In 1847, the unrepentant 29th American Congress voted to repeal a piece of legislation, enacted in 1812, that forbade “public procreation and all acts of a carnal nature” from “finding roost within the civic eye.” This repeal caused an outcry at the time, particularly in the then-fledgling Western states. One Oklahoma columnist expressed her outrage in a church circular: “Damnation shall rain like fire upon the heads of our deeply misguided congressmen.” This prophetic conjecture was wrong in its particulars, but correct in its general thrust. Four days after that circular went to press, Democratic Speaker of the House, John Wesley Davis of Indiana, was vaulted into a fiery fissure that split open the floor of the Capitol building.

Just in time for [insert holiday here], it’s the Lil’ Richy Einstein Play-a-Majig! This ultimate 70-in-1 learning toy makes being a kid so fun, you’ll never have to buy another toy again.

The assignment was a simple one: consolidate the email subscriber lists into a single spreadsheet. Or at least it seemed simple. Three tabs of blotter acid and a fifth of Jack later, and it became clear that the swarming birds would never allow it. They were all over the keyboard, shitting and clack-clack-clacking away on the IBM Selectric typewriter I’d brought from home. Liz said to use Excel, but a laptop is the establishment’s computer—the machine’s machine. You gotta feel the ink on your fingers, suck down the fumes if you wanna stay free and connected to your craft.

Ask anyone who’s in business. One of the keys to success is a good firm handshake. It’s the difference between a boy and a man. A boy is weak and limp. A man is strong and firm. Here’s the problem: A lot of people know this, and thus a lot of people have a firm handshake. How do you distinguish yourself? What’s the difference between guy with a firm handshake #1 and guy with a firm handshake #2? How do you go from being just another guy who knows how to shake someone’s hand to THE guy that knows how to shake someone’s hand?

Consider the asshole. Now I’m not talking about that pesky micromanager at work or your impossible-to-please mother, I’m talking about that indispensable void between your nether regions that so often goes underappreciated. Much like myself these days I’m afraid. But as a proctologist, rated number one in Palm Beach County according to a 1998 edition of the Jewish Senior Advocate, assholes, particularly the unhealthy ones, is what I butter my bread with. For I am in the business of maintaining the state of your rectum. No, not your anus, Princess, my fine-feathered Budgie. Believe me when I say it, what a joy it is to seldom see your asshole. Even if I pried apart your tidy green feathers, I doubt I’d come across it so easily. There’s only one woman for me these days, Princess and at least your squawking won’t bring on another migraine.