2012
HEARING
BEFORE THE
SUBCOMMITTEE ON GOVERNMENT ORGANIZATION, EFFICIENCY AND FINANCIAL MANAGEMENT
OF THE
COMMITTEE ON OVERSIGHT AND GOVERNMENT REFORM
HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES
ONE HUNDRED TWELFTH CONGRESS
SECOND SESSION
FEBRUARY 17, 2012

ANSLEY BLACK, Arkansas, Chairwoman
GREGORY RODER, New Hampshire
SUSAN WATERS, Delaware
MICHAEL MACK, Florida
LOUIS ORTEGA, California
JULES PRINCE, Michigan
OLIVIA BECKMAN, Nevada
WILLIAM ANDERSON, Missouri
ALEXANDER RAFTER, North Carolina
NANCY GREY, Virginia
LEO JANUS, Hawaii

WITNESSES
Christian Rollis PhD, Editor-in-Chief, The Gallup Poll
Robert Broadmeyer PhD, President, American Statistical Association
Barbara Leaf PhD, President, American Physics Society
Dr. Julia Franklin, Executive Director, The George Washington University Hospital Maternity Ward
Ms. Abigail Hernandez

MS. BLACK. Good morning everyone. I hereby call the Subcommittee on Government Organization, Efficiency, and Financial Management to order. I see that all the members are present and accounted for, so let’s begin.

I recognize myself for an opening statement.

We have been assembled today to review an unprecedented, highly worrisome, and seemingly impossible development. According to a study published by the Gallup Poll last week, Congress’ already abysmally low approval rating has dropped into the negatives for the first time in history.

To say that I am floored by this development is an understatement. I have no idea how this could have happened. I certainly doubt anyone else on this subcommittee knows either. I therefore motion that we skip the procedural opening statements and move straight into the testimony of the very intelligent panel of witnesses gathered before us. Do I have unanimous consent to continue?

[Transcriber’s note: unanimous consent was given.]

MS. BLACK. Very well. Dr. Rollis, how is it possible that your organization has recorded a negative approval rating for Congress?

DR. ROLLIS. Well, according to the American people, the Legislative Branch of the U.S. government has apparently shoved its head three feet right up its own ass.

MS. BLACK. What, what??

DR. ROLLIS. Pardon my use of profanity. But you see, the statistically correct answer to that question is—as I just said—that you all have your heads up your own asses.

MS. BLACK. Explain yourself.

DR. ROLLIS. It’s quite simple. Two weeks ago, we conducted a survey of Americans asking their opinion of Congress. 13% disapproved, 24% highly disapproved, 44% entered miscellaneous submissions, and 33% said that you had your heads three feet up your asses.

MS. BLACK. You mean to tell me that you conducted a survey in which you included “Congress has its head up its ass” as an option?

DR. ROLLIS. No ma’am. Our only options were: highly approve, approve, neutral, disapprove, and highly disapprove. “Congress has its head three feet up its own ass” was a write-in. As were the miscellaneous answers.

MS. BLACK. I find it very hard to believe that 33% of the Americans spontaneously wrote such a particularly specific phrase into your survey.

DR. ROLLIS. Technically, 16% wrote-in that you had your heads 2 feet up your asses. 17% wrote-in that your heads were inserted four feet. We decided to combine the two figures by taking their mean average, therefore streamlining the survey’s findings.

MR. JANUS. And what of this miscellaneous statistic? How can your organization claim to have recorded a negative approval rating when 44% of those you’ve polled entered a variety of different responses?

DR. ROLLIS. Ah, that. I’m glad you brought it up. I’ve actually brought samples of some of the tamer answers we received so that you could see for yourselves.

[Transcribers’ note: Dr. Rollis passed a thick, bound booklet to each of the Congresspersons and sat back down. The members of the subcommittee opened their booklets and began to read.]

MR. ORTEGA. Congresspersons should eat shit, die, and get revived as zombies so that I could shoot every one of them in the face with a shotgun without being arrested.

MS. BLACK. Oh my…

DR. ROLLIS.  It gets worse.

MR. RODER. The members of Congress should be loaded onto a 727 rigged with video cameras and crashed into the Andes so that the American people could watch them slowly eat each other.

MS. BLACK. And you said these were the tamer answers?

DR. ROLLIS. Yes ma’am, that’s right.

MR. RAFTER. I want to transport our Congress back to 1812 and lock them in the Capitol building while the British burn it down.

MS. GREY. Christ…

MR. MACK. Congress should be covered in powdered sugar, forced into a giant three-legged race with alternating Republican and Democrat members, and made to run from a horde of African army ants so that they finally have an excuse to work together.

MR. RODER. Good thing I’m a biter, because Congress just rammed my throat full of its gigantic, throbbing…

MS. BLACK. OK, that’s it. I think we’ve heard enough. Let’s get back to the topic at hand. Dr. Rollis, how did your organization come up with a negative number for a survey? That shouldn’t be possible.

DR. ROLLIS. I think that’s more of a question for Drs. Broadmeyer and Leaf. I can only describe to you the procedural steps we took to come up with our conclusions.

MS. BLACK. Go on then.

DR. ROLLIS. We first conducted this survey two weeks ago. At the end of it, our findings placed the approval rating of Congress at -1% with an absolute deviation of plus or minus 3%.

So, of course, we thought this was a statistical anomaly. The deviation gave us plenty of room to doubt the end product. With a 3% a.d., Congress’ approval rating could have been 0%, or even 1%. So we went back, took a larger sample, and did it again.

MS. BLACK. And your current findings? How did they turn out?

DR. ROLLIS. Oh there’s no doubt about it. Literally no one likes you. Our larger sample placed your approval rating at -4% with an absolute deviation of plus or minus 2%. Congress is firmly in the red.

MS. BECKMEN. What I’d like to know, Dr. Rollis, is whether or not there is any statistical or scientific backing for your survey. Dr. Broadmeyer, is this negative approval rating even possible?

DR. BROADMEYER. Technically, its not supposed to be. But Dr. Rollis’ conclusions are sound. It all checks out beautifully. Furthermore, if you follow Congress’ approval rating over the last several months, you will note that it follows a strict linearly regressive trend…

MR. RAFTER. English, if you please, Dr. Broadmeyer.

DR. BROADMEYER.  Congress’ approval has been dropping unabated at a steady clip. This trend had not reversed or slowed in years. It only makes sense that it would eventually reach, and then pass 0%.

MR. PRINCE. I don’t care what the trends are, or what the standard deviation…

DR. ROLLIS. Absolute deviation.

MR. PRINCE. Whatever. I don’t care what your number-crunching analysts say. There’s no way you can come up with a negative value for an approval rating.

MS. BLACK. Care to enlighten us, Dr. Leaf?

DR. LEAF. Sure. As Congressman Prince just mentioned, 0% should be an absolute. A universal speed limit, if you will, that cannot be surmounted.

However, if you review the scientific discoveries of the last year, you will find that this Gallup survey was not the first case of an absolute being shattered. Look at the neutrino experiments conducted at CERN. The speed of light was supposedly unsurpassable. But they fired off a series of particles that did just that. Who’s to say that 0% is an absolute? Who’s to say that Congress can’t have a negative approval rating?

MR. MACK. What ramification does this have on Congress? What does this mean for the American people? Dr. Broadmeyer?

DR. BROADMEYER. It’s difficult to tell. Congress has obviously enraged so many Americans to such a fevered pitch that it appears to have actually succeeded in accruing an acute anger deficit.

MR. MACK. Huh?

DR. BROADMEYER. In layman’s terms, you have frustrated so many individuals to such a high degree that there is currently more resentment and irritation aimed at your institution than there are currently people to absorb it.

MR. MACK. Wait, what?

DR. BROADMEYER. OK. You’ve pissed so many people off that they can’t possibly get any angrier with you. This means that there’s a whole lot of anger out there—directed at you—that cannot be soaked up with this country’s current population.

MS. BLACK. What effect is this going to have on our country, Dr. Broadmeyer?

DR. BROADMEYER. Well this anger has to go somewhere. The only logical conclusion is that it’s going to be passed onto the next generation.

MS. WATERS. The next generation? How? How can they be destined to be angry with us when they don’t even exist yet?

DR. BROADMEYER. Like I said before, it has to go somewhere, and the only people that can take up the slack are the next ones in the pipe.

MS. BLACK. So are our children and grandchildren predestined to hate Congress as well?

DR. BROADMEYER. It certainly seems so.

MS. BLACK. Dr. Franklin, have you noted this trend in your maternity ward?

DR. FRANKLIN. Oh absolutely. Whenever the nurses or doctors at GW Hospital even mention Congress around the newborns, they immediately start crying and screaming uncontrollably. It takes us hours just to calm them down.

MR. JANUS. And for how long has this been happening?

DR. FRANKLIN. About two weeks now.

MS. BLACK. I have it understood that you brought along one of your patients to demonstrate. A Ms. Hernandez, I believe?

MS. HERNANDEZ. Yes, that’s me. I just gave birth twelve days ago to Michael, a healthy eight-pound baby boy.

MS. BLACK. Congratulations.

MS. HERNANDEZ. Thank you very much. We’re very happy with him. He’s very well behaved. The problems only occur when my husband Eric and I talk about what’s going on in Congress around him. He’ll just start screaming at the top of his lungs. We were going to bring him into the subcommittee hearing, but Michael threw such a tantrum when he saw the Capitol building that Eric had to take him back to the apartment.

MS. BLACK. Wow. I really don’t know what to say. What do we do about this?

MS. GREY. Well, clearly it’s the Republicans’ fault. All they do is obstruct any and everything trying to make its way through Congress.

MR. ANDERSON. You’re kidding me, right?

MS. GREY. Oh, I assure you that I’m not. Your party wants to shut government down. You want us to be a do-nothing Congress.

MR. ANDERSON. Please. You have some gall to say that when you know damn well it’s the Democrats’ fault. All you do is try to ram bills down our throats that are purposefully designed to fail! You want us to look bad for standing up for our principles! You want the American people to blame us!

MS. BLACK Order!

MR. PRINCE. Liar! Your party doesn’t even try to work with us! You’ve turned compromise into a dirty word

MS. BLACK. I said order!

[Transcriber’s note: Ms. Black banged her gavel furiously]

MR. JANUS. No one likes you, Black.

[Transcriber’s note: Ms. Black threw her gavel at Mr. Janus’ head].

MR. ANDERSON. Screw you, Prince. You don’t even bother to show up to the hearings half the time.

MS. WATERS. And the only time you show up is when you’ve received some obscene donation to your super PAC to run your mouth in this chamber.

MR. ANDERSON. Oh shut up, Waters! The sole reason you’re even in this chamber is because your district is gerrymandered past recognition.

MS. WATERS. Go to hell, Anderson!

[Transcriber’s note: The subcommittee quickly degenerated into a fistfight while the witnesses stared on in shocked disbelief. Eventually, the Capitol Police were called in to drag away the warring Representatives. An uncomfortable silence descended upon the room. Slowly, hesitantly the witnesses walked out of the empty chamber and into the hallway outside.]

————

Bobby D. Foster has four testicles, five ovaries, and is more man and woman than you’ll ever be. He speaks 12 languages, 9 of which he’s made up, so no one understands what he’s saying the majority of the time horickial bragorisvov reghelon. Whenever he happens to be speaking English, he abhors the superfluous use of the words “abhor” and “superfluous.” His sweat attracts moose in heat, he flosses with barbed wire, and he eat shits like you for breakfast… and he hates breakfast.

First off, there are the forced conversations that take place every day, in every office building and high rise apartment complex the world over. For me, elevators are a gift from the lazy man’s God to ensure we only use one little finger to ascend towards the heavens, leaving those heart-healthy stairwalkers in our wake. While I’m in the middle of worship, the last thing I want is to share the 6×6 rising box with some nervous-nelly who can’t enjoy the silence. Once you make the mistake of looking in their direction, they take that as an invitation to spit as much inane drivel at you as fast as they can. It’s as if they feel the need to make one dumb statement per floor, and God help you if you have a pet or child as they will also feel completely justified to ask you all sorts of personal questions, not only invading your space, but the space of the creature that’s dependent on you for its survival. They let loose with phrases like “Aw, he’s adorable, how old is he?” or, “Are you still breast-feeding?, which is COMPLETELY inappropriate to ask a large black man when he is simply taking his dog for a walk (in this country at least).”

Emotional death trap.

But uncomfortable elevator conversation can’t compare to the hostage situation that occurs whenever I’m trying to mind my own damn business in any sort of professional type establishment. Restaurants, office buildings, brothels, you name it, someone somewhere is going to find me and almost succeed in actually boring me to death. While I don’t particularly care about the topic (or the actual person), most of it is pretty innocent, but, unlike the elevator confrontations, they have more than enough time to go into excruciatingly painful details that make you wish a nuclear device would go off, as being vaporized on a molecular level would be less invasive.

What happens next is the direct result of you simply nodding at everything they say at an attempt to get them to leave you alone and puts on you on the same level of a priest at confessional: they start admitting all sorts of shit you just don’t admit to strangers. I once had a gentleman go into a tirade about his ex-wife and the alimony that he was (not) paying. His rationalization? He wanted to be thrown in jail instead of paying her, so that way, her tax dollars would pay for him to live. See if you follow me: He would rather be INCARCERATED and lose all of his civil liberties because he didn’t want to pay a dime to a woman he apparently hates. Why on earth, would you tell anyone you don’t know this story, and what is it about me that you thought I’d be okay with hearing it?

That is just one example of someone detailing every single problem they’ve ever had in their life to me, ranging from big exams to sexual inadequacies, I hear it all, and then I die a little.

Oh shit, I get off on this floor. Would you mind holding the doors? Thanks a bunch.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U4f_PNNe7lI

———-
Chris hates anyone or anything which goes against how he feels a sentient being with more than three brain cells should act. He hopes to use his “Encyclopedia Douchebag…ica” as a springboard into becoming a full-fledged, tax exempt religion complete with holidays and greeting cards, mainly so he can steal from its coffers. His hopes are…not that high, knowing that those who needs his guidance most, are unable to read his words… what with the extra flesh from their sloped, ape-like foreheads blinding their eyes from the truth.

When not acting like a complete bastard (which is not very often), Chris writes about all things video game related on his blog iNOOBriated, and his Twitter. He also offers his services as a freelancer for Beckett’s Massive Online Gamer. Yep, he’s a neeeeeerd.

———-

Just something simple for today. Sometimes, you just want to draw a picture of someone eating his own head, only it isn’t really his head, because he’s using his head to eat the new head. Also, when the old head isn’t attached to the body, the new head doesn’t have anywhere to go after it’s chewed up. This is basic stuff, but I thought I’d point it out to you.

Somebody clean up that mess and put it in a jar!

———–

Andrew Kaye (known in some circles as AK) is the creator of Ben & Winslow and other questionable comics, many of which can be found in his deviantART gallery. He’s also the editor-in-chief of this magazine. Duh?

Since 2000 Grandpaternal Incorporated (G.I.) has dedicated itself to ensuring that you receive the highest quality Grandparents. We consider our Grandparents the best money can buy in performance and longevity.

Having said this, it pained us to hear of your complaint that your 2005 Grandfather unit, make: 72-year-old male and model: Caucasian retired Toll Booth Operator, were not lucid and using curse words with guests. It is also upsetting to hear your Grandfather was urinating in the flower bushes, walking around the house nude and attempting to strike members of your family with a broken table leg. This is uncalled for and we sincerely apologize for this inconvenience. A G.I. crew will be sent to your home as soon as possible to remove your faulty grandparents and replace them with new ones.

Sincerely,

Arnold Johnson

Grandpaternal Incorporated Marketing Director

To Ms. Sally Jenkins,

Since 2000 Grandpaternal Incorporated (G.I.) has dedicated itself to ensuring that you receive the highest quality Grandparents, we consider our Grandparents the best money can buy in performance and longevity.

I am sorry to hear of your complaint concerning the longevity of your 2005 Grandmother unit; however, I must inform you that care of your Grandparents is essential to their performance as it states clearly in the G.I. Instruction Manual on page 2. Leaving your Grandparents exposed to sub-zero temperatures (such as was done when you forgot your Grandmother in the snow) will inevitably lead to undesirable consequences. We can provide you with a Grandmother complementary to your 2005 Grandmother, make: 85-year-old and model: Caucasian/Hispanic Ceramic Angel Enthusiast, but our warranty does not cover negligence. For confirmation of this, you should read the Terms of Warranty on the last page of the G.I. Instruction Manual.

Sincerely,

Arnold Johnson

Grandpaternal Incorporated Marketing Director

To Mr. Mihoko Maruyama,

Konichiwa, sir!

Since 2000 Grandpaternal Incorporated (G.I.) has dedicated itself to ensuring that you receive the highest quality Grandparents that money. We consider our Grandparents the best money can buy in performance and longevity.

Our company policy is to equally serve all individuals desiring to purchase quality Grandparents; regardless of race, ethnicity or religious background. This is why it deeply pained me to here that such a dreadful mistake was made in our shipping department. In looking at your order form, I see you were supposed to receive a 2005 Grandfather, model: 72-year-old male and make: Japanese retired businessman. A mistake in our shipping department caused a 2005 Grandfather, model: 72-year-old male and make: Caucasian World War II prisoner of war in the South Pacific to be sent to you.

I deeply apologize for the emotional distress endured by you and your family as a result of this faulty model. You should know that our 2005 line of Grandparents were not designed with racist programming or vocabulary. A G.I. crew has been sent to immediately pick up the faulty model and replace it with the one you ordered.

I apologize again for this horrendous error. A $200 gift certificate good toward anything in the G.I. catalog has been included with this message.

Sincerely,

Arnold Johnson

Grandpaternal Incorporated Marketing Director

To Ms. Sally Jenkins,

Grandpaternal Incorporated (G.I.) has dedicated itself to ensuring that you receive the highest quality Grandparents since its founding in 2000. We consider our Grandparents the best money can buy in performance and longevity.

This is letter is in response to a complaint regarding the performance of our 2005 line of Grandparents. The G.I. Instruction Manual lists, on page 27, the various tasks which should not be attempted with our Grandparents. As the purpose of our 2005 models is to directly reflect the “Grandparent experience”, they are modeled after actual geriatric human beings. This means that certain tasks can only be done to a certain extent or not done at all.

Your complaint of “low performance” does not surprise me. Our 2005 line of Grandparents, in concordance with our policy of providing a realistic Grandparent experience, do not come equipped to handle such physically intense tasks as water skiing, bungee jumping and paint ball. The G.I. website, listed on page 2 of the G.I. Instruction Manual, is constantly updated with tasks the new 2005 line of Grandparents can complete and cannot complete.

Because of this failure to properly care for your Grandparents, G.I. is unable to offer you a replacement or equivalent monetary refund. We hope you understand our decision in this matter. If you have any further questions, then please feel free to contact me using the information on the enclosed business card.

Sincerely,

Arnold Johnson

Grandpaternal Incorporated Marketing Director

To Mr. Allen Jenkins, President of the Geriatric Association of America,

Grandpaternal Incorporated (G.I.) has dedicated itself to the preservation of the dignity of geriatric Americans since its founding in 2000. Our products seek to maintain the enduring legacy of the wisdom and innovation brought about by Americans in their latter years. The founder of Grandpaternal Incorporated, Dr. Johnathan Slyburn Ames, stated in G.I.’s mission statement, “My hope for the future of G.I. is that it provides every American deprived of the joys and wisdom of loving Grandparents the chance to have this unique experience.” This remains the policy behind every product G.I. designs.

Having said this, I must sincerely apologize for the comments in my letter to Mrs. Jenkings regarding the limitations of geriatric Americans. Those comments were meant to reflect the performance of the G.I. 2005 line of Grandparents and not actual geriatric Americans. Please understand that I was referring to a G.I. product and not the elegant and prestigious nature of geriatric Americans. My comments do not reflect the ideology or policy of G.I. and my mistake should not be understood to stand for the policy of G.I.

With sincerest apologies,

Arnold Johnson

Grandpaternal Incoporated Marketing Director

To the Smothers Family,

Grandpaternal Incorporated has dedicated itself to ensuring that you receive the highest quality Grandparents since 2000. We consider our Grandparents the best money can buy in performance and longevity.

We extend our sincerest sympathy for the recent loss of your beloved son, Timothy; however, G.I. products are held to the highest governmental standards of safety. Our products have passed every annual safety examination since the company inception in 2000 and no model has ever acted in a violent manner in any of our rigorous test sessions. Therefore, we deny any wrongdoing on the part of G.I. All legal matters will be taken up independently of this office. A G.I. legal representative will contact you shortly.

A $200 Gift Certificate toward any product in G.I. catalog has been sent along with this letter.

Our sincerest apologies for your loss,

Arnold Johnson

Grandpaternal Incorporated Executive Director

To Mrs. Mihoko Maruyama,

Konichiwa, ma’am.

Grandpaternal Incorporated (G.I.) has dedicated itself to ensuring that you receive the highest quality Grandparents that money can buy since its founding in 2000. We consider our Grandparents the best money can buy in performance and longevity.

First, I apologize for my improper address to you in my previous letter. I was unaware that Mihoko is a female name in Japanese.

We, at G.I., are embarrassed by this grievous error in our shipping department. In reviewing your order form, it clearly states you are to receive a Grandfather from our 2005 line of Grandparents, model: 72-year-old male and make: Japanese retired businessman. It is an error on our part that your received a Grandfather from our 2004 line, model: 72-year-old male and make: Caucasian with an intense hatred of the Asian race. Please note that this make and model was one of many discontinued for our 2005 line of Grandparents.

We extend our deepest apologies to you and your extended family for the emotional distress and physical harm caused by this faulty model. We also apologize for this product being delivered during your family reunion.

A $500 Gift Certificate toward anything in the G.I. Catalog has been included with this letter.

Deepest and Sincerest Apologies,

Arnold Johnson

Grandpaternal Incorporated Marketing Director

To Ms. Sally Jenkins,

You are correct in stating that the G.I. Instruction Manual does not state that a Grandparent can not be assaulted with a blunt object. This is a problem which will be rectified in new editions of the Instruction Manual. Yet, we do implore you to review a statement made at the top of page 27 of your G.I. Instruction Manual, which states,“Our Grandparents are designed to, as closely as possible, resemble the joys as well as the limitations of actual geriatric Americans.” Obviously, you would not assault a geriatric American with a baseball bat and expect them to survive; the same holds true for our 2005 line of Grandparents.

Best,

Arnold Johnson

Grandpaternal Incorporated Marketing Director

To Mrs. Sally Jenkins,

I refuse to answer your complaints regarding immolation of our 2005 line of Grandparents. Personally, I am offended at the lack of humanity within this question.

Would you do this to your personal grandmother or grandfather?

Absolutely horrible.

Arnold Johnson

Grandpaternal Incorporated Marketing Director

To Mrs. Mihoko Maruyama,

I apologize for our shipping department’s unpardonable performance.

The 2000 line of Grandfather unit, model: 72-year-old male and make: Caucasian Ku Klux Klan member with a desire to exterminate the Japanese people was an experimental design unknown to even me.  That it was sent to you in spite of your heavily documented request for a 2005 Grandfather unit, model: 72-year-old male and make: Japanese retired businessman, is a quite surprise.

I have no excuse for my company’s actions and have begun to doubt the morality of working for them.

Arnold Johnson

Grandpaternal Incorporated Marketing Director

————

Nick Hilbourn was born somewhere in South Carolina, but nobody is sure where. He is currently failing three unrelated classes at Harvard University.  He has been published previously in Defenestration as well as various literary magazines and has read at such widely different venues as an open mic at the University of South Carolina and the Peace Festival sponsored by local Bahai of the southeast. He used to own his own pop culture/humor magazine entitled ERGO, but, you know, things happened. See more of him at his blog: http://largethingslargerthings.tumblr.com/

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Most wizards’ power comes directly from their hats. The hats actually act as second brains, because the majority of spells are so incredibly complex the average person has no way of storing more than a handful at a time. Truly great wizardry requires a substantial repertoire, and so the standard issue wizard hat is employed to store all the spells the wizard can’t remember on their own. Strange but true!

Today’s comic hearkens back to the olden days of Ben & Winslow. It’s a single, full-color panel of random craziness. I remember back when EVERY Ben & Winslow comic was like this, back before I started experimenting with colors and multi-panel storylines.

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Andrew Kaye (known in some circles as AK) is the creator of Ben & Winslow and other questionable comics, many of which can be found in his deviantART gallery. He’s also the editor-in-chief of this magazine. Duh?

Like me, I’m sure you’ve heard it over and over again: “The only way to become a great writer is to keep writing” or “there are no shortcuts in life” or “you can’t be a writer, you’re helplessly illiterate.” I assure you, these are nothing but ludicrous things parents tell their children before bed and after college.

You have access to a thesaurus and a checking account, there’s no reason your humor shouldn’t be published. I bet you have a whole list of ideas in your head but you just haven’t found the time to put them up on screen. It’s very important to not to beat yourself up about being unpublished; it’ll give you writer’s block and, if you’re an especially strong writer, a black eye. After all, you’re holding down a job and trying to get through your Netflix Instant Queue. Writing should be a hobby, nothing more.

How can I be so casual about becoming a successful author? Why, it’s because I’ve unlocked the secrets to getting your humor published for you! I unlocked them from my brain closet so I could present them to you in this easy to follow, step-by-step e-book.

Step 1: March into the bathroom, look in the mirror and say, “I’m funny. I’m funny and interesting and good looking enough to be a published author.”

Congratulations, you’ve just overcome the hardest part of the writing process: embracing both your brilliance and your lazy eye in one sentence.

Step 2: Dust off that laptop and get comfortable. You’re funny and it’s about time everyone knew it.

Step 3: Get a snack.

Step 4: Get comfy, again.

Step 4-7: Compose tweet about being a writer, look at your ex’s profile pictures on Facebook, inhale while thinking about how no one gets you, exhale.

Step 8: Time to start writing, sort of! The eighth most important step to getting published is choosing a subject. Spoiler Alert: I strongly encourage you to write about a semi-famous academic. The reason for this is because people love funny things that are only funny to a relatively small group of people, it’s known as “intimate humor.” (“Intimate humor” is a term I made up and a term you just told yourself that you knew prior to reading this book. Published Author-1, Unpublished Scoundral-0). If you find yourself drawing a blank, pull out your Lit 201 syllabus – yep, that one – and pick an author.

O’Connor? Too mainstream.

Joyce? Too drunk.

Kafka? Fucking Yahtzee™.

Step 8: I hate to break it to you, although it’s eighth in terms of importance, selecting a subject is one of the easiest parts of being a writer, second only to getting comfortable the second time. Now that you’ve selected a subject, Kafka, you must choose action.

Step 9: Not so fast! The powers that be aren’t going to accept your Joe Schmo, half-baked Kafka essay. This is where your uniquely hilarious perspective on the world comes in handy, so follow my instructions closely: Kafka must to be doing something that Kafka would’ve never done. That being said, I’m not talking about wig making or not being schizophrenic, I’m talking about things it would’ve been impossible for Kafka to do. Modern things. This is what the learned call “juxtaposition.”

Step 10: Put the dictionary down. The only thing you need to know about juxtapositions is that they’re infinite and will split many a-side.

Step 9 (cont.): Kafka is on MySpace, Kafka is riding a John Deer, Kafka is hosting the Emmy’s. The list goes on and on, one gut busting combination after another. The hilarious part being that HE WOULD’VE NEEDED A TIME MACHINE TO DO ANY OF THESE! It should be noted the crazier the juxtaposition, the better. Just below that note, it should also be noted that Kafka must still act like Kafka, regardless of action or time period. Trust me, even if it’s totally incoherent drivel, people will pretend to get it. Kafka is the spokesperson for Lipitor.

Step 12: Write! I’ve given you the tools, but only you can put fingers to the keyboard. And since you’re the only one who bought my e-book, all four of the ideas I’ve provided are up for grabs! Kafka plays the character “Franzie” on Happy Days. That’s five!

Step 11: Casually mention to everyone you know that you’re a writer. After all, why be a writer if no one else knows about it?

EDITOR’S NOTE: If you follow these eleven steps and your humor still isn’t published, don’t sweat it! No one gets published the first time, or even the hundredth time. Keep reading, keep writing and you’ll eventually find your voice through my e-book. Plus, you’ll be automatically registered to receive a free copy of my new e-book: How to Start a Blog.

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Dan Rozier lives/works/eats/sleeps and separates verbs with slashes in Cincinnati, Ohio. He tweets at @barf_city, which isn’t a city at all, but a Twitter handle.

When we left Pierce Noonan, he was experiencing a day of terror. His housekeeper interrupts him: “Excuse me, sir? Why are you screaming over the half-filled bathtub?” and he’s all: “HAHAHAHAHHAAHA! What?” and she replies with: “Oh gosh, shucks, being from Maine country, I need to finish cleaning up this tub right quick so I can get home and rest my stereotype.”

She then helpfully expositions about what “Dark Score Crazy” means, but Pierce Noonan wants specifics: do people go crazy with Dark Score Crazy? (This guy has a terrible imagination for a writer.) The housekeeper reveals that all these men have in fact, gone crazy and have killed little girls!

“Oh wow, that’s gross, “ Pierce Noonan’s face says, “but Ms. Housekeeper, was my wife banging dudes in this cabin?” Are you serious, Pierce? I think the housekeeper is also offended, because she leaves. Noonan decides to take matters into his own hands and goes online to Goog–I mean, Interweb Detective “Dark Score Crazy.” He comes up with nothing, not even 4Chan can help him. So he promptly goes up to his wife’s old work room attic and trashes the shit out of it. Then he sniffs the bedsheets.

This happened.

Suddenly he discovers an attic ABOVE the attic. A super-attic? The attic attic has a collection of creepy owls, a desk chair, some lye and a adorable raccoon that nearly kills our hero. So close, Mr. Raccoon! Better luck next season.

Noonan then finds a bunch of books about Dark Score! He flips through them, and seems sort of bored because there’s no reference to his wife cheating on him. What the hell, secret books?

He delves deeper into the mysteries of Sara Tidwell. He manages to pull up on his iPad a video recording of her performing in the 1930s. And yet he can’t seem to Google (sorry “Interweb Detective”) “Dark Score Crazy.” The mysteries of life!

Mattie shows up and bounces around and reveals that her sole custody of KyRA is pretty much a lock because Max has been paying off KyRA’s ad-litem or something. I don’t see how this means that Mattie is now safe and clear from the custody battle, but, whatever, bouncy bouncy bouncy!!

Then Mattie sees a familiar face in Noonan’s family photo. It’s the man she saw at the coffee shop with Noonan’s wife Jo! Noonan laughs gloriously. What relief! That’s his brother, his GAY brother. Hahahaha! Yay! Gay Brother Sid!

Then then, Mattie, like any 21-year-old bouncy bouncy gives the nearest 60-year-old man a big kiss on the lips. Yum!

You taste like my dad.

Noonan walks back inside his house to find it trashed by the ghost of Sara Tidwell, and proceeds to do her one better by breaking her records. That’s right bitch, Pierce will always break more shit than you! He returns to his magical fridge magnets, still trying to decipher the code “Sid Own Lft” secretly wondering if that’s the name of the Swedish man who boned his dead wife.

He calls his Gay Eunuch Brother Sid and Sid makes a joke about “knocking boots” and Pierce is like “HAHAHAHA. No, seriously, do you know anything about a lift? Maybe something you put in a shoe or an elevator in a factory where my wife was banging some dude? No? Okay.”

Pierce runs into his favorite Lady Tree and is hitting on the tree hard core (my mom wishes she were that tree), he puts his hand on the tree’s stomach and she zaps him and he pukes. That is an efficient deterrent for tree rape! He’ll think better next time.

Not to sound SAPPY, but you look GOOD, Lady Tree.

Suddenly, Pierce runs into Max, his motorized wheelchair and his assistant Rogette up on a rocky cliff. Max gives a long soliloquy about whores and rotting butterflies and Pierce sums up the audience’s thoughts by saying “what the hell are you talking about?”

Max wants to know if Pierce is sure he wants “to be the little girl’s hero.” And Pierce is like “Enough of ye!” and then Rogette punches him in the face and he falls off the cliff into the water and he shouts “ARE YOU CRAZY?!” and Rogette goes “AH-ha! HAHAHA!” and throws stones at him and continues to cackle like a Chico’s mannequin witch while Max yells out at him about responsibility.

Nothing to see here! Just taking a daily cliff walk wheelchair stroll.

So Pierce jogs back to his house in his soaking wet clothes (my mom wishes she were those clothes) and instead of calling the police and filing a report about being punched off a cliff he picks up a package at his door that is later revealed to be copies of his new book and then JASON PRIESTLEY: AGENT OF TEEN DREAMS leaves a voice-mail saying that the package has copies of Pierce’s new book. Phew, I’m glad I received verbal confirmation about the thing I just saw!

Instead of calling the phone company to report his lost phone or using his iPad to report his lost phone, Pierce pours himself a drink and decides to play a relaxing game of Words With The Dead. He gets a visit from the local deputy who passes on a message from Max that he wants Pierce to agree to “cease all legal maneuvers and let Mr. Devore rest in peace.” There’s no “catch” Pierce just needs to call Max and “agree to the terms.”

Pierce Mike Noonan has the same “whatthefuck?” look on his face as the audience, but he calls Max anyway—which is weird because why doesn’t he send a special convoy with a special message? Was his Gay Brother Sid busy?

But instead of simply calling and agreeing to Max’s nonsensical FORESHADOWING deal, Pierce Noonan says Rogette is an ugly bitch and promises to ring her scrawny turkey neck. You can’t just punch ex-James Bond off a cliff and expect to get away from it verbally unscathed, Rogette!

So after all that delightful banter, Noonan agrees to Max’s terms of 1) ceasing his legal maneuvers which was really only five minutes of his time applying basic logic to a custody battle taking place in what appeared to be in the “VHS Tapes” section of a public library and 2) let Mr. Devore rest in peace, implying perhaps a knowledge of Pierce Noonan’s ability to make out with dead people and maybe Mr. Devore is a bit frightened of this happening because he’s not scared of a man-on-man embrace, no, not that at all, in fact, he yearns for the touch of Pierce Noonan, for his strong manly arms and the chance to touch that furry, masculine chest as Pierce kisses him with a burly fiery passion of sensual Irish fierceness.

OR, Max simply wants a promise that Pierce won’t drink a pack of Nattie Lights and pee on his grave. Could just be that.

In the next scene Rogette gives Max a bath. I am hacking to cough up a hairball that doesn’t exist. She shoots him up with some drugs and puts a plastic bag over his head and kills him. Girl, if you were looking for a promotion, you are going at it the wrong way.

Romantic interlude.

Then! Pierce has a dream and is transported back to the County Fair of the Past and he runs away with KyRA from some menacing white dudes into a barn with hay bales and empty whistling jars. He tells KyRA to just squeeze his hand tighter if she gets scared and she replies that she isn’t holding his hand and he turns and AHHH, A LITTLE BLACK GIRL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Terrifying.

Sara appears and screams “CUSTODY HAS ITS RESPONSIBILITIES!” I don’t know if you should discuss responsibilities to a man who can’t even Interweb Detective a new phone.

Pierce wakes up because Mattie is calling! Max killed himself! Bouncy bouncy! They set a date for dinner and Pierce gets on his computer to find out it’s been THE SHINING-ED and it says “BAG OF BONES” everywhere!

WHAT DOES IT MEANNNNN?!?!

Whatever. Funeral! Pierce follows an old man wheelchair-ing away from the funeral to his conveniently located nursing home. The old man then reveals what really happened to Sara Tidwell. SURPRISE, SHE GOT GANG RAPED. So the menacing white guys at the county fair were all like, “aww, yeah! She’s hot and black, let’s all of us pull on our suspenders and run into her in the woods where she is smoking randomly and make racist comments and then gang rape her and OOPS THERE’S HER KID WITH A BASKET PICKING MOSS GOTTA DROWN HER.”

Before Max kills her, Sara curses the men, which means that all of their male descendants will drown their daughters. Here are some better curses:

1) Curse all the men who gang raped her to get gang raped and die.

2) Curse all the men who gang raped her to watch Bag of Bones 1 and 2 forever and ever. Until they die.

Pierce goes over to Mattie Bouncy Bouncy’s house and she licks her lips in the hallway and points to her apron that says “Kiss the Cook.” They suck face and her daughter appears: GIGGLE GIGGLE “READ ME MY BEDTIME STORY MR. MIKE I AM SO PRECOCIOUS, LOVE MEEEEE.”

Pierce reads KyRA a story and she reveals that she had a dream about Mr. Pierce, the SAME DREAM HE HAD. ZOMG. Instead of asking Pierce why he’s scared of black people, she refers to Sara as the “mad lady” and tells Pierce Sara’s daughter is her friend. The “mad lady” made her dad try to kill her. But whatever, finish story-time! She conks out by page two. No joke: all that giggling must have tuckered her out.

Mr. Pierce reveals the curse to Mattie Bouncy Bouncy. And Mattie in turn reveals that is why Jo never told Pierce she was pregnant because she feared he’d kill her daughter! Pierce is so relieved! “Thank you!” he says. Thank you? Thank you for telling me that I’m cursed and would have killed my child if it had the unlucky chance of being born a girl? (Also, please to note that in the novel, all the children are cursed to die, not just the girls. But who cares. This version will be a hit in China!)

They celebrate by making out and then Mattie gets SHOT IN THE FACE. SHOT. IN. THE. FACE. While making out. While swapping spit. You are wondering what sort of man would make out with some chick after talking about his glorious dead wife who passed away only a few months ago but then that chick gets SHOT IN THE FACE. WHILE MAKING OUT. Republicans, you have your new birth control.

I'm still very handsome.

Rather than yelling “are you kidding me?!” Mattie dies asks Pierce to take care of her baby and Pierce grabs a chicken tenderizer because that’s the best weapon you can find in a kitchen. Pierce hits the sniper in the head with the tenderizer a few times and finds KyRA awake and sobbing.

SOB SOB SOB. More evil bad guys to kill KyRA! It’s revealed that Max wanted custody of KyRA so he could kill KyRA but then when he realized that Pierce was around and his bloodline was also cursed, that he could kill himself because Pierce would end up killing KyRA anyways because she’s the last little girl of the bloodlines, even though she isn’t related to Pierce and Sara said the men would only kill their own daughters? Technicality I guess? That is some curse Sara.

CURSE NEGOTIATOR

But I guess the other dudes didn’t get Max’s memo that Pierce would be taking care of business because they shot KyRA’s mom and are now chasing Pierce down a rainy street. But luckily something even more logical happens when a sign is hit by lightening and falls onto the bad guys’ truck and kills them all!!

SOB SOB SOB. KyRA falls asleep again. She’s got the right idea. I want to fall asleep too. Pierce puts her to bed and walks downstairs where Sara’s ghost attacks him with a shitload of old records and the tub turns on, and Max’s ghost is taking a relaxing bath and referring to Pierce as Daddy and KyRA as whorelet. I’m only reporting the news, people.

Jo’s voice rises up, whispering “Lie Still Bag of Bones.” Pierce discovers that Jo is INSIDE HIS WRITING. And DOWN LFT SID means DOWN LEFT SIDE. “Owls Above Studio” is one paragraph and “Lie Still Bag of Bones” is “Lye will Still her Bag of Bones.” If Jo is in his computer, she has a virus.

Pierce runs to the sexy tree he’s been trying to sex and digs up Sara and her daughter and they are very well preserved, I must say. No bag of bones anywhere! Suddenly the tree starts to beat the shit out of Pierce with its branches and it’s hilarious. But then Jo appears and fights the evil demon Sara who was viciously raped and murdered and her child was killed before her very own eyes. Who cares, Sara! Lye all over their faces! GO TO REST, GHOSTS.

Jo tells Pierce she loves him and disappears. Pierce runs home and finds KyRA in the bathtub crying. Rogette is there and she is going to kill the little whorelet! Where is a tenderizer when you need it?! Pierce and Rogette fight over beard trimming scissors and KyRA cries and cries and cries but then Pierce stabs Rogette in the neck! Yay! Blood squirts all over! KyRA’s mother Mattie appears out of the water and says goodbye to her daughter. Get ready for therapy for the rest of your life, KyRA. I hope you get a good discount.

Wow, policemen are here! They haven’t been around for all the other unexplained murders, but it’s never too late. KyRA tells Pierce that her dead mom said that he’s going to be her dad now, and he’s ready to be a father! Finally, 150-something-year-old Pierce has grown up! Then they decide to go paddling on Dark Score Lake where little girls were drowned. (Also, don’t forget Kyra almost drowned. Twice.)

THE END.

Questions I have:

• Why?

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Eileen hopes you enjoyed her Bag of Bones review, you little whorelet.

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I’ve been slowly adding to Annie’s strange family dynamic ever since I blessed her with insanity way back when. Dinners like this can only happen in the winter, when Annie’s parents are around. She throws open all the windows, piles snow along the walls, and cooks a nice spaghetti dinner. Luckily, the cold also helps Robot Ben operate at maximum efficiency, and his conversations are a lot better than his usual repertoire of quotations from John C. Reilly movies and early episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

This comic was a nightmare. It has panels AND speech bubbles, both of which I tend to stay away from.

And that table really is pretty damn long. Adorable non sequitur. And I’m out!

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Andrew Kaye (known in some circles as AK) is the creator of Ben & Winslow and other questionable comics, many of which can be found in his deviantART gallery. He’s also the editor-in-chief of this magazine. Duh?

I haven’t felt this much raw excitement since last spring, when we got our weather radio. When the hubby brought that home, I said, “What! A radio that’s a hazard alert system AND the perfect bedside alarm clock? Bring that bad boy over here!” I was a little overwhelmed by the size of the frequency band. But then I programmed it for local area reception. And now whenever there’s a storm, I’m just like: “Oh, is there a super cell in our area? I didn’t even notice. That’s cuz I’m already down in the basement, getting my mind blown by our weather clock.”

You want to know what’s crazy? I didn’t even WANT a new mailbox at first. When my husband brought it up, I got defensive. I was like, “Oh—so you’re not into the mailbox anymore?” And he was like, “No, I’m just saying it could use some work.” And I was like, “How tight do you think it should look after all those years on the curb? Do you know how much action that thing has seen? And why do you even care—Is House and Garden coming by to lay it out in a big glossy spread?”

But that was before I rear ended it, trying to back out of the driveway while I was ordering pad thai for takeout. After that, the door was so loose it wouldn’t shut. The whole thing sat crooked on top of the rusted pole. For a while, I actually stopped checking it—even when I knew it was stuffed to obscenity with holiday catalogs! In all honesty, I was starting to feel like it was just a glorified letter hole.

Finally, I just said to myself: “Why shouldn’t a woman want to feel good about her box? That’s the first area people look at when they come to your house!” Well, some of you might think that sounds tacky. Or even superficial. But dig this, Judge Judies. If you took the time to examine your boxes more often, you might be surprised at how rundown they look. And when it’s gotten to the point where shit falls out of it several times a week—and gets lost in the snow until the next thaw—it is high time for an upgrade.

Obviously, there’s no suburban destination that is hotter than Home Depot. Especially if you need a big bucket of latex primer. Or a vinyl discharge hose. But a nice mailbox should be custom made. That’s why I’ve been snooping around to get some fresh ideas. Like, a woman in my office said she covered hers in rustic wood slats.  That box was hand crafted by the Amish! There’s a retired physician up the street who ordered one in the shape of a north woods vacation home. She was like, “Oh snap! Grab a fireside throw and some cinnamon scented pinecones and let’s cozy it up!” Around here, people love the outdoor scenes. I know of one box that’s decorated with a picture of a garden rabbit sitting next to a watering can. I said, “Is that bunny engraved, Mrs. Peterson? Oh no you didn’t!”

Then there are the really bold ones. We call those “statement pieces.” The other day, I saw one made entirely of stone. Seriously? I have never seen one that smooth. Call me old school. But what kind of person wants to come home from work every day and say hello to that hairless cat. Know what I mean? Contrast that to the model I saw at a silent auction. It was covered—literally, from top to bottom—with tufts of moss and grass. My first thought was, “Wow, THAT is a fuzzy piece.” The lady standing next to me bid on it, too. Not everyone could rock a mailbox with that much turf. But this is suburban Wisconsin.  Where people are just into that natural, organic vibe.

No matter what we end up with, I hope our postal carrier likes it. I thought our mail fell out because of the broken door. It’s also possible that the mailman threw it down there. I don’t think he’s a vindictive person. But I heard from the woman next door that he prefers his mailboxes to be BIG. According to her, he doesn’t like having to bend a package.  Or squeeze it into a standard-sized unit. And postal truck drivers don’t have time to walk stuff to your door anymore. They just want to drive up and stick it in.

So my neighbor went for an oversized one. She had to special order that hefty Rubbermaid too, because the local store didn’t carry a trunk with all that junk. I get that. We all want our mail carriers to be happy. Especially now that they might drop some service routes. As for the mailman, he can’t get enough. The day she put it out there, he wrote her a personal thank you note. Stuck it right in her new box. He told her it looked like a work of art.

I mean, talk about bringing sexy back! Am I right, ladies?

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Erin Clune is a writer from Madison, Wisconsin. She has written for a variety of publications, but writes most regularly for public radio. Locally, she writes a food segment for WPR’s Wisconsin Life. Her essays have aired nationally on To the Best of Our Knowledge and All Things Considered. She also posts humorous essays on her blog, “Life After NY: Musings from the Third Coast,” which can be found on the internet. There she pokes fun at a variety of cultural trends, as well as some of the challenges involved in relocating back to her Midwestern hometown as an adult. But mostly, she laughs at herself. Because there’s just so much material!

I’m still pissed off I didn’t get an iPad for Christmas. What are some things you wanted for Christmas that your parents didn’t get you because they were bastards?

There were three things I consistently asked for Christmas when I was growing up: a good book, a pony and a cape. I got plenty of books, I even got a cape, but my dream of a pony has always eluded me.

Recently, I was issued a challenge while out for beers. That is, my friends were drinking beer and I was feeling brave and had Wild Turkey. That evening did not end well for me, and subsequently, I forgot the details of the challenge that I had been issued. All I knew was that I was hung over and had something to prove. And the challenge had to do with ponies and literature. Game on.

So below are the opening sections of some of my favorite novels, which have been mildly edited to include ponies. Yes, this is sacrilege. The real question is, was the challenge met successfully? Was this even the original challenge? Did it even have anything to do with ponies?!

Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser

When the pony boarded the afternoon train for Chicago, her total outfit consisted of a small trunk, a bridle, a small lunch in a paper box and a yellow leather snap purse, containing her ticket, a scrap of paper with her sister’s address in Van Buren Street, and a small pistol.

The pony, who happened to be clairvoyant, sat down next to the perturbed eighteen year old Caroline Meeber and looked directly into her eyes and said, “In a few moments, a frisky salesman named Charlie Drouet will introduce himself to you and thus will begin a series of events that will involve you becoming a kept woman by two separate men, years of internal emotional debate until you finally break free of their control and become a successful Broadway actress. I say cut to the chase! Take this pistol and rob him and thrive!”

Caroline Meeber nodded and prepared herself as Charlie Drouet waltzed onto the train.

Poor Things by Alasdair Gray

Like most farm workers in those days, my mother distrusted ponies. When death drew near she told me her life-savings were in a tin trunk under the bed and muttered, “Take it and count it.”

But it turned out that the ponies had a hand in my predicaments. I went to medical school only to find that the system was corrupt: practicing on the poor in order to aid the rich. Then, I befriended Godwin Baxter, a good but ugly man. He introduced me to his Frankenstein-esque creation, Bella, a drowned woman resurrected with the brain of her unborn child. I was intrigued, on the verge of love, and then discovered she was into pony play. That’s when things got pretty spicy.

Veronica by Mary Gaitskill

When I was a young girl, my mother read me a story about a wicked little pony. She did not believe in the power of friendship or rainbows. And while she was selfish and horded all of her delicious apples for herself, she grew into a sturdy mare and was then sent off to the glue factory. It made me and my sisters sad, but we were bratty anyway.

Now I’m a 50 year old ex-model turned cleaning lady with Hepatitis C. And my flamboyant friend, Veronica, is dead. But I feel better for having learned the lessons that terrible little pony taught me.

The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton

Lawrence Selden paused in surprise. In the early rush of the Grand Central Station his eyes had been refreshed by the sight of Miss Lily Barton. She was sitting aloft a magnificent golden pony, holding her parasol in a threatening manner. She did not look amused.

As he approached, his mind poured into a river of really deep thoughts – like how he loved and she loved him, but that the pressures of high society demanded she marry above her own station and how this would ultimately cause her scandal, degrade her and end with her suicide. While he considered this, Lily’s pony galloped forward and she struck him on the head with her parasol and Selden fell down dead.

“Let us ride, Princess Butterscotch,” Lily said, stroking the pony’s mane. “We are off to avenge my reputation before it is even sullied!”

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. “Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in the world haven’t had the advantages you’ve had.”

Of course, I later realized that the Great Gatsby’s money had come from his network of pony servants who ran illegal bootlegs during Prohibition. The ponies had made him rich, and the ponies worked hard. And when the ponies worked hard, they got drunk. And when they got drunk, shit went down. It was only then I realized that social status was nothing but an equestrian metaphor!

Philosophy in the Boudoir by the Marquis de Sade

First Dialogue

Madame de Saint-Ange: Oh dear brother, let us discuss our scandalous bisexual affairs in such perverse manner that it will incite the French government to execute our author!

The Chevalier: Have you ever seen a horse’s cock?! It’s huge!!

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Got a question? Send it to jonathandefenestrates@gmail.com!