Man Leaves Heart, Wallet, Keys In San Francisco

Scottsdale, AZ — Returning yesterday from a memorable trip to the City by the Bay, local computer software salesman Walt Frier was both wistful and dismayed to realize that he had left not just his heart, but also his wallet and keys, in San Francisco. Standing alone on his porch, his luggage and a large bag of souvenirs at his feet, Frier mulled his options, as well as a sizable rock in his hand, while recounting his incredible trip to a group of reporters.

“Obviously, the Golden Gate Bridge was a highlight,” Frier said, “but of course there was the Presidio and Alcatraz and just so many great restaurants. I fell in love with the city immediately – such a rich history! Haight-Ashbury. Nob Hill. Coit Tower. Such grand splendor. I never knew…” Frier trailed off, lost in his memories for a moment. “I even brought home some souvenirs,” he said, pulling an “I [heart] San Francisco” key chain from the bag at his feet. “This is for my mom. I should take her next time. She’s never been.”

Turning to the mullioned windows of his darkened front door, he continued, “Ironic, huh? I bought her a key chain and lost my own damn keys!”

Unmarried and traveling alone, Frier also took in a San Francisco Giants baseball game and snapped photos of the famous Lombard Street, called “the crookedest street in the world.”

“I was there on business, meeting with some clients for two days,” Frier said, “and I just decided on the spur of the moment to stay for the weekend. I’m really glad I did.” Patting the empty back pocket of his slacks, he grimaced. “Or at least I was. But the majesty of the place, man! I miss it already. You guys ever been?”

When asked about the presence of the stone in his hand, Frier shook his head sadly. “The city that so enraptured me and immediately captured my heart must have also fogged my brains. When I got to baggage claim back home at SCF I realized that I couldn’t find my keys or my wallet,” he explained. “Fortunately I had my passport and some cash in my pocket for cab fare, but now I have to deal with cancelling my credit cards, getting a new license, all that crap.”

Taking a deep breath, he gazed into the far northwest corner of his memory for a time before continuing. “But don’t for a second think I blame the wonderful city of San Francisco. I’d lose my wallet a hundred times over if it meant I could behold her dazzling beauty once more. Even the fog was like a mirror, turning the city inside out and reflecting its innermost secrets. Wow!”

He added, “It’s really foggy up there, you know.”

Tossing the stone in his right hand a few times, Frier began to brood. “If mom doesn’t get here soon with my spare set, I’m going to have to break into my own house! Where is she?”

Asked to speculate on the whereabouts of his possessions, Frier chuckled humorlessly. “I could have dropped them anywhere I guess, or left them in the hotel room. I suppose somebody could have even picked my pocket and I would have never seen them, it’s so foggy. Did I mention the fog?”

But the loss of his keys and wallet did not completely erase the joy he experienced while visiting the famed Paris of the West. “Next time I go, and I’ll definitely be back, I think I’ll spend a whole week or so, just drinking in the history and culture of the place. Maybe see the Museum of Modern Art, ride a cable car into Chinatown. Just fully immerse myself in the sheer breathtaking glory of it all. I mean, there’s just so much to see and do there. God, how amazing!”

After a moment’s reflection, he added, “Now that I think of it, I’m pretty sure I left my keys and wallet at the brothel.”

Grammy’s Breadbasket

Malcolm crouched warily on the front porch, knees popping like bubble wrap as his body slowly descended to a level below the railing. No porch light was ablaze, nor streetlight. The night was silent, save for the the occasional bellow of a bullfrog from the pond beyond the cul-de-sac to the west. Cloud cover hid all but a dim silvery nimbus of the waning moon’s light.

“Wait,” he thought to himself. “Maybe this isn’t a porch. It’s got a railing. And a rocking chair. I think this a veranda.”

He removed a mini-MagLite flashlight from the back pocket of his well-worn dungarees and shone a tiny beam of light in an arc in front of his position. Painted hardwood planking extended a good four feet from the house into the front yard. Chips of what was likely 35-year old leaded paint flecked off of the waist-high railing that encircled the, well… Malcolm nodded and smiled to himself. “I guess that taps it. It’s definitely a veranda. Feels like the Old South,” he mused.

Of course, it wasn’t the Old South. Nowhere near it. It wasn’t even a veranda, not technically. It was more like a wrap-around porch without all the exquisite gabling normally associated with the classic veranda. But that wasn’t germane in the slightest to what Malcolm was doing there on this cloudy, dark, and silent evening, and he shook his head to clear it of these strange, intrusive, and side-tracking thoughts.

“Gotta see if she’s home, gotta get in the house, gotta find the old tin breadbasket that contains God-knows-what, and gotta get out. Quick.” Malcolm recited his plan of action in a whisper as he swiveled his head toward the darkened street once again. “I wish Josh was here. This is his job.”

Again, Malcolm didn’t quite have the truth of it. Thing was, if Josh knew that Malcolm was here, on this of all nights, he would, pardon the expression, kick Mal’s ass.

* * *

Malcolm and Josh were small-time bookie wannabees who, sadly, knew very little about the bookmaking business. Most of the time they didn’t even remember to collect the vig from their clients. In fact, neither would have any idea at all of what “the vig” was if not for their chance viewing of Get Shorty on cable several months previous. That aside, they had managed to sustain a meager bookmaking business with the help of the action thrown their way by friends, friends of friends, and most importantly, Josh’s grandmother Eunice.

Grammy Eunice loved her one and only grandson. She doted on him, religiously plying him with fresh-baked loaves of bread, cases of Vernors, and that awful hard candy always associated with the grandmotherly types. She merely tolerated Malcolm, however. But she wanted to see her grandson do right in the world, and so twice a week she would place bets with Josh and Mal on the outcomes of various NBA, UFC, and WWE events. She was not a sports nut; she didn’t even own a TV. But she loved her Josh and desperately wanted to support him. So she placed her bets. And wagers. Even parleys and three-team teasers, though Malcolm and Josh tried to discourage this last one due to their complete ignorance of the terms.

Somehow, Granny Eunice had an uncanny knack for picking winners. And so instead of helping her grandson, she was slowly bleeding him, and Malcolm, dry. Mainly because of the vig – or lack thereof. And because of the “Grandmother Discount”, which Malcolm vehemently opposed. But it was Josh’s Grammy, so what could he do?

But tonight, Malcolm was going to get the vig. And then some.

* * *

Tired of Grammy’s discount and run of unbelievable luck, Malcolm had decided to save himself and Josh from the ignominy of being failed bookies. He had come to Grammy’s house that night to hopefully pilfer the tin breadbasket of which she so often spoke. It was as if it were the Ark of the Covenant to her, to hear her prattle on about it incessantly. “A Currier & Ives design, with gold leaf filigree and machine stamped lid given to me by my own grandmother back in 1929,” Grammy would often begin a conversation after inviting the boys in for 12-year old peanut brittle and a glass of Tang. “Issued by the United States Mint in commemoration of the attack on Pearl Harbor. Holds three loaves of white bread, two of pumpernickel.”

Mal always thought this odd, because wasn’t a loaf of pumpernickel actually smaller than a loaf of white? And why was that? And what about rye bread? “But then again,” he told himself, “all I ever eat is chips and salsa, so what do I know?”

After the peanut brittle and Tang were served, Grammy would place her bets while lovingly polishing the breadbasket with a solution of naval jelly and a small microfiber cloth. She didn’t keep bread in there anymore, that was for sure. Malcolm was certain that he heard things rattling around in the breadbasket, and couldn’t help conjuring up images of what non-pastry items Grammy now stored within. Gold coins? Gold necklaces? Gold Bond foot powder? “My imagination sucks,” he would often think to himself while shaking his head in disgust.

* * *

On the one occasion he had tried to discuss the contents of the breadbasket with Josh, he was summarily rebuffed. “Grammy keeps whatever she wants in there and it’s no business of yours!” Josh huffed. “She’s making us into legitimate bookies and that’s all that matters.”

“If by ‘legitimate bookies’ you mean ‘poor saps that could make a better return by investing in Enron’, then yes, she’s making us legitimate!” Malcolm shrieked back. “All she does is win. And win. And win. From what I read on Wikipedia, in order for a bookie to make a profit, their clients have to lose a majority of the time. And Grammy is doing the complete opposite!”

“Calm down, Mal,” Josh replied, putting a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. Malcolm flinched and shrugged the hand away, but Josh continued. “She’s really teaching us the business. And she says her whole crocheting club is gonna be laying bets on the Super Bowl. So we’re golden!”

Malcolm thought this over for a moment, and then turned to face Josh. “You’re right, I’m sorry. This Super Bowl thing’s gonna be our big break. I’m sorry I got mad at you and Grammy. All she wants to do is help us.”

* * *

As he crouched on the front porch – er, veranda – Malcolm replayed this conversation in his head and couldn’t believe he had been so blind. “No, no, no!” he screamed silently in his mind. “Grammy’s ruining us! And tonight I fix that!”

Once again he scanned the front door and picture window, and once again he verified complete darkness. No one was home. Or someone was home but sleeping very soundly. Or the power was out. But it was definitely dark. It was time to make his move.

Since pretty much everyone keeps a spare house key somewhere near the front door, Malcolm swung his MagLite around the “porch-anda” (he was pretty proud of that little on-the-spot portmanteau) and saw a rock within arm’s reach. “She wouldn’t be this dumb, would she?” he remarked as he picked up the rock, expecting it to be one of those cheap hide-a-key rocks. As it turned out, Grammy apparently wasn’t that dumb. It was a real rock, and Malcolm dropped it loudly onto the wooden planking in disgust. The noise made him jump and utter a tiny curse. He looked around furtively, expecting lights from disturbed neighbors or the bark of a dog, but there was nothing. He sighed in relief.

Gathering himself once again, he reached to replace the rock when his flashlight beam twinkled on something where the rock had been. “Unbelievable,” he laughed to himself. “Grammy was that dumb. And too cheap to buy a hide-a-key!” For there where the real rock had sat was the spare house key, now exposed to the world. Still chuckling, Malcolm picked up the key and straightened his cramped and protesting legs to stand in front of the door.

* * *

As Malcolm stood in the foyer, he suddenly had misgivings about his planned caper. And was it really a “caper”? No, more like a simple B & E. Capers were grand things. This… “Stealing from an old woman, is that what I’ve come to?” he silently inquired of himself. Well, he could be a failed bookie or he could be a successful cat burglar. It was unlikely he could be both. Decision made, he silently closed the door behind him.

He’d been in this house many times, usually sitting on the doily-covered davenport while trying not to break a crown on the peanut brittle. So he knew his way around, and decided not to use the MagLite as he headed to the kitchen. This, like so many others in his life, was a poor choice. He promptly barked his left shin on the edge of a coffee table which Grammy must have moved while vacuuming and not replaced. Malcolm stomped and howled as silently as he could until the pain subsided to a dull roar. Past the point of caring, he turned on the flashlight and marched toward the kitchen and the Grail awaiting him within.

The countertop was spotless, and the tin Currier & Ives breadbasket sat solidly to the left of the sink. A notepad lay on the counter in front of the basket. Malcolm picked it up and read:

“Spurs (-6.5) at Kings – over/under 185 – take the points!”
“Randy Couture over Tino Ortiz in the 2nd”
“Hulk Hogan to cover vs. Nikolai Volkov”

“How does she do it?” Malcolm thought. “I didn’t even know Volkov was still wrestling.” Shaking his head, he tossed the pad aside and focused all his attention on the breadbasket – his Grail. He reached a trembling hand toward it and was about to touch the cold tin when a thought interjected. “Dammit, I should have brought gloves! I’m going to leave fingerprints all over this thing,” he chastised himself. Of course, that damage had already been done: on the house key, the doorknob, the countertop, and the notepad. But he was still determined to not leave the residue of his identity on the grand prize. Looking around the kitchen, he noticed an oven mitt hanging from the handle on the oven. He quickly grabbed it, jammed it on his right hand, and awkwardly drew the breadbasket toward him.

This was it! This was the moment he went from being a failed bookie to a moneymaking fiend! He shivered involuntarily in anticipation and rubbed his chin with his be-gloved hand. “Do it!” he commanded himself. So he did.

Seconds later, he was surprised to find his uncovered left hand holding the lid half open. He quickly looked from his left hand to his glove-covered right, and his eyes popped wide with shock. Realizing the mistake he had made in his haste, he slammed the lid shut and tried to regroup. Muttering a curse directed at his rashness and, well, stupidity, he wiped the lid with the oven mitt to remove any trace evidence, took a deep breath, and started again.

Now correctly holding the flashlight in his left, his protected right hand went to the lid and he moved to open it. But he was unsuccessful as the glove was extremely bulky and its cloth offered no resistance against the lovingly burnished surface of the antique breadbasket. He swore. Once again, he attempted to lift the lid with his oven-mitted hand, and once again he failed mightily. Finally, disgusted with the mitt and his own ineptitude, he tore the glove from his hand and flung it far across the kitchen, where it struck a group of large iron pots suspended from the ceiling. An enormous cacophony of clanging ensued. Malcolm dropped to his knees, covered his ears to try to drown out the tumult, and felt a small sob escape from his throat.

* * *

Minutes (or was it hours?) later, the kitchen was quiet and still once more. Steeling himself to action, Malcolm stood once again to face the vile breadbasket. He checked his watch. Yes, it was definitely only minutes later. “Time really is a weird thing,” he mused thoughtfully. He felt he had already been in the house too long, so he decided to throw caution to the wind. Setting the flashlight on the counter, he trained it on the prize and grasped the breadbasket in both unsheathed hands. On a whim he shook it and heard the reassuring rattle of that-which-was-not-bread from inside the closed container. He lifted the entire box and was surprised by its weight. “Whatever it is, it’s going to change my life!” thought Malcolm. He set it down and finally opened the lid.

* * *

What the MagLite illuminated inside the breadbasket both puzzled and excited Malcolm. Bits of yarn, dozens of various old buttons, and numerous pieces of pocket lint were interspersed with a gigantic assortment of coins. He grabbed a handful of currency mixed with detritus, let it fall through his fingers back into the breadbasket, and cackled with glee. He pulled out another handful and inspected the coins more closely. They appeared to all be either 1981 Susan B. Anthony dollar coins or 1953 Eisenhower nickels. There were no variations in the dates, and for a moment this struck him as very strange, but then he remembered whose coins they were. Grammy’s. And in some weird way, it all made sense to Malcolm.

And then he saw the paper taped to the inside of the lid. It was a note. And given the garish cursive swirls and precisely aligned margins, Malcolm knew who had authored it. Curious, and now a bit wary, he unstuck it from the lid and began to read by flashlight:

Malcolm,

I know you never liked or trusted me but know this: I will always do right by my grandson. Enclosed here within my gold filigreed authentic U.S. Mint Currier & Ives breadbasket, you will find all of your uncollected vigs from my many wagers. I knew that you would figure out the business and come for it someday. I had faith you were not a complete moron. Thank you for not squandering my belief in you. Happy bookmaking! And don’t forget to share this with Joshua. 50/50, young man!

Warmest regards,
Eunice (aka “Grammy”)

P.S. Did you know that “vig” is short for “vigorish”? It’s a Yiddish term. Look it up. And comb your hair. You look like a haystack.

Malcolm smiled to himself. He put the note back in the breadbasket and gently closed the lid. Then he expelled all of the night’s built-up tension in one massive whoop. It felt wonderful! He actually considered hollering for one brief moment, but ultimately chose the whoop so as to not disturb the neighbors. And so there in Grammy’s kitchen he whooped and two-stepped and celebrated as only a man pardoned from death row could. Or one who was now not a complete failure in the bookie business. He felt those things were fairly comparable, in his mind.

He had the vigs and he was a success! Josh was a success! And it was all because of Grammy. Malcolm felt a momentary pang of guilt for having not trusted her, and for breaking and entering into her house tonight, and for privately despising her peanut brittle. But all along she had expected it, right? (The breaking and entering part, anyway. He would never admit to disliking her peanut brittle. That was just too personal.) In a way he was invited, even welcomed, into Grammy’s kitchen to receive the fruits of her instruction.

He found a pen and quickly scribbled a thank you note to Grammy on her wager notepad. Then, filled with delight and more hope for the future than he had ever dreamed, Malcolm picked up the breadbasket and left Grammy’s house, on the way to a new day.

The Cinderella Slap (A Fairy Tale)

A young man named Sidney awoke late one morning, squinting and groaning—the after effects of a hard night of drinking and dancing at the local tavern, the Rusty Spur. He lay in bed for several minutes, attempting to clear his head of the incessant buzzing and his mouth of its cottony residue. Finally, he collected himself enough to shuffle to the bathroom for what he hoped would be an invigorating shower.

He turned on the water with a practiced twist. As he disrobed, he caught sight of an anomaly on his right buttocks in the mirror. Something red and blotchy had taken up residence on his right lower cheek. Upon closer inspection, Sidney determined that the shape upon his gluteus maximus was indeed the imprint of a human hand. Four red fingers pointed down at the floor, and a thumb extended off to the right, all joined by a rather large palm imprint. This puzzled him, since surely someone would have had to spank him rather hard to leave such an impression through his clubbing pants and silk boxers from The Gap. He remembered no such incident having occurred, however, and completed his morning ablutions lost in thought.

Later that morning, while cleaning a giant mixer at his job at the cement plant, Sidney couldn’t help reflecting on the previous evening’s events. That he had missed a glorious opportunity with one of the ladies of the village was obvious. He cursed himself again for his inability to cope with large amounts of strong drink while thoughtfully letting his right hand alight on his jeans, under which the angelic imprint of a hand now resided, safely ensconced in a worn pair of cotton BVDs.

The rest of the day was a blur to Sidney. Unable to complete his appointed tasks in a manner befitting a standing member of Cement Mixers Local #676, he left work early and returned home. He sat down upon his well-weathered futon and closed his eyes, thoughts returning again and again to the previous evening, when destiny had been within his grasp. He struggled vainly to recreate each moment of his night: ordering two Miller High Lifes, scanning the crowded and smoke-filled bar for a familiar face, downing one longneck and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He remembered ordering more beers, feeding the juke box with a dollar, selecting two old country standards and a chart-topper by that hot new singer, and wandering out to the dance floor for a brief twirl. After that his recollections hit a brick wall, turning cloudy in his mind’s eye. He must have hit the dance floor again, for he had worked up a mean blister on the outside of his left pinky toe, but as to the source of the mysterious handprint on his buttock, he could still only speculate. Dejected but resolute, Sidney determined to return that evening to the scene of the crime and put this business paid, for good or ill.

* * *

Upon entering the Rusty Spur, Sidney’s saunter was brought up short as he spied a flyer taped to the wall: “Tuesday Nights: Ladies Nite! Half-price beers and $2 well drinks all night for our fairer-sexed patrons.” Today was Wednesday, which meant—his gears churned furiously as his brain performed the mental calendar gymnastics—last night! Last night was Ladies Night! His mind quailed at the thought of all the women who must surely have packed the Spur yester-eve. And any one of those gentle nymphs might have been the one whose handprint Sidney now wore, once again concealed tenderly beneath his clubbing boxers. Then slowly an idea took root deep within his head, an idea that could lead him once and for all to the identity of the tender maiden who had marked Sidney as her own as surely as a rancher’s brand marks each of his head of cattle.

With renewed spirits, Sidney crossed the crowded room and sat down at the bar. Clemmy, the barkeep, took note and leaned across the lacquered wood top, brushing a few errant peanut shells to the floor. “I need you to help me with something, Clem. How soon till next Ladies Night?” Sidney asked, his voice softer than normal.

Clem looked at Sidney with a raised eyebrow. “Well, given that yesterday were the Ladies Night, I’d reckon next one will come around again, hmm, let’s see, oh, right about next Tuesday.” He chuckled. “You’ll be drinkin’ water tonight, I ‘pect?”

“Next Tuesday, eh? That leaves, what?” Sidney ticked off the days with his fingers. “Six days till next Tuesday, right? And gimme a High Life. You know I don’t trust your water.”

Clem looked at Sidney with a mixture of humor and disdain. He reached into the cooler and produced a High Life. Sidney downed half the longneck in a pull and smacked his lips in satisfaction. “Somepin happened to me last night, Clem, and I can’t rightly say I understand it,” Sidney admitted, not quite meeting Clem’s eyes.

“Somepin like what?” Clem inquired. Sidney’s voice was more reserved then Clem could remember. He was intrigued.

“Well,” Sidney began, and then faltered. He took another swig to muster up the courage to meet Clem’s gaze and continued. “Well, I think I been touched, but I don’t remember how and I don’t remember who.”

“Touched what, like by an angel or some such?” he snickered somewhat nervously. This was getting weird, and Clem took a moment to serve another patron before returning to Sidney.

“It might’ve been an angel, I don’t know, and that’s the quack of it. I don’t know who done the touchin’ or when they did the touchin’. Alls I know is that when I woke up this mornin’, I had a mark that weren’t on me before I came into the Spur last night.”

Sidney proceeded to tell Clem of the mysterious mark on his posterior. As he came to the last, he stood up on the barstool and twisted, as if he meant to show Clem the proof of the matter. Clem coughed loudly and pushed Sidney back into his stool.

“I don’t needs to see it, you fool, ‘specially not in front of all my paying customers!” Clem nearly shouted, causing more than a few heads to be turned in their direction. Clem shrugged and then lowered his head conspiratorially. Sidney gave a little abashed wave at the other patrons and lowered his head as well.

“That you been touched, I have no doubt,” Clem said in a low voice. “I ain’t never heard you talk like you been doin’ tonight, and that’s proof enough for me. But geez, how’m I supposed to help? This business is between you and the lady.” Unbidden, Clem set another High Life in front of Sidney. Sidney tilted the longneck to Clem in a toast, took a long pull, and sighed.

“I agree, the business is between me and the lady,” Sidney replied. “But, problem is, I don’t know who the lady is. I can’t remember who gave me her mark.” Sighing disconsolately, he wiped some sweat from his brow, took another swig, and sat for a few moments in silent contemplation.

“I gotta find her, Clem. I gotta. It’s my destiny. And I’m gonna need your help,” Sidney pleaded. Clem watched with quizzical concern, unsure of what role Sidney desired that he play in this quest.

“Well, now, I’ll do what I can, but what—?” Clem began. Sidney silenced him with a hand slapped on the bar top. Shell fragments flew.

“Ladies Night is when it happened, and Ladies Night is when I’ll have the truth of it!” Sidney exclaimed. “Now what I need from you, if’n you’ll concur, is...” Sidney and Clem spent the better part of the next hour conversing in harsh whispers, heads bent low over the bar as Sidney expounded upon his plans to divine the identity of his angel on Ladies Night next.

* * *

The next five days passed slow as molasses for old Sidney. Each day upon awakening, he rushed to the bathroom to inspect the fading remnants of the angelic handprint. The fact that the print was still visible after nearly a week bore witness to the certain divinity of the mark (not to mention the brute force with which it must have been delivered). On this special Tuesday morning, his mind raced with thoughts of the evening to come as he administered the various creams and salves to his cement-dried skin. As he had for the last six days, he paid extra attention to his right buttock, kneading and caressing the ointments into his flesh with physician-like care. Tonight, all shall be revealed, he thought. Tonight my angel is made flesh!

Following another day of tedious labor at the cement plant, he rushed home to make preparations for his big night. The silk boxers were donned, the starched and perfectly creased clubbing pants pulled on and cinched with his trademark leather belt with the shiny buckle reading “Gunslinger,” and the hair gelled and parted just so. Having set everything as right as it could be, Sidney departed for the Rusty Spur and his date with destiny.

As promised, Clemmy had everything ready to go for Sidney on this Ladies Night. In the middle of the dance floor sat a single folding chair under the bright gleam of a spotlight. A nearby disco ball cast thousands of shards of revolving light onto the chair and the dark and stained wood of the dance floor below. The bar was packed with a throng of curious ladies and even more curious menfolk, wondering what this single chair in the middle of the empty dance floor portended.

As Sidney entered the Spur, his eyes surveyed the room, taking in the preparations and the mood of the folk in one glance. Satisfied, he hustled over to the bar. Clem had a High Life waiting for him. Sidney smiled and took a long pull. “Tonight’s the night, eh, Clem?” He smiled widely, his spirits in full flight.

“To be sure, Sidney, to be sure,” he replied, his answering smile just a bit subdued. “Lotta questions, though. Hope the ladies all understand what this is about.”

“Oh, they will, ol’ Clemmy. I know you got a great speech in there for ‘em!” Sidney’s eyes flicked once again around the room, noticing a great many eyes looking in his direction. He quickly took another sip. “You know whatcher gonna say to ‘em, right?”

Clem looked hard at Sidney for a moment. “Well, I think so. There’s always a right sure way to their hearts, that there is.” He tossed his rag under the bar and straightened his shirt. “Guess we may as well commence, eh?” He stepped out from behind the bar and proceeded to the dance floor, Sidney following nervously.

Clem hit his mark under the spotlight and cleared his throat. The patrons of the Rusty Spur looked on, some muttering to their fellows. One lady piped up, “Got some new specials to tell us about tonight, Clemmy?” A smattering of laughter was heard.

“Oh, you might say that, Linda, but not specials such as you’d think. Tonight we have a very special event to bring you here at the Spur, one’s I’m sure you’ll remember for quite some time. Tonight, my ladies and gents, I am proud to welcome you to the Cinderella Ball, one night only!”

The amassed folk began muttering amongst themselves again; such frivolity as a ball had never been seen around these parts. Several country ladies began a hue and cry about not being properly frocked for the event. Clem quieted the throng with two sharp hand claps.

“This, my good and true friends, is not a ball proper, you see, but one like to as you may remember from the fairy tale about young Cinderella,” Clem began. “After the dancing and carrying-on of the ball proper, Cinderella had to rush away afore midnight, and she left behind a single glass slipper.” The crowd remained quiet, waiting on Clem to continue. Sidney gave him a thumbs up. Clem shook his head and continued. “Well, you’ll remember that the sweet prince of the story took to searching high and low for the owner of yon slipper, trying it on the foot of every girl in the city. Well my friends, tonight we have a similar circumstance. Standing before me here is Sidney, a feller I’m sure many of you are acquainted with.”

Sidney took a little bow. A smattering of “Huh?”s, “What?”s and “Him?”s was heard. Others simply stood silently, listening and drinking their spirits. Clem chuckled a bit and drew a deep breath. He seemed to be relishing his role in the spotlight; his oratorical skills were honed to a heretofore unknown level of razor sharpness on this night. “Last week on this here Ladies Night, friend Sidney was touched, touched by what he thinks was an angel. The mark of said angel lies still upon him, and he craves this night to divine whose mark it is. Will you here in attendance assist him in his quest?”

Silence broken only by a few lazy and derisive cheers greeted him. Clem considered and took a new tack. “Sidney got his ass slapped by a lady on the dance floor last week. He wants to know who dunnit. Will you help him?” This seemed to be the proper course for the patrons of the Spur: it was greeted by a loud chorus of cheers and applause. Shouts of “Why not?”, “I guess it couldn’t hurt”, and “Sidney’s an all right feller” were heard above the din. As the tumult began to die down, Clem continued. “Then let the Cinderella Ball begin!”

* * *

Sidney had never seen so much activity in his entire life. For the next hour or so, dozens of ladies paraded to the center of the dance floor, sat down in the spotlit chair, and placed their right hands on Sidney’s exposed, yet curiously supple, right buttock. Clem stood there the entire time, watching and judging, but for each woman tested, he was forced to give a curt shake of his head, and lady after lady left the dance floor just a little disappointed. After all, who among them hadn’t dreamed of themselves as being Cinderella at least once in their lives?

Finally, however, the queue of women was exhausted, and Sidney still had not found his angel. Not one woman in a hundred possessed the handprint to match the mark of destiny on his derriere. Disappointed and dejected, Sidney stood in the center of the dance floor alone, his right buttock still exposed, the imprint outlined starkly in the light of the spot above. Oblivious to the patrons of the Spur, he looked once more over his right shoulder upon the fading mark of his angel. A plaintive cry left his lips, and Clem felt his heart skip at the hurt his friend was enduring. As Sidney reached down to pull the right side of his clubbing pants up to cover what surely now must be his shame, his right hand began to trace the outline of the handprint, seemingly of its own accord. And suddenly, a flash of intuition struck him. He cried aloud again, this time in growing joy. He opened his hand fully and placed it tentatively over the angelic imprint. Could it be so? He dared not believe, but there it was, in plain view. The mark... his hand... a perfect fit! The angel was he himself! Crying tears of joy, he began to dance.

Local Man Enjoys Serendipity of Finishing Jar of Mayonnaise on Day It Expires

ATTICA, NY — Local artist Bart Mathews experienced a joyful rarity today when he polished off his 24 oz. jar of Hellmann’s Mayonnaise on the very day it was set to expire, according to the manufacturer’s suggestion on the label.

“It’s something that’s never happened to me, at least that I can remember,” said Mathews, 33, setting down his artist’s brush. “Normally, I don’t even look at the date on the label, since you can usually tell by the odor whether it’s still edible or not. But I just happened to glance at it today as I was making a sandwich for my evening snack.”

Mathews, a bachelor who admits to using mayonnaise “not that often”, spent several minutes attempting to remember the day’s date before making the serendipitous connection. “How many times in a man’s life can he truly feel the sense of completion he feels when finishing a product on the exact day it expires?” Mathews asked reflectively. “Something like this can really create a bond between consumer and producer.”

A spokesman for Hellmann’s Corporation cautioned that the date imprinted on their product labels is merely a suggestion for use. “In fact,” added the spokesman, “frequently the product life is much longer than the suggested date. We just like to play it safe.”

Mathews was unfazed, however. “When hunger and perishable food items converge, the demand hardly ever meets or exceeds the supply,” he said. “To be involved in an experience like this, hoo boy, it’s hard to even put it into words.”

Mathews plans to wash the empty jar thoroughly before displaying it prominently in his kitchen. “Every day I see that jar,” he mused, “it will be a reminder to me of the good things that can happen in life. I will never forget this day. This jar will be treasured for the rest of my life.”

As he prepared to clean up the the mess that was his painting area, Mathews quipped, “Of course, it would be handy for washing out brushes, too.”

Clive’s Kangaroo Burgers

Clive was an Australian national, and a die-hard one at that. There wasn’t a Crocodile Dundee movie he didn’t own, a cute little koala bear he didn’t adore, or a Foster’s Beer commercial at which he didn’t chuckle. But Clive had an intrinsic passion, one that outweighed all others in his moderately sheltered, yet still staunchly nationalistic, life. Clive loved—nay, revered—kangaroos. That is to say, he enjoyed partaking of the flesh of the bipedal hopping marsupials indigenous to the Land Down Under. Put quite simply, Clive loved him some big, sloppy, medium-rare kangaroo burgers!

“Surely, the meat of the kangaroo is the gift of the gods,” thought Clive as he tossed another ‘roo burger on the barbie. And for the most part, his friends and family had to agree with him. No one could cook up ‘roo steaks, ‘roo ribs, and ‘roo burgers like Clive. He was born with a high calling and a dual purpose: to prepare and consume kangaroo meat for the enjoyment of himself and those around him. Verily, he was the chosen one.

Clive lived in Queensland, one of the more sparsely populated states of Australia. Nevertheless, word of his skill in the culinary arts, as it pertained to the preparation of kangaroo, spread quickly through the land. Soon there was a rabid demand for Clive’s services throughout the far reaches of his country. Being an enterprising young man, he gathered some investors and opened a chain of restaurants called “Clive’s Kangaroo Kitchen”.

Well, Australia had never seen a more successful business venture. Soon Clive was among the richest Aussies, the horrible international exchange rate of the Australian dollar notwithstanding. It was a dream come true for the man many now referred to as “The Guru of ‘Roo”. Business boomed, stomachs were filled, and the kangaroo population of 4 of the 7 Australian states dwindled rapidly.

As his empire grew at an astronomical rate, Clive’s coffers were filled with millions of severely undervalued Aussie dollars. Being a shrewd businessman and an amateur dabbler in Australian tax codes, Clive decided it would be best for him to spend some of his hard-earned wealth in an effort to both relax and deprive the tax man of at least a few shekels. That decided, Clive set off on an extended vacation to America, leaving the every day machinations of his Kangaroo Kitchen Enterprises to his trusted business advisor and personal masseuse, Wilhelm.

Clive’s destination was New York, New York. “Strange,” Clive thought to himself upon arriving in Manhattan. “No place in Australia needs to be named twice in order for the citizens to remember it.” Thoroughly convinced of the intellectual superiority of the Aussies, Clive set out to satiate his lunchtime hunger. “Now where in America can I find myself a thick, juicy ‘roo burger?” Clive wondered. “I should taste one here, just to verify the overwhelming superiority of my own ‘roo burgers. Then,” thought Clive, “I can enjoy the rest of my vacation as I sneer condescendingly upon all Americans to whom I am both intellectually and kangaroo-ily superior!” Comforted by this thought, Clive set out on his hunt for the certainly inferior American ‘roo burger.

Clive searched for a while and finally decided on a place called McDonald’s. Urged on by the scent of cooking meat (decidedly not kangaroo) mingled with grease and the gutter trash that seemed so common to this twice-named town, he entered the restaurant and strode proudly to the counter. “May I take your order, sir?” the young girl at the counter inquired indifferently.

“Why, yes please!” Clive replied. “I’ll have an 8 ounce ‘roo burger, no cheese, and a large Coca-Cola, please.”

“Are you from England or something? You have a funny accent,” stated the now slightly interested cashier.

“Why, no, ma’am. Actually, I’m from Australia,” Clive responded, a little miffed. Didn’t these Americans know anything?

“That’s nice,” she replied lazily. “Um, now what did you want? We don’t have any ‘roo burgers’. There’s the menu, if that helps.” She gestured at the large menus hanging on the wall behind her.

Clive quickly scanned the overhead menu, did a double take, then scanned it again, eyes wide with disbelief. “You mean to tell me that you don’t have kangaroo burgers? What, then, are in these ‘hamburgers’? Certainly not swine meat?!”

“Well, I think they’re ground beef and a bunch of other stuff,” the cashier girl replied, a bit taken aback by this strange line of questioning. “Like everybody’s burgers.”

“You can’t be serious! Everybody’s burgers? Has nobody in America tasted the glory of a kangaroo burger?” Clive was now utterly convinced of the complete backwardness of this country.

“We sell hamburgers, Big Macs, and Quarter Pounders. No kangaroo,” answered the girl, completely confused and now very impatient. “Would you like to try a Quarter Pounder?”

Dejectedly, Clive nodded in the affirmative. After receiving his meal and finding a quiet table in the corner, he stared suspiciously for a moment at the slab of strange animal flesh snuggled between two sesame seed buns. “What is this substance?” he thought, perplexed. “Oh well. I suppose in a backwards country like America, one must try to fit in and not make waves. Besides, there will be kangaroos aplenty to devour when I get back home.” Clive smiled at this. He stared at the burger for another few moments, took a deep breath, and partook of his first bite of an American hamburger. He savored the mouthful, testing it with his tongue to determine its suitability to his palate. “Well,” he thought. “This isn’t too bad, considering its source.” But after another few bites, his psyche was rocked with an inescapable realization. “This is good!” he actually exclaimed aloud, causing a few patrons to stare at him unashamedly in silent revulsion. “This is very good!”

By the time he finished the Quarter Pounder—leaving his large Coke untouched—Clive’s body was being rocked with dual paroxysms of ecstasy and horror. The realization that his famous ‘roo burgers had met their match was not a comforting one, but he was not willing to accept that as fact after sampling only one American burger. His face felt flush and he began sweating profusely, much to the dismay of the surrounding patrons (Australians don’t favor deodorant). “I must not let this idea take hold of me!” he cried. “I will not believe that American burgers are superior to my ‘roo! I will not!” With eyes burning, he leapt up and was back on the streets of New York, New York in a flash.

The entire afternoon, Clive rushed desperately all over the city, sampling the burger wares of every American burger restaurant he could find: Wendy’s, Burger King, Jack In The Box, Hardees, Carl’s Jr. The burgers at all of these establishments were nothing short of incredible. Only one place gave him hope: White Castle. But it was not enough. His fate had been presented to him, and there was no way to return it to sender. “How can this be? My fortune is ruined! If ever word were to get back home about the quality of this ‘ground beef’ and the burgers it creates, I am finished!” The reality of his discovery and the gravity of his fate weighed like a ton of eucalyptus leaves on his head. “All my dreams, dashed in but a single day,” he whimpered, collapsing in a heap in an alleyway off of 42nd Street. Slowly, he buried his head in his hands and began to weep.

How long he stayed there, Clive did not know. But he knew that no matter how long he stayed there, sobbing like a baby, it would never be long enough to lift himself and his life’s work from the nadir it had reached, right there in New York, New York, America.

Clive died several days later. The city coroner said it was starvation. Any regular person on the street could have told you that. But his withered and emaciated body belied the glory, fame and happiness he had once known back home Down Under. Sure, his death certificate listed the cause of death as starvation. But those who knew Clive understood his pain and saw the grief forever locked in his unseeing eyes. It was the mark of a man who had lived his dream for a brief moment, but could not bear to live apart from it. Yes, those who knew Clive knew the true reason for his death. Clive died of a broken heart.

Understanding Liam

Liam was the lone foreign-exchange student at the local high school. He hailed from England, where people often spoke a weird and cryptic language. Liam had few friends because he drove a stupid K-car. But what really turned people off about Liam was his vocabulary. He would say things such as “bloody”, “chap”, “right-o”, “cheers”, “pip pip” and the like. Nobody could understand what he was talking about. So his classmates ignored him. Did I mention Liam was from England?

Liam never had a date while he was in America. Who would want to date a strange-speaking English bloke? When summer came, Liam returned to his homeland across the great big pond. He became a bitter alcoholic, and rarely spoke of his experience in the states.

Liam died a broken, decrepit old soul. And all because he didn’t bother to speak English correctly.

Students See London, France, No One’s Underpants

CHICAGO, IL - Tim Daniels, 22, and Mark Suthers, 23, recent graduates of Northwestern University’s School of Business Administration, returned from Europe yesterday. And while overall it was an enjoyable trip, they report, neither returned any wiser in the ways of the world.

“Man, I heard all European chicks were supposed to be easy, especially the French,” Tim began, gesturing dejectedly as buddy Mark looked on. “We were over there for three weeks. We saw London, Paris, Germany, and neither of us got any action! Skip that, man.”

Mark agreed, “Yeah, we spent some nice time traveling by train, staying in youth hostels and cheap hotels. I speak decent French, and Tim can do Deustch passably. We figured it would be a great way to unwind after graduation. So we did it. We just wanted to relax, really, and see the sights, and, you know, maybe get ourselves a piece of foreign tail,” Mark confided with a wink.

“We always made sure our clothes were clean and pressed, because we figured anything’s got to be better than those smelly Frenchmen,” Tim added, chuckling. “Apparently it wasn’t.”

A myriad of photos and video footage revealed that the pair had generally good weather for the trip, as well as plenty of time to see everything they wanted.

“This one here,” Tim said, pointing to a photo, “we were standing right outside of the Louvre and we noticed a couple of hot French babes waiting around. Mark and I walked over to them and greeted them in their mother tongue,” Tim said. “We actually got a lot of mileage out of that ‘mother tongue’ reference. I thought it was hilarious. Anyway,” Tim continued, “we talked them into taking a picture of us, and then we asked them to have lunch with us. They agreed, so we found this frou frou bistro and settled in.”

“I was doing most of the talking, since Tim’s not as polished with French,” Mark said. “Things were going really well, I thought, so I decided to go for the ‘mother tongue’ joke. I was trying to put together a clever bit intertwining French kissing, being in France, and mother tongue. It either came out all wrong in the translation, or those chicks just had no sense of humor,” Mark explained, “but the next thing you know, they’re dumping their water glasses on us, calling us ‘bastards’, and leaving! It was quite a scene.”

“That was probably the worst strike out we had over there,” Tim said. “But it was all bad, considering that we didn’t even end up really talking to many girls, let alone scoring. Sure, the scenery was nice and overall it was quite relaxing, but it’s just not the same knowing we could have had a nice European babe. That would have been the ultimate graduation present!”

Both Tim and Mark expect to take a couple more weeks off before starting the interview process. They both would like to remain in the Chicago area and hopefully meet a couple of nice American women who understand them.

Billy’s Colossal Bubble

From the time Billy got his first baby teeth, he loved to chew. Anything and everything he could get his hands on went in his mouth, in order to test its degree of pleasure and chewability. Soon, Billy discovered a substance that brought great joy to his very existence and furthered his chewing cause: gum.

Billy loved to exercise his jaw muscles, and with chewing gum he found a commodity that would allow him to chew continuously the same specimen for hours on end. This greatly pleased Billy, and he began sampling the many different brands of gum to see which one best suited his tastes and desires. He tried Juicy Fruit, Big Red, Bazooka, Wrigley’s Spearmint, Peppermint, Doublemint, Bubble Yum, Bubbalicious, Hubba Bubba, those dry, hard sticks you get in baseball card packs, Chiclets, Fruit Stripe, MintaBurst, CinnaBurst, the little gumballs from the local Lions Club machines—everything under the sun was given a tryout, and still nothing was found to completely satisfy Billy’s strict and rigorous chewing standards.

Then one day at the local Walgreen’s, Billy had a coup de grâce (remarkable though it was for someone of his young age). He discovered that which he had been seeking for lo those many weeks: Bubble Blast™! Its unique combination of various natural resins, latexes, sweeteners, softeners and flavorings enabled it to meet all of young Billy’s taste and chewability requirements. He bought several pouches that day, for he needed to try its many different flavors. Grape quickly became his favorite, and from that day, Billy’s life changed forever.

Billy soon tired of the simple repetitive chewing motions required by his gum, and his youthful exuberance and adventurousness led to more risky and uncharted territory. He started by pulling on his gum and wrapping it around his finger, stretching it to its limit and then snapping as it grew too thin. He tried those annoying popping noises by making little air bubbles in his mouth. But it all seemed so mundane. He needed excitement. He wanted to live on the edge. So he set about learning how to blow real bubbles—the external kind. After much experimentation, he finally calculated the correct amount of tongue pressure and lip pursing that would allow him to succeed in his quest for the perfect bubble. Now life was even more exciting for young Billy.

The creation of bubbles—glorious bubbles—became his life. He chewed gum incessantly. His every waking moment was occupied by blowing bubbles. Even as he slept, his mouth worked in its graceful, fluid motion, always seeking to form the perfect bubble. He would often awake in a cold sweat, sit bolt upright in bed, and reach for his ever present pack of Bubble Blast™, to calm him from his nightmares of distant, backwards lands without gum. Each day, it seemed, he grew closer and closer to the largest, most perfect bubble the world had ever seen. His obsession caused him to stuff more and more gum into his ever-growing maw, until he was consuming three packs of Bubble Blast™ at a time. The bubbles he was creating were extraordinary, radiant in their geometry and fragrant as a field of lilacs. But still he felt like he was missing something. Each time his bubble neared its zenith, it would pop, causing Billy great frustration (as well as not a little stickiness on the face and hair!)

Something had to be done, he knew, about the ever-weakening elasticity of his bubbles as they grew in their enormity. He would never achieve the world’s largest, most perfect bubble without supplementing the gum with some kind of artificial reinforcing additive. After researching at his local library (and being told therein several times to keep the chewing volume down), he decided that he needed to augment his gum with the strongest rosin known to exist, jelutong. So he went home, opened up one of his father’s gardening catalogs, and sent away to the deepest depths of the Amazon for his prized rosin. He would soon be able to give the world the greatest gift he could ever imagine—the largest chewing gum bubble in history!

After waiting the requisite amount of time for delivery, Billy finally received his package, and promptly began experimenting with the chemical makeup of the Bubble Blast™ plus jelutong. In a matter of hours, Billy was ready to try his new concoction. Heading out to the backyard, he grabbed a handful of his mixture, stuffed it in his mouth, and began to chew. He kept grabbing and stuffing until he was sure he had enough gum to attempt his feat, and then he began to blow. And at that moment, it was as if the whole world was standing still, watching Billy and awaiting the outcome of this most important, possibly world-changing, endeavor. The wind stopped. Birds ceased their song. Squirrels hunched in place. If Billy had glanced at his wristwatch, he would have noticed that it, too, had stopped. Everything was silent as Billy continued to blow. And blow he did. His bubble was now about the size of his head, and it was showing no signs of weakening. The jelutong was working! Billy was becoming more excited now, and paused a minute to suck in another lungful of air before continuing. But it was at this moment that Billy realized he had made a most grievous error: he had forgotten to tell anyone what he was doing. There was no one available to capture his feat on video, or even on a still camera. How would the world know? But he had gone too far to turn back now, he was certain of that. So he continued to blow, and the jelutong-reinforced bubble continued to grow, now as large as his torso. “This is incredible”, Billy thought. “Even without a camera, surely someone will notice me and I will live forever in the annals of history as the boy who blew the biggest bubble. It is my destiny!”

As the bubble grew ever larger, Billy thought he noticed the slightest signs of it weakening around the apex. But he was drunk with famelust, and blew even harder. The bubble was now larger than his body, and he could feel his lung capacity waning. As he drew in his breath for one final blow, he felt a deep surge of pride and a certain sense of completeness. He was about to give the world the largest bubble in history, all for the love of chewing gum. No one had asked him to do it; he had been born both with the gift and the overwhelming need to share it.

Billy began his final exhalation and suddenly the bubble exploded with a violent “bang!”. As the gum hurtled back toward him and covered his entire body in a sticky mass, his last thought was, “I did it!” As he drew his last breath there in his backyard, his body forever immortalized in a gooey latex sheath, he knew that there would never be another person on earth who would accomplish what he had died doing. And there would be no need for such a person. He closed his eyes for the last time and smiled. He had won!

The FedEx Messiah

I got to work on time again today. It’s become a pretty regular occurrence, now that my commute to work takes me directly past a FedEx office. I also go right by a UPS office, but that’s another story for another time...

Life is good this way. So good, in fact, that I believe I’ve forgotten how to get to my office on my own. Oh, I can find my way halfway there easily enough, and halfway there is all I need, because that’s where I pull in behind the trusty FedEx delivery person. It’s actually almost too good to be true, because besides being led to work with 100% accuracy every day, I can significantly save on gas by drafting behind their large red, white and blue trucks. Funny thing is, if I ever do need to send a package overnight, I do it with UPS. But what FedEx don’t know won’t hurt them, right?

Enough rationalization, however. I have two great fears about my dependency; two ways in which my fabulous plan can lose its proverbial powerwheels and leave me stranded in the slimegutter. The first fear is thus: what if my trusty FedEx delivery person has no deliveries to my office building on a given morning? The results could be devastating. But while this is frightening enough on its own, my second fear is even more ghastly. This phobia involves pulling up to a stoplight, taking my eyes off the road for just a few moments, and then looking up to discover two (2)! FedEx trucks in front of me. The horror! Which truck was I following: was it the cleaner one whose right turn signal is currently flashing madly, or was it the dirty one with “Wash me” written on the back door in crude script and who appears to be desirous of continuing straight on the road? I can just see it now: “Boss, I’m going to be late today. I accidentally followed the ‘wash me’ guy instead of the sparkling clean truck. I’ll be in about the time they make their 4:00 afternoon run!”

But until either of those terrible instances occur, I will continue to happily follow my reliable FedEx person into work every day. So far things have gone like Suisse clockwork. It just serves to prove a favorite axiom of mine: the U.S. Postal Service sucks, but these FedEx people are not to be trifled with (thank God for that!).

Oh no! I just had another horrible thought: What if they strike? UPS did, so why couldn’t it happen to FedEx? I implore each of you: write your congressman today and demand an eternal collective bargaining agreement with the FedEx union. Please! My commute depends on it!

Big Star Admits He Doesn’t Like The Beatles

HOLLYWOOD, CA - Megastar actor and comedian Jim Carrey admitted on Friday that he “never liked the Beatles”, shocking fans of the 60’s musical supergroup worldwide. “I just never got into their sound,” Carrey explained under the glittering lights of the premiere of his new movie, The Grinch. “It seems like a rite of passage for big stars these days to put the Beatles on some sort of pedestal and credit them with influencing so much of your life. Well, sorry folks, but that’s not me,” Carrey continued, in a voice reminiscent of his character in the movie Ace Ventura.

“I just cannot believe he was telling truth,” local magazine vendor Haliz Aba said. “You know Mr. Carrey, he is very great comedian. He was making joke. I know it. Because in my country, Beatles are sacred like cow. Only don’t taste as good. Get it?” Aba inquired. “I as funny as Mr. Carrey, right?”

Beatle-hater Carrey

Said Carrey, “I’m Canadian, you know, and, well, we’re pretty nationalistic about everything. If I’m going to like anything other than Canadian music, it might have to be the French, because of Quebec and all. It most certainly will not be British! Noooooo sirree! But really, growing up I was just totally into the Guess Who and especially Rush,” Carrey remarked. “Look at them, they’re still rockin’ after 25 years! I mean, how long were the Beatles together, anyway? Five years? That’s nothing.”

Tim Estin, Carrey’s rep from the Creative Artists Agency, was flabbergasted when informed of Carrey’s comments. “Jim knows, as well as anyone in the industry, the three taboos of Hollywood. Don’t talk about religion, don’t discuss any potential plastic surgery, and most of all, do not show the Beatles any disrespect! It’s just common knowledge, and it’s not like Jim to do something this rash and injurious to his character. We are on full damage control, effective immediately.” After a pause, Estin continued, “Now hold on a moment. Are we absolutely certain that he didn’t just say, ‘I don’t like needles’?”

Carrey’s aversion to the Beatles first came to light last month, when he declined to appear on ABC’s Beatles Anthology special. Dozens of other celebrities made appearances on the special, relating their fond memories of the Beatles and the band’s effect on their lives. A memo from Carrey’s agency regarding the matter was obtained by sources within ABC. It reads in part: “Due to Mr. Carrey’s extremely busy schedule and his ambivalence vis a vis the Beatles, he must decline the offer to appear on the Beatles Anthology special. Mr. Carrey sends his well wishes, along with his fervent hope that those involved with the special will get a life.”

Back at the premiere, Renee Zellweger, Carrey’s longtime companion, was in an apparent state of sheer disbelief at his fatuous comments. Refusing to speak to the gathered media, she whisked Carrey into the theater, vigorously jabbing him in the ribs with her elbow as they walked. Those nearby reported that Zellweger was muttering something about “career suicide” as the couple passed out of earshot.

The premiere of The Grinch was nevertheless met with rave reviews.

Area YMCA To Institute Step-Aerobics Program

BAD AXE, MI — Harriet Evans, director of the Bad Axe Regional YMCA, today announced an innovative new program at her center. “We felt the time was right for us to institute a co-ed step aerobics program at this center. It’s been something many of our suburban YMCA centers were adding, and we determined it was necessary to keep us competitive in the personal fitness arena, especially in a rural area like ours.”

Evans plans to entertain and motivate class participants with the ironically, yet appropriately, named 1970’s disco anthem “YMCA” by the Village People. “It’s got an incredible, driving beat that is certain to infuse the steppers with the energy they will need to successfully complete the 30-minute class”, Evans said. She went on to say that she plans to loop the song continuously for the full 30 minutes. “Besides being a great rhythmic song that’s perfect for step-aerobics, I think it will be a wonderful attraction for those people who might not otherwise be interested in their own physical fitness. I mean, what could be a better slogan than, ‘Come step to the YMCA down at the YMCA’? It’s perfect!”

When asked if he would consider participating in the new step-aerobics class, local resident Wayne “Tractor” Puhllz, replied, “Step aerobics? What in tarnation you talkin’ ‘bout, boy? That some kind of step-shift capacitor for the husking tractor?”

Lenny Gibbels, owner of the Bad Axe Barber Shop, has been a lightning rod for the local YMCA gossip. “People here been talkin’ about these village people movin’ into the YMCA here in town. You know, outsiders ain’t too welcome ‘round here. Hope they ain’t gonna be stayin’ long. All that place is good for anyway is gettin’ yourself clean, and maybe gettin’ a good meal. In and out! Exercise? That’s what farmin’s for!”

Classes will be held weeknights at 6:00 and 6:30. Cost is $5.00 for a 30-minute session.

Local Man Lies About Having “Big Plans This Weekend”

UTICA, MI — After weeks of shamefully having to respond, “Nothing much” when asked about his potential big plans for the weekend, local office clerk Jeremy Silver broke down last Friday afternoon. “As I was leaving around 4:30, Jim from accounting asked me the same question he asks every Friday: ‘Got any big plans for the weekend?’ I tell you, I was just so sick and tired and not a little embarrassed that every week I’d answer, ‘Nothing much. How ‘bout you?’ and he’d go off and tell me about some party he was throwing, or a trip he was taking up north to go water skiing or something, that I had just had it! So before I even realized it, I told him, ‘Yeah, I’m probably gonna go to the casino on Saturday, and then maybe go golfing and have a barbecue with some friends on Sunday.’ I was just so tired of him bugging me about it that, yeah, maybe I told a little bitty lie. You try to deal with Farris every Friday! I mean, come on, he could have at least invited me to one of his parties. Not that I would have gone, but, geez! Common courtesy!”

Shamed clerk Silver

When asked for comment, Jim Farris, CPA, responded, “Well, it’s good to hear that stick-in-the-mud Silver is finally having some fun! I was starting to think that he didn’t have any friends! I mean, you never even hear him talking about girls. Not that I care, but, c’mon, you’ve got to have a little fun on the weekends if you’re gonna make it through the work-week! We need our employees refreshed and energized on Monday. The whole office was starting to talk about him!”

Monday dawned a new, yet not necessarily brighter, day at the office for Silver. After an early morning status meeting, Farris reportedly approached Jeremy and jokingly confronted him, “So, Silver, did ya have a good weekend? I was at the casino on Saturday and didn’t see you. Did ya have a good time?” Co-workers report that Jeremy mumbled something like, “Something came up”, and shuffled shamefacedly away, ostensibly to embark upon yet another day in his altogether too dull life.