A Nutcracker Waxes Passionate About His Profession

Oh man- look at that bowl of roasted nuts over there. What a great looking mix... The large, rounded shapes of the walnuts are in stark contrast to the smaller, sleeker almonds, and the deep brown of the chestnuts provide for a nice break from the light tan of the rest of the nutshells. Clearly, whoever roasted this nut mix is a professional, a life-long lover of nuts who knows exactly what they want and doesn't waste their time on anything else, as evidenced by the complete (and welcome) absence of brazil nuts and cashews. Notice also the lack of peanuts- while delicious in their own right either out of the shell or in butter form, they are neither a true nut nor a holiday nut, and therefore have no place in this mix. Despite the festive ceramic bowl with the christmas tree motif, I suspect that these nuts were not placed there just as decor. No no- these nuts were meant to be enjoyed. To get at the sweet nutmeat inside, those shells are going to have to be dealt with quickly and efficiently, and that means that I'm going to have to crack 'em. God, I can't wait to crack those nuts.

Now, I know that some people prefer not to use an ornate nutcracker like me. Some people like to use those silver nutcrackers that crack the nut in your hand. Some people think that nutcrackers like me are gaudy ornamentations better suited to festooning mantlepieces than cracking nuts. Let me tell you something, though- people who think those things are impatient savages. They would sooner eat a tin of mixed nuts from the dollar store than take the time to roast a holiday nut blend of their own design. In the same way that a vintage bordeaux ought to be sipped rather than gulped, a fine nut ought to take time to eat. How else could one possibly hope to enjoy the rich texture of the meat, or the subtle lemony overtones, or the complex bouquet unleashed when the nut is cracked? They can't, quite simply put. This is why I am so useful- I am a liason between nutlovers and the nuts they love. I help them focus on the process of eating a nut, from start to finish. Without me, they may as well have a packet of stale beer nuts from the local pub. I also add an air of professionality to the nut proceedings- note the beefeater hat and many-buttoned jacket. I do not wear these things because they are comfortable, or stylish. I wear them because they allow a nut to be presented with the dignity that it deserves. I wear them because I am a nutcracker, and I love what I do.

You have no idea how much I love cracking nuts. There is nothing in the world as satisfying to me as putting a nut in my mouth and gnashing my teeth down on it so hard that the shell splinters. Don't let me give you the wrong impression about my nutcracking, though. There's a lot more finesse required for nutcracking than most people realize. Very few nut connosieurs use the brute force nutcracking methods of days of yore. After a while of smacking at nuts with hammers, it just gets old. It's too messy, too imprecise. With a hammer, it's so difficult to gauge the true force with which nuts are cracked, and cracking a nut too hard might damage the meat inside. Walnuts, for example, don't require very much force to crack at all. Crack a walnut too hard, and you'll be digging through bits of shell for seven, maybe even eight minutes before you find the meat you seek. But, if you crack a walnut just right, the shell will split down the middle, allowing you to pluck the meat out and eat it in one satisfying bite. Almonds, of course, are different beasts entirely. If you want to, you can really take out your pent-up frustrations on an almond. You see, the meat's almost as hard as the shell, so you can really go nuts when you crack an almond! Heh- sorry... That joke always goes over huge with the nutcracking crowd.

Look, you seem skeptical. Don't let me pressure you into anything. It was in no way my intention to flap at the jaw like this for so long- I guess I got carried away. It's nice to be passionate about what you do. It provides a sense of fulfillment that I'm afraid most people don't get to experience, and I pity them. Every time someone puts a nut in my mouth, I nearly jump with glee at the chance to crush it. I am so lucky! Not only am I a nutcracker, but I love cracking nuts. Each nut in my mouth is it's own adventure, just waiting to happen, and I am like an unshaven and relatively young Harrison Ford, only I crack nuts instead of using a whip to swing over chasms. If nuts were moons, then I would be the United States and Russia during the 1960's, for my passion for nutcracking is so great that no one nation could contain it. If nuts were the golden fleece of mythological lore, then I would be Jason and the Argonauts, willing to do anything for the sake of cracking nuts. I would go to the ends of the earth and back again for nuts. You know why? Because I love what I do. Now then, won't you have a nut?

Legislature Proposed By Socks The Cat During The Clinton Administration

The Feline Medical Leave Act

Insofar as people prefer cute kitties, and cute kitties must be healthy kitties, I, Socks the cat, hereby propose the following: mother cats must be allowed to take extended leaves of absence from their places of work so that they may take care of the business of raising cute kitties. I would like to remind those who oppose this proposal on the grounds of lost profit from productivity that cute kittie calendars have been the single highest grossing domestic export for the past six years. By passing this legislature we can ensure that the supply of cute, happy, well-raised kitties will be sustained. Meow.

Fleacare Reform

Whereas the systems in place to deal with human maladies have been updated with some regularity since their inception, the systems in place to attend to feline maladies are grossly outdated. In response to this, I, Socks the cat, propose that from here on, state governments shall provide a 2% yearly funding increase into state programs for flea and tick prevention. As these parasites afflict not only cats, but the humans they come in contact with as well, it is in the best interest of all involved parties that the populations of these arthropods be monitored continually and culled when necessary. To underscore the urgency of this item, it shall be piggy-backed onto the wildly popular Hairball Maintenance Act of 1996.

Spray Bottle Bill

The universal feline aversion to water has been exploited for decades to serve what is ultimately a human agenda. Countless cats across the nation have been sprayed by spray bottles as punishment for actions which are out of their control. As established by the Feline Behavior Protocol study of 1992, all cats have an uncontrollable desire to scratch at the arms of couches and to climb certain curtains. As spraying cats with water will not alter their base nature, I, Socks the cat, hereby propose to establish a 3-day waiting period on the purchase of spray bottles. During this time, those who wish to purchase spray bottles will have to undergo background checks to see whether or not they have a history of hyrokinetic feline admonishment. Those who fail the background checks shan't be permitted to purchase further spray bottles. In the meantime, a 4% tax shall be levied on spray bottles to help provide funding for behavioral research into this most feline of afflictions, so that the couches and curtains of this great nation may remain as pristine and untarnished as our great tradition of human/feline cooperation in the name of democracy.

Snippets From Tales Of Victory And Triumph Nobody Cares To Hear

"...So there I was, playing Tetris with a screen so full that I was almost done for, waiting for one of those long blue pieces so that I could clear a few lines. But then I got a Z-piece. And then an S-piece. And then another Z- I was about ready to put down the controller and call it quits, when, all of a sudden, I got two long pieces in a row, cleared 8 lines, and moved onto level twelve. Now, if you thought Tetris was hard in level eleven, then wait'll you hear about level twelve. I had a T-piece to start..."

"...And that's when I noticed that I had one less white sock than I should have. Nobody was home but me, so it couldn't have been stolen out of the dryer. It's still in the dryer, I thought, that's why I can't find that sock. Knowing the gravity of the situation, I steeled myself for what I had to do next- I had to put my bare hand in the dryer and feel around for my missing sock. Believe you me, not even the Maytag repair man had ever seen a dryer so fierce..."

"...One car went past me, then another, then another. I looked both ways, then realized that I had my window of opportunity. I could see a station wagon in the distance, so I knew I had to act right then. I don't know what came over me- I guess you'd call it an adrenaline rush- but I walked right across that street without ever looking back. Needless to say, when I made it to the other side I was petrified, because the station wagon came zooming by where I had been standing just a few seconds earlier..."

"...I pushed as hard as I could, but couldn't get it to budge. Frantic, I turned the aspirin bottle over to read the instructions- maybe I was trying to open the wrong kind of cap? As it turns out, I was. It was one of those ones where you have to push the two tabs in on the side. Now, I don't know if you've ever tried to perform a precision operation such as this with a mild headache, but it is not pleasant..."

"...The sound was maddening, deafening almost. Fueled by the sort of crazed determination only experienced during fits of insomnia, I crept towards the bathroom, ready to do whatever it took to stop that toilet from running for the rest of the evening. The tile was cold on my bare feet- cold like death, but I had already turned on the lights so I could see what I was doing, and I sure as heck wasn't about to turn back after that..."

Erno Rubik Challenges The World

Behold! Look at what I, Erno Rubik, have created- A cube! A Rubik's cube! Tremble in fear, mere mortals, for your day of reckoning has come. What I hold in my hand may look like a simple child's toy- something you would give to a toddler to keep them occupied while you chat on the phone- but no! It is far more... Hidden behind this innocuously colored facade is a puzzle who's solution remains just beyond your grasp in perpetuity. The challenge is simple- arrange the panels of the cube such that each side is composed of a single color. But go on and try- I assure you that you will fail, for I, Erno Rubik, have created this cube and therefore only I, Erno Rubik, can tame this beastly puzzle! Cower before my cube, beg for mercy, and perhaps I shall grant it to you. Otherwise, fear my fiendish cube!

This cube is my payback to the world for having ostracized me for so many years. People fear what they do not understand. Therefore I, a man of exceeding intelligence, have been unwillingly made into a recluse due to years of being held at arm's length by the ignorant masses who could not fathom the depths of my brilliance no matter how hard they tried. As a boy, I was mocked and teased because I mastered arithmetic well before the other pupils in my class. The rest of the Hungarian children in my grammar school did not understand how I could grasp concepts such as multiplication tables or prime numbers so easily, and so they shunned me. Girls would not kiss me, for they thought me to be a vampyre who sucked people's brains to heighten my own intellect. By the time I was in college, professors refused to have me in their classes, for I would only complete homework assignments in a base-six numerical alphabet of my own design- and why shouldn't I? It is far more efficient than this clunky and cumbersome 26-lettered alphabet which you peons insist on using. Even today, as a full grown man, I have been forced to stop drawing blueprints for 7-dimensional buildings in order to keep my job as a professor of architecture. Well, I am tired of dumbing myself down for you all. That is why I have invented the cube.

Go on. Hold it in your hand. Do you not find the colors mesmerizing? Of course you do- I selected each hue myself, the wavelengths precisely tuned so as to cause maximum excitation in the visual cortex. Once you see it, you feel compelled to turn it over, to examine all sides of it. You are fascinated by it. Notice the disarray. The blues are not next to the blues! The reds are next to the whites! Yellow and green are scattered about like wildflowers in a cow pasture! What's that orange doing there? You are disgusted by it, yet somehow you cannot look away. A morbid curiosity possesses you. As you turn, slowly you begin to notice something- the cube is not some static representation of chaos. No no- far from, my friend. It turns about several axes, allowing you to move rows and columns of color about. You have control over this cube.

But you are no fool, are you? Aware of how unsurmountable a task it would be to try to align all six colors simultaneously, you decide to break this problem down into chunks. I'll start with the blues, you think. Already, you are defeated! The second you solve one side, you shall have to unsolve it to solve another, and then unsolve that side to solve yet another, and another, and another, and another! Your mind reels from the strain of it all- you have independently solved six colored sides of the cube, yet the cube on the whole remains unsolved to you! Staggering backwards from the force of it all, you assume that you are close to a complete solution, but you could not be further from the truth. Do you know why? You must solve each side simultaneously! But you can't! You must do so, but it is impossible to do so! What a condundrum! What a paradox! Not since Alexander the Great was presented with the Gordian knot has humanity been confronted by such an intractable problem!

...Or so it would seem. If Erno can do it, you think, why cant' I? Surely I am as clever as that Hungarian geek. Maybe you are- but there's only one way to find out. Pour yourself into my cube. Let the puzzle I have created capture your mind. For every second of my life that I have spent alone, pining for companionship, the rest of humankind shall spend an hour alone with my cube, consumed by it. Conversation will cease, as would-be socialites devote themselves to solving my fiendish puzzle, and the globe shall fall silent save for the gentle click-clacking of a billion cubes being rearranged in vain. You shall all be forced to become recluses as have I! I shall teach you to shun me! I shall have my revenge for each wedgie and wet willie I received as a child! Instead of being snubbed, I shall be revered as a god for I have created something that the mind of man can never hope to understand- the Rubik's cube!

Possible Uses For A Narwhal's Tusk

• If teamed up with another narwhal, two tusks may be used to knit narwhal scarves from colored yarn.
• If at a kabob party with a skewer shortage, the tusk may be used to spear delicious combinations of meat, peppers, and onions for narwhals to eat.
  
• If outfitted with a small paddle on the tip, the tusk may be used to flip pancakes at narwhal brunches without having to worry about being spattered by hot butter on the griddle.
• Narwhal tusks may not be used to pick up narwhal water balloons. That's just ridiculous.
• If a narwhal's frisbee is lodged in the branches of a tree, the tusk may be used to dislodge it.
• If trained as a geologist, a narwhal who can feel slight trembles in the earth's crust may use his tusk to etch out the intensity of these trembles on an ice floe, creating a rudimentary seismograph.
• If natural peanut butter has been purchased at a narwhal health food store, the tusk may be used to stir the oil back into the peanut butter so that it is easier to spread.
• If y=mx+(a narwhal's tusk), then a narwhal's tusk may be used to represent the y-intercept of a line in a Cartesian graphing system.

Film Noir Monologues In History: Archduke Franz Ferdinand Arrives In Sarajevo

Some days are better than others. Some days you're king of the world and folks can't line up fast enough to carry out your orders. Others, you're one of the folks. This was one of the others. I had been demoted from archduke to errand boy and sent to Sarajevo to babysit a few generals during some routine military exercises. Thing is, I was the wrong man for the job- I've never been a fan of calisthenics and I don't like changing diapers, but the fact that the situation had me unbalanced didn't enter in to the equation. I was playing second fiddle to the first chair back in Vienna, and the conductor didn't care whether or not I liked the tune so long as I kept the brass in line. Forced to play a piece I didn't care for, I did what any musician would do- I spent the entire trip down looking for some inspiration in the bottom of a bottle, but all I found was a hangover in two movements- a major headache and a minor ability to keep my breakfast down. Just my luck.

As if things weren't grim enough, I had heard it through the grapevine that a couple of bad apples were looking to set down roots of their own. A group of Serbs calling themselves 'The Black Hand' wanted a piece of the pie all for themselves. Problem was, it was sitting on Austria-Hungary's windowsill and we weren't about to let it go without a fight. If it did come to blows, we had Germany in our corner ready to knock out to whatever punch-drunk featherweight was foolish enough to step into the ring. The whole thing was a powder keg waiting to blow and The Black Hand seemed as though they couldn't wait to strike a match. I figured they figured that a fancy fella like Franz Ferdinand could be a fine fuse, so if it were up to me I'd lay low and let the policy do the talking. But it wasn't up to me- it was up to Vienna, so they sent me down to Sarajevo. Just my luck.

Sarajevo. I hate this place. Sarajevo was like a undercooked bratwurst. From a distance, it looked like something you might be able to cope with, but the second you dig your teeth in and break the surface you find enough blood to make your stomach turn. If Sarajevo were a person it'd be a ditzy dame with long legs and a cross to bear- pretty to look at, but beauty's only skin deep. And this day, this other day, Sarajevo wasn't even looking so pretty. I even did some sightseeing with a pair of beer goggles and still couldn't figure out for the life of me why the suits in Vienna cared about this place. Good thing I wasn't the one calling the shots, because I would have put Sarajevo in front of the firing squad long ago. At least the feeling was mutual- The Black Hand made sure to show me every hospitality, all the way from ominously anonymous death threats to a dagger in the door of my hotel suite. I don't get much of that in Austria, but I guess it's the little cultural differences that really make traveling worthwhile. A smaller man might have let the extra attention go to his head, but I saw the bigger picture and wasn't convinced that I was the star of the show. Not that you could tell from the way I was acting- tomorrow I'm going to the Sarajevo town hall for an official reception. Maybe I'll be lucky. Maybe it'll be one of the good days. Most likely it'll be one of the others. Maybe I'll be really lucky and some nut job will put me out of my misery so I don't have to spend another day here, but nah... I'm not that lucky.

Diary Of A Would-Be Gumshoe

November 18th, 1986
Dear Diary-

I did it! I'm so proud of myself. After a very arduous year of training at the prestigious ACME Detective Academy, I have graduated. The Chief handed me my badge and my papers today, so now I've got official 'Rookie' status. I've even got my first case, and it's a big one- some sticky fingered crook has nabbed the Eiffel Tower. Can you imagine? The Eiffel Tower! How did nobody see them take it? Oh well, I guess that's what I'm here for- to crack this case wide open! That's all for tonight. I've got to get to the airport, as I have to be in Paris tomorrow morning to start gathering clues.

November 20th, 1986
Dear Diary-

What a day! I landed in Paris last night and started looking for clues this morning. As soon as I walked into the sports club, a knife flew in front of my face and thudded into the wall next to me. I was scared silly, but when I phoned back to ACME to ask what was going on, they told me that it was probably just a V.I.L.E. henchman trying to scare me off the trail. Exciting, huh? Anyhow, I found out from the sports club that a suspicious person with blonde hair was asking about kayaking through fjords- initially, I suspected that my target might be headed to the northern countries, but i wasn't certain. Intrigued, I took my sleuthing to the library and found out that another suspicious person was "looking to travel to a country with "a red and blue cross flag." After consulting my World Almanac, I figured out that the crook is headed to Oslo, Norway, and now I'm in hot pursuit! Thank goodness I majored in geography as an undergrad, otherwise this job might be really taxing.

November 21st, 1986
Dear Diary-

V.I.L.E. must really be running scared, because when I got to the marketplace this morning, a gun popped out from behind a curtain and fired a shot at me. I should be laying low, but who can rest when there's so much sleuthing to be done? I went to the Oslo museum today. After asking the very friendly museum attendant if they had seen any suspicious blonde men, I found out that a blonde gentleman who arrived in a limo had been asking about "arthropods of the Sinai desert." Duh! He's going to Egypt. Just to be sure, I asked around the marketplace and found out that a blonde man who rode in a limo and had a tattoo was asking about "Nubian baskets," so off to Egypt I go. I'm going to go through our criminal dossiers on the plane and try to narrow down who my crook might be. Originally I thought it might have been Ertha Brute, but the suspect is a man. I also thought that it could be Nosmo King, but Nosmo King doesn't have a tattoo. I'll have to do some deep digging to get to the bottom of this one. I can't wait to arrest my first V.I.L.E. crook!

November 22nd, 1986
Dear Diary-

What an awful day. I feel like such a fool. I solved the case- I figured out that it was Ihor Ihorovich who stole the Eiffel Tower. His profile lined up exactly with the clues I collected, especially when an airport attendant in Cairo mentioned that a man traveling with a croquet set had been through just a few hours before me. I wasn't thinking straight- I knew that even just one arrest would get me promoted to Gumshoe status, and I rushed into it. I found out where Ihor Ihorovich was staying, so I went over there to slap a pair of handcuffs on him. Stupid me, I had forgotten to get a warrant from the Chief, so I couldn't search him for evidence, and I'm certain that if I had searched him I would have found the Eiffel Tower. Oh, the humiliation! I had Ihor Ihorovich in my sights and he slipped through my grasp, so now the good people of France have lost a monument. No matter. I'm going to learn from my mistakes. V.I.L.E. may have gotten away from me once, but they won't get away again. I'm going to nab them all. Someday, I'll even be the one to put Carmen Sandiego, their ringleader, behind bars. Heh- she'll have to trade in that red trench coat for a striped jumpsuit if I have anything to say about it! I think Chief knows how disappointed I was with the Eiffel Tower caper, because he's sending me out on another assignment next week. It looks like somebody's stolen the Empire State Building, and I'm guessing that V.I.L.E.'s fingerprints are all over it.

Wildebeest Wanderlust

Hey, other wildebeests- aren't you bored? I know I am. We've been grazing on this same stupid patch of grassland since November. I don't know about you gnus, but I'm really starting to go stir crazy. I've been going to the same stupid watering hole every night for months now, and I'm totally over it. Sure the weather's not too bad here, and there's plenty of cute Impalas to grunt at, but I just want a change of pace, you know? Call me crazy, but I say it's high time we did something fun and got out of this place. You know what that means... Road trip!!!

I've got everything all figured out, so hear me out on this. If we're going on a road trip, then we're going all out. Go big or go home, you know? Now, I'm not looking to forge lasting friendships with a couple of my closest buddies this summer. I'm looking to party all night, every night for the next few months, and I'm looking to do it on the move. We've got a chance to do something awesome with this road trip, so we had better do it right. For starters, we get a bunch of us together, and I mean a bunch. Like a million. Maybe a million and a half. No joke. But don't worry, recruiting the rest of the herd won't be hard at all- not once they hear that we're going to all the hottest wildebeest party locations! I'm talking Tanzania, Kenya, and, of course, Masai Mara, where all the hottest co-ed gnus go to get down! Woo! I don't know about you gnus, but I'm gonna Seren-get me some serious action with a she-debeest once we get there. After all, what happens in Masai Mara stays in Masai Mara.

Now, I know what you're thinking- you're worried about predators. Cheetahs, Lions, Hyenas... Sure, they'll be trying to harsh our mellow the whole trip, but you know what? I don't care. That's right. You know why? Because we're gonna travel in a huge herd. The more the merrier. If we just agree at the outset that everybody's got everybody else's back, then everybody's back is got by a million other everybodys. I've never met a carnivore who could take on a million wildebeests all by themselves, so what have we got to worry about? Yeah, we might lose a few of the sick or old to some of the more aggressive hunters out there, but truth be told, we'd lose just as many to river crocodiles if we stayed here at Ngorongoro. Besides, if we stay here any longer, we'll die of boredom, because there's no way we're gonna have as much fun here as we will on a road trip. Also, we'll be in a protected game reserve the entire time, so we won't even have to worry about poachers, and trust me- when you've got a hide that looks as good as mine, you've gotta worry.

So let's do it. Let's not mope around here for the rest of the year. Let's get out there and show Africa what we're made of. I say we go gnuts! Let's grunt and eat grass and stampede all night long until both of our toes on all four of our feet are sore. Let's charge at safari buses and veer off at the last second. Let's remember that we only have 20-25 years on this earth, and let's try to make this year the best one yet. And, most importantly- let's make sure that everybody on the Serengeti knows just one thing- we are not just another bunch of meek wildebeests. We're wildbeests. We're fungulates. We're awesome- and this road trip will be too.

Let's roll.

Having Survived A Harrowing Encounter With The Farmer's Wife, One Of The Three Blind Mice Has A Harrowing Encounter With His Own

I should have listened to my mother. When we were dating, she told me you were no good. I remember her exact words. She said, "That Justin is one of the dumbest mice I have ever met. If you marry him, you'll be sorry." And to think, to think that I stood up for you- because you were blind! "He's not dumb, momma," I said. "He's not dumb, he's just blind." Pfft. I should have known better. As if four years of marriage didn't already give my mother enough evidence for a lifetime of I-told-you-so's, now you decide to stay out late with your drinking buddies, come home in the morning without your tail, and claim that the farmer's wife attacked you with a carving knife, turning you into an amputee. I've never seen such a sight in my life.

I don't even know where to start. You were supposed to be home by eight o'clock yesterday to take care of the litter, and you weren't. Strike one. I have no problem with you going out for a drink with the boys after work once in a while, but I have book group the first monday of every month and I had to miss it this time around because you and your idiot friends were out painting the town red. I hope you're happy with yourself. How many times have I told you that Pat and Tim are nothing but trouble? Honey, I'm happy for you that you've found friends through the support group for blind mice that you joined, I really am. However, I am not happy in the least that those friends are boozehounds with bad ideas. I swear, I don't know what goes through that stupid little head of yours sometimes- like the time you three tried to run up that grandfather clock. The clock struck one, you all fell down, and I'm the one who had to spend two weeks lying to your boss on the phone every morning because you had broken your leg and couldn't go to work. I don't know how I put up with you.

So you're with your knucklehead boozehound friends, decide to ignore your duties at home, and stay out drinking all night instead. Two strikes, Justin, two strikes. But that wasn't enough, was it? Nooooo... It wouldn't have been enough for you just to come home late reeking of alcohol. You had to try to pull some dumb stunt before you got here, didn't you? Who's lamebrain idea was it to go into the farmhouse anyway? What did the three of you expect to accomplish there? Keep in mind that I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt in assuming that you had a plan at all. I wouldn't put it past the three of you to have run in there mindlessly just to say that you did it. Really, it doesn't matter what your plan was- even if you had the most noble of intentions, it is always an awful idea for three blind mice to chase after an armed human! It would be a bad enough idea if you weren't blind, but in your condition it is just inexcusable. You're lucky that she only cut off your tails! Oh, and by the way, how ridiculously inebriated were the three of you that she was able to slice off your tails so cleanly? Were you passed out when she found you? Your tail is not large, and carving knifes have never been regarded as precision instruments. I can only imagine what she thought when she found the three of you stumbling around in her kitchen. What an embarassment. You three are such stooges sometimes. I want to line you all up so that I don't have to waste the time slapping each of you individually- and don't think that Pat and Tim's wives are letting them get off any easier. I already spoke with Heather and Nora. We are all on the same page, and it is not a happy one, believe you me.

Let's recap, shall we? You forgot to come home. Strike one. You forgot to come home because you were out drinking with your idiot friends. Strike two. You forgot to come home because you were out drinking with your idiot friends, and because you were drunk you got your tail cut off with a carving knife. Strike three, Justin. You are in big trouble this time, do you hear me? I am fed up with this kind of behavior. You are staying home with the litter every night for the next month whether I am here or not, and you are not allowed to leave this mousehole for any reason other than to go to your job so that you can support your family. Can you understand that? Has your head stopped spinning enough for me to get through, or do I need to stamp it out in braille for you? Get out of here. Go wash up. It's bad enough that our children have to hear their father tell them that he lost his tail because he's an idiot, but I don't want them to have to endure your whiskey stink as well. And put some gauze on that tail stump of yours- it's just unsightly.

Romance On The Periodic Table

Beautiful Chlorine-

It is I, Sodium. Sodium, from the alkali metals. Chlorine, I do not mean to be forward, but I can keep my love for you a secret no longer. I adore you. I crave you. Now, I may not have the rank or stature of Neon, or Xenon, or any of the other noble gases, but keep in mind that I would never spurn you as they have. Nor will I harass you for ages only to use you to suit my own ends, as does Hydrogen, that loathsome lothario. He would bond to you and then discard you as soon as Hydroxide came back into his life, just as he has done to all of the other halogens. I wouldn't do that to you, Chlorine, for I know your true worth. I know what makes you react, and I know that sometimes you don't care for suitors; that you just want to be diatomic. I understand that. I would never force myself upon you, but I think that you and I could really make a marvelous salt together. When you ionize, you have the loveliest valence shell of any element, and any fool that can't see that isn't worthy of your company. I wish to bond with you, Chlorine, and I hope that you wish to bond with me, too.

Eagerly awaiting your reply,

Sodium

Dear Sodium-

Yes! Yes! Oh, sweet lord, a thousand times yes! Ever since I was a little girl, I have been hoping to form the sort of bond that I now know I can form with you. I've been through so many acidic relationships of late- Hydrochloric, Chloric, Perchloric- and I've hated them all. Never once have I felt that I could create something long lasting in those relationships. With you, fair Sodium, with you I feel that I can truly be appreciated. Together, we could make such a beautiful halite arrangement, our ions closely packed into small cubes as we snuggle electrostatically for years on end. Every element will be envious of our crystal lattices, and we shall never want for anything besides each other ever again! I love you, Sodium, and can't wait to bond with you. Meet me at my favorite restaurant, Erlenmyer's, on Saturday night at 6:00 pm sharp. I'll be wearing a cute little 1s²2s²2p⁶3s²3p⁵ configuration. I can't wait to see you!

xoxoxoxo

Chlorine :)

Hopes And Aspirations Of A Shopping Mall Santa

• To work up the courage to ask for a freebie from CinnaBon.
  
• To save up enough money to purchase an air-conditioned Santa suit.
• To spread more holiday cheer than the new SantaTron-2200, a kindly old automaton which has been putting more and more shopping mall Santas out of business in recent years.
• To grow enough facial hair before next season to not have to wear the standard issue monofilament beard, which is itchy.
  
• To learn the first and last names of all eight reindeer, thus proving to each and every doubting Thomas that they are indeed sitting on the one true Santa's lap.
  
• To remember to save dry cleaning receipts so that they can be written off as a work expenditure.
• To avoid repeating the "Ho ho ha" incident of December 16th, 1997, wherein a misplaced syllable of laughter was responsible for stampede of panicking holiday shoppers and garnished wages.
  
• To make it through all twelve days of Christmas without being urinated upon by a screaming child who "Just wants [his] mommy."

From The Mircroanalysis Archives: Hoop Goes It Alone

From the October 1st, 1956 edition of Microanalysis (which, at the time, was a series of single page postings on a corked bulletin board)

Listen, Stick- I have a lot of fun with you. I've always had a lot of fun with you. Everybody likes us together... I mean, Hoop & Stick- It's a classic combo. Rare is the lad who doesn't enjoy spending a warm summer's evening chasing me down the street as you flog me, giggling as I haphazardly clamber down a dirt road. As far as pastimes go, we're right up there with chasing fireflies and looking for frogs by a creek, as wholesome as wholesome gets... We have so much together, and yet... Ehh... I should just come out and say it- Stick, I'm breaking up with you.

Stick, please don't try to change my mind. This was in no way an easy decision for me to make, and I have not treated it lightly. I've spent many long hours laying on my side in the grass thinking about this... What our pairing has meant to both of us, what our options would be after this, and I really think that we're both better off alone. Now hear me out, Stick- I know that you're not clamoring to go back to stirring paint and being fetched, and I'm certainly not in any rush to go back to the barrel factory. Goodness knows I've put in enough hours there to last a lifetime. But, that's besides the point... I just need some time to myself, and I feel like I won't get it unless I do something drastic.

I can understand if you're upset, but please try to understand, Stick- it's not you. It's me. Hoop. I've been doing a lot of thinking lately, about who I am, what I want out of life, what I really want to be doing... And I realized that I didn't know. I didn't know. So then I started thinking about why I didn't know, and then it dawned on me that I never have any alone time. I'm always with you- not that that's a bad thing, but that's just how it is. Sure, we've been having a lot of fun, but when I look back at my life forty years from now, I want to be able to say more than just "I had a lot of fun." I want to have had some lasting effect on this world, and I don't feel like that's what I'm doing now. I want to do something really important, stick- I want to start a fad.

Sure, it may seem far-fetched, but I think that I can make a difference. I think that I can revolutionize the way children get their physical exercise. I can make it fun again. Why, if I were to challenge children to twirl me about their hips for as long as possible, I think they'd have so much fun that they wouldn't realize what a fantastic workout they were getting. Just imagine the looks on all their faces, getting fit and having fun all at once. I could make scores of children happy and healthy, Stick, happy and healthy.

Don't cry, Stick. There's a whole world of possibilities waiting for you once you're on your own. Maybe you could finally try to conduct the London Philharmonic. I know how much you enjoy music, so that would be a good fit for you. Perhaps you could learn how to become a slide rule and work for an architect. Ooh- or an engineer. Or for IBM. I could even see you doing something more rugged than that, if you wanted to- like sitting out in the woods, holding up a wooden crate with a string tied to your bottom, waiting to trap a rabbit. Or a skunk. But hopefully a rabbit. Really, Stick, you're so versatile I could see you doing a lot without me to hold you back. I wish only the best for you, Stick, I really do.

...Look, I've got to get going. I've got a marketing meeting with Wham-O! in an hour that I've got to prepare for. But to show you there's no hard feelings, why don't we go down the hill one last time? For old time's sake. And then, when I get to the bottom, I'll just keep on rolling. Just keep on rolling... Let's do it, Stick- there couldn't be a more fitting goodbye.

Receiving Word Of A Picnic In The Vicinity, An Ant Strategist Delineates His Colony's Plan Of Attack

Worker ants! I have released a level four food alarm pheromone, so gather up! Word has come in from one of our scouts that a small group of humans is picnicking a few meters due west of our current position. While these Sunday lunchers are clearly within our territory, you know as well as I that the red ants will gladly seize the opportunity to plunder the picnic for themselves if we do not act now, so time is of the essence. Luckily for us, the humans aren't yet aware of our presence, giving us the advantage of being able to stage a surprise attack.

The picnic blanket is laid out into four distinct quadrants. The first, in the northeast corner, is composed primarily of hors d'ouevres- crackers, various cheeses, and pitted olives. There will most likely be enough crumbs to feed the entire colony, but do not let these easy spoils of war distract you. A crumb may be able to feed you and your closest kinsmen for a few days, but if we exercise restraint, we may be able to rest tonight with larders full enough to last through the coming winter. The second quadrant, in the southeast corner, is rumored to be mostly side dishes. This is where you will find the potato sald, cole slaw, corn chips, cheese puffs, and pretzels. If you get separated from the rest of the pack, avoid this area. Once they begin to eat, there will most likely be a flurry of human activity in this region, particularly around the bags of chips. We do not want some human who just needs a few chips with his sandwich to see some lollygagging ant strolling by the pretzels and blow the alarm on us all. Any individual found doing so will be censured, and then beaten about the thorax with stiff blades of grass. I mean it.

The remaining two quadrants are what interest us the most- the sandwiches and desserts. These are where we shall concentrate the whole of our forces. Our scout has reported that there is an oversized submarine sandwich in the northwest and scads of cookies and cupcakes in the southwest. Now, the humans will be expecting us to go after the cookies and cupcakes first- so we will not. Or, at least, we won't let them think that we will. I am going to split you into two attacking forces who shall flank the western half of the picnic blanket to the north and south. The first squad, which will be significantly smaller than the second, shall make a direct attack on the oversized submarine sandwich. Do not attempt to be stealthy about this, as it is of the utmost importance that the humans see you- we want them to think that we are concentrating our attack from the north. Crawl upon their hands and legs if you must, but see to it that each of you are noticed. If you can make your numbers appear double or triple what they actually are, then half the battle is already won.

While our first squad has the humans distracted, our main force shall come in stealthily from the south and lay into the desserts. If my calculations are correct, a team of fifteen ants ought to be sufficient to carry away a cookie, and thirty ought to suffice for a cupcake. There will be several hundred of us, so if we work smart we ought to make out like bandits. Once we abscond with the sweets, the humans will surely notice us. Hopefully, they will not try to salvage any desserts we have already taken, but they will certainly prevent us from grabbing more. First squad, this is when you shine. The humans' attentions will have been diverted towards us in the south, leaving you free in the north to carry away sandwich crusts and scraps of lunchmeat. At this point, if you are not already in a primary team helping to carry home a larger food item, then grab whatever you can from the hors d'ouevres and the sides and hurry back to the colony. The humans won't know what hit them.

Now go! We have wasted precious time here already, and the red ants may have already begun to take the food which is rightfully ours. Go forth, worker ants! Go forth and steal every last morsel you can find. Remember, your survival as an individual pales in comparison to the survival of the colony, so be not afraid to sacrifice yourself for its glory. Now, let us apart without further ado and turn the humans' idyllic luncheon into a smorgasbord- for ants!

8th Grader Albert Simms Proofreads An Essay

Aaaaand... There- I've finished my first draft. Mrs. Parker's really been on my case about my homework lately, so this essay's gotta be top notch. After the fiasco with my essay about the food web, I really need to pull out the ol' razzle-dazzle here. Gonna proofread and everything. Seriously. I can't risk having her call home to my parents. That would totally suck. That'd make me the mayor of Sucksburgh, U.S.A... God... If mom and dad knew how close I was to flunking 8th grade science, they'd never let me out of the house, and then what would that do to my relationship with Sarah? We're supposed to go to the Winter Ball next weekend. She said she might even let me get to second base. Might let me get to second base! Finally! Oh, man... If I mess this essay up, I might not ever get the chance to go to second base again. I'd have to become a monk or something... I don't wanna be a monk. Uncle Ted's a monk, and he's creepy as hell. There's no way I'm letting this go down like that. No way, man- this is gonna be the best essay on photosynthesis that Mrs. Parker's ever seen. First revision, here I come.

Okay, start with the title. A good title will make a good first impression on Mrs. Parker, and then I'll be able to coast the rest of the way. Let's see what I wrote down here...

Photosynthesis: How Plants Eat

Hrrrm... Not the most creative title I've ever put on an essay, but I guess that it's not so bad. It sums up the content of the essay pretty well, and saves me the trouble of a laborious introductory paragraph. After all, I've only got 300 words to work with here. Moving on:

Photosynthesis is that thing that plants do to convert sunlight into energy, or something. It's probably pretty important, since the textbook's got an entire chapter devoted to it. I think it's also part of why broccoli is so good for you.

Well, that's gonna have to get changed for the second draft... I don't disagree with any of these statements, but there's gotta be a better way to put this. If I'm going to really win Mrs. Parker over, then I can't just stumble through this essay on photosynthesis leaving a scattered trail of facts in my wake. Maybe I should invest in a thesaurus. Of course, a thesaurus probably costs twenty bucks. Screw that. I need batteries for my Wii controller. I'll just try to stay awake more often during English class. I can make up for the lost sleep during Algebra instead. I already know how to do math with numbers, so why am I learning it all over again with letters? Eighth grade is so lame.

This textbook is pretty boring to read, but according to the glossary at the end of the chapter, glucose is "an energy-rich molecule generated via photosynthesis." It's also in the grape soda I'm drinking, presumably because grapes are plants. I can't believe this stuff costs a dollar a can at the cafeteria if plants are making it for free.

Oh man... This stream of consciousness stuff would be great if this were a creative writing assignment, but this is hardly the place for it. This is a science essay. Mrs. Parker says there's no "I" in science, so I definitely can't be in this essay drinking grape soda. I'm gonna have to put a lot of time in on this second draft... Maybe I should call Sarah and tell her I'll be at the food court Sbarro's at seven instead of six... I don't wanna have her be all mad at me before Winter Ball next weekend. Second base, Albert, second base. Keep your eye on the prize.

There's a fantastic diagram about photsynthesis in the textbook on page 82 that could really explain everything better than I ever could. I'm not good at writing essays. Really, if I ever turn in a good essay, you can bet that it's been plagiarized. A lot of the bad ones are plagiarized, too. I guess I'm not good at plagiarizing essays, either. If I ever turn in a good essay, I've probably paid off a nerd to plagiarize it for me.

No! Sweet crap, what was I thinking? I can't turn this in! This doesn't even have anything to do with photosynthesis! This is just a flat out confession! I must really be slipping to write something like this. I should proofread more often... Who knows how many assignments like this I've turned in?!? Oh man, Mrs. Parker's gonna kill me- which I guess means that my parents couldn't ground me, which is good, but it definitely means I'd die without getting to second base with Sarah, which is bad. This is awful. This couldn't get any worse.

Hey Mrs. Parker- everybody in class calls you "Mrs. Porker" behind your back because you're fat. Also, I'm the one who started the whole oinking thing, and I've long considered the "bacon on the chair" routine to be one of my signature moves. Oh, and I'm the one who draws pigs on the whiteboard from time to time.

AUGH! It got worse!

In conclusion...

Well, that's promising. Maybe I won't have to rewrite the conclusion, at least.

...I wet my bed last night and then was so embarrassed about it when I realized what had happened that I cried myself back to sleep in a puddle of pee-pee and tears.

THAT IS NOT A CONCLUSION- THAT IS A SECRET!!! I WASN'T GOING TO TELL ANYBODY ABOUT THAT! Besides, even if I did, I wouldn't use the phrase "puddle of pee-pee!" What the hell, me? Huh? What the hell? You had one goal, me, and that was to not screw this essay up, and you blew it. Now you're gonna get grounded forever, Sarah's gonna go to Winter Ball without you, and Uncle Ted's gonna try to give you another "ABCs Of Celibacy" pamphlet. Home run, Albert, home run. This essay is so screwed up that Strunk & White themselves couldn't save it. I'm gonna have to rewrite the entire thing from scratch, and I don't have time to do that! Urgh... I'm so frustrated... I tried to do this right, I really did. I tried to put thought into this essay. I tried to proofread and to revise, and I've foiled myself every step of the way. Ehhh.... Maybe Mrs. Parker was right: "I" shouldn't be writing this essay- that's what nerds are for.

Rumplestiltskin's Parents Debate What To Name Their New Born Child

Mom: No, no, no... Those all sound too ordinary. How about we name the baby... Something like... Rumplestiltskin?

Dad: That's insane. No way.

Mom: Oh, c'mon, Gregor... Don't you think 'Rumplestiltskin Pumpernickel' has a certain ring to it?

Dad: You've got to be kidding me. 'Rumplestiltskin Pumpernickel'? It's not bad enough that the kid's been born a dwarf, but now you want his name to be 'Rumplestiltkin Pumpernickel'?

Mom: There's nothing wrong with being a dwarf, lower your voice.

Dad: Linda, I'm not saying that there's anything wrong with being a dwarf, but the poor kid's gonna get teased for it. If we know he's already gonna get teased, why do we want to give his would-be teasers more ammunition by naming him 'Rumplestiltskin'?

Mom: I think it's a handsome name.

Dad: It's a ridiculous name. There could not be a less handsome name than 'Rumplestiltskin.' It sounds like the noise a horse makes when it collapses from exhaustion. What about Edgar? I thought we liked the name Edgar.

Mom: Yeah, but 'Edgar Pumpernickel'? It just sounds so haughty, so arrogant. I don't want anybody to think our child lourds himself over anybody.

Dad: Fine. What about Ryan?

Mom: 'Ryan Pumpernickel' sounds more like some sort of baguette than a little boy.

Dad: Ok... James?

Mom: 'James Pumpernickel' just doesn't sound right. Not like 'Rumplestiltskin Pumpernickel' does...

Dad: Alexander?

Mom: That sounds like a sissy's name, and you're the one who's already so worried about him getting picked on for being a dwarf. I think 'Rumplestiltskin' sounds rugged. Because of the rrr at the beginning, probably.

Dad: Ehhh... The rest of the menfolk in the village are never gonna let me live this down, you know.

Mom: So we can call him Rumplestiltskin?

Dad: ...Yes.

Mom: Oh, I'm so happy! I'm so happy about our baby boy!

Dad: I am, too, Linda, I am, too.

Mom: Oh, I can't wait to get him home... I'm going to teach him how to work a spinning wheel, so he can grow up to be a big, strong, seamstress!

Dad: I'm never gonna be able to show my face at the tavern again.

The Memorial Day Agenda Of A Raincloud

Oh boy- looks like a nice day out, huh? Partly sunny, not too hot. About 75 degrees. Breezy. Seems like this Memorial Day parade's gonna go off without a hitch, doesn't it? I can hear the Fairfield High School marching band warming up- they sound great. I could listen to them play Louie, Louie all day long. And the Shriners down there, in their fezes and their tiny cars- boy, they sure are amusing, aren't they? Hard to believe they raise money for burn victims, but they do. Oh, and there are the Girl Scouts, all lined up with flags painted on their cheeks- adorable. Yep, oughtta be a pretty great parade. Too bad I'm gonna rain on it.

Yeah, that's right. I'm gonna rain on your parade. Don't like it? Tough. I'm a cumulonimbus cloud, buddy boy, so what are you gonna do about it? That's right. Nothing. I could open up and turn on the waterworks whenever I want to. Heck, I could start raining right now. I could start a torrential downpour right here and now and stop the parade before it starts. Everybody from the VFW guys in the vintage Jeeps to the Revolutionary War Reenactment Guild would get completely hosed, and the parade would be called off before anybody even made it to Main St. Throngs of lawnchair bound spectators would scatter like roaches when you turn on the kitchen light. Yeah, that would be somethin', but it ain't nothing compared to what I got planned for this parade.

First, I'm gonna hover in the distance- just like I'm doing now, but I won't do anything. I just want to let everybody know that I'm here. Maybe I'll let loose with a little thunder rumble or something, I dunno. I want everybody to be anxious when the parade starts. I want every man, woman, and child to glance up just once while they're enjoying their oversized pretzels and think to themselves: "Boy, I hope that raincloud holds off." I like to give people hope, so that I can crush it. I'll let the parade start. It looks like you've got the fixin's for a pretty long parade here- I'd say hour and a half, two hours, judging by the amount of floats and marching bands I can see from up here. I think I'll wait about twenty minutes- just long enough for the parade to start- and then I'll move in and block out the sun. No rumbles, no rain just yet. More fear. Less hope. It's a balancing act, really.

Once the mood is right- I don't know how long it'll take, but I'll know when it is- then I'll start in with the drizzles. Not too much water, though. This is a delicate stage, because I don't want to chase anybody away just yet. Some finesse is required here. I'll drizzle a little, then stop for awhile, maybe even let some sunshine through. The drizzle can't be too light, because it has to be annoying enough to make people consider leaving, but not so bad that they can't justify staying. I might make it a little heavier in some places, 'cause I want just a few people to leave so that when I let up everybody who stayed can feel proud that they didn't chicken out and go home. That pride will be their downfall. I don't take too kindly to hubris.

By that point, most of the floats will be in motion. The bands will have started marching, and every weeblo from here to Greenwich will be walking through the streets, waving at their family and throwing candy to their friends. If I've done my job right, the atmosphere will be jubilant, because everybody will think that they have weathered the storm. Little do they know that the storm hasn't started yet. I'll let loose with a thunderclap to start. Remind them that I'm here. And then, I'll unload. It's gonna be torrential. Folks are gonna think that they're in the middle of a hurricane, and they might as well be. I'm gonna make big fat droplets that get them wet, then mix in a bunch of tinier ones that sting when they hit bare skin. I'll bring the wind up to make them cold, and maybe even throw in a little hail for effect. I'll bring everything to a roaring crescendo, and chaos will ensue.

Ha ha! I can barely contain myself! Imagine- blue haired ladies carrying potato salad running for cover, children's cotton candy melting in the rain, countless backyard potlucks and barbeques washed out! A dozen paper mache floats will become sodden and droop under their own weight until they are but crude imitations of the patriotic themes they once embodied, and the streets will run red, white, and blue with tempera paint. And then, once the mayor and his wife have fled from their booth in front of town hall, and the majorette's batons are too slippery to spin and toss, I'll let up. When all hope for a parade is lost, and the parade route has been evacuated, then I'll let up and drift away. Just like that. It'll be like I was never even here. For years, they'll talk about how this parade was ruined and pray that it does not happen again. That will by my legacy. Fear. Raw, naked, parade-oriented fear.

Oh- what's that I hear in the distance? Sounds like fanfare. That parade must be starting up. Time to get into position. But before I go, I wanted to let you know something- there's not a damned thing that you can do to stop me. Happy Memorial Day.

Customer Service Survey Regarding All The King's Horses And All The King's Men, As Completed By Humpty Dumpty

Dear Mr. Dumpty-

It has come to the attention of All The King's Horses And All The King's Men that you have recently contacted our help center. It is our goal to provide first class service to our customers. Please help us serve you better by taking just a few minutes to fill out the following questionnaire. As always, we appreciate your business.

Thank you,

All The King's Horses And All The King's Men customer service team

1. Is this your first time contacting All The King's Horses And All The King's Men customer service?
Yes

2. Were our customer service representatives professional and courteous? (If 'no,' please explain)
Yes

3. Did our customer service representatives understand your problem? (If 'no,' please explain)
Yes

4. Were our customer service representatives able to solve your problem? (If 'no,' please explain)
No- I am an egg-man from Worcestershire who fell off a wall and cracked himself. In need of aid, I called All The King's Horses And All The King's Men to put me back together again, and they were unable to do so.

5. Was the transaction handled to your satisfaction? (If 'no,' please explain)
No- I am now a broken egg-man. There is nothing satisfactory about this situation.

6. Would you recommend All The King's Horses And All The King's Men customer service to your friends? (If 'no,' please explain)
No- The fellows who came to my aid, while polite and proper, were wholly inexperienced in the field of egg-mending, and all I needed was to be mended. I can only assume that their ignorance regarding this matter is indicative of a larger ignorance which plagues All The King's Horses And All The King's Men as a corporation at large. Also, I did not have many friends to start with, and the friends that I did have now feel uncomfortable around me because I am constantly leaking either yolk or albumen through the myriad cracks and fissures in my carapace.

7. Overall, how would you rate your experience with All The King's Horses And All The King's Men customer service?
Very poor- Whereas I had once been a proud egg-man, I am now a hobbled and leaky parody of my former self. Had All The King's Horses And All The King's Men been more knowledgable, I may not have had to suffer this cruel fate.

8. We appreciate any additional comments you may have regarding our customer service.
Get bent.

All The King's Horses And All The King's Men would like to thank you for taking the time to complete this questionnaire. Feel free to call our customer service helpline at 1-800-KING-MEN (1-800-5464-636) if you would like to discuss your issue further.

Time Travel Pranks Volume One: Deja-Vu

Deja-Vu

Walk into a bar. Make direct eye contact with the bartender, but say nothing. Leave the bar so that the bartender cannot see your exit, either through a back door or bathroom window. Make note of the exact date and time at which you entered the bar, and also of what you are wearing. For the next twenty years, travel back in time to that same day and enter the bar one minute later than you entered the year before, wearing the same outfit. If properly executed, the bartender will see twenty versions of you, each slightly older than the last, walk past and nod him hello, over the course of twenty minutes. For added effect, come back to the bar 21 minutes after your initial visit and order a beer. Act like nothing has happened, and staunchly deny that you have been in the bar before. If your future self was committed enough, the bartender's mind will be blown.

Creating A Paradox

Perform the Deja-Vu prank as outlined above. If the bartender's mind is blown when you reenter the bar at the 21st minute, indicating a dutiful and time-travelling future you, destroy your time travel device right then and there, thus rendering full completion of the prank impossible. Sit back and relax as spacetime itself is rent asunder by the power of your intentions.

Saul Kripke's Christmas List

To all interested parties,

I₁ would be happy to receive any of the following items₂ as Christmas gifts:

• A tweed jacket with leather elbow patches₃
  
• A new carrying case for my spectacles₄
  
• The Construction Of Social Reality, by John Searle₅
  

Gifts which are not on this list will also be appreciated₆, perhaps even moreso.

Pleasant tidings to you all,

-Saul₇

¹My previous stances on the nature of the first person pronoun notwithstanding herein, I shall use it here to refer to "I," Saul Kripke, the fellow writing "I," as opposed to "I," the reader who is reading this utterance of "I." Inasmuch as this is the traditional usage of the pronoun, this ought not require further elucidation on my part herein. The matter was given extensive analysis in my January 2006 lecture entitled "The First Person." Although at some point in the future a transcript of the content of the lecture may become available, I will not be penning any works on the matter myself.

²Of course, the "following items" are in name only, for if I already possessed the items ennumerated below, then it would be foolhardy for me to ask for duplicates thereof for the holiday. Keep in mind as well, that I would like to receive the items which are rigidly designated by the linguistic constructions below. As amused as I would be unwrapping a near-perfect recreation of my christmas list, I will be just as dissapointed, if not moreso.

³Please see to it that the item purchased in response to this request is a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows made of leather. Despite the linguistic ambiguities present within, this statement does not refer to a tweed jacket with patches designed for leather elbows, nor does it refer to a tweed jacket with patches made from leather elbows, whatever a leather elbow may be. To my knowledge, these things can be referred to in name only, as they do not currently exist, but I would rather not have anybody go through the potentially grisly ordeal of constructing them on my behalf.

⁴The desired carrying case need not be custom-made for my spectacles. It need only be spacious enough to accomodate them, yet snug enough that they will not jostle within, scratching my prescription lenses. Should such a case be purchased, I will be overjoyed. However, I feel that such a purchase would be overkill (in the metaphoric sense of the term), and that I would not want for any of my family or acquaintances to feel it necessary to purchase such an elaborate gift to placate me.

⁵There is nothing John's book could teach me that I a) don't already know, or b) couldn't learn on my own, but I told him at our last meeting that I would endeavor to acquire a copy, and this saves me the embarassment of having to purchase it at the CUNY campus bookstore.

⁶Although not stated outright, it should be evident that I, the receiver of the gifts, will be the one doing the appreciating. Although other people might also appreciate receiving gifts which are not listed herein, their satistfaction is not the concern of this list. While I do wish all those who are not me the best of holiday seasons and good cheer, I would like to remind the reader to keep focused on the task at hand: my christmas gifts.

⁷Kripke

Jellyfish Of The Old West

So, you wanna know how I lost my tentacles, do ya? Well, I'll tell you. I remember it like it was yesterday... I was sittin' right about here, in front of Thomas' General Store. Of course, back in those days I warn't in no rockin' chair, no sir- I was a young polyp back then. I had a nematocyte on my hip and a chip on my shoulder- I was out to show the world that there warn't no jellyfish in the entire sea who was tougher 'n me. I was young, then. Unseasoned. I thought I knew what tough was, but I didn't know tough from a hole in the ground. But that day, I learned what tough was. The hard way.

Now, the feller who drifted into town didn't talk much, but then again, he didn't need to. As soon as the outline of his pneumatophore showed up over the horizon, every planula and medusa in the town went running for cover. Heck, even the sheriff ducked into his office and locked the door. The bartender, the stablehands, the barber- they all hid. But not me. I was too stupid to be scared, and too proud to ask what was going on. Dumb and defiant, I leaned against this here general store, tentacles out, practically begging for a fight. Well, I got one.

See, what you can't tell about a Portuguese Man O'War when you see one for the first time is how darned big they are. A lot of folks used to think they were plain old jellyfish, just like you, me, and everyone you know. But let me tell you- that ain't the case. Those things are siphonophores- gigantic colonies of little critters, you see? That means that they're a hundred times bigger and a hundred times meaner than any feller can be on his own, and they ain't afraid to prove it, neither. That hulking hydrozoan drifted right up to me- I was the only fool left out in the open- and before I could open the orifice that I use both for feeding and the extrusion of waste, that sucker stung me six ways past sunday. He pumped my mesoglea so full of venom that I was paralyzed. Normally, I'd have fired a couple stinging nettles of my own right back at him, but my primitive nervous system had almost completely shut down. He left me just alive enough that I'd have to watch as he began to digest me, but not so alive that I could do anything about it. It was terrible.

I sat there, ocelli transfixed on the gruesome sight before me. I watched the bastard bluebottle as he ate my first tentacle. Then another. Then another. I thought I was done for, and you can imagine that I was really kicking myself for being so arrogant and naive. But then, salvation came. Now, I ain't much of a religious jelly- I never took well to no churchin' and I never felt possessed by the spirit- but when I saw that sea turtle rear up behind that dirty ol' Man O'War, I felt like throwing my remaining tentacles in the air and singing "hallelujah!" In one swift move, that turtle snatched my attacker up in his beak, flapped a flipper and took off. I was stunned- mostly from the huge amounts of venom in me, but also from how suddenly everything had happened.

Later on, everybody would talk about how brave I was, that I had stood my ground against a Portuguese desperado, and no matter how much I protested that without that turtle I would have been done for nobody would listen. Pretty soon, everybody all but forgot about that turtle, and I had become the hero of the day- but I would never forget. I've got these here stubby tentacles to remind me. So let this be a lesson to you, young feller- as tough as you think you are, there's always gonna be somethin' out there that's tougher than you. Now then- hand me that glass of lemonade and I'll tell you about the time a smack of marauding moon jellies rolled into town. I remember it like it was yesterday...

A Bovine Suicide Note

Goodbye, cruel herd! Soon I, Mortimer, the pathetic cow you have all mocked and scorned for so long, will leave this place forever. At noon today, I am going to wander down to the railroad tracks and lie down, waiting for the 12:16 express train from Bloomington to put me out of my misery once and for all. For years, I have searched for friends on every pasture where I graze, and for years I have been hated by herefords, giggled at by guernseys, and booed by black angus bulls. Even humans do not like me! Having reached my wit's end I stood in line at a slaughterhouse, waiting eagerly to shake loose this mortal coil, and I was turned away! I was singled out by the human overlord and sent back to the fields from whence I had come, sentenced to sullenly skulk my days away in the very pastures who's rejection had pushed me to seek the sweet release of death in the first place. Oh, cruel fate! Why have you tested me so? Why is it that my udders produce only curds? Why is it that no matter how much cud I chew I remain gaunt and sickly looking? Why do I have the unfortunate dishonor of having not one, not two, but three penis shaped splotches on my hide? Why??? Fare thee well, awful pastures, and fare thee well, horrible herd- I am off to a better place, just as soon as the 12:16 express train from Bloomington comes screeching down those tracks. I pray to all that is holy that the humans have not divined some way for a train to catch a cow, for if they have I know not what I'll do.

Sincerely,

Mortimer Abondance

P.S. I've left my bell, which only clanks out the theme from "The Twilight Zone," so that my memory shall always haunt you.

The Wright Brothers Politely Defer To One Another

Orville: Really, Wilbur, stop this silly bickering and get in the aeroplane. You're the older one here- it makes sense that you should have the esteemed privilege of being the first one to fly this aeroplane that we've constructed.

Wilbur: It is an esteemed privilege, Orville, and what sort of older brother would I be if I took it away from you? When we were growing up, mother and father always said to look after you and keep your best interests in mind. I can think of no better way to honor their wishes than to allow you to be the one to usher in this new age of aviation.

Orville: I'm flattered, brother, truly I am- but I can imagine no crime greater than taking this honor away from you. What have I ever done to deserve the distinction of being the first man to pilot this rickety glider?

Wilbur: Your hard work and determination are the glue that hold this ramshackle plane together, Orville. In many ways, this tumbledown flying contraption is yours alone, as should be the pleasure of being the first person to take it airborne.

Orville: Wilbur, you are too modest. It is true that I helped a great deal in the construction of this run-down aircraft, but without your blueprints and your logical-sounding yet insofar untested and therefore unreliable concepts about aeronautics, I would still be repairing bicycles back in Dayton. You first. I insist.

Wilbur: No. My modesty fails me now, brother, in the light of your argument. I am crucial to the fledgling field of aeronautics, and any injury I sustained would be not only an injury to myself, but also an injury to the 20th century. Inasmuch as I am too important to risk my life in this unsound aerial apparatus, you should be the first.

Orville: Point noted, but if your body were injured when this dubious device of ours crashed, your mind and your ideas would still be intact. Aeronautical engineering would experience hardly any delay in it's development. On the other hand, if I were to be involved in some sort of crash, and these hands were to become useless, who would rebuild the plane?

Wilbur: Brother, be not too haughty- I would mend the craft.

Orville: Would you, brother? These hands...

Wilbur: Were taught everything they know by this mind. A mind, which I might add, is not going to risk itself by being the first to climb into winged craft made of wood and paper which contains a combustion engine. Get in.

Orville: Hrm... Wouldn't mother be sad if I were injured?

Wilbur: Maybe, but not as sad as she'd be if I were injured. Now hurry up and get in before the wind dies down. I don't trust this thing to stay in the air without a strong wind.

Orville: What was that last part?

Wilbur: Nothing. Have a safe flight, and try to steer for a dune if you begin to fall.

The To-Do List Of A Poltergeist

Photo courtesy of Central Louisiana Paranormal Society (CLaPS)

The Bittersweet Experience Of Unwrapping A Knockoff Play-Doh Extruder On Christmas Morning

Oh. How nice. A Fun-Doh extruder. Merry Christmas to me. As if Play-Doh wasn't cheap enough, mom and dad somehow managed to find a Fun-Doh toy for me. This box looks like it's been sitting at the bottom of a dollar store bargain bin for a few years. I wonder if the smiling Bulgarian boy on the label had anything to do with that. Check the unibrow on that guy. Ok, they're watching... May as well open her up and take a look at what we've got here... Oh good. I'll be able to extrude a waxing gibbous moon shaped snake with this. Or a circle. Or... oh no, that's it. Just two choices. Waxing gibbous moon or circle. And look, this Fun-Doh comes in three fun colors: chartreuse, ochre, and salmon. I didn't even know salmon was a color. I certainly didn't know it was a fun color. Thanks, mom and dad. Thanks for this knockoff Play-Doh extruder. Merry Christmas.

I guess I should be happy. I could have gotten no extruder at all. This way, at least I can talk with the rest of the kids in my kindergarten class about extrusion. That's a good thing, I guess. I'll just have to make sure I don't slip and mention that I've got a Bulgarian extruder at home. I'm sure this thing works pretty much the same as a Play-Doh extruder would. Just stuff the Fun-Doh in here and- ugh... Sweet crap, this stuff is greasy. Pungent, too. It smells like a gas station. What's in this stuff anyhow? ...Water, ochre dye #40, rice flour... Oh, there it is. Gasoline. Leaded gasoline. Great. I'll have to remember that next time my big wheel needs a tune-up.

Who am I kidding? This is awful. I've been playing with this stupid knockoff extruder for five minutes and I smell like a full serve attendant's grease rag. Chances are I've already absorbed enough lead into my system to have screwed my chances of ever getting anything beyond a bachelor's degree in sociology. What am I gonna do if my mom invites someone over for a playdate? If it's sunny, I'll be okay. We'll go out to the swingset in the backyard and that'll be the end of it, but what if it rains? Mom always makes me do arts & crafts when it rains, and, sadly, Fun-Doh extrusion falls into that category. What then? Even if I feign boredom- as if I would need to feign it when Fun-Doh is inolved- my guest might be fooled by the Fun-Doh packaging, and think that we have been presented with Play-Doh. I'll be mortified when he sinks his hand into this greasy doh. He'll pause, look at me, remove his hand, and our friendship will end the second his mother comes to retrieve him for dinner. As will my five-year old social life. I'll become a laughingstock.

Maybe it's not all that bad. I should stop worrying about the future so much and focus more on the present. I'm not so blinded by brand-recognition that I can't enjoy knockoff extruding on my own. Really, when you get down to it, stripped of all the advertising and the jingles and all the marketing, one doh extruder is as good as another. I've just got to try to have a good time. There's nothing wrong with Fun-Doh. Well, the colors aren't great. And I'm not too keen on this gritty, greasy texture. Or the smell. Or the social stigma that I'll have to cope with once word leaks out that I spend my free time handling a mixture of rice flour and leaded gasoline with my bare hands. Calm down- live in the now. Move on to the next gift. I'll worry about all this Fun-Doh stuff later. For the time being, I'm just going to open another present and try to enjoy my Christmas morning.

Oh good. A SpongeBiff ShortShorts DVD. And it's encoded for region six, so I can't even watch it. Mom, Dad, really- you shouldn't have.

Practical Uses For Super Powers: Reed Richards (a.k.a. Mr. Fantastic)

After surviving bombardment by comic rays, Reed Richards was granted the ability to stretch and distort his body. Here are some practical uses for this amazing power:

• Changing lightbulbs in hard to reach places
  
• Sticking his head up to look for acquantainces in large crowds (and to be seen by said acquaintances)
  
• Extending his legs slightly, thus increasing his stride and walking speed
  
• Reaching into vending machines to procure snacks free of charge
  
• Expanding lung walls, to increase oxygen intake and thus athletic endurance
  
• Forming into a thin sheet and riding wind currents around town to help reduce CO₂ emissions
  
• Slightly changing size to make clothes which don't quite fit fit well
  

A Cetacean Fairy Tale

nce upon a time, in the ancient seas of the world, there lived a pod of humpback whales. The whales all lived in harmony, singing happy whale songs to one another and blowing great spouts of water from their blowholes when they surfaced for air. For many years the whales lived this way, but the year in which our story takes place was a particularly happy year, for one of the whales, Brisbane, was pregnant with a calf. Her and her mate Lawrence were overjoyed because they had had such difficulty conceiving a child in previous years that they feared it would never happen. As is the way with all pregnant humpbacks, Brisbane's appetite grew, for now she was eating not only for herself but for her unborn calf as well. Lawrence would help all that he could, dutifully collecting for her all the capelin and herrings he could find. One day, however, Brisbane was struck with a desire for krill. There was krill nearby, but it was forbidden. The krill belonged to an old, lone humpback named Eutheria who's pod had abandoned her years ago because she was a sea-witch. Every whale in the sea, from the Sei to the Blue, knew and feared Eutheria, for it was rumored that she was so powerful that not even Architeuthis, the giant squizard of the deep, was able to subdue her. Regardless, Brisbane's craving for krill was so dire that her health began to wane, and Lawrence feared both her and the unborn calf would die unless he were able to procure some. Under cover of night, he snuck up to Eutheria's krill garden, broke through her bubble netting, and took some krill to bring back to Brisbane. Sure enough, Brisbane's health improved, thus emboldening Lawrence to try and steal some krill the next night as well. Again, Lawrence snuck into Eutheria's krill garden and brought some back for Brisbane. Surely the krill had been enchanted, for now Brisbane was more lively and energetic than ever. So thrilled was he to see his mate in such high spirits that Lawrence decided he would try once more to fetch her some krill. On the third night, however, just as Lawrence was approaching Eutheria's krill garden, Eutheria appeared behind him. She was as displeased with Lawrence as a sea-witch can be, and threatened to kill his entire pod as punishment. Lawrence pleaded for his pod, and pleaded for the lives of Brisbane and the unborn calf. Finally, Eutheria agreed to let Lawrence go on the condition that when his calf was born, it would be given to Eutheria as payment for the stolen krill. Fearing the sea-witch's wrath, Lawrence had no choice but to agree, and ten months later, when Brisbane gave birth, Eutheria appeared and stole the calf away. She called the calf Krillpunzel, and raised her as her own.

or many years, Eutheria and Krillpunzel lived in this way, isolated from the rest of the world. Eutheria taught Krillpunzel the ways of being a whale, and used her sea-witch magicks to groom her into the prettiest and most alluring whale she could be. In time, Krillpunzel grew to be a beautiful young humpback, who's enchanting and complex whale songs could be heard throughout the seas. Drawn by the beautiful melodies they heard carried on the ocean currents, whale suitors would occasionally seek Krillpunzel out, only to be frightened off by the jealous and fearsome Eutheria. Wanting to keep Krillpunzel all to herself, Eutheria used a sea spell to command the coral to construct a mighty atoll in which Krillpunzel would be kept. The walls of the atoll were so high that no whale could breach them, and even Eutheria herself could not gain entry by conventional means. Krillpunzel had unknowingly learned a magic song from Eutheria in her youth called "Let Down Your Baleen," and Eutheria had told the coral who built the atoll to open a hidden door whenever Krillpunzel sang it. Every day, Eutheria would go to the atoll and say "Krillpunzel, Krillpunzel, Let Down Your Baleen," and when Krillpunzel sang the magic song, the sea-witch would be allowed to enter. Eutheria was very happy with this arrangement, as she did not ever have to share the pleasure of Krillpunzel's company with anybody else. Krillpunzel, on the other hand, quickly grew weary of her new living quarters. She was lonesome and bored, and would pass the time the only way she knew how- by singing. Krillpunzel spent many years passing the time this way, with Eutheria visiting every afternoon to bring food and spend time together. One day, a rogue humpback happened to be feasting in the neighborhood of the atoll and overheard Krillpunzel singing. The beautiful melody had an overpowering effect on him, and he fell in love. Determined to find the cetacean enchantress who's song he had heard, he swam all around the atoll searching for a way in, but could not find any. He searched until the sun set and the moon rose, and then he kept searching until the dawn broke and the day began, but he could not find a way in. Then, just as he was giving up hope, Eutheria approached. He had heard the legends about her, and so he hid behind a rock to avoid her gaze. Eutheria swam up to the atoll and said "Krillpunzel, Krillpunzel, Let Down Your Baleen," at which point the hidden door opened and she went inside. The rogue whale was thrilled, and his heart beat so fast that he thought for sure his hiding spot would be given away. It wasn't, and when Eutheria left he swam up to the atoll and said "Krillpunzel, Krillpunzel, Let Down Your Baleen."

rillpunzel sang the secret song, and the hidden door was once again revealed. When he entered, he was taken aback by how beautiful Krillpunzel was, and Krillpunzel was taken aback to see someone who was not Eutheria. He gave her a piece of kelp that he had picked for her, and they talked for hours. Krillpunzel told the rogue whale about how she came to be trapped in the atoll, and the rogue whale, who's name was Timothy, told Krillpunzel of all the wonderful things outside the atoll. He told her that he loved her, and they mated. Krillpunzel loved Timothy, too, but was afraid of what Eutheria would do if she found out about their coupling. They decided that Timothy had better leave before Eutheria returned, and so Timothy left the atoll, promising to return. The next day, when Eutheria came by, she noticed the piece of kelp that Timothy had given Krillpunzel. Knowing that she had not brought the kelp in, she reasoned that Krillpunzel had had a visitor, and she again grew jealous. Furious that Krillpunzel would be so ingrateful as to allow anyone else into the atoll, Eutheria put a curse on her that rendered her mute and then cast her out into the sea. Krillpunzel immediately began to search for Timothy, but not having swum in the open sea for many years, she quickly became disoriented and got lost. Not knowing what had transpired, Timothy returned that night as he had promised. When he called "Krillpunzel, Krillpunzel, Let Down Your Baleen," the hidden door opened and he swam inside. Timothy was surprised, though, for Krillpunzel was gone, and Eutheria, the sea witch whom he feared, had taken her place. Eutheria knew at once that Timothy was the forbidden visitor. Her spite and her rage knew no bounds, and so she blinded him to prevent him from ever finding Krillpunzel again. Determined to prove the sea-witch wrong, Timothy set out to find his beloved Krillpunzel. Timothy swam and swam and swam, but he could not find her. He swam until his tail was sore and his flippers felt dead from exhaustion, but he did not give up. He swam into countless sea-crags and piers for he could not see, but still he searched for Krillpunzel. After years of searching, Timothy finally gave up, and settled onto a sand bar. Just then, in the distance, he heard a song that he had not heard in ages. Finding renewed vigor for his quest, he swam towards the source of the song. When he got closer, he could tell it was not Krillpunzel. The young whale who was singing the song explained that she had known the song since birth, but did not know how. Timothy demanded that the young whale take him to her mother. The young whale did, and when she came home with Timothy following behind her, Krillpunzel recognized him at once. She cried with joy, and when her tears mingled with the seawater they restored Timothy's sight. Upon seeing Krillpunzel, Timothy began to cry as well, and his tears restored Krillpunzel's voice. So happy were they to be together again after so many years of fruitless searching that they mated again, much to the dismay of Krillpunzel's child, and they all lived hapily ever after.

Preamble To An Eruption

Declaration Of Eruption

Despite my prior record of volcanic dormancy, the subduction of the convergent plate boundary upon which I am stationed has resulted in an abnormal lithospheric pressure differential which shall be remedied during the week of January 8th, 2007. Therefore, pursuant to the Human-Volcano Fair Warning Treaty of 1994, and inasmuch as it is my moral duty to warn the hikers on my slopes and the townsfolk who live in my shadow, I hereby proclaim that a volcanic eruption is imminent. In accordance with section VII(a) of the aforementioned treaty, wherein it was agreed by both parties that no eruption shall occur with malice of forethought, I submit the following diagnosis of the eruption, in hopes that the peace now held between volcanoes and their human brethren may be maintained.

Expected Impact

Due to silicon concentrations upwards of sixty-five percent, a felsic lava flow is expected. The human impact of said lava flow is expected to be minimal, thanks in large part to the adherence to the zoning regulations put forward by the 1994 treaty. However, pyroclastic flows are anticipated, and thus a precautionary evacuation is being recommended. This recommendation is in no way mandatory on the part of the erupting party, and therefore its declaration absolves the volcanic contingent of any responsibility for loss of life which may occur. Property damage, although regrettable, is to be expected. Whereas any damaged sustained on projects or public works commissioned since the 1994 treaty shall be the responsibility of the building party (the human contingent), damage sustained on sites previously identified as historical landmarks shall be the responsibility of the erupting party, and will be accounted for.

Reparations

Inasmuch as it is not the desire of any volcano for their eruption to be the cause of any longstanding grievance on the part of human parties residing in the locality of said volcano, reparations shall be made by the erupting party in an attempt to mend ecological and financial damage derivative of the eruption in question. In this particular case, the volcanic contingency shall help provide for future reforestation with the deposit of volcanic soils rich in nutrients. Furthermore, the erupting party shall remain dormant for several years to come, in order to allow for an influx of tourist dollars and real estate development. Said dormancy is accompanied by the standard caveat that heretofore unseen and unknown geological activity may render said dormancy untenable, at which point further declarations of eruption shall be issued if necessary.


December 15th, 2006
Global Volcano Alliance