Did Someone Call Me Snorer?

By: Kurt Luchs

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Sleep…sweet, sweet, sleep…let it come…the soft fog lowering among the white pines…black waves hissing against the sand…in, and out…in, and out…the unblinking moon in the mist…a sea bird trills gently, distantly…the bird cries…how sad, it says…how beautiful…its voice goes an octave lower…two octaves higher…it gurgles…hiccups…what’s wrong with that bird?…it makes a sound like a rachet…getting closer, louder…rasping like a ruptured air hose…now shrieking and swooping…gibbering and — and laughing!…flapping horribly — that thing was never meant to fly…oh God, it’s not a bird, not a bird but a bug…a great, hideous, jabbering insect…all swirling tendrils and swollen abdomen…a thousand eyes, a thousand mouths — all staring, screaming…blotting out everything…

I bolted upright, gasping. My wife lay next to me. Her snores filled the room with a wash of sound, an alien symphony of whistles, grunts and nasal blasts. When I nudged her she mumbled and turned over, muffling the free concert. I lay back thinking, Where did she get such talent? From her Uncle George, the one who could smoke cigarettes through his ears? Or the grandfather she wouldn’t talk about — what was his name?…

“Grandpa Vlad.”

“Jah?” He raised his lidless eyes and looked through me. Hard to believe a gaze that tranquil could hide a broken mind.

“Your soup, Grandpa. Finish your soup.” I pushed the bowl toward him and he looked through it. I placed the spoon in his hand and he smiled. He began warbling a little song, accompanying himself by tapping the spoon on his water glass.

“In heaven dere iss no beer, dat’s why ve drink it here…” He coughed into his soup.

“Grandpa!”

“Jah, jah sure,” he said. He peered into the bowl. “Hello in dere. Anybody home?” When no one answered he dipped his spoon, took a long sip followed by a long breath and, liking the rhythm of it, finished his soup that way — sipping and breathing. The obscene slurping noises he made complemented his cadaverous wheezings, and I found myself listening for which would stop first. But they didn’t stop.

He reached the bottom of the bowl and kept going, licking the bowl when his spoon failed to bring up any more. His tongue was incredibly long. I wondered why I had never noticed it before.

“That’s enough, Grandpa.” The slurping got louder. There was no more soup but he kept sucking frantically, pursing his thick lips into a pulsating “O” like some monstrous pink lamprey. How could he keep inhaling without exhaling? I shivered suddenly and backed away. The slurping was deafening — he held the bowl to his face by sheer force of suction — and then the bowl vanished inside him. His unblinking eyes bulged swiveling from his head as the wind from within him tugged at everything loose in the restaurant: knives, forks, napkins, saltshakers, tablecloths — all flew into the widening hole that had been his face. A busboy screamed, waved his arms and tried to run, but Grandpa got him, sucking him in like a piece of lint.

Then he turned on me. His gaping orifice emitted sounds that should never be heard on this earth. Just as he was reaching for me with his shuddering snout he inhaled one of his own arms. There was a terrible screeching of torn fabric and flesh, and in a moment he sucked himself out of existence, disappearing with an audible pop.

I sat up yelling his name before I knew where I was. I didn’t want to be alone then. Shaking my wife to rouse her enough to share my misery, I noticed she wasn’t breathing right. She was sleeping on her stomach — something I had never seen her do — and her face was buried in the pillow, twisting back and forth. I turned her over but the pillow came with her, and I had to pull it out of her mouth.

“What are you doing?” she snapped. “Leave me alone!”

“You tried to swallow the pillow.”

“So?”

“You were making a noise like a vacuum cleaner in molasses.”

“So?”

“So you woke me up.”

“I woke you up? I was only trying to cover my ears. I haven’t gotten three minutes of sleep all night with your snoring. You sound like a French horn being played by a rabid howler monkey.”

I hit her with the pillow and got up to look at the moon.

A Tour Of The Zoo

By: Neil Pasricha

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(Sound of birds chirping and children laughing.)

Oh, hello! And welcome to the Metropolitan Zoo’s Audio Guidebook. Thank you for joining us today on a beautiful listen through the zoo. Weather such as today’s weather is perfect for our tour, so let’s get going! Get your bags together, make sure you have your hat on, and we’ll begin. Press “stop” on the tape now and then press “play” when you’re ready to start.

*****

So! (Long, uncomfortable pause.) You’re blind. We know, it’s pretty rough (tuba blats) but you know what? It’s also…good enough! (Bugle blares.) While being blind means you can’t drive a car to the zoo (sound of a car hitting a wall, and then a hubcap rolling away), it doesn’t mean you can’t take a tour of the zoo! So keep that chin up, those fists clenched, and that seeing-eye dog leashed, and let’s start by taking two hundred steps straight ahead. Press “stop” on the tape and then click “play” when you hit the Plexiglas window and feel like you’re in the shade.

*****

You made it! Congratulations on visiting the first stop on the tour. Now, to your immediate left are the grizzly bears. There are four of them either sitting on a log, sleeping near the pond, or not doing either of those things. Also, if any of them have had babies or died since this tape was made in November 1996, there may be a different number of bears, doing some sort of other thing, today at the zoo! Feel free to ask a fellow zoo-lover what the bears are doing. (Whispering.) And psst, maybe make a lighthearted joke about your blindness to alleviate the tension! We recommend saying, “Bear with me, I can bearly see these things — do you mind telling me what they’re doing now?” (Normal voice.) Press “stop” on the tape now to ask some questions and then press “play” when you’re ready to hear more about bears.

*****

Thanks for coming back to the tour. And now that you know what the bears are doing let’s try and picture what they look like. First, take a second and touch your own face. See how your nose juts out of your head like that? Don’t worry, it’s normal! Ha ha ha ha ha HA HA HA HA HA!!! Now. Picture your nose jutting out several more inches! Oh and by the way, an inch is approximately the size of half your thumb. And…sorry, but just so we’re clear, the thumb is that short fat finger on your hand. Now, did you picture a longer nose? Good. Now touch your teeth. See how pointy they are? Imagine they were much more pointy. This is what a bear looks like. Much more pointy teeth and a bigger, more extended nose. Now picture attaching a dinner roll to the bottom of your spine and you’ll have yourself a bear’s tail. Rowrrr! You’re a bear! You want to eat berries! You like fish! You will potentially maul and viciously murder campers! Ha ha ha! (Pause.) Now please stop the tape, walk fifty feet north-northwest, and press “play” again. Remember, if you get lost, just raise your hands and clap them together three times (sound of three claps) so one of our zoo tour guides will come and help you. Okay, and stop the tape…now!

*****

Welcome back! And congratulations on braving the walk across that rickety rope bridge over the extremely dangerous alligator pit!…Ha ha ha! Just kidding! You actually just walked through the Asian Pavilion themed food court. (Sound of a gong smash.) Go on. Take a whiff. (Sound of a nose sniffing.) You’re probably smelling soy sauce and chicken balls that someone spilled on the ground. Now, is your seeing-eye dog barking? If so, that’s unfortunately against zoo policy and you may be asked to leave. Also, it’s probably because we’re at the wolf pen! That’s right — dogs tend to know their own, and wolves — or Canis lupus — are actually an ancestor of today’s common domestic dog. What’s your dog’s name, anyway? (Pause.) Oh, that’s a nice name! I also have one called that.

One thing you probably haven’t noticed about the wolf pen is that there are wolves in it. That’s right — as you listen to this tape, a pack of wolves is undoubtedly performing incredibly wolflike activities, including making wolf noises, looking like a wolf, and walking in a wolflike fashion. Take your time to enjoy the wolves (sound of a nose sniffing) and then, when you’re ready, stop the tape and take seventy steps to your immediate right. Stop when you hit a metal rail and hear splashing.

Hello again! And welcome to the penguin area! Directly in front of you right now are penguins likely sunning themselves and waddling around looking for fish. Penguins, like you and me, walk. But unlike me, and potentially unlike you, they walk funny. Have you ever dropped your pants and then tried to walk around while they were still around your ankles? Pretty awkward, right? Well, guess what! This is how penguins walk around all day! Also, have you ever worn a tuxedo? Like to a wedding or something? It’s like clothes, but nicer? Some people say that it looks like penguins are wearing tuxedos due to the black and white color of their feathers. By the way, black is the color of your eyelids when you’re going to sleep and white is the color of your eyelids when you stare directly at the sun, the hot part of the sky. And … well, penguins are pretty weird, basically. And bears are, too. And so are wolves. For the most part, going to the zoo is like meeting all these weird versions of yourself, and instead of doing things like you, they do things unlike you. That’s what going to the zoo is all about! Meeting weird-yous.

Please stop the tape, turn around, and take sixty steps straight ahead.

*****

Welcome back to the zoo entrance. We hope you have enjoyed a brief tour of the Metropolitan Zoo and we hope you come back soon. By the way, we are requesting funds in our budget to put together a new tape each year, so we will introduce you to different animals and pavilions each time you come. If you’re listening to a really old tape right now, it means that we either didn’t get our budget approved, or the rental clerk was all out of the current tape and figured you wouldn’t notice. Either way, thanks!

A Letter to Layla, My Paper Shredder

By: Daniel Cox

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Dearest Layla,

When I laid my eyes on you for the first time, as I crumpled and cast aside the slick and cheery Christmas wrapping paper, I doubted your significance. After all, you weren’t in my list of Christmas desires. Little did I know my list of Christmas desires would soon be in you.

I remember unsealing your box and gently parting your beautifully corrugated flaps. You didn’t make it easy, with the glue lines, packing tape, and industrial-sized staples, but I respected that deeply. I beheld your stark, matte nakedness and inhaled as if startled, so suddenly was the fullness of your utility, your power, thrust into my consciousness. Forgive me for such a vivid painting of our meeting, but I recall the precious memory of it in slow motion now, because I relish it so. Still, in those early hours, my plans for you and our relationship were mostly functional. How little I knew.

We’ve had so much fun together, Layla. Remember our courtship? I just couldn’t stop using you when we first got acquainted. Again, I can’t find the words — I am smitten, yes, fascinated, intoxicated, addicted, but these words seem so inadequate. Something so alluring, so strong, so satisfying, you, my feelings for you, this mesmerizing infatuation. I have given you everything, my old file contents, paid bills, mail, new file contents, unpaid bills, drafts of my work, current magazines, my comic book and baseball card collections, the family photos, even that twenty I found in my wife’s purse. I wanted to share it all with you, Layla. I did share it all with you, Layla.

Your only flaw is that you tire sometimes, only physically, I know, and not emotionally. So I let you rest, tenderly disconnecting power (for three minutes, per your manual, which I have since fed to you along with the instructions to everything else I own). And I suppose I get annoyed when you jam up, requiring that I pick things out of your cute little teeth (which is rather unflattering for both of us). But then I realize I want to care for you in this way. I want you to need me. I want to know what’s inside of you. Of course, your sharp, rotating jaws remind me to temper my passion when my fingers stray to the buttons on my clothing and I grow feverish for your sensual touch.

I have a surprise for you, Layla. Bet you thought I forgot what you told
me the other night in my dreams. No, I didn’t forget. Not for a second. And
you’re absolutely right. You’re twice the woman she is, and you’re not even
a woman. Hope you saved room for dessert, Layla darling, ’cause I have the
marriage certificate right here.

My love always,

Your Danny

A Cannibal’s Wine Cellar

By: David Martin

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“The trial of [Armin] Meiwes…offered a lurid glimpse into the dark side of cyberspace. It took the public into the mind of a man who built a death chamber in his half-timbered farmhouse and dined on parts of [Bernd] Brandes while sipping South African red wine.”

— Los Angeles Times – January 31, 2004

Excerpts from the first draft of “A Cannibal’s Wine Cellar,” a work in progress by Armin Meiwes:

Apart from a mandatory metal autopsy table and meat-hanging hooks, every cannibal’s basement should include a good wine cellar. May I recommend these vintages from my own personal collection:

Château Puyfromage 1999


You won’t pay an arm and a leg for this ruby-colored, aromatic red, although you may want to serve it with an arm and a leg. A hearty Bordeaux with hints of raspberry and oak, it goes well with almost any roast limb.

Pol Roger Brut 2001


What better way to celebrate the first meeting with your new victim than with French champagne? Whether or not you manage to ingest his severed member, this dry, medium-bodied bubbly is definitely a great way to say “thank you for being you.”

Beaujolais Villages 2000


The light, fruity bouquet of this well-known Burgundy complements a pan-fried rib steak garnished with garlic and mushrooms. Remember, if your “friend” was over 40, be sure that any excess fat is trimmed before cooking.

Black Opal Shiraz 1998


It’s always difficult to know what to serve with organ meats. But the deep purple color and hearty flavor of this Australian wine underscore the stronger tastes associated with heart, kidneys and liver. For a really tender treat, slow cook the organ meat in a Shiraz-based marinade.

Niersteiner 1999


A touch of sweetness in this classic German white bodes well for any lighter cuts. Whether it’s a breaded slice of breast or a serving of braised sweetbreads, a Rhine Valley white like Niersteiner will never overpower these delicate-tasting meals.

Valpolicella 2002


When those odds and ends become ground round, there’s no better low-budget hamburger wine than Valpolicella. Break out the barbecue and enjoy your grilled manburger with a big, bold Italian red. Goes great with a homemade pasta sauce as well.

Châteauneuf-du-Pape 1997


This is a special-occasion wine and the special occasion may well be an entire roast thigh turned on your barbecue spit. Invite a few flesh-eating friends over to enjoy a “runner’s roast” washed down with a couple of bottles of France’s best.

Sauterne


Any of the semisweet golden offerings will go great with everyone’s favorite dessert — mincemeat tarts. The tangy taste of this fruit-flesh pastry confection is accentuated by the smooth sweetness of the Sauterne.

Port


When you’re having a friend for dinner and you’ve invited others to join you, it’s always nice to finish the evening with cigars and port. Any of the Portuguese brands of this fortified sweet wine will go well with after-dinner noshes like finger foods or man jerky.

A Life Reviewed: A Collection of Blurbs

By: Russell Bradbury-Carlin

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“Maybe two or three times in a generation, a person transcends his or her humanity to become myth-like. Bradbury-Carlin is not an event of this order.”

— Time

“Bradbury-Carlin finds poignancy, terror, sacrifice, (some bit of) wisdom, mystery, numerable neuroses, heartbreak and a real emotional impact that emerges from a life lived just under the speed limit.”

— Newsweek

“A cross between America’s Funniest Videos’ Bob Saget and a slightly melancholic David Schwimmer, of Friends. This is no mere hyperbole.”

— Entertainment Weekly

“A strange, perplexing and, at times, indecipherable life.”

— Clark Derpot, The Christian Science Monitor

“Bradbury-Carlin’s tragicomic life — a fantasia of bad television shows and bizarre writings and an addiction to English muffins — invokes the glorious, unreliable promises of art, politics and beauty.”

— Jack Krumb, WTOC Radio

“This man is truly mediocre. Middle-aged, white, middle-class and male — a heady pastiche of all that is deemed ‘average.'”

— The Washington Post

“Elegantly alluring…a life that works both as a paean to love (of caffeine) and a subtly sly comedy of errors.”

— Cosmopolitan

“Bradbury-Carlin is certainly pleasurable enough, I guess.”

— Cass Fremont, Saturday Review

“The scenes of his eluding the grade school bully for almost a full year with his elaborate, methodical escape routes home…worth the price of admission. The scenes of his fumbling through a daisy chain of first dates and awkward sexual encounters…priceless.”

— New York Times

Soup To Nuts

By: Joseph O'Brien

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To Whom It May Concern:

For the love of God, will you please stop putting carrot chunks the size of manhole covers in your otherwise satisfying soups! When I fish them out, as I have been forced to do on several occasions now, it has a considerable shallowing effect on the soup. It is not unlike what happens to the water level in a bathtub when a large man steps out after a long soak. A giant discus of carrot in my Italian Wedding soup does not make for a happy marriage!

I have noticed this trend developing with your Cream of Broccoli as well. I remember when bite-sized bits of broccoli were evenly distributed through the rich, creamy broth. Now I’m confronted by massive stalks bobbing at the surface of the soup, sometimes jutting up like the stern of a sinking battleship.

I suspect you may be trying to cut corners and save a few dollars by adding these enormous vegetables to your soups as filler. Now hear this I — would gladly pay up to fifty cents more if I were assured that my soup would be free of these cumbersome, unpalatable obstructions.

Now a note on flatware: While it’s perfectly understandable to have a supply of plastic utensils on hand to accommodate takeout orders, would it kill you to provide silverware for guests who choose to dine in? If the plastic must stay, I request that you at least discontinue the “spork” and give your adult patrons the choice of a spoon or fork.

While I’m at it, I’d like to mention what I see as a steady decline in variety on your candy rack. I often stop in your establishment midafternoon for a little pick-me-up. Lately I’ve been dismayed to discover that many of my favorites, specifically Necco Wafers, are only sporadically available, if at all. I realize that these may not be the cool, jet-set candies for the youth of today, but I for one have been buying them from you on a regular basis for years. I would appreciate the courtesy of a reorder when you run out. Business is a two-way street.

I also feel that the seasonal/holiday candy is left on display for too long after its time has passed. For instance, the Halloween Snickers treats that come in fun ghost and jack-o-lantern shapes were still on the rack this past Thanksgiving. Not to mention the Christmas candies which were displayed well into the New Year. You also brazenly offer Cadbury Eggs year round, which I believe is against the law.

My problem here is twofold. First, it calls into question the quality of the candy. Nobody wants to eat something that’s been collecting dust on the rack for months. Second, it tarnishes the spirit of the season. If you could get a Snickers shaped like a ghost or a Milky Way shaped like a Christmas tree any old time you felt like it, it wouldn’t be such a treat, would it?

In a way I thank you for your flimsy candy selection as of late. I’ve been trying to shed a few pounds and you’re helping to keep me in ship shape! I will say, however, that my diet recently led me to try one of the salads advertised on your new Heart Smart menu. I hope I’m not being too graphic when I say that the salad resembled something at the bottom of a garbage disposal. Perhaps if you diced the vegetables for the soups with the same vigor and saved the massive vegetables for your salads you could kill two birds with one stone!

My final complaint (sorry to be such a gloomy Gus!) has to do with your help. I appreciate your doing away with the long parade of ne’er-do-wells, second-story men, and sneaks that you’ve had posted at the register over the years. But this new woman is a different breed of cat, if you’ll pardon my French. While I believe her intentions to be good, she often holds up the flow of the checkout line bantering with the customers. I don’t personally enjoy being badgered with inquiries about the weather. I am not — repeat — am not a meteorologist!

What’s more, her moods turn on a dime. I recall an incident two weeks ago where, after what I thought was a nice conversation about your store’s shabby peanut butter selection, I clearly heard her refer to me as a “paunchy blowhard.” To another customer no less, when I’m sure he was well aware that I was still within earshot. I’m not the type to attempt to get someone fired, especially in these trying times, but I trust you will dole out the proper punishment.

I think it beneficial to both of us to have these grievances aired and to begin an open exchange as yours is the only deli convenient to my work and home. But if this neglect keeps up, I warn you that I may be forced to take my business elsewhere.

I am,

Sidney Gruten

Greetings from Parma — Wish You Were Dead!

By: Mollie Wilson

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“[Parmalat chief financial officer Fausto] Tonna appeared in no mood to co-operate when he arrived for interrogation yesterday. He turned to journalists to say: ‘I wish you and your families a slow and painful death.’”

— Financial Times, January 6, 2004

MOTHER: Fausto, drink your milk before you leave the table.

TONNA: [grumbles]

MOTHER: Now, Fausto, what have I told you about wishing for people’s deaths?

FATHER: You can’t go through life that way, son.

*****

BANK TELLER: Excuse me, sir, but there’s an error in your addition on this deposit slip.

TONNA: Oh, is there really?

BANK TELLER: Yes, sir, see, in the billions column…

TONNA: Well, then, Mr. Smartypants Banker, why don’t you go somewhere with your family and die, slowly and painfully?

*****

RADIO ANNOUNCER: There’s a three-car accident blocking all the inbound lanes, so you commuters might want to find an alternate route into the city today.

TONNA: I hope you and every one of your relatives are diagnosed with life-threatening illnesses on the very same day, and you all spend every day of the next three years attending each other’s funerals.

*****

WAITER: I’m sorry, sir, but we’re all out of lemonade.

TONNA: In that case, I wish for you and everyone you love to be buried alive in a landslide, along with all your most precious family heirlooms. And can I substitute fries for the baked potato?

*****

CAT: [scratches sofa]

TONNA: Gordo, I have told you repeatedly that I don’t want you scratching the furniture, and now I hope you contract cat-leprosy and die licking your painful lesions.

*****

CUSTOMER SERVICE REPRESENTATIVE: Good afternoon, Mr. Tonna. Do you have time to respond to a brief customer satisfaction survey?

TONNA: No, but you’ll have plenty of time while you’re dying from the long, drawn-out illness that I hope will afflict you.

*****

CRITIC: “I’m With Her” is one sitcom you can afford to skip.

TONNA: May your tongue be covered with boils and your eyelashes fall out overnight. I love “I’m With Her.”

*****

DOLLY PARTON: [sings] I wish you joy and happiness, but above all this, I wish you love.

TONNA: Why, thank you, buxom American country singer. I’m afraid I still wish you a painful death, but perhaps I will make it a quick one in light of your kind thoughts.

*****

WIFE: Fausto, how do you feel about roast beef tonight?

TONNA: How do you feel about dying a slow and painful death?

WIFE: Okay, I’ll make chicken. Jesus.

CAT: [meows]

WIFE: And stop cursing the cat!

*****

BRIDE AND GROOM: Thanks for coming to our wedding, Fausto!

TONNA: It’s my pleasure, and may I be the first to wish you both a very slow and painful death together.

Chez Five Day Forecast: Our Chef’s Selections

By: Neil Pasricha

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Sunday


Medley of fresh baby clouds tossed with a generous helping of crisp leaf-infused winds and served until late afternoon. Presented with peu soleil.

Monday


Slightly braised hail, served on densely marinated skies and drenched in eau jus. Add umbrella or hat $3.

Tuesday


A medley of exotic precipitations, seasoned with gentle sprinklings of sea-fresh water medallions, with subtle acidic undertones. Spicy.

Wednesday


Select farm-fresh rays of sunshine marinated in a rich blend of solar dust with a mild ocean essence. Sprinkled with crisp, stuffed clouds, on a bed of exhaust-infused air.

Thursday


Rich and seasonal precipitation nuggets on a bed of hair and clothing, lightly drizzled with light drizzle. Followed with your choice of climate-controlled indoor setting, or same. Healthy Choice.

The Natural History of the Mustache

By: Ed Page

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You may not be aware of it — it didn’t get a lot of press, for some reason — but last week marked an important historical anniversary: exactly one billion years ago last Thursday, the world’s first mustache crawled up out of the primordial sea onto dry land. Of course, a billion years ago, there were no paparazzi on the shore with popping flashbulbs; no one set off any fireworks to mark the occasion; there were no tickertape parades. Yet the significance of that event was astronomical, for it would forever change the face of mankind.

The face of mankind, however, did not yet exist. Humans wouldn’t arrive on the planet for hundreds of millions of years. The mustache would have to wait.

While it waited, it multiplied. After only a few million years, the mustache population had grown to an alarming size. There were now more mustaches on earth than any other form of facial hair, including the eyebrow. Traveling in great herds consisting of several thousand individuals, the mustaches would sweep across the ancient African plain, leaving in their wake a trail of destruction several miles wide. Any animal that lay in their path was enveloped in a veil of murderous whiskers. They could skeletonize a brontosaurus in a matter of minutes. Even the mighty Tyrannosaurus rex — king of the dinosaurs — would avoid a mustache encounter at any cost. Known as the Mustacheoic era, this was the mustache’s golden age. Never again would it exist in such great numbers. Never again would it command such respect.

The seeds of the mustache’s downfall were sown by its very success. They were such proficient hunters, they would often kill far more than they needed, and rather than waste food, the mustaches gorged. As time went on, they grew increasingly fat, until most were as big as haystacks. Their excess pounds slowed them so much, they could barely hunt. No longer the swift and deadly creatures they once were, they now proved easy targets for the very predators that had once fled from them in mortal panic. Soon the plains were littered with the bodies of dead mustaches. Blood flowed in a million scarlet streams. It soaked into the earth, transforming the plains into a crimson landscape straight out of Hell. The mustache plunged toward extinction.

This was the mustache’s darkest hour. It was an hour that would last three million years. During this time, the mustache population was so small, it left no evidence that it even existed. No mustache fossil dating from this period has ever been found and, consequently, almost nothing is known about the mustache’s day-to-day life during these years. What did it eat? Where did it live? Did it interbreed with sideburns? The answers to these questions and to others like them are forever hidden behind a thick wall of impenetrable mystery.

As the Ice Age began, the mustache reëmerged on a grand scale. It is one of the greatest recoveries in the history of the natural world. Suddenly, the mustache was everywhere. Seemingly overnight, its population had soared to heights rivaling those of the Mustacheoic era.

What had caused such a dramatic resurgence? It is a question that once baffled the world’s greatest minds. Freud had hypothesized a decade-long orgy, while Einstein pointed to a newly evolved strain of huckleberry. Both, it turned out, were monumentally wrong.

In 1961, two French scientists, while looking for a lost Frisbee in a snowbank in northern Siberia, stumbled upon a startling discovery: lying just beneath the snow was an almost perfectly preserved woolly mammoth. They never found their Frisbee, but their mammoth would soon stun the world.

On close inspection, the mammoth’s woolly coat was discovered to be composed entirely of mustaches. In a mutually beneficial arrangement, the mustaches had insulated the mammoths from the severe cold, and the mammoths, in turn, had provided the mustaches not only with warmth and transportation, but also with sustenance: for the mustaches would feed on the mammoths’ blood. News that the mammoth was actually a pink and hairless species rocked the scientific world. But even more shocking was the news that the once-noble mustache had become a lowly parasite. Riots broke out around the globe.

After several days, the riots died down, but anti-mustache sentiment persisted everywhere. The leading scientific journals published articles vilifying the mustache for driving the beloved mammoth to extinction. Angry mobs set out into the wilderness seeking vengeance. When they found a mustache, they shot it execution-style, then burnt the corpse to cinders.

Nearly a year after the initial riots, it was reported on the front page of the New York Times that the world’s last mustache had been killed earlier that morning. The news kicked off a global celebration that lasted for weeks.

Merrymakers around the world would have been surprised to learn that, despite everything, the mustache was far from extinct. But it was true: Millions of mustaches were alive and well, hiding in plain sight, right under their very noses.

Executive Insults

By: Neil Pasricha

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Wow, that’s a nice painting you’ve got in your office, Miller. I think I saw the same one down by the urinals at the Bowlerama.

No, no, no. Don’t worry, Cindy. This is great takeout you got for our team meeting. And I’m sure it looked good, too. (Pause.) You know, before someone sat on it. (Longer pause.) And haphazardly tossed salad dressing over it all. (Even longer pause.) And burnt it.

So, Thompson. Where’d you learn to erase a whiteboard? The School of Slow, Small Concentric Circles That Never Touch the Corners?

I was impressed by your e-mail, Henderson. You spelled two words correctly, which I believe is a new personal best. Congratulations!

Nice double Windsor you got there, Miller. By the way, I was completely lying. That is a horrible double Windsor you got there, Miller.

No, Tony, I wouldn’t say your voice-mail message is the longest and most convoluted I’ve ever heard, no. I wouldn’t say that. What I would say, however, is that your voice-mail message is not as unlong and nonconvoluted as anyone else’s ever.

Hey, Keri, do you know how to fix the photocopier? I hope so, because you broke it.

(Holds hand up for a high-five with raised eyebrows and an open mouth, then moves it away at the last second.)

Yeah, well, guess what, Steve? The mailroom called. And they want YOU back! (Picks up a piece of mail and casually tosses it on the floor.) Oh, whoops. (Making a mock-concerned face.) Can you get that, Steve?

Hey, that’s a really nice suitcase you got there, Miller. Oh…I’m sorry…incredibly outdated cell phone.

I’m sorry if I gave you that impression, Cindy. It’s not that I hate Take Your Kids to Work Day. It’s that I hate your kids.

How’d you do on your performance evaluation, Judy? Did they overlook your complete incompetence again?

I got to hand it to you, Miller. And by “it” I mean this pink slip. Oh, by the way, the Bowlerama called. They want their painting back.