Servicing The Working Man

By: Cory Laslocky

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My Pop-Pop just turned 85 the other day and do you know how he spent his day? Working, and I don’t mean weeding in the garden, although he did do that too, but only after he finished working. Rendered services. Contributed to America’s bottom line. And although he’s certainly entitled at his age, he spent his birthday — the day meant for celebrating the moment he joined the human race after being squeezed from his mother’s womb 85 years ago — earning a living. My Pop-Pop, to quote Tom Brokaw, is part of America’s greatest generation, the generation that built America as we know it. Back then, the only thing my Pop-Pop, and men like him, did was build — all the time: factories, dams, skyscrapers, fighter jets. He might even have built the place you’re sitting in right now. Are you sitting in a fighter jet parked on top of a skyscraper? If so, he probably did.

My Pop-Pop didn’t stop building until the last flicker of sunlight danced away over the horizon. Back then, a man wasn’t a man unless he was working with his own two hands building something. Something you could feel. Something that had weight and took space where there once was none. Me, I haven’t picked up a hammer in 16 years. I wouldn’t even know what one looked like if you flung one at me. Sure, I’d duck out of its way, but later, after the circumstances causing you to throw a hammer at my head were properly explained and justified, I’d still not fully understand what it was.

It used to be that the man was the job and the job was the man — and a man could take satisfaction in that. But that has changed. Many men just kind of work at some job, some place, somewhere, spending hours, weeks, years of their lives with nothing to show for it at the end except for a filing cabinet full of paper.

Today, we work in a service-based economy full of people doing things for other people: things people don’t want to do themselves. Landscapers. Maids. Nannies. Concierges. Services — you can’t see ’em; you can’t feel ’em. And at the end of the day, all you have is an intangible and some paperwork. When was the last time you met a carpenter? When was the last time you sat down and talked to a farmer? And who among you can honestly recommend a really good machinist in a pinch?

Wedding planners. House sitters. Interior decorators. Real-estate agents. Life coaches — now that’s a scary proposition. If you’ve got a life coach, then there’s a chance you could get benched. Cut from your own life.

Every human need and desire imaginable has a corresponding service for it. Prostitutes. Surrogate mothers. Mail-order brides. Fluffers.

Life too hard? Finding existence time consuming? Involuntary breathing a hassle? You just sit back and relax because you can simply hire somebody else to live your life for you. Personal trainers. Personal shoppers. Personal assistants. Publicists.

That’s what I am, a publicist. I must admit that it’s not exactly the most masculine job in the world. I don’t lift anything particularly heavy. There’s no hauling or riveting in my job description and I don’t tear any carpet or install drywall. Basically, I talk to people eight hours a day every day. I let everyone know about what’s going on at my company. If I do anything, it’s finessing people and putting positive spins on otherwise embarrassing situations for my company. Just the other day, it seems that my company coerced some recently downsized employees, who were let go because they were old, black, gay, or female, into dumping some chemical waste into a protected wetlands area that was home to a rare breed of malamute. Yeah, I know, oops. But like my press release said, “That’s not necessarily a bad thing.” But I digress.

My grandfather spent most of his life as an iron worker. He took cold steel into his bare hands and bent it, mashed it, bullied it into something useful like a supertanker, a fighter jet, or a dessert spoon.

He once told me about the time he was 47 stories above the earth, working on a new building, when he slipped. And as he was falling to his death, hurtling toward a most unsightly demise, he reached out and grabbed on to a girder. There he was, hanging on for dear life by a separated shoulder until help could come. And do you know what he did afterwards? He jammed his shoulder back into its socket, finished his shift, had a round with the boys at Dutch’s, and went home and gave it to my grandmother good — twice! — because he was and still is a man!

And me? I’m a publicist.

He’s got 14 pounds of undigested red meat sitting on his colon. I, on the other hand, had a grilled chicken salad for lunch — with the dressing on the side.

He sleeps on a sloped bed of sharp rocks in the backyard. I just bought a white-noise machine and a new stitched duvet.

I know I’ll never be an iron worker, but I’d settle for just being handy. By “handy,” I mean build-a-deck handy. I want to be one of those guys who wake up in the morning, walk into Home Depot and just indiscriminately buy twenty two-by-fours. I want to become a man who says things like “pop the hood,” or “catalytic converter,” or “bring me the needle-nosed pliers, Goddamnit.” I want to work with my hands and break good, musky sweat all over my sinewy muscles and then come home reeking of testosterone and take my wife right there in the foyer or the pantry or the sunroom.”

So I’m making changes.

I just placed a couple of two-by-fours underneath my computer monitor. I replaced my ergonomic desk chair with a painted wood chair I stole from a one-room-schoolhouse exhibit at the museum. I just traded in my sesame-seed-granola bars for trout heads. And I drove a big axe into the tree stump in my backyard and I ain’t moving it.

I’m making changes to become a working man.

I’m making changes so I can be more like my Pop-Pop.

The Death Of Irony

By: Benjamin C. Thornton

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The body of Michael Robert Irony was discovered yesterday morning in a deep ditch near the intersection of Main and Fate Streets, bringing an end to the massive search and rescue effort that had taken place over the last 36 hours. Investigators believe that Irony was struck by an ambulance while jogging.

A preliminary report released by the county medical examiner suggests that Irony survived the initial accident for perhaps as long as a full day while officials and volunteers scoured the area where his remains were eventually discovered. The tracks of one bloodhound used in the search were discovered to have led to within six feet of the body before veering off, apparently in pursuit of a passing squirrel.

Irony was reported missing Sunday night after he failed to appear at a surprise party celebrating the opening of the fifth outlet of his business. Irony was the founder and president of The Invincible Man Inc., a chain of full-service centers offering fitness programs and equipment, nutritional services, survival training, and martial-arts classes.

Police have not yet determined if charges will be pressed against the paramedic driving the ambulance at the time of the accident. The driver and his partner were returning from Safety Week events at City Hall when a bee entered the vehicle’s open window. The driver, who is allergic to bee stings, momentarily took his attention off the road and swerved onto the sidewalk. Neither he nor his partner realized that they had struck anything except the curb.

Michael Robert Irony was 39, exactly half of his predicted life expectancy. A memorial service will be held at the Oak Glen Calvinist Church this Saturday at 10 a.m. Interment will follow in the Irony family crypt.

The crypt was last opened exactly ten years ago for the burial of Michael’s father, police sergeant John Vincent Irony. Sgt. Irony was killed in the line of duty taking a bullet meant for his partner, Detective Striker O’Toole. The veteran sergeant was only three days short of retirement.

The crypt also holds the remains of other notable Irony family members such as William Irony, the Titanic survivor who slipped off the gangplank of the rescue vessel that brought him safely to New York, and Private Henry Irony, killed in the trenches of France, one minute after the armistice ending the First World War was signed.

All are, or were, direct descendents of the man historians consider the patriarch of the Irony clan: Dr. Nathaniel Irony (1715-1776), the English theorist, philosopher, inventor, and writer. Dr. Irony was most famous for his three-volume opus The Theories and Practise of Applicable Certainty, or, How One Might Use the Words of the English Language to Express an Idea That Is Exactly Similar to the Literal Meaning of Those Words, without Contrast, Incongruity, or Unintended Consequences, Be They Humorous or of a Tragic Nature.

A seminal work in its time, Applicable Certainty attracted the attention of many of the world’s greatest intellectuals. The in-depth examination even inspired Dr. Samuel Johnson (1709-1784) to begin work on compiling a list of English words and their meanings, an endeavor that grew into his famous Dictionary of the English Language. Irony and Johnson became close colleagues and confidants, writing to each other for the rest of their lives.

In 1776, while studying the word “inflammable,” Irony dropped a match among the many papers strewn upon his desk and caused a great fire that consumed him and his life’s work. Upon hearing the tragic news, Johnson decided to memorialize his friend in his Dictionary and give all royalties and proceeds in perpetuity to the Irony family. On January 3, 1777, he made these entries in his journal:

“To be added to the Dict. At Once: Irony, a noun, the condition of an Exactitude of intention and a Precision of Understanding of a Word, or phrase, or Circumstance, whether literary or otherwise; an unchangeable meaning as if cast in Iron.”

“Silas [Johnson’s secretary] is gone again and unaccounted for. I must be wary. I could have sworn before God and King I had four farthings in the Pocket of my Scarlet waistcoat, but now I find but Two. Treachery. Also my Golden snuff box is not to be found. Nor is the silver cannister from my bedside wherein I keep the sheaths for the lesser Dr. Johnson so that he may be Protected whilst having Relations with a Woman and not catch the Pox.”

Two months later, Johnson’s secretary Silas Hogan was convicted of theft and transported to the penal colonies in Australia. Meanwhile, Johnson’s new secretary, not yet familiar with his employer’s handwriting, sent Widow Irony the butcher’s bill for Johnson’s meat pies, replaced the Dictionary entry for “irony” with a definition Johnson had quickly drafted as a gag for an acquaintance named John Spooky, and arranged for all royalties and proceeds from the Dictionary to go, in perpetuity, to a man who had once courted Johnson’s sister, a Mr. Simon Luckey-Bastard.

The Legend Of Billy Smith

By: Ernst Luchs

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“It’s your hangin’ day, Billy Smith,” said the sheriff through the bars. “Since you’ve been here, Billy, I’ve learned you ain’t such a bad boy. I was wrong before. We was all wrong, and I think we owe you an apology. I don’t want to see you beg and squeal and scream. I don’t want to see you kickin’ and dancin’ on air. I reckon I’ll just have to close my eyes when the time comes.”

Billy didn’t seem to notice the sheriff. He was standing on his bed, his face level with the window of his cell. The early morning rays of the sun shone in on him, bathing his face with a holy light. He stuck an arm through the bars and held his hand up toward the sky. A beautiful bird landed in the palm of his hand, singing a melody ever so sweet, a song so pure it was like the voice of God in falsetto.

“Them birds love ya’, don’t they, Billy?” said the sheriff with reverence in his voice.

“Yes,” answered Billy, “I should have been an ornithologist. I never dreamed that one day I would be just like a bird in a cage, singing for my supper, wishing I was free.”

“Well, Billy, you won’t have to do no singin’ today. This here bag of sunflower seeds is on the house. I throwed in some bread crumbs, too, and some gravel for your gizzard.”

The sheriff walked over to his cluttered desk and picked something off the top.

“I drawed up this here certificate to present you on the scaffold. It testifies that you, Billy Smith, are the cleanest, most well-behaved prisoner that we’ve ever had the pleasure to hang. In plain words, a model condemned man. And looky here,” said the sheriff, beaming as he held the document up to the bars, “it’s been signed by the governor. He says he’ll personally attend your funeral and see to it that your widow don’t go without, like so many widows do.”

“Let me see that,” said Billy. As the sheriff handed it through the bars, Billy grabbed his arm and yanked him close. Then he grabbed the sheriff by his hair and jerked him around so that his back was against the bars. Using the edge of the certificate like a knife, Billy drew it across the sheriff’s neck, cutting his throat from ear to ear.

“Ow! That smarts. Leggo!” demanded the sheriff.

“You better open this door, sheriff, or I’ll open it with your head.”

“No! No!” cried the sheriff. “You’re gonna hang. You’re gonna hang.” Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang went his head against the bars, and pop went the lock as the door swung free. Billy grabbed a gun first, then he rummaged through the desk, looking for beer nuts and traveler’s checks. As he went along he kept popping little odds and ends into his mouth, until he looked like a chipmunk with overstuffed pouches. In the back of his mind somewhere, Billy asked himself, “Why am I doing this? Pa will kill me this time for sure.” But his introspection lasted only a second. He found a tube of bright red lipstick, tasted it, tried some on, pursed his lips in front of a mirror, and then wiped it off. He tried to stuff a harmonica into his mouth but failed. He broke into a medicine cabinet and rubbed himself down with ammoniated spirits. “Now I truly feel like a polar bear,” he confided to himself as he tried mugging in the mirror again. Then he burst out with a laugh — the kind of raw, husky, liquor-laden laugh that a cowboy makes when he’s just heard an outrageous lie. But it was just one lonely laugh, the sort that keeps to itself, that runs away from home and wanders the streets at night, never to return.

Billy went over to the open cell where the sheriff lay. Using two six-shooters, he blasted holes into the floor around the body. The noise was deafening. “Dance, damn you, dance!” shouted Billy through the smoke. The body was motionless. A little songbird flitted in through the window. It landed on the sheriff’s head and went hungrily for the eyes.

Billy reloaded and ran out into the street, brandishing his weapons. “Look at that big chipmunk!” exclaimed an elderly woman. Billy shot at her. He started to fire wildly in all directions. The town got angry. Blam. Blam. Blam. Kapow. Kapow. Kapow. Bullets flew every which way like a storm raging in Hell. The blazing sun bore down, relentless, seeming to curse the name Billy Smith.

“We hate you, Billy Smith,” yelled everyone at once. Click, click, click was his reply. Out of bullets. He stood up from his crouching position and turned to run. Blam. Blam. Blam. Kapow. Kapow. Ack ack ack ack ack. They shot him in the back with everything they had. He turned to face them once more, caught a bullet in his teeth and collapsed to the ground where the dust ran red. His riddled body quivered like jelly as they continued to fire – muskets, Gatling guns and cannons spewing flames, echoing like thunder in a mad symphony of death.

“Give up, Billy Smith,” blared a loudspeaker. A German biplane strafed him mercilessly for several hours and then dropped a bomb. The carnage went on for three days and three nights with searchlights swiveling, hand grenades exploding and red-hot barrels bending like licorice. Finally, they stopped. “Come out with your hands up,” warned the loudspeaker.

When the smoke cleared nine days later, nothing was left but a radioactive crater filled with molten lead.

Proper Grooming Tips

By: J. Pinkerton

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Trim your toe- and fingernails immediately after a shower, when your cuticles and nails are at their most tender. Performing toe grooming at other times will cause your toes to snap off suddenly in a brittle explosion of bone and skin shards.

Sir Lies-a-Lot didn’t actually like your new haircut. That’s not even his real name.

For future reference, wearing black tends to have a slimming effect. Watching you shovel up four helpings of pasta at the restaurant last night, conversely, tended to have an I-think-I-want-to-break-up-with-you effect.

Don’t comb your hair on a regular basis. Combs and brushes tend to damage hair over the long term by breaking it off or pulling it out, causing your tail to become sparse and thin. Instead, remove tangles by “combing” through your tail with your teeth. Also be careful to remove rocks and dirt from your hooves where, if left unchecked, bacteria can build. Also, be a horse.

When trimming nasal hair, remember that you have a lot of it, and that you look hilarious.

For a refreshing change, why not try devoting less time to grooming your 17 cats and get out of that filthy tracksuit, you fat mound of stool.

Though this may be coming a little late to be useful, be sure to take care of your tooth.

Proper toweling technique after a shower can be instrumental in removing dead skin and dander. Viciously scrub your skin while examining yourself in the mirror, not stopping until you achieve that “removed-skin” look so popular in the teen medical journals.

Remember: lather, rinse, gargle, pass out, regain consciousness in shower, repeat.

Soap is not a toy. It will do more good when applied with generous amounts of water to your skin than buried in your colon while you stand on a footstool and jam the shower nozzle in your anus.

Smoking in the shower: usually this is a don’t. But try tying a garbage bag tightly around your head and upper torso. Look out, world — here comes Smoky Showerton: Ace Shower Smoker!

Don’t bathe with your dog. Honestly, I’m telling you for the last time.

Try combining many grooming activities at once in the shower. You’ll find the shower a time-saving place for many different chores: brushing your teeth, shaving, combing your hair, ironing your clothes, and electrocuting yourself in a shower of sparks and shrieking.

The Cat’s Pajamas

By: Helmut Luchs

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Outside, the rain had taken league with the cold to ensure that only the very brave or the very foolish would venture into the night. The wind banged furiously on the windows, while the rain hammered on the roof, trying to gain access to the small, lonely cottage.

But inside, a cozy, warm fire blazed out of control in the kitchen. Mr. Whitehead, a wizened old man, sat engrossed in a game of chess with his presumptuous, wisecracking son, Hubert. Deep within Mr. Whitehead, where very little else stirred, lived a small yet ridiculous dream of becoming head lifeguard at the town swimming hole that summer. He would never see that day, and it was just as well, since he couldn’t swim in anything over three inches deep. Especially water. Mrs. Whitehead sat in the corner working hard, squeezing the last few drops of blood from a turnip for a lovely blood pudding.

“Check,” announced Mr. Whitehead for all to hear.

The old woman stopped her work and looked up in surprise. Hubert grinned impishly and then with a nasty little chuckle made his move.

“Checkmate.” Mrs. Whitehead returned to her blood pudding. “Well,” said Hubert, “I beat you again, you senile old stooge.”

“Well, Alexander Bromide Whitehead,” the old woman cackled, “there’s no denying our little king has a way about him.”

“No,” replied her husband sternly. “I would never deny anything about our little king. Especially if the law were present.”

Suddenly there came a loud knock at the door, and a voice: “Come quick and let me in — I’m freezing!”

“Sorry, nobody’s home,” cracked Hubert.

“Oh, my!” exclaimed Mr. Whitehead. “That must be Sergeant Major Morton. Last week I invited him to visit us tonight, but who would think that anyone would brave this weather?”

He lifted the bolt on the door and flung it open. A man staggered in almost falling, and then caught his balance with the help of Mr. Whitehead’s arm.

His eyes were fearsomely large and wild. Clumps of flaming red beard clung perilously to his face. Having lost most of his beard in the war (just which war is uncertain — he claims to have been in a dozen or more), he had been advised by the doctors to amputate the rest. He had bravely refused, and now got along on slightly less than half a beard. He was middle-aged, yet appeared to be quite strong, not with the strength of youth, but rather with the strength of old, beaten leather. His hair stood straight up, and from time to time a spark would leap from his head to the ceiling and disappear. Also sticking to his head, as if glued, were some antique forks and knives, a couple of large paper clips, and some snips of loose wire. These were easily explained by the metal plate in his head, which he had acquired during “the war” (again, just which war he probably could not say). Rumor had it that the forks and knives were attracted to his head by the need to feel part of a complete dinner set. Actually, though, he had been struck in the head by lightning several times, which electrically magnetized the plate.

Aside from these details, there was a large red question mark tattooed on his forehead. Smooth, dark hair grew on his palms, and rotten teeth fell from his mouth like candy from a broken piñata. In short, he was a cab driver, and had seen everything in the world there was to see — maybe more.

Mrs. Whitehead, who sat staring in awe at the strange creature her husband had befriended, now believed that she, too, had seen everything.

The sergeant major sat smoking a pipe and consuming a comfortable amount of whiskey without saying much until dinner was served. At dinner he was alive and glowing with stories about India, Africa, wars of all sorts, and the many queer experiences he’d had with those who had ridden in his cab. Hubert dared to laugh once, and the sergeant major shot him a glance with twisted lip and squinted eyes so fierce and forbidding that Hubert had to leave the table for a change of pants.

It was late in the evening when the Whitehead’s guest finally broached the subject of a strange, magical garment known as the Cat’s Pajamas.

“How did they get their name?” inquired Mrs. Whitehead. “I mean, were they really the pajamas of someone’s cat?”

“Of a cat,” he explained. “A royal cat in ancient Egypt who was the direct descendant of the Great Sphinx.”

“You mean that statue?” asked Mrs. Whitehead.

“No, I mean the original Sphinx, not that silly carving. She was very upset by that, you know. She felt it was an extremely poor likeness, and was greatly angered that the artist had not bothered to consult her. She often asked those who crossed her path, ‘Who’s responsible for this thing? It doesn’t even look like me! Where are my whiskers?’ When they could not answer, she gobbled them up. Once, however, being too tired to ask the whole question, she said simply, ‘Where are my whiskers?’ To which the young man quaking in front of her replied, ‘You’re wearing them.’ This, of course, was not the answer the Sphinx desired, but being fair and not very hungry at the moment, she let the young man pass with just a fractured skull.

“Anyway, to continue. These pajamas are unique both because anyone in possession of them may be granted three wishes, and because they are reversible and may double as a beautiful smoking jacket, which, it seems to me, is an idea remarkably ahead of its time. But then, some people are still baffled by the pyramids.”

“Then this cat did have its vices?” inquired Mrs. Whitehead, in connection with the smoking jacket.

“Oh, yes indeed. And it was smoking that was directly responsible for the spell cast on the pajamas, or curse if you will.”

“I will not!” declared the old woman. “I’m a Christian.”

“He means the spell was a curse,” explained her husband.

“Come off it,” challenged Hubert. “How could three little wishes hurt anyone?”

“Your mother wished for you, didn’t she?” laughed Mr. Whitehead, delighted at having got the jump on Hubert.

Sergeant Major Morton coughed to break up the argument and continued with his story.

“This cat tried for years to give up smoking, with little success. Finally, in desperation he turned to an old wizard and said, ‘What the hell are you doing in my house?’

“‘I’ve come to help you stop smoking,’ said the old necromancer.

“‘How much will that cost me?’

“‘Fifteen cartons of cigarettes,’ said the wizard, who enjoyed smoking and was not about to give it up.

“‘Fair enough,’ came the reply. And with that a spell was cast which made the cat extremely nauseated any time he even thought about cigarettes. ‘Here,’ the cat gulped, pushing 40 cartons of cigarettes at the wizard. ‘Take them all, they make me sick.’

“Several days later the cat was approached by Nile Cigarettes, Inc., the largest manufacturer and distributor of cigarettes in Egypt. They wanted him to pose for an advertisement that read, ‘I buy Niles by the mile!’ It would’ve made him one of the richest cats in Egypt, but the very idea of it made him sick. A week later he saw the advertisement on a billboard with the old wizard posing in his place. Needless to say, he puked his guts out. The cat now realized it was fate that ruled everyone’s life, and that to tamper with it only brought grief and the heartbreak of psoriasis. So, being one who didn’t like to suffer alone, he had the wizard put a spell on the pajamas to ensure that future generations would continue to make the same foolish mistakes.”

“Why pajamas?” probed Mr. Whitehead with intense interest.

“Probably for the sake of humiliation, since one must wear the silly-looking things upsidedown, covering the head completely, before making a wish.”

“Do they still exist?” inquired Mrs. Whitehead anxiously.

“They do,” said the sergeant major, as he reached into his breast pocket and revealed a peculiar cloth. All eyes were on the drunken cabbie and the room was perfectly hushed as even the act of breathing was forgotten momentarily. Bringing the cloth to his face, he blew his nose, then stuffed the hanky back in his pocket.

“But how do you know they exist?” insisted Mr. Whitehead impatiently.

“Because I have them here,” said Sergeant Major Morton. And reaching into another pocket, he pulled out the pajamas and quickly blew his nose on them.

“Good heavens!” screamed Mrs. Whitehead. “Where did you get them, and why do you treat them so lightly?”

“I bought them on sale for five dollars at Carson Pirie Scott.”

“At Carson Pirie Scott?” repeated Mrs. Whitehead, dumbfounded.

“Yes, but it’s no use going back for more. These were the only ones ever made, and finding them was a rare bit of luck, I suppose.”

“How do you happen to know so much about them?” Hubert questioned suspiciously.

“Everything I’ve told you is there on the label, right below where it says ‘100% Cotton.’ I didn’t notice it until I got home, but I’m returning them tomorrow.”

“Are you crazy?” screamed Mr. Whitehead. “What about the three wishes?”

“Do you take me for a fool? I read the label, you know. These things are cursed and I’m taking them back.”

“You’re insane. I’ll give you 25 dollars for them, five times what you paid.”

“Don’t be such a moron, pop,” yelled Hubert. “Can’t you see he’s trying to cheat you?” Again the angered cabbie shot a glance at Hubert so terrifying that Hubert left the table to change into his last clean pair of pants.

“I agree with Hubert,” said Mrs. Whitehead.

“I’m not trying to cheat anyone!” bellowed the sergeant major, throwing the pajamas at the floor. “You can keep the bloody things, and you can burn in Hell, and don’t ever say I didn’t warn you!” He stomped over to the door, then turned around and said politely, “By the way, in case you haven’t noticed, your kitchen’s on fire.” With that, he slammed the door behind him.

It took them several hours to put the fire out using a garden hose and wetted blankets from Mr. Whitehead’s bed, which, according to Hubert, “choked the fire because they smelled so bad.”

All were exhausted afterwards, and Mr. Whitehead slumped down into the easy chair to rest. Suddenly his eyes grew bright and he sat up straight.

“Oh, what a fool I am!” he exclaimed. “Why didn’t I think of it? I should’ve used the Cat’s Pajamas and wished the fire away.”

“You’re a fool, all right,” agreed his wife. “You were going to pay 25 dollars for those useless rags. If they were worth any wishing, I’d wish you had never met that walking liquor cabinet of a man.”

“No, mother! Don’t forget you must wear them on your head,” joked Hubert.

“Oh, yes.” She laughed, and snatched them up quickly from the floor. Her husband stepped towards her, but it was too late. They were on her head. “How do I look?” she giggled, doing a dance around the world and blindly knocking over furniture.

“Please don’t!” pleaded Mr. Whitehead.

“Wish, Mother!” screamed Hubert, hysterical with laughter. “Wish!”

“I wish — cha cha cha — that my poor, foolish husband — cha cha cha — had never met the highly distinguished and very flammable Sergeant Major Morton!” The pajamas instantly tightened around her neck like a hangman’s noose, and jerked her feet off the ground. She let out a blood-curdling shriek and made a repugnant sort of gurgle.

Then, in the wink of an eye, they were all transported to a time earlier in the evening. Father and Son were at chess, Mother sat in the corner with her blood pudding, and a cozy, warm fire blazed out of control in the kitchen.

The next day’s paper reported sadly that the entire Whitehead family had perished in a fire which completely destroyed their small home.

Boneheads

By: Kurt Luchs

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September 14 — Africa at last! After weeks of preparation and days of nausea aboard rickety twin-engine prop planes and even more rickety Jeeps, we reached the famed Olduvai Gorge where some of the earliest known human remains have been discovered. My excitement at arriving was tempered by the realization that Professor Donaldson is here also, seeking evidence for his asinine theory that the earliest humans possessed the secret of sheer pantyhose. To my colleague Dr. Rollo and myself, on the other hand, it is apparent that the first humanoids perished precisely because of the lack of proper leggings. Professor Donaldson crashed our arrival celebration and argued his point by giving a disgustingly graphic demonstration of what early man might have looked like in nylons. Meanwhile, I had our cook fill his pith helmet with dung beetles. When he put it back on the beetles believed they had found a mother lode of their favorite food and attacked his bald cranium savagely. He ran off screaming, but I fear we haven’t seen the last of him.

September 16 — A good day. After scrabbling in the dust of Olduvai for nearly 11 hours and finding nothing besides an Oh Henry! wrapper dating from approximately the mid-1970s, I suddenly came upon part of a humanoid tibia. I haven’t properly dated it yet, but my initial guess is that it is at least four million years old. If not, then it may be part of the remains of our driver, who was pecked to death by hummingbirds two days ago — a brutal ordeal lasting almost 24 hours (the African hummingbird is somewhat larger and meaner than its North American cousin). Either way, it is a significant find. I celebrated by sharing a bottle of champagne with our crew. They were rather subdued until Dr. Rollo stepped on a scorpion and started doing a fair imitation of the local fire dance. This put the men in jolly spirits for the remainder of the night, and we all went to bed with smiles on our faces.

September 17 — Professor Donaldson snuck past the native guards and into our camp once again, spoiling an otherwise pleasant breakfast of ostrich eggs and python strips. Somehow word of yesterday’s find had already leaked out, and of course he had to come sniffing around, the meddling fool. I showed it to him nonetheless and asked his professional opinion out of courtesy more than anything else. He snorted and said that, far from being four million years old and humanoid, it appeared to him to be four weeks old and canine. He then offered to trade me his recent “find” for it: a soft, pliable bone with bits of flesh still attached, which he claimed was from a perfectly preserved pterodactyl, though he could not explain how he came to be carrying it in a Kentucky Fried Chicken box. I declined his offer and had our headman Yobi show him the fast route to the bottom of the gorge — the one with the missing rung on the rope ladder. Hopefully he won’t trouble us again.

September 18 — Today I began serious work on the ancient tibia fragment. My first attempt at carbon dating was disappointing, giving a result of less than 100 years. But assuming a modest margin of error of only 99.99 percent, this could be interpreted as supporting my hypothesis. I would guess this specimen to be a female — call her “Louise” — because of her coyness about her exact age. In size and general appearance she no doubt resembled Danny DeVito, although she didn’t shave as often and almost certainly never starred in any major Hollywood productions. Her diet probably consisted of whatever insects flew into her open mouth. Fake fur was not an option, so she wrapped herself in real animal skins. Her embarrassment at this faux pas would explain why she spent her days hiding in caves — either that or the lack of a reliable sun block and skin moisturizer.

September 20 — Another amazing discovery! At the bottom of Olduvai this morning I uncovered a nearly complete male skeleton from the same species as Louise. Because I found it near Professor Donaldson’s discarded hat and shoes, I think it only fair that, despite our professional differences, I name it after him: Homo habilis donis. Like Louise, this proto-man had a cranial capacity roughly half the modern average. I’m sure if he were alive today he’d be either a teamster or a human resources manager. What’s more, I feel certain that “Donnie” (as I already affectionately refer to him) lacked the power of speech. Most likely in a conversation he was the one nodding his head and going, “Mmm-hmm.” He probably communicated by a complex series of grunts, gestures and whistles, not unlike English soccer fans.

September 23 — The local police have arrested me, either for the murder of Professor Donaldson or for littering, depending on how their analysis of the recently discovered humanoid skeleton turns out. The fools! They can imprison my body but not my mind. While awaiting trial in their hastily assembled kangaroo court (the kangaroos are being flown in overnight from Australia via FedEx), I began excavating my cell. My cellmates soon joined in, but lacking a spirit of scientific inquiry they preferred to tunnel sideways rather than down, using my head as a combination battering ram-shovel. Within a few hours they made good their escape, leaving me no worse for wear except that my neck has disappeared and I cannot stop saying, “Welcome to McDonald’s, may I take your order please?” Yes, the end is near. I can feel my life force ebbing away from me. Or possibly it is just saliva leaking out of a mouth that no longer closes properly. My final act, once I make this last diary entry with my remaining good arm, will be to arrange my limbs so that they will create a positive first impression when some paleontologist from the future digs me up. If there’s anything I hate it’s a messy excavation site.

Schadenfreude Dreamin’

By: David Martin

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1945: Steve Martin born.

1950: Steve Martin plays small kiddie comedy clubs in southern California.

Dave Martin born with lifelong five-year handicap.

1962: Steve Martin hones comedy craft by performing magic shows in local amusement parks.

Dave Martin experiments with various rude body noises and finds whoopee cushion hilarious.

1972: Steve Martin achieves initial success as standup comic. Begins to perfect famous “Wild and Crazy Guy” routine.

Dave Martin explores the comedic possibilities of beer drinking, dope smoking and class cutting at small liberal-arts university.

1978: Steve Martin becomes national humor phenomenon with two best-selling comedy albums.

Dave Martin experiments unsuccessfully with anti-comedy by taking job as a computer programmer.

1979: Steve Martin achieves cinematic fame by writing and starring in the comedy hit The Jerk.

Dave Martin achieves inadvertent local fame in movie-theater ticket lineup by asking cashier for “Two for The Jerk.”

1981-91: Steve Martin cements movie stardom by writing and starring in series of comedy hits including All of Me and Roxanne, and culminating in L.A. Story.

Dave Martin takes position with federal government in ill-advised attempt to mine comedic possibilities of large bureaucracy.

1998: Steve Martin exhibits Renaissance-man traits with publication of Pure Drivel, a collection of wry humor pieces.

Dave Martin publishes first of series of self-deprecating, true-life humor pieces in local paper.

2003: Steve Martin hosts Academy Awards show for third time.

Dave Martin deliberately searches out painful situations in desperate attempt to inspire more self-deprecating humor pieces.

2005: Rumors surface about Steve Martin’s secret drinking.

Dave Martin publishes first non-self-deprecating humor piece, a clever reworking of Aristophanes’ The Birds using characters from The Simpsons.

2006: Steve Martin busted in midnight cocaine sting at his Hollywood mansion.

Woody Allen writes Dave Martin congratulating him on his “brilliant” first novel, a wry, humorous look at life in a government bureaucracy.

2008: Steve Martin checks in to Betty Ford Clinic for various dependencies.

Dave Martin’s first novel optioned for the screen. Publication of several short humor pieces in well-known magazine yields critical acclaim, including a review in the New York Times describing him as “the next Steve Martin.”

2009: Steve Martin gambles away entire fortune, including expensive art collection. Takes up residence in East L.A. flophouse.

Dave Martin produces and stars in two hit comedy films, both of which gross $800 million, breaking all previous records.

2011: Entertainment Tonight airs 30-second segment titled “Whatever Happened to Steve Martin?” Answer: Not sure; can’t locate him.

Dave Martin takes over from retiring Jay Leno as host of The Tonight Show.

2012: Steve Martin found in wino park in San Francisco, face down in pigeon droppings.

For first-anniversary show, Dave Martin brings on Steve Martin as special guest to honor him for his years of “service to comedy.” Steve Martin kills Dave Martin in fit of jealous rage.

2013: Steve Martin sentenced to life in prison for killing beloved humor icon.

Extra bust added to Mt. Rushmore to honor Dave Martin, America’s “King of Comedy.”

1040M

By: Kurt Luchs

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1040M U.S. Individual Mafioso Tax Return 2002

Label

Use the IRS label. Otherwise, please print or type, or at least let Luigi in accounting forge it for you.

Your first name and initial

Last name

Official nickname

Home address

No, your real home address

City, state, and ZIP code

Pool room where you can normally be reached

If a joint return, mistress’s first name and initial

Last name

Illegal campaign contribution

Do you want $10,000 to go to this fund? Yes_____ No_____

Note: Checking “Yes” will not shorten any currently pending prison sentences.

Filing Status

Check only one box.

1 Single

2 Married filing joint return (even if spouse is now part of patio or swimming pool)

3 Married filing separate return (spouse is nominal head of separate dummy corporation)

4 Head or member of extended criminal family. (See page 10.)

5 Qualifying widow(er). (Spouse died of natural causes.)

Exemptions

If more than six imaginary dependents, see page 10.

6a Yourself. If your godfather (or someone else) can claim you as a dependent on his or her return — hey, that’s OK, too

b Guard dog

c Dependents

(1) First name

Nickname

Last name

(2) Dependent’s relationship to you (e.g., “lousy no-good nephew who should be drowned in a vat of acid before he can squeal to the grand jury again”)

d Total number of exemptions claimed

e Total number of exemptions you actually hope to get away with

Income

Attach Copy B of your Forms W-2, W-2G, and 1099-R here, along with any gambling IOUs you have a reasonable chance of collecting on.

If you did not get a W-2, see page 12.

If you want us to think you didn’t get a W-2, see page 13.

If you got a W-2 from a fictitious construction company, see page 14.

If your W-2 is illegible due to liquor, blood or other stains, see page 15.

Enclose but do not attach any payment.

Note: Casino chips are not U.S. currency.

7 Wages, salaries, horse-racing tips, etc. Attach Form(s) W-2

8 Loan-shark interest

9 Alimony check returned uncashed due to sudden accidental death of ex-spouse

10 Total goodwill distributions to the IRA

11 Cannabis-farm income or (loss). Attach Schedule F

12 Other income. List type, amount, and federal statute broken

13 Add the amounts in the far right column for lines 7 through 12. This is your total income

Adjusted Gross Income

14 Moving expenses. Note: Transporting bodies or body parts across state lines is an itemized deduction, not a moving expense. Use Schedule A

15 Health-insurance deduction. Include any protection money paid here

16 Add lines 14 and 15

17 Subtract line 16 from line 13. This is your adjusted gross income

Tax Computation

If you want the IRS to figure your tax, see page 18.

If you want the IRS to figure your jail sentence, see page 19.

18 Check if: _____You were 65 or older _____Blind _____Honest I didn’t see anything Dominick I swear oh God please don’t shoot no no no no no. Add the number of boxes checked above and enter the total here.

19 Subtract line 18 from line 17

20 If line 19 is $30,900 or less, go back to Mr. Alonzo in Queens, grab him by the ankles and shake him upside down vigorously until more loose change falls from his pockets

21 Taxable income. Subtract line 20 from line 19

22 Tax

Credits

Multiply $2000 by total number of years you spent on Rikers Island.

Other Taxes

23 Alternative under-the-counter minimum tax. Attach bribe to Form 6251

24 Social security and Medicare tax on tip income not reported to employer. Attach Form 4137

25 Subtract Medicare payments for injuries inflicted by employer upon learning about unreported income

26 Add lines 23 through 25. This is your total tax

Payments

27 Federal income tax withheld

28 2002 estimated payments to circuit-court judge

29 Payment of excessive interest to Vinny

30 Add lines 27, 28, and 29. This is your total payment

Refund

Don’t even think about it.

Amount You Owe

That’s more like it.

30 If line 25 is more than line 29, subtract line 29 from line 25. This is the AMOUNT YOU OWE. For details on how to pay, be at the Rt. 73 overpass next Tuesday at midnight

Sign Here

Do not under any circumstances keep a copy of this return, and better make sure Ricardo doesn’t have one, either.

Under penalty of perjury, I hereby invoke my constitutional privilege not to incriminate myself.

Your signature

Date

Your cover occupation

Paid Informer’s Use Only

Informer’s signature

Date

Next of kin

Avril Lavigne: By The Numbers

By: J. Pinkerton

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Number of unique words in 500-word Avril Lavigne song: 100

Title of song: “Complicated”

Number of unique words in 130-word poem “Simplicity” by Robert Service: 92

Average number of unique words “Simplicity” contains for every unique word in “Complicated”: 3.5

Lavigne, on Lavigne: “I’m a skater punk who writes guitar-driven rock.”

No. of tracks on Lavigne’s Let Go for which she has sole writing credit: 0

On writing guitar-driven rock: “I sit down with a guitar player usually.”

No. of guitar players Lavigne sat down with to write Let Go: 5

Other artists to sit down with same guitar players: Wilson Phillips, Madonna, Cyndi Lauper

On her sound: “I just didn’t want to be bubblegum pop.”

No. of 2002 Grammy nominations received by Avril Lavigne: 5

Lavigne, on proper pronunciation of first name: “It’s not Aye-vril. It’s Avril!”

Lavigne’s pronunciation of David Bowie’s last name at nomination ceremony: “Bau-ee”

Proper pronunciation: “Boe-ee”

Number of 2002 Grammy nominations Bowie received: 1

David Bowie’s greatest accomplishments in 1984: Grammy, Best Video; MTV Video Music Award, Male Video; MTV Video Music, Vanguard Award

Avril Lavigne’s greatest accomplishments in 1984: was born

Proper pronunciation of Avril Lavigne’s last name: “Lah-veen”

Incorrect: “Luh-vig-nee,” “Lah-viegg-nuh,” “Lugh-fugh-bugh”

Lavigne, on her sound: “I don’t like using the term ‘pop star’ because that’s not my personality…I’m hardcore.”

Acts to label themselves “pop stars”: Britney Spears, Justin Timberlake

Acts to label themselves “hardcore”: Black Flag, Dead Kennedys

No. times the words “boy,” “feel” and “cry” appear on Black Flag’s Damaged: 0, 2, 0

On Dead Kennedys’ Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables: 0, 1, 0

On Lavigne’s Let Go: 16, 11, 13

Lavigne, on lyrics: “Girls seem to be more sensitive, right? Guys like to hide their feelings.”

No. times the words “boy,” “feel” and “cry” appear on Justin Timberlake’s Justified: 16, 39, 40

On Spears’ Baby One More Time: 1, 4, 1

Ranking Lavigne (47) would receive by totaling these numbers, with Dead Kennedys (1) representing hardcore and Justin Timberlake (141) representing wussiest, most not-hardcore thing in universe: 66.6% hardcore; 33.3% pop star

Hardcore/pop star ranking Britney Spears would receive by this same ranking: 96% hardcore; 4% pop star

Lavigne, on similarity to Britney Spears: “”I’m not like [her]. I’m just being myself, being real.”

Formula that scores readability based on complexity of words and sentences: The Flesch-Kincaid Index

According to Flesch-Kincaid Index, how old person must be to read the Financial Times: 18

To read the Times Educational Supplement: 17

To read lyrics to “Complicated”: 8

To read lyrics to Britney Spears’ “Baby One More Time”: 8

To read lyrics to Eminem’s “Without Me”: 13

To read Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities: 13

To read lyrics to Justin Timberlake’s “Like I Love You”: 6 and under

No. times Timberlake says “girl” on Justified: 58

Amount Lavigne won at Kingston Exhibition and Home Show’s Country Singing Show Down in 1999, in Canada: $1000

City in which author of this piece lived in 1999: Kingston, Ontario, Canada

Place author of this piece worked as Event Coordinator in 1999: Kingston Exhibition and Home Show

Duties of author during this summer job: accounting, putting hog and cattle finalists into database, some lifting

Unofficial duties: playing Prince of Persia on old 486 computer

Level I obtained on Prince of Persia by end of summer: 8

Awareness level I had of Avril Lavigne at time: 0%

Interest level I had in Country Singing Showdown: 0%

Interest level I had in Gymnastics Showdown: 97%

Relation of interest level to participant’s actual proficiency in gymnastics: low to none

Relation of interest level to tightness/sheerness of outfits: very high

Relation of interest level to possibility of scoring with gymnast: very high

Likelihood that I met Lavigne that summer: 20%

Likelihood that I gave a crap: 3%

Mental state of author throughout summer: very high

One Spring Day

By: Ernst Luchs

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I was floundering in the wake of an apocalyptic bender last Tuesday morning when the intolerable mewlings of my dog, King Midas, awakened me. Due to an oversight on my part, he’d been locked out of the house for several weeks and was desperate to get back in. I touched a match to the pilot light in my head and groped my way to the front door, pausing only once for an unpleasant but very necessary side trip to the washroom.

I was going to throw a paperweight at the dog, but when I opened the door my senses left me. Midas held in his mouth the limp body of a tiny old man. He was bluish white, with a hopelessly bald head and a long, jaggedly trimmed white beard. His eyes were a bottomless black with undulating swirls of iridescent color floating across their surface. They were the eyes of a gnome — that rare breed of diminutive hobos who sleep in abandoned cars and subsist entirely on peyote buttons. He was dressed in a snappy purple suit with silver trim. He wore a wide, diamond-encrusted belt from which hung a beautifully wrought silver dagger of Sumerian or possibly Bolivian design.

The little guy was still alive but obviously the worse for wear. Innumerable tooth marks discolored his neck where the dog had grabbed and shaken him like a rag toy. His neck was probably broken. He rolled his eyes downward and flailed his arms in a silent attempt to retrieve the conical hat that lay crumpled on the doorstep. I kicked the hat away from the porch, thinking it might be a bomb. I told Midas to drop the little man, but like most dogs, he had a mind of his own. A nasty tug-of-war ensued, in which I became the victor and Midas a very sore loser.

The gnome could hardly find the words to thank me. Instead, he begged me not to touch him or take him inside. His accent was strange and very hard to understand. He blubbered something either about burning alive or being turned inside out. I knew he was delirious and unable to comprehend the extent of his injuries. Ignoring his pleas to be left alone, I carried him inside. I laid him on the sofa and took his boots off. His feet were ice-cold.

“So this is the way you would have it,” he said bitterly. “To diminish like a candle, such a long and lingering death. Just as my uncle said it would be.”

“Shut up,” I said, slapping him a few times to sober him up. “You need rest, pal. Don’t worry. You’ll be all right. Now go to sleep.”

“Not sleep, but death,” he moaned. “My feet are growing numb.”

I looked at his feet. They were gone, melted, nothing but a damp spot on the cushion. I shrieked like a little girl in spite of myself, and ran to the washroom where I became violently ill. When I was able to return a few minutes later, half of him had melted away. I bit my lip and tried to pretend everything was okay. “Nice weather we’re having,” I said in the most vacuously cheerful voice I could muster.

“Yes, I’m dying,” croaked the old man. “I don’t care what happens to the dagger. I got it at a dollar store in Philadelphia. But will you see that my wife gets the watch?”

“What watch?”

With his one remaining arm he tugged at a chain in his breast pocket. Out fell a watch that no doubt had once been a priceless heirloom. It now looked like a refugee from a surrealist landscape. As I took it in my hands, the numerals slithered out from beneath the watch crystal and vaporized in midair, hissing. The misshapen timepiece slipped from my grasp, sputtered on the carpet like dry ice and then vanished.

“Please see that she gets the watch. I stole it from her a few years ago and she’d be glad to get it back.”

“But who –”

“Frost. Jack Frost’s the name. But that probably wouldn’t mean anything to a numskull like you.”

He clenched a fist. His thumb snapped off and slid across the floor like an ice cube. “Would you do me one last favor?” he whispered almost inaudibly.

“Yes, of course. Anything.”

“Kill the dog.” With that he closed his watery eyes and rapidly sank into a slushy mess. Soon, nothing was left but a large, gooey stain with steam rising from it. Of course, the cheap little dagger was still there, but I threw it in the garbage. Suddenly I remembered the hat. I ran to the front door. The hat was still lying in the grass and was only slightly mushy. I wrapped it in aluminum foil and stashed it in the basement freezer.

I had every intention of selling my story to the highest bidder and furnishing the hat as irrefutable evidence. But such was not to be. Our city had a power failure on Thursday when, as luck would have it, I was away on a business trip. Needless to say, the freezer defrosted. Inside, all I found was 20 pounds of rancid calves’ brains and a nauseating chocolate-colored swill that knocked me out cold when I got my first whiff of it. Now that the freezer’s been drained there’s really nothing left but a thin red line around the inside, sort of like a bathtub ring, and it seems no amount of cleanser will take it off.

You probably think I’m a fool for not taking some pictures when I had the chance. Or maybe you think I’m a damned liar and that none of what I’ve said is true. Yeah, that’s probably what you think. Well, I’m not going to try to change your mind. Now that King Midas sleeps with the fishes, only a tiny widow woman with icicles hanging from her eyes would believe me.