush, you have to let me go! This is important! Now that Roosevelt has returned he is going to unleash all the plagues of the Great Depression! He will feed off of taxpayers, waxing in power until he is able to solidify immortality in the form of massive entitlement programs. And the economic crisis will be eternally prolonged. We have to shutdown congress before he gets there. There is no other conceivable way he could be defeated!"

With that, a loud shot rang out from the shadows. Roosevelt's corpse staggered at the force of being hit. Sarah Palin stepped into the torchlight of the antechamber.

"Doggone mummies," said Palin, sighting another shot with her moose rifle, "Dontcha know you gotta be shootin' em fer they get all-powerful and stuff?"

"Noooooooo!" moaned Franklin Roosevelt, "It is my one weakness! Bullets! Bullets fired from a gun!"

He thought a moment. "And polio. I guess that's a weakness of mine, too."

With one last gasp of musty mummy breath, Franklin Roosevelt dissolved into dust.

"Ah well," sighed Obama, stepping out from his hiding place behind the sarcophagus, "I guess that we'll have to find another way to defeat the Republican filibuster. You alright, Joe?"

"Yes, I'm perfectly fine," said Biden huffily.

"That's good, because as I recall, you are buying me cookies now."

"Nice seeing you again, McCain. You too, Bush. Sarah. No hard feelings, I hope?"

"Rrrugh!" replied McCain.

With that, the Chief of State and the Vice President made their way out of the chamber.

An ongoing series which offers practical insights divest of traditional human romanticisms.

One hundred dollars invested at seven percent interest for one hundred years will become one hundred thousand dollars, at which time it will be worth absolutely nothing.

When Anton's alarm clock began to beep, it was 8 am on a Wednesday morning, and the sun had just barely begun its cheerful ascent. It took a few moments for it to rouse Anton from his dreaming, but when it did, he shot up from under his covers in an explosion of sheets and stuffed animals.

"Today is not a day for going to school," said Anton, resetting his alarm and fetching a coat from his closet.

"Today is a day for buying a pet goat."

Anton had a quick breakfast before he slipped out. It consisted largely of chocolate marshmallow puffs and partly of a potato. Anton was in the process of conducting a series of experiments whereby he was set to find out whether it was possible to make vegetables taste good. The idea was kind of crazy but in the event that he found a solution he did not doubt that a few Nobel Prizes might be found waiting at his doorstep the next morning. Probably wrapped in bubblewrap to keep them from getting all scuffed.

As soon as he finished his potato he zipped out of the house. A few seconds later he had returned.

"I will need the money with which to buy my new goat."

Anton fetched his piggy bank. It was empty, as always. This happened because Anton's neighbors had got into the habit of insisting that he pay them back for all the things of theirs that he had broken.

"There is only one thing to do," he remarked, after his most grave assessment of the situation, "I will have to take out a loan from the mafia."

The mafia was not far away. They were hanging out at a bistro down the street.

"Excuse me," interrupted Anton, "I need to take out a loan."

"A loan!" the big man with hairy ears exclaimed as they all laughed, "What's a little tyke like you gonna do with a loan?"

"I need to buy a goat," was his simple reply.

"Is that right? Fellas the kid needs a goat. You got any goats, Eddy?"

"No, Joey, fresh out."

"Look kid, we don't got any goats, and we ain't gonna give you any money, so you's better scram. We got business here we gotta do."

The mobsters turned back to their discussion. Anton was going to interrupt them again but then he saw that the big man's wallet was hanging out of his suit jacket.

"I'll just save them doing up the paper work" murmured Anton quietly to himself, as he snuck up and filched the wallet. "I better leave them some collateral, though."

He replaced the wallet with a large mushy ball which he had been building up from his used chewing gum. He figured it must be worth at least a thousand dollars on account of being art. It suddenly occurred to him that he might be able to trade it for the goat instead of taking out a loan, so he tried to switch it back for the wallet again, but it was already firmly adhering to the fabric of the coat. "Oh well," he thought.

In no time at all Anton had made it down the block to the bus stop where he caught a bus into the city. He didn't have any quarters but the bus driver didn't seem to mind taking one of the bills that was in the mob bosses' wallet. In fact, for a few more, the bus driver said he would take him wherever he wanted to go. This was quite alright with Anton, who wanted to go to the petting zoo. It did not take him long to convince the petting zoo that they should sell him a goat, although the man there told him not to mention it to anyone.

When the bus driver took him back home Anton gave him the rest of the bills in the wallet, since he did not think it likely he would need to buy anymore goats that day. The bus driver tipped his hat and sped off to go pick up his now-very-angry morning passengers.

"Come on, goat!"

Anton half-pulled, half-coaxed the goat into his house.

"Goat, you must learn to obey what I say! Now. . . stay!"

Anton was pleased that the goat did not seem very intent on leaving the foyer as he raced off to the kitchen to find something for it to eat.

"Hmm. . . ."

In the end Anton grabbed an armful of things and ran back to the foyer.

"Goat, no!"

The goat had emigrated from the foyer into the living room, and was eating the antimacassar off of his father's armchair.

"Goat, I have brought you real food. Do not eat that. Did you eat the curtains, too? Bad goat! Very bad! Have some ice cream."

The goat seemed to like the ice cream. It ate half a carton, plus three bags of cheetos, some carrots, a bagel, and two boxes of chocolate donuts. After that, it waddled around for a bit, before falling over and going to sleep.

"Now it is time to test your goat skills!" declared Anton.

While the goat was napping he began collecting things from around the house and piling them on top of the living room sofa.

When he was finished, he nudged the goat awake.

"Come on, goat, it is time to climb a mountain, just like back home."

After substantial effort, Anton managed to get the goat to make an embarrassed stumble up onto his sofa.

"Hooray!"

Anton could not be happier that the goat had passed his first test of goatliness.

However, he was getting very tired of pulling the goat everywhere when he wanted it to do something. If only there were a way to make that easier? Of course!

It only took about an hour to drag the goat outside to the middle of the street and to find some old rollerskates from his closet. But getting the skates on the goat was a lot trickier than he had anticipated, as the goat did not like being off balance on any one of its legs.

Anton had almost given up all hope when he remembered the jack his dad used for working on his car. Also, the horse saddle stored up in the attic.

So Anton went and fetched the jack and the saddle. He then proceeded to strap the saddle under the goat's belly and use the jack to lift it off the ground, after which he strapped the roller skates on to each hoof, and then lowered the goat back down again.

"Hooray!"

Now Anton could pull the goat wherever he wanted. His family could probably even tow it behind their RV on camping trips and whatnot. It was the perfect combination of nature and technology. The six million dollar goat.

This wonderful elation of success lasted approximately thirty seconds.

"Come on, goat!"

Anton gave the goat a big tug and it rolled forward like he wanted. Not like he wanted, it continued to roll. The street in front of them had started off mostly level but as the goat continued forward the slope increased. And the goat went faster and faster down the road.

"Goat, wait! Stop! Stop, goat! Stop!"

What happened next went something like this. One car swerved to avoid the goat and ran into a barber shop. One swerved to avoid the swerving car and ran into a fire hydrant. One car came to a screeching halt and was consequently rear ended by the car behind it. A lot of people on the sidewalks were screaming and running variously from swerving cars and bicyclists and of course one very fast approaching goat, which, suddenly aware of its desperate situation, had begun to bleat pitiably. At the base of the hill the road came to a T, the head of this T being formed by Mrs. Daugherty's bridal shower emporium, the doors to which hung conveniently open as the goat rocketed inside and continued to propel through six or seven display racks, accumulating some very sexy looking lingerie in the process.

By the time Anton managed to navigate his way through the ensuing calamity to the base of the hill, the police had already taken his goat into custody.

"Officer! Officer! Wait! That's my goat!"

The officer balked.

"This little whirlwind of destruction is yours?"

The officer did not make this sound like it was going to be a good thing for Anton. In fact, Anton was vaguely suspicious that he might now be in some kind of serious trouble.

"Look, officer, I don't have any more money, but you can have this."

Anton handed him the wallet he had filched from the mob boss. The officer opened it up, looked back at Anton in astonishment, and then continued to sort through its contents. He recognized who it belonged to as well as lists of accomplices and meetings, with some very significant dates next to them.

He looked back down at Anton as though he did not quite know what to make of him.

"Tell you what, son," he said, putting his hand on Anton's shoulder, "It's really good that you gave me this. I might even be hero out of it. But this goat. . . even if I tried my best, I wouldn't be able to get him back to you. And, honestly, it would be pretty good for you not to mention that he was yours. But I'll make sure he gets put in a good home where he'll be happy and enjoy himself. And I won't say anything about you. But you better get out of here. You don't want people thinking any of this was your fault."

Anton loved his goat more than anything, but he knew a good deal when he heard it. He ran up to give the goat a hug, and then he ran home, where his parents grounded him for an entire month.

THE END

An ongoing series which offers practical insights divest of traditional human romanticisms.

Human beings are nothing more than vaguely philosophical sacks of meat.

Rather than perplex over their quaint diversions in violence, false pride, and embitterment, it is far simpler just to eat them.