The office of Squirrel Recruitment had the faint, sweet smell of damp documents and quiet despair. A single, wilted fern drooped in a corner, a silent testament to forgotten ambitions. Behind a desk sat Kafkett, a man whose suit had the bewildered look of something that had been through a car wash.

Across from him sat Normalson, a man so thoroughly beige he risked blending into the walls. Normalson clutched his CV like a holy text.

Why was I responsible for the Bishop’s funeral? Sure, I’d been attached to the diocesan office for a couple of years, but only because Bishop Pfister had wanted to, in his words, “keep an eye on me.”

Shortly after my ordination, he said to me, “You’re a real degenerate, you know, of course.”

What could I say? I nodded.

That was Sunday, before the watchman and the dogs chased me out of the landfill. Now it seems as if I have misplaced the Ferrari. I remember leaving the car idling on the street while I stopped in at City Hall to see if the landfill had a lost and found. May have left keys in the car. Don’t see it anywhere. Che sara lieu sara, as Enzio Ferrari might say. At least I didn’t get a parking ticket.

Coming to a theatre near you—as soon as the anti-woke, “Christian,” misogynistic armchair critics finish tanking the ratings and forcing the cast members to quit showbiz!

Dear Kevin in 3C:

Congratulations on the five-day bender. Incredible. How did all those people fit in your apartment? My wife and I thought nothing would ever top your last Labor Day marathon. You’re an inspiration, Kevin. We used to get wild. The baby made us forget. But you’re our reminder, Kevin, that the party’s still out there.