We have heard that you are looking for a job, which doesn’t surprise us since you haven’t been setting the world on fire lately. If you follow the simple guidance entailed in this form then you too can join an exciting community of obedient uniform wearers. If you don’t want to join our team you are wasting only your own time because we have automated the process to better screen the hoards of applicants the failing economy sends our way. Dutiful robots and almost equally cheap citizens of Bangalore winnow this pool to ensure that only the best and brightest will stock the shelves of your community and return carts to corrals.

Sir, do you like $300 million? That’s what the last teenybopper vampire flick grossed stateside, so you’ve got to ask yourself: What else could rally another million moody girl march on the multiplexes? I’ve got your answer: poetry. That’s right, poetry. Can’t you just hear the susurrus of credit card swipers across the country swelling into a mighty crescendo?

Dear LPN editor:

In order to raise extra money for some of the things that keep our dear Lake Pemaquoddy dear, such as the anti-millfoil and loon-counting projects, in addition to the long-established Ice-Out raffle, I hereby propose an extension.

Association members would be invited to estimate (guess) the dates of completion of other local processes about which dates can be estimated (or guessed): e.g., when X will finish shingling the front of his house; when Y, now that he’s insulated his upstairs hall and second bedroom, will sheet-rock them; and when Z will finally clear all the c**p out of his front yard.

Event Chronology:

Incident #1. Goraga surfaces in harbor, marches into the port, rips out a pier and heaves it downtown. Roaring, blowing fire, he then razes the city.

Incident #2. Goraga surfaces in harbor, endures artillery shelling for several minutes by nearby battleships, then sinks from view bellowing in rage.

To whom it may concern,

I have always marveled at the wondrous mystery of outer space. I stand agape, gazing heavenward at the stars, those flaming spheres of plasma whose energy radiates throughout the universe as the result of the complex process of hydrogenate thermonuclear fusion. I am enthralled by the precise intricacy of our solar system and the elaborate interconnection between gravity and mass, solar wind and interplanetary dust. The expansive and limitless universe boggles my mind, and I am continually dumbfounded by what a small role the human species plays in the grand scheme of life.

This is why the Miss Universe Pageant is so blatantly unfair. How can you call it “Miss Universe” when the only planet represented in the competition is Earth?