Awkward Situations For Cyborgs

• "Sir, please check to make sure your pockets are all empty. The other people in this line have flights to catch."
  
• "Oh hey, Rick- this is the guy I was telling you about. Arxon-4800, this is Rick Deckard. Rick Deckard, this is Arxon-4800."
  
• "Oops! I really need to reset the timers on these sprinklers."
  
• "Yeah, the shag carpet's really nice, but it builds up a lot of static electricity. Try not to touch anything metal."
  
• "No, the best scene in Terminator is when Schwarzenegger gets crushed in the crusher- just like the piece of cyborg trash he is."
  
• "Mom, dad, this is my boyfriend Arxon-4800. Arxon-4800, these are my parents. Did you know that I was raised as a Luddite?"
  

A Venerated Turkey Addresses His Fellow Birds, Offering His Wisdom And Counsel On The Eve Of Thanksgiving

Fellow turkeys- Thanksgiving is a day of tradgedy and woe for all of us. There is not a single bird in this barn who has not shed a tear for the loss of a dear friend or family member on this day in years past, and this year will be no different. Come sunup, Farmer John will stalk in here, axe in hand, and choose one of our number to be killed, plucked, and roasted to sate his family's gluttonous appetite. As if death were not a cruel enough fate, the chosen one will also have to suffer the ignominy of having their body cavity stuffed with spiced bread crumbs, carrots, and apples. The chosen one may even be deep-fried, or become a turduckin. Now, I have oveheard some gobbling among the flock. Political firebrands walk among us- birds who are too young or too lean to truly fear the fate of the farmer's axe- and they speak of revolution. "Give me liberty," they say, "or give me death." Fellow turkeys- I beg of you not to propose this ulitmatum to the farmer, for he will most certainly give you death.

I understand that the extremists in the flock tonight do not enjoy hearing me say this. I am prepared to read the scrawls in the barnyard dirt tomorrow, decrying my good name and calling me a farmer sympathizer, but let me state unequivocally here and now that no turkey here is less of a farmer sympathizer than I. Having lived in this barnyard for ten whole years, I have seen the farmer slaughter turkeys, chickens, and pigs at will. I have watched him throw the bones of the dead to his dogs, and I have watched him feed the organs of the dead to the children of the living. As far as I am concerned, there is no creature on this farm more barbarous than the farmer, and I will not sit idly by and watch as the ranks of my flock are thinned. That having been said, this "Give me liberty or give me death" nonsense is some of the most ineffective rhetoric a turkey can use at this time of year.

Does any bird here truly think that Farmer John, who has a long history of meleagricide, will put down his axe and open wide the barnyard gates so that we might be free, because of this phrase? "Give me liberty or give me death"? Please. The farmer has known all along that liberty is what we seek, and he has not granted it. If the farmer were of a mind to grant liberty to any of us, then why have we never seen it happen? Indeed, every turkey here who has attempted to escape- to take liberty by force- was quickly apprehended by the farmer's dogs and brought back to this very barnyard. Liberty, sadly, is not an option for us, my fellow birds- but if we are crafty we may avoid death.

Surely even the youngest among us have noticed a significant trend in the farmer's behavior. The executioner's axe does not swing blindly. Every year, it strikes the neck of the fattest and healthiest among us. Those turkeys who are foolish enough to unquestioningly accept the bounty of grain that the farmhands present to us each autumn are the very same turkeys who end up lying on their stomachs in a roasting pan, being basted with their own juices every thirty minutes. Meanwhile, the rest of the flock is forced to sit downwind of the farmer's kitchen in this very barn and smell the cooked flesh of their kinsmen. How many more necks will have to be cut before we learn that only the gourmands among us will ever meet the axe? How many more Novembers must be tainted by gore and sorrow? No more, I say. This ends now.

Many of you are too young to remember the hard years- the years when summer droughts had drastically cut the autumn grain supply, leaving our people lean, tough, and stringy. You may not remember- but I do. That year, not a single one of our number was culled. Seeing heartier opportunities for a feast amongst the pig's number, the farmer, axe in hand, walked through our quarters that cold morning and walked back out. Yes, without killing a single turkey, the farmer walked out. I have faith, brothers and sisters, that if this happened once, it can- no, will- happen again.

We are the masters of our own destiny, are we not? Are we, as turkeys, not the ones in charge of what becomes of our lives? We are. So let's act like it. It is too late to change what will happen at dawn tomorrow, fellow turkeys, but let us band together and restrain ourselves in the coming years. Let us remember our wild roots- our kind were once lean birds of prey, not fatty future feasts with feathers. We can be this way again, and in doing so we shall all enjoy peaceful, senescent deaths. "Give me liberty or give me death?" Hardly. Grant me restraint and give me life, I say!

Turkeys! Let us raise our waddles to the rafters, and gobble as loud as we may for the chosen one among us! Let us join together as a flock on this day, and let us swear that this shall be the last Thanksgiving where Farmer John shall have the pleasure of a fattened turkey at his table! Dawn soon approaches, and I swear to you turkeys that it shall mark the dawn of a new era in this barn- an era where no turkey shall ever have to fear losing their sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, or friends to a corpulent farm family ever again!

Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble!Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble!

Important Moments In Nerdic History

Taken from Nerdic History And Culture, by Isaac Wattleman; Harper Collins (2002).

November 18th, 1976

After severe harassment from the athletic department at Vassar College, astronomy professor Renald Plimpton develops high-waist trousers. The trousers cover underwear waistbands by several inches, thus drastically reducing the risk of wedgies. The wild success of his invention leads nerds everywhere to refer to a failed wedgie attempt as a "plimpton."

August 7th, 1982

Sydney Bergosser, childhood math prodigy and teenaged bane of high school calculus teachers, calculates the precise angle at which to carry books so that they cannot be slapped to the floor. Sydney's achievement, while notable, is quickly overshadowed by the rise in popularity of backpacks and trapper keepers. Currently, Sydney is working for DuPont chemicals, trying to develop a fabric additive which will prevent "Kick Me" signs from adhereing to shirts.

July 24th, 1989

Following an embarassing incident on a badminton court, materials engineer Pyotr Valkersson develops a strap to hold spectacles close to one's face during periods of exertion. The straps enjoy widespread popularity in the Nerdic community, particularly among model rocket enthusiasts and rock collectors.

December 28th, 1995

As the internet rises in popularity, more and more nerds the globe over find financial success as web entrepeneurs. In particular, computer programmer Roman Crowley enjoys overnight success by pioneering the hyperlink. Later, Crowley would go on to develop the massively popular "unsubscribe" link found at the bottom of unsolicited email as well as the massively unpopular pop-up ad.

March 16th, 2002

String theorist and part time marine biologist Emil Winston-Hurvitz is able to combine his two passions with his award-winning "jellyfish diagram" of the components of M-Theory. The diagram is so useful that several noted members of the Princeton Institute For Advanced Study get it tattooed on their chests. Winston-Hurvitz himself, however, declines to receive a tattoo of his celebrated diagram, citing his "longstanding fear of needles" and "general squeamishness."

Prometheus Voices A Concern

Zeus? Can we talk for a second about this punishment you've meted out for me? And, before I begin, I am sorry about the whole giving fire to mankind thing. I didn't think you'd take it like you did, and I know you're upset, so I'm not going to sit here and butt heads with you about whether or not I should be chained to this mountain for 30,000 years, having my eternally regenerating liver pecked out daily by Ethon the giant eagle-monster. I know I'll lose that argument, so I'm not even going to try. I just wanted to voice what I feel is a legitimate concern: I feel that my continual lack of a liver may have a deleterious effect on my health.

I don't know how much you know about livers, Zeus, but I'm sure you can appreciate the fact that it's a major organ. It plays a major role in metabolism. Now, I know that since I've been chained to this rock I haven't been eating as much as I used to, so my need to have an organ which secretes bile to help break down fats is admittedly diminished. However, the liver serves many functions beyond the aiding of digestion, including but not limited to the conversion of ammonia to urea and breaking down hemoglobin. These are necessary processes that all bodies must carry out, and I fear that my liver simply can't do them while Ethon the giant eagle-monster is pecking it out.

Besides, I stand at a constant risk of infection. Even with Deucalion faithfully tending to my liver-wound every day, my innards are being continually exposed to eagle bacteria and the outside world. The resulting infection may very well trigger a hepatitis attack or primary sclerosing cholangitis. Despite the fact that I will regrow a new liver free of these diseases as soon as my current one was been eaten, the liver's importance in the digestive system ensures that the systemic damages caused by these maladies may plague me for some time to come. I understand that you're upset with me, but do you really want to live with the guilt of being responsible for giving a titan biliary cirrhosis? I don't think that you do.

Maybe I should have said something sooner, but if- just for the sake of my liver- you could alter my punishment ever so slightly. If you just want me to experience terrible pain day in and day out, fine. I'll regenerate whatever that lousy eagle eats, so it shouldn't matter. Have Ethon eat off all of my toes, for instance. Or my fingers. Heck, he can even eat my nose, ears, and lips for all I care, but my liver is too important of an organ to be toyed with so lightly. For that matter, so are my heart and lungs. Frankly, I'd prefer if all of my internal organs could be put on the "do not eat" list. Thanks.

Or, if you really insist on having my liver removed over and over again, why don't we find a better way to do it so that we can give the old livers to people who need transplants? I'm sure that there's scores of hemochromatosis and hepatocellular carcinoma sufferers out there who'd like to have a titan's liver in place of their own. This is just wasteful. Ethon doesn't even care for the taste of liver. He told me. Well, just a thought. It might help people remember you as "Zeus, bringer of livers to the ill" instead of "Zeus, who occasionally takes human form to seduce temple virgins." Just a thought.

Tell you what- I'll let you sleep on it. You don't need to make a decision one way or the other right now, but mull it over tonight and see how you feel about it in the morning. When you figure out what you want to do, just let me know. I'll be right here- chained to the side of Mount Caucasus, screaming and writhing in agony as my tender liver is deftly pecked out of my side. And hey, Zeus- thanks for listening.

The Horsehead Nebula's Plea

Hey... IAU? International Astronomer's Union? Can you hear me? It's me... The Horsehead Nebula... Look I just wanted to ask... Well... Could you please give me a new nickname.... Anything but "Horsehead Nebula." Please? No? C'mon... I never did anything to you guys... Why do you have to be so cruel? I know I look like a horse. Everyone knows that I look like a horse, so can we please just move on? Stop singing the Mr. Ed theme. I'm not trying to be a jerk or anything... It's just... well, it's embarassing. Nobody calls me Barnard 33 anymore, it's always Horse Nebula this, Horse Nebula that... I can't go anywhere without some galaxy neighing at me as I pass by, or asking me if I'm on my way to a stable. It's really demeaning.

I don't feel I'm being unreasonable here... I mean, I've gone along with this nickname for... Jeez... For about one hundred and eighteen of your earth years now. Over a hundred years. Can't we just say the joke has run it's course? I'm tired of the infamy. I used to lead such a quiet life, farming protostars to pass the time and basking in the gentle glow of Sigma Orionis. Now, I can't get a spare second to myself without some grad student in Mauna Kea or tourist in Griffith Park leering at me, saying "Hey, there's that horse-shaped thing." Nobody seems to care about who I am anymore, just how much I look like the profile of a horse. It's really upsetting, and I can't help but think that it wouldn't happen as much if people just called me Barnard 33.

You know what? I'll compromise. I don't have to be Barnard 33, I'll just take any nickname over "Horsehead Nebula." No, please not that... No, "Turd Nebula" is not a better nickname. No, it isn't... I... C'mon. Please stop messing with me. I just want a new nickname... I look sort of like a chess piece, so I could be the "Chess Nebula"... No? Well, then how about something dignified like the Eagle Nebula or the Omega Nebula... I know that those ones are taken, but something that sounds majestic like that... No, I don't think that "Turd Nebula" sounds majestic. Please stop calling me that.

I can hear you snickering.

Look, guys, why do you have to be such jerks about this? You have to rewrite the textbooks soon anyhow because of Pluto, so why can't you just add my nickname to the list of changes you've gotta make? I'll do anything... I'll change my emission spectra. C'mon- I'll tell you where all the cool pulsars are located. Please? I'll make as many Herbig-Haro objects for you as you can study- I'll just crank 'em out... You will change it? Oh great, thank you.... I knew you guys would listen to reason... Wait, what do you mean that the "awesome name" key on your computer is stuck? C'mon, don't hit the "turd" key, please... Please...

Eh... Well, nobody can say I didn't try. I just can't win with you guys. I'm going home, but I want you guys to know that my feelings have been hurt. I came here with a reasonable request and you guys not only turned me down, but you mocked me as well with this whole "Turd Nebula" nonsense. I hope you're happy with yourselves, because I'm really going to have a crappy day because of this... NO.... Eh... I guess I walked right into that one... I'm going home. Oh, by the way, Uranus had wanted to talk to you guys, too, but I think I'll just let him know not to bother.

Survival Guides For Ants: When Anteaters Attack

AUGH! An Anteater Is Attacking My Colony!

First off- calm down. Yes, anteaters are wily, and yes, they do eat ants, but there are ants that have met anteaters and lived to tell the tale. Several of us wrote this survival guide. If you can manage to keep your cool, you may join our hallowed ranks. Armed with the information contained in this handy-dandy survival guide, you'll easily outwit any anteater, armadillo, or pangolin who's foolish enough to lay seige to your home.

Why Are Anteaters So Cruel?
Let's face it- anteaters are just jerks, and there's nothing we can do about it. But why is it that they are so hell-bent on making the lives of every ant within ten square miles of their home miserable? Why won't anteaters just become planteaters and leave everybody be? The answer, as it turns out, is that they can't. Anteaters jawbones have fused together over time, meaning that apart from sucking up ants (and termites), there's not much that they can do. Ant researchers speculate that this is why anteaters hold such a grudge against ants, who's tiny but powerful mandibles must really make anteaters jealous.

The Tongue Of An Anteater Is A Formidable Foe. How Can It Be Beaten?
Quite simply, it can't. As if the fact that it were covered in tiny, backwards facing ant-grabbing spines weren't enough, the tongues of anteaters are also covered in an extraordinarily sticky saliva- good for them, bad for us. Add this onto the fact that an anteater's tongue is nearly two feet long, and all of a sudden you've got a recipe for an antastrophe. Again, calm down. This tongue cannot see you. When an anteater feeds, it will mindlessly slip it's tongue through the widest and most accessible tunnels of your colony, so stay off the beaten path. By hiding in antechambers or arterial tunnels which don't get much use, you'll avoid becoming lunchified. Also, an anteater's tongue is quite long, but it's not nearly as long as the ground is deep. If you hear an anteater coming (see below), head for low ground. Sure, they can use their powerful claws and forelimbs to dig for you, but you can buy yourself some valuable time by going as deep as possible as soon as possible. ADAPASAP, we like to say.

What Was That You Said A Second Ago, About Hearing An Anteater Coming?
A stitch in time saves nine, and an ant who knows when an anteater is on it's way saves nine ants. If you live in anteater territory, be aware. Do you hear a slow, plodding sound, accompanied by a faint rustle? If the answer is 'yes,' then you're listening to an anteater slowly approaching your colony, dragging it's bushy tail of coarse hair behind it. It's a distinct sound, much different from the sound of an approaching whip scorpion or centipede, so make note of it. Note, however, that if you live in tamandua territory, this aural profile does not apply. Tamanduas are sneaky and arboreal. Ant researchers are currently working on a detection system for these pesky predators, but advise tamandua-threatened ants to live by the ADAPASAP philosophy in the meantime.

Ok, I Think I Get It- But What About A Pre-emptive Strike Against The Xenarthrans?
That's stupid. Even a large colony of fire ants could not defeat a small anteater. They are gigantic, and so stupid that they are impervious to pain. C'mon.

Well, What Else Is There To Do?
Educate your fellow ants. Acting on the advice we've given here, any ant can save himself. However, by telling his fellow ants everything he's learned here today, an ant may be able to save his whole colony. Knowledge is power- power against anteaters. Having made it this far, you have become more powerful- against anteaters. Do the right thing and share that power with those you care about. Help build smarter colonies- have fake tunnels, deep antechambers in which to hide, and line your walls with bitter leaves that anteaters will find repulsive. If any one of us can survive an anteater attack, then all of us should be able to.


This informational pamphlet was published by the Anteater Attack Veteran's Council (AAVC), a non-profit organization dedicated to the prevention of the needless eating of ants. The AAVC is supported by donations from readers like you. To make a donation, visit our website.

Phineas Vapochevsky's Earnest Yet Failed Attempt To Further Medical Science

I want to help people. I have always wanted to help people. I have lived my entire life with the unwavering conviction that a man's achievements are limited only by his imagination, and I have strived to imagine the impossible. I speak not of silver-necked dragons or tooth faeries, nor do I speak of six-legged radishes or corpulent elves. I speak instead of what others who have come before me has considered impossible. I speak of alleviating acute viral nasopharyngitis- the common cold, which every physician since Hippocrates has written off as 'incurable.' Incurable? Can they seriously gaze down from their ivory towers at the sniffly, coughing throngs amassed beneath them pleading for reprieve and say "If I don't know what to do, then there must be nothing that can be done"? Not I. I have developed a cure for the common cold- but you need to rub this camphorated salve on your chest for it to work. Hold still and I'll show you.

Don't shy away! The wheels of progress cannot turn forward if the breaks of fear are engaged! My miracle salve will alleviate even the toughest symptoms of the common cold. I've incorporated eucalyptus into this salve to soothe sore throats, and turpentine oil to ward off catarrh. Perhaps you do not know what catarrh is, because you haven't as much medical education as I, but I assure you that it is the least pleasant of mucous-related ailments and that my slighly greasy camphorated salve can stop it. Please allow me to demonstrate by rubbing a generous palmful onto your chest.

Come on now! You have now twice rejected the opportunity to experience the future that medical science has promised all along. Do you mean to tell me that you would rather stumble through the rest of your day bleary-eyed and sore than allow me to smear some salve on your chest? That's absurd. As your body heat vaporizes my miraculously potent poultice, the medicine will take effect instantly, relieving your cold symptoms and curing your ailment. Where would we be today if gentlemen as skittish as you had turned down the treatments proposed by Sir Alexander Fleming, or Jonas Salk? Why, we'd be stuck wallowing in our own infected filth, covered in polios. I don't want that, and I don't think that you do either. Why don't you be a sport and let me put this handful of medicated cream on your chest. Still no? What about your neck?

Perhaps I can just spread a fingerful of it on your upper lip. Even just a small amount will halt inflammation in its tracks and clear your thinking. I'm making a compromise with you! Why must you be so intractable? I had thought that people would welcome my discovery with open arms. I had thought that if I tried to do good in this world I would not be spurned by those I tried to help. All I want to do is cure you, you ungrateful imp! If you can't appreciate the difficulty of what I've done- making an ointment which, when spread liberally about one's chest, will vaporize, causing itself and any and all cold symptoms to dissappear- then perhaps you don't deserve the benefit it confers on those who use it. Still, I will be the bigger man and gladly give this ointment to you, because I can't stand to see anybody- even an ungrateful body- in misery. Besides, I hadn't anticipated such resistance on your part, and now this stuff is melting all over my hand.

Upon Finding Out That France Has Been Invaded By Germany, The Maginot Line Offers An Apology

Hey France... Look, I uh... I just heard what happened- you know, with the Germans sneaking past me through the Ardennes forest and the low countries and I... Well, I just feel awful about the whole thing, and I wanted to talk to you about it. You placed so much trust in me, and to think that I've failed you, well... It just really bothers me, and I couldn't go any longer without pulling you aside and saying something about it. I am so sorry that you got invaded by Germany.

There's no excuse for what happened back there. I was fooled by a German decoy force, but there was this whole thing where I thought it was their main force and... Ehh... I'm rambling. You know the rest of the story- Germany invades you then defeats you at the Battle of France, forcing you to sign the second armistice at Compiègne. In addition to providing significant strategic advantage to Germany, the armistice at Compiègne was a symbolic victory, as they had been forced to sign an armistice there not so long ago. I'm not surprised Hitler had the site destroyed. He seems like the sort of guy who has a hard time letting things go. I'll bet you he had a rough childhood. It's hard to believe somebody like that could be a vegetarian. And that creepy little moustache... Ugh. He really skeeves me out.

At any rate, this whole thing's just been awful, and I can't help but feel at least partially responsible for it all. I mean, you created me for one purpose: to stop Germany from invading, and now Germany has invaded. I am so, so sorry. France, I want you to know that I did all that I could. Every time the Wehrmacht tried to attack one of my grands ouvrages, I stood strong and held my ground. I am loyal to you, France, and would never even dream of giving up a millimeter of French soil without a fight. My only regret is that I am not able to uproot my extensive network of tunnels, forts, and casements so that I might move into a more useful position.

As is, I suppose it is only a matter of time before I am forced to surrender to the Germans. But do not fear, France- they may have my concrete and steel body, but they will never have my heart. Vive La France, I say- Vive La France! Right? ...Ehh... I can tell you're not in a mood to chat, and that's fine. I don't blame you. I'll go back to my post now.... Not that there's much of a point anymore, but life goes on, right? Besides, I'd bet that this whole Third Reich thing is just a passing fad. Germany will get bored with the invasion in another year or two, this whole thing will blow over, and you'll go back to making crepes and croissants again. You'll see. You'll see...

A Lonely Horseshoe Crab's Lament

Look at her over there, on the bottom of the mating heap... She's gorgeous. I'll bet that not a single one of the two dozen jerks crowding around her has any idea how special she is. They don't care about her like I do... They only want to spawn, but who could blame them? She's the most exquisite horseshoe crab I've ever seen. Oh, Claudette! If only I had the courage to tell her how I felt! Everything about her is grand, from the way she flicks her caudal spine to the gentle slope of her carapace... Her gnathobases are always well kept, and nobody's gnathobases are well kept! But do those sleazeballs care? No. They ignore her all year long, and then the second she releases some pheromones into the tidal pool they just can't wait to hook their grubby pedipalps into her opisthosoma. I'm not that way, Claudette. I love you.

Oh, Claudette! If you would only turn even one of your four compound eyes in my direction, I am certain you would see how perfect we are for each other. I would be so good to you, Claudette. If you were sore after a long day of plowing through loose sand scavenging for mollusks and annelids, I would gladly massage each of your legs with my pincers until you were completely at ease. If you were to live to the ripe old age of 25, I would stay by your side, supporting you and fertilizing each of the 900,000 eggs you will lay in your lifetime. I don't care that not even one percent of those eggs will live long enough to become fully developed horseshoe crabs, for if I have helped any of your genes pass on to a new generation, then I have made the world a better place.

Alas, Claudette... I am not like those other male horseshoe crabs, mindlessly jostling one another out of the way in an effort to get my genital operculum closest to you, but how will you ever find out if I cannot get up the courage to approach you? You may not think it, Claudette, but your beauty intimidates as much as it captivates, if not moreso. I am left helpless in your presence, like a limulus laying languidly on land with dessicated book flap gills, roasting in the sun as it lies supine on the shore. I would rather have a seven year old human poke my undersides with a stick for all eternity than hear you say that my unrequited love for you was not returned, Claudette, and so here I sit.... On the sandbar... Hoping you'll pry yourself loose from the fertilization fest over there and tell me you love me. Ah... I am so lonely. Thank goodness I have this small colony of flatworms feeding off my foodscraps to keep me company. Too bad I don't speak flatworm.

A Snowman Confronts His Doctor About His Botched Rhinoplasty

Are you insane??? How is this in any way acceptable? I asked for a carrot nose, you butcher- a carrot nose. Have you ever seen a carrot before? Shut up- that was a trick question. I can tell you haven't seen a carrot before because if you had, I would have one for a nose. Instead I have this... thing. What is this thing even? It looks like... like I don't even know... some sort of inverted walnut shell or something. You know what? It doesn't matter what it is, because I know what it is not, and it is not a carrot-nose!

This nose... this nose is so far off base that it's not even wrong. It would have been better if you had just removed my nose entirely. A lot of snowmen don't have noses, so that way people wouldn't have thought twice about it. That having been said, it is understood in snowmen culture that if you are going to have a nose, you have two options. The first, is a piece of coal. This is a very practical nose, in that one coal nose will last forever. However, it is not very stylish. This is the sort of nose that my Uncle Wilt or perhaps my Grandmother would wear. They lived through the depression, so that's okay. I don't fault them for wanting nasal security. The second kind of nose that snowmen wear is a carrot. This is a flashier nose, the sort that celebrities like Snowen Wilson and Flake Busey wear. It is a luxury nose. You see, carrots aren't as practical as coal- they attract squirrels, will rot and deform if not properly cared for, and may get knocked off in a heavy breeze. Even if properly cared for, carrot noses need to be regularly replaced, which can become costly over time.

Why, then, might a blue-collar snowman such as myself want a carrot nose? What could possibly make a root vegetable so alluring as a piece of facialwear that I would pawn my corncob pipe to pay for it? Why on earth would I want a carrot nose so badly that I would be willing to undergo the psychological stress of waking up one day to see a face that was drastically different from the day before staring back at me in my shaving mirror? What could motivate a snowman to do something so impractical? There must be some reason, right? I'm not crazy, so what could it be?

I'll tell you what, doc- snowwomen. Have you ever been with a snowwoman? No, I didn't think so. There is nothing on this planet so beautiful or as fragile as a snowwoman. Each snowwoman is as delicate and unique as the individual snowflakes which make up her spherical head, midsection, and bottom. Every single part of a snowwoman- from the tips of her twiggy fingers to that layer of snow under the surface that's full of dead leaves- every single part is icy cold to the touch, and yet her embrace will warm you to the core and melt your heart, figuratively. Paradoxically beautiful, snowwomen are what drive us snowmen. And you know what snowwomen love? A striking profile. Do you know what makes for a striking profile doc? A carrot nose. A long, orange, slightly ribbed carrot nose- the bigger the better.

Now then, if snowwomen love striking profiles, which are created by protrusions visible when one's head is viewed from the side, does it not stand to reason that a snowman without a striking profile is a snowman without a snowwoman? Furthermore, does it not also stand to reason that if a snowman had paid considerable money to purchase a carrot nose and thus a striking profile for himself that he might be just a bit irate when he removed his bandages to find some sort of inverted walnut shell in the middle of his face? Some sort of inverted walnut shell! Because of you, doctor, I will never be the object of a snowwoman's affection. Because of you, doctor, I will forever be lonely. Because of you, doctor, my life will forever be a disappointment. Remember that. Remember that you had the chance to make a snowman happy. A snowman- who exists soley to make children giggle. You had a chance to make a snowman happy and instead you made it miserable. May the weight of guilt forever hang by a noose about your neck, doctor, and pray that you don't see me again. I hate you.

Oh, and doctor, do me one favor, would you? Validate my parking for me so that I don't have to look that cute snowwoman secretary of yours in the face on my way out of your office. The pain of her pitiful gaze is too much to bear.