I came to understand this one evening, as I drove myself home, enduring the barrage of insults to my senses: Traffic backed up for miles, the insensitivity of my fellow human beings, and the bondage of a life colored pathetically within the lines in shades of gray.

The signal light of the car ahead of me blinked its intention to turn left. Another was going to go to the right. All neatly planned and orchestrated, almost to the point of acting out some bizarre ballet set to computer music; and I found myself transfixed momentarily, neither going right, going straight, or going left. In fact, I froze, like a deer in the headlights on the Highway of Life.

Do not characterize this event as me engulfed in some sort of textbook case of a midlife crisis. The only crisis I seem to be suffering from is the crisis of meaninglessness. My hunger will not be satisfied by throwing me a nymphomaniac, a high-priced sports car, a cushy Wall Street job and a house large enough to count my millions. If anything -- in that frozen stare of mine on that drive home -- my heart screamed out to be removed from complicated lifestyles and from the masses that groveled to attain them.

I placed my foot on the accelerator, and honed in on the beacon that came from the direction of my house. I looked into the faces of the people in their cars coming from the opposite direction. I saw nothing. They were expressionless, silent, individual zombies and human shells following the program. Was this the life that we were meant to live? And I found myself mentally vegetating into that same dream state again that told me to ignore it, pay it no attention, and maybe it will all be better tomorrow.

But the fact of the harsh matter was that I had had a "good day." I did the required number of laps around the Corporate Treadmill, drank the required amount of caffeine-tinged fluids to charge my power cells, and meeted’n’greeted everyone in the same pleasant robotic tones as everyone greeted me. And I knew, when this day was done, I would place another chalkmark on the wall of my earth-bound cell, wait for the warden to come by and say "Well done, Frank!" and sleep... to dream of "horrid" thoughts of freedom.

The next day, engaged in the Dance again, and a little more life would be drained from my veins. Like everyone else, I go "home" at the end of the day, believing that Life is the act of growing my two-point-five allotted children, kissing my wife mechanically on the face, shuffling mindlessly through the torrent of bodies at the Safeway to get my Soylent Green, and surviving... never to use even one tenth of my brainpower to take myself to other dimensions... or possibilities.

I’ve never smoked or ingested a drug of any kind in my life. But I could understand why some people do. Occasionally, like myself, going home that black and dismal night, one of us wakes up and senses that something is not quite right about all of this. Inside, my mind screams "I want to wake up! When will I wake up?!" and I hope I listen to it closely the next time I rouse from my stupor.

I know that there is something out there that I am supposed to do. this certainly is not it! If there IS a God, he did not mean for us to be this way! Not me, not you... any of us! I think that I will soon wake up and understand.... Does anybody out there hear me!?

"Okay, let’s see here... uh.... Whoa! Whu.. what happened to you!? Are you okay? Are you supposed to be taking this driving test?!"

"Yesssssss.... :::ick!:::shlrrrp!::::"

"Well... uh... oooookay! If you’re sure you’re up to it! Uh... that... uh... shawl isn’t blocking your vision, is it? And you’re not gonna have trouble reaching the pedals are you?!"

"No.... :::kcckkk!:::"

"Alright, then. Let’s see. You are... um... John E. M. Merrick. The ‘E M’ is for...?"

"Elephant... :::kaKK::: Mannnnnn.... :::kaaaawwk:::shlrrp:::"

"Okay... John. You know, this car is just barely street legal. You have some major damage to the outside.... But the lights are okay! Don’t start crying! And I’m not sure if that seat belt is... regulation...."

"I had it made... :::kaKK::: made specially for me! :::shlrrp::: You can also seeeeee... ::::mffft:::: that I made this dashboard statue of Saint Chrissssstopher... :::shnnnrkkK::: myself out of hardened mucus and dried skin grafts! :::schmooork::: Attractive, is it not? I like to... :::smorffff::: create things with my hands!"

"That’s fine, John, fine! Uh, well... let’s just put ‘er in gear and do a few maneuvers in the lot. Go over to those two orange flags and we’ll do the parallel parking test."

"Like... :::urg:::grrrnt::: this?!"

"Uh... okay. You... er... ran over both flags."

"Oh... my! I am soooo... :::schmeerf::: sorry! So verrrry verrry sorry, indeed! I didn’t mean to... :::coorf:::shlrrp!:::"

"That’s okay, John! Really! Look, don’t cry! Here! See?! I gave you a passing score! Everything’s fine! Let’s just... uh... skip the parking tests and go right for the road test."

"Okay.... :::shnoorf:::"

"Okay, pull out that exit and proceed down the street.... Uh... John? John? Um... I just thought I’d tell you...."

"Yesh? :::shlrrp:"

"Uh... this is a one way street. And you’re going down it the wrong way...."

"OH DEAR LORD! WHY THIS INCESSANT TORTURE AND JUDGEMENTAL ATTITUDE! WHEN WILL THE PUNISHMENT STOP!? I AM NOT AN ANIMAL! I AM A :::shlrrrrrrrrrrpP!::: HUMAN BEING!"

"It’s okay, John! Look! Here! Your score! Passing!!! IT’S OKAY!! REALLY!"

Terror is born of innocent events turning horribly and inexplicably awry.

This episode in my life started simply enough: An answer to a Personal Ad in an online forum. Up to that point in my life, I had lived a stout yet predictable existence, full of just about a little bit of everything. But my life lacked something... something that I thought would be fulfilled in the words of a stranger asking me to email back.

And so the ride began. A stranger engaged... engaging... and soon the exchanges grew from inconsequential queries to full-length novelettes, complete with graphic details and my name splayed in the credits, and all with my permission. A biography turned into a fantasy, and the fantasy into my would-be biography. What power did this stranger have over me? All I ever knew was the identifier GPUSMC. I called her G-Spot.

And, so, I let you into my life with these admissions of guilt just as easily as I let her --G -- into my life. I stand here ashamed, staring coldly at myself naked in the mirror and I don’t like what I see. I suspect... neither will you.

The accounting is simple; two wrongs certainly do not make a right. I was wrong for letting myself be teased by this stranger, and wrong for letting it get to the point where it finally became terror. We embraced in the words of our exchanges online: the chat which went from steamy to X-rated. The fantasies summoned and we spent evenings wallowing in the sweat and perversion of lurid thoughts, brought to us courtesy of our online provider. The fantasy became reality, with our first dalliance via the suggestion of possibly meeting. We each said "no," and "no" was lured into "yes" and the "yes" into plans for a rendezvous.

We planned and pondered when and where. What would you be wearing? How will I know you? My loins burn in the sweet desire of finally embracing the real you. Would it be a public place? No. We were beyond that. We wanted the fantasy to come alive and no better place for our dreams to dwell than in a hotel room. Seedy. Clandestine. Just the food from which our imaginations could feed. I made the reservations. I told G to knock three times in quick succession. I would be waiting behind the door and then the game would begin.

And in that setting the terror lurked. I found myself in that room, waiting but unsuspecting. The air was heavy with the scent of my cologne and I paced in my smoking jacket. Flowers for the lady awaited; some chilling champagne. And then... the triple knock!

My heart raced! My pulse pounded! There was no backing out! There was also no peep hole in the door! It would be surprise and then the Chasm itself! And then, my heart in my mouth, I unlocked the door and swung it wide...!

The face glared at me with its toothy grin! I screamed in total terror as I found myself held up in its meaty arms! And then it spoke!

"Sha-ZAM! Wellll, gawwwwwllllllleeeeeeeee!" And we were swept inside the room, the door slamming behind us! Harry Miller... meet Gomer Pyle, United States Marine Corps! My blood ran cold and icy just before I blacked out for the evening....

Ah, the joys of traveling on the road! I just returned from a week long vacation, driving through the Heartland of America. After this trip, though, I feel that they ought to call it -- and the rest of the country -- the Assland, because American food is just too fattening. Consider this list of items from today’s Roadside Menu....

Denny’s Spam Slam, Cram, and Clams - A horrendously tremendous concoction of canned meats, "Vienna" sausages, eggs, biscuit dough and seafood (for the calorie conscious), whipped together in a skillet and served on a poppy seed roll. Perfect with a cup o’ Joe (and an enema bag)! This is a great way to wake up!

Wendy’s Supersize Quad, and Quad with Bacon - Americans love bacon, but you may pass it up when you see the Quad: four slabs of ground pork, beef, and tofu (again for the calorie conscious) piled high on a poppy seed roll [again with the effing roll?]. If you’re a man, you’ll love the challenge of being able to get your mouth around it. If you’re a woman, you need to get a sex change before you can appreciate it. Either way, you’ll end up pointing to your gullet for a quick Heimlich after taking your first bite. Just say "Quad me!" This is the burger that made Ronald kill himself over.

Dairy Queen Bucket O’ Custard - A generous portion of frozen whipped ice cream spooge the way that only DQ can make it. Mixed with ten of your favorite candies that you choose, a coma in a cup for any diabetic! Turned over and dipped in a quick drying choco-plaster shell, you’ll need two spoons... and a knife and fork... to dig through it! For 39 cents more, you can get it with bacon too!

Hardee’s Biscuits and Gravy and Biscuits and More Gravy - Nobody can ever have too much gravy... or biscuits... or biscuits ‘n’ gravy! Served on a arm-sized poppy seed roll cut lengthwise, we jam in the biscuits and imitation sausage gravy and sew it up with a large needle and some cow intestine. Down it like a virgin at the Tailhook Convention and pray that your colon doesn’t spaz out! Mmm, mmm, grrrrrravy!

Shoney’s Raft O’ Riblets - What exactly are "riblets"? The answer to this is the same as to the question "What part of the chicken is the plank?" We may never know, but we know that it is good! "Reconstituted" pork rinds mixed with no more than .8% rat droppings, tumbled and heat-formed, then deep fried into the best little Perfect Rib Bits this side of Elvis’ coronary. Served with hash browns, onion rings, french fries and a poppy seed roll, you’ll swear you were in the Deep South. The kids can keep the cute little tray for a sandbox (or coffin) for when you get home.

Burger King Burger Thing - Is it meat, is it cake? Well, it’s both! A delightful twist on an old favorite, the Meatloaf Sandwich, this burger is nothing less than an entire 4-by-8-inch-pan meatloaf served in a whole wheat bun [I’ll bet you thought I was going to say poppy seed roll, huh?] for you calorie conscious. A pint of ketchup and cole slaw made from a single head of cabbage round out this zesty lunch, along with a complimentary tote bag in which to carry it out. This is so good you’ll want to throw it up, just so you can go back and ask for another!

Ajiim sank low to the ground, kneeling close to the dirt and lifting clouds of it up to his chest and arms, dousing his scent in the dust. To raise the slightest suspicion of his presence would give him away to the panther which had been stalking him since this morning. The drought came early to the steppe and life either adapted or perished. Humans, once at the top of the food chain, could find themselves hunted instead of hunter, under the proper conditions.

Trying not to be detected, Ajiim moved parallel to the dark beast, who still was not fully aware of the boy-man’s presence. Ajiim’s aim would be to kill this one, or be killed in the process. A fine skin, legal or no, would provide him the means to survive in the human world. One way or another, it would end in this god-forsaken place.

Jack stared blankly into the face of the senior director, waiting for the next wave of insults. So far, it had been a open season on Jack, and the meeting had been going on only for about an hour. His peers and other supervisors waited anxiously for movement from either corner. Jack assessed his chances: Would he be coming home early on Christmas week? Would he have to endure another week... or another month... of this tiresome ritual?

Jack looked briefly out the window, to the sun shining brightly through the grayish tint. It blinded him momentarily, but then his pupils sharpened and he imagined himself in the role of the hunter. Jack would not be going down without a fight.

The panther circled in wide arcs, now sensing Ajiim’s whereabouts. It’s ribs could be seen through skin stretched taut from hunger and thirst. The smaller animals had been eaten months ago, the slightly larger ones could put up enough of a fight to get away from a weakened predator. The old and frail were long dead. This was not personal, it was survival. Ajiim also knew the truth in that.

There was not much brush to hide behind anymore. Ajiim clutched a knife behind his back, waiting to strike. The panther looked as if it would leave, but this was a calculated move.

Jack’s gaze focused back to the meeting. The rank and file were returning from fetching coffee, more stimulation for Jack’s public flogging. What excuse would they use this time? Incompetence? Lack of preparedness? To which stake was Jack to be tied and set ablaze? Jack tapped his pen nervously on the corner of his notepad... then stopped. This would surely be a sign of his weakness and Jack wasn’t feeling particularly weak... this time.

The director took a slurp from his coffee, a strategic nod to his right hand man, and began to thumb through some documents on his desk. Evidence? Hardly. Probably had a comic book wedged between the pages. Cohorts grinned mischievously in Jack’s direction as if they saw the lynching coming and didn’t want to miss a minute of it. Jack swallowed and found cotton.

Ajiim crouched and became as small as he could make himself. The panther made concentric circles ever closer to Ajiim. He could smell human sweat, taste the warmth of blood that would gush out from the flesh. Ajiim could see black death, claws sharp as razors. The difference between these two was not necessarily the superior human intellect... but sheer panic-state resourcefulness.

Ajiim saw the creature approaching in a more aggressive stance. Quickly, Ajiim reached down to the base of a small wooden stalk and hacked away near the root, freeing the plant. It measured about four feet in his hands. He began to whittle feverishly at the stalk, sharpening the end of it. The panther came closer, moving quicker. The walk turned into a fast gait, the gait turning into a trot. A gallop ensued as Ajiim made the final cuts and suddenly... Ajiim fell flat on his back... holding the pointed edge of the stick skyward! As the mighty panther leapt to strike, it came down upon Ajiim’s makeshift spear which pierced the panther’s mighty heart, killing it instantly.

In the distance, drums could be heard, calling Ajiim and his prize home.

The director became red-faced, pointed an accusatory finger in Jack’s direction, and from his mouth sprung a plethora of illogic and rumor. Jack looked outside the window once more, listening to what he thought were distant jungle drums in his mind. The sun felt warm and he felt like being nobody’s trophy this afternoon. He thought a moment... about his wife, how he longed to be out in the fresh air... and studied the sharpness of his pencil as if it was the most handily crafted thing he’d ever saw.

"Mister Director," said Jack, interrupting a long gust of windy monologue. "It occurs to me that you are looking to crucify me. I’ll remind you that I’ve busted my hump to get us where we are today, no thanks to you or any of your toadies! You have a penchant for finding fault in everyone but yourself! May I respectfully recommend... SIR!... that you take the sharpened end of this pencil and stick it where the sun doesn't shine?! I am going home, to be with my family -- whom I haven’t seen in many, many nights. I’m going to enjoy my Christmas, a little time off, and maybe... just maybe... when we get back, we can get back to doing real work and stop these stupid effing witch hunts of yours! Good day to you... SIRS! It’s been anything but a pleasure!"

And with that, Jack walked back into the jungle, listening to the drums which kept playing triumphantly in his head.

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I dropped my carry-on bag and my laptop case on the floor beside a row of seats somewhere near Gate 17 of the northwest concourse in the Atlanta Airport. It was seven o’clock in the evening and it had been a rough flight from Newark. I was waiting for my connecting flight home, to Dallas.

As I parked my bags and my ass in the seat, a head appeared from behind me, over my shoulder. A weary face, lined with sleep and smelling like cigarettes and coffee, crackled near my face, asking "Do I look all right?"

"What?!"

The Medusa asked again, "Do I look all right?!" I turned my head slightly to view the face from a better angle, but I knew that would not be possible after a second or so of trying. "You look fine," I told the disheveled spirit, who quietly slunk down into his seat and began snoring. I lied.

I heard a voice chipping in over the PA, announcing that my flight would be delayed another two hours. I could not believe my dumb luck. The one time a year I travel on business and now this. I picked up my stuff and headed for the battery of pay phones to call my wife. The response I got was lukewarm, though maybe a little worried. I told her that I’d be there when I could be there. Nothing like the sense of certainty that flying induces.

Heading toward the coffee bar, I saw other people in the terminal, sitting on the floor near the walls, in various positions of relaxation, reading books, playing handheld electronic games, nursing a foam cup and staring out into space for a plane that would never arrive. I seemed to be missing some trick here, wondering how they could look so lost. Didn’t they have anywhere to go?

Two hours later and the tarmac is as empty as the moment I arrived. No plane, and arranged near my seat at Gate 17 was a neat teepee of foam cups, the remains of gallons of coffee now occupying my bladder. Again, I pick up my bags and trudge to the nearest facility to relieve myself. After taking care of the call, I go to the sink and try to drown myself in the little one-splash-at-a-time sinks, slopping water to my face and wiping back the grime that airports paint on your face. The tie came off, a few top collar buttons and I rolled up my sleeves.

Two more hours had passed and I had read People from cover to cover. Candy wrappers fell around my feet and I noticed that people began to seek solitary perches at which to sleep. Nobody really cared how messy I made my nest. The sound of snoring droned at this end of the concourse.

Two o’clock in the morning and home was a fond memory. As I noticed that they had closed the Gate for the evening, I decided that God would know I was stranded here and send a plane especially for me. I closed my eyes to the glare of the fluorescent lighting and tried to remember what my children looked like. I didn’t care as a thin stream of drool emptied from the corner of my mouth to the sleeve of my wrinkled shirt. Vacuum cleaners lulled me to sleep.

I raised up and turned my head around. A new body was seated in the row of chairs behind me, somebody fresh and obviously ready for an outbound flight. I shifted myself to my knees, grabbed the back of the chair and craned my head to speak into the stranger’s ear....

"Do I look all right?"

Welcome to Hell, Charles Sykes.

The choking sensation about Charles Sykes throat instantly disappeared and he tried to sit up to catch his breath. Upon rising, Sykes hit his head against a solid wall that seemed to float above him. Last remembering falling to his mattress and into a deep sleep, Sykes felt as if he had been transported to another place.

This place smelled... musty, but clinical. Forget that! What was he thinking?! Sykes tried again to sit up, but hit his head once more met with an immovable barrier. He knew his eyes were wide open and yet it was pitch dark. His bedroom usually had a pale blue glow from the street lamp at the least. It felt as if... as if... he was in a box.

The air around his head became warmer as Sykes breathed harder. Almost wincing, he fidgeted in his pockets, looking for something. A book of matches! There was not much room for him to maneuver; there was just about twelve inches of clearing above his head. Sykes struck at a match, a tiny blue spark rising... nothing. He struck again, his hands shaking. The match flooded the area with orange light and Sykes smelled something like cloth burning.

His domain was a purple satin-lined casket, the inside lid of which was now glowing with a tiny flame caught by the fire from Sykes’ match. He started to wince louder and then shriek in disbelief, patting out the burning material above his chest. He coughed, he cried, he shook uncontrollably and let out a cry for help. At the top of his lungs, Sykes screamed and the muffled throwback of his own gargled cries bounced off the fabric of the casket and onto his disbelieving ears.

Buried alive, it would seem, Mister Sykes.

Sykes kicked, his toes becoming wet... bloody against the hard wood. He banged with his fists against the walls at his sides. Nothing. The reverberation was a dead earth sound suggesting that this nightmare was buried well underground. Sykes kept screaming, coughing on the smoky air trapped with him. In this dark and lonely tomb, Sykes twisted and contorted, trying to put pressure against the wooden plane a foot from his face. More screams, more crying and then....

He sat up in bed. Sykes was soaking wet, his eyes wide open and staring into his reflection in the mirror on his dresser, his visage coated in a blue streetlight. He felt around him in the air, next to him, down his legs to his toes which he then counted one by one. The clock read midnight, but he could not understand midnight of which day. He screamed and sighed in one big heave of air, his senses slowly returning and turning to crying laughs. He was fully dressed, save for his stocking feet, and his pants were soaked with urine from the panic he had just suffered.

Sykes’ apartment was still, no sound coming from any corner. There were no street noises either. In an uneasy tilt, his arm felt the mattress under him, still soft, perhaps a bit damp from profuse sweating. The pillow was still there. Sykes was still there. No coffin. No choking. Nothing unusual. Above him a ceiling at least eight beautiful feet tall.

And then Sykes was struck against the side of his skull, a blow meant primarily to stun, not to kill. Sykes’ head fell to the pillow, and almost immediately he felt unfriendly gloved hands tightening around his neck! Unable to see his attacker in the dark, Sykes swatted at the air but making contact with no one. The hands gripped tighter and tighter around his throat, the air trapped in his lungs and the pain of death imminent in Sykes’ mind. He felt weak, unable to fight off the onslaught.

Welcome to hell, Charles Sykes. Your personal hell.

Quoted from the Official Rules for the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes:

"Why you were chosen to receive this Bulletin. Since we can’t mail to everybody, we set up certain qualifications as to what groups we will send Bulletins to and when. Within each category we then select specific people based on the interest they’ve shown in receiving our mail. Thousands are eliminated when we go through this process because they do not meet the standards."

This begs the question, then... What, exactly, are the qualifications ("the standards") one must meet in order to be selected? Here is the complete list....

1) Must be living or, if deceased, be willing to sign a waiver of receiving future notifications of the sweepstakes.

2) Must not be an employee, or related to an employee, of PCH, but may be laid-off temporarily in order to qualify.

3) Must have an address, even if that address is a cardboard box in an alley. If unable to supply the address of a cardboard box, the address of the nearest shelter will do.

4) May be in prison, but can not be on death row. However, the death row provision will be waived if you purchase at least one magazine subscription.

5) Can not be Dick or Ed.

6) Must be willing to dress up and look stunned on national TV when the Prize Patrol comes calling. Extra consideration will be given to those who look "middle-American-ish and ostensibly goofy."

7) Children are disqualified, but their charge-plate carrying parents are not. People who are not parents, or who are not related some deadbeat who would make a nice TV story when they find himself/herself a millionaire, are disqualified.

8) Non-US citizens are eligible to compete for prizes, but will have their ballots weighted with lead coins so as to fall to the bottom of the barrel. If they subscribe to half of the magazines offered, some weights will be removed, but not all.

9) Blantantly gay people can not participate. It just wouldn’t look good on TV.

10) Members of organized religion and the clergy are not eligible to participate, as their connection with deities recognized or unrecognized constitutes alteration of their odds, in their favor, of winning. Deities are also prohibited from entering, for obvious reasons. Members of religious cults are, however, encouraged to enter, provided they have a commanding TV presence.

11) Paramilitary organizations, militia, and freelance terrorists are eligible to the extent that they do not extort entry stubs from surrounding communities.

12) Ventriloquist dummies, pets, pet rocks, ghostly apparitions and other supernatural entities may enter, provided a magazine subscription is made.

13) Body parts, provided they are named and on file, may enter.

14) Official entry forms are not required, and entry can be made on any media, provided it can be shoved into a barrel and spun. This includes, but is not limited to: plain paper, postcards, envelopes, paper tape, stamps, leaves, wooden boards, toilet paper, human skin, floor tile, sheetrock, carpet, plate glass, cloth and fabric, napkins, feminine napkins, underwear, newspaper, egg rolls, ham slices, aluminum foil, cardboard, plastic sacks, pieces of an ear, and other recordable material. Facsimile entries (faxes) will not be accepted. For further information, please fax your request to PCH at the phone number on the back of this bulletin.

15) Detractors of PCH are disqualified [which makes this author ineligible to win, but feeling so much more like a winner for not falling for it again this year].

The Angel of Death swooped over the Earth with the speed of great purpose, ignoring the masses of people trapped on the refugee road between the war-torn nations. He flew past the jetliner carrying the hysteric passengers about to plunge into the sea from 35,000 feet. The sick at Mercy Hospital would live through one more evening while Death passed them by, headed for some delicious purpose in which only this Angel could revel.

Death meets with a bullet lodged in the firing chamber of young Chaco’s gun. Himself poised to be fired headlong into a chaotic future, Chaco does not feel the extra weight suddenly traveling in the weapon holstered in his waistband, but he knows that tonight things will change. For better or worse, things will change.

The Angel of Life catapults himself across space and time, his rendezvous with Death a split second in the eternity of mankind. All signs pointed to this moment, but only the gods of heaven and hell know the outcome. Life knows nothing beyond his appointment with the menace of Death this night, yet one will come home with his trophy. So it has been since the beginning of time. Death knows, too, that his tasks have been made easier in recent dimension; mankind seems to have taken his kind to heart. Life has led an uphill battle in the war between good and evil. The Angel of Life comes upon the darkened streetcorner, to rest in the heart of a small baby being held in her mother’s arms.

This mother waits in nervous anticipation of the next city bus, the half-lit and broken tone of a streetlamp above her only protection against that which lurks in the shadows. She draws her baby close, covering her daughter with a careworn shawl. Behind them she can hear muffled speaking, punctuated occasionally by voices of angry intent, all seemingly directed toward other shadowy figures standing across the street from the bus stop.

The Angel of Death fizzes and fidgets in the gun’s chamber. He can feel the sweat trickle down Chaco’s stomach, the mean anticipation of conflict the Angel’s aphrodisiac. The Angel urges Chaco’s ire, and other menacing dark angels crowd the streetcorners, as if to cheer on the apparent victor.

Shouts ring out from one street side to the other. Shouts turn to gestures, gestures turn to the sounds of breaking glass and pounding trash cans. The mother does not know to which side to react first, and her baby does not know to react at all. The Angel of Life clutches to the baby’s heart and is prepared to fight.

Motion is relative. On the Earth, it happens as it happens -- in this speed. To the Angel of Death and the Angel of Life, it is as if it were slow motion. Jittery and contracting against the explosive forces of a single bullet being discharged, Death rides the projectile as it leaves Chaco’s gun. There is only one bullet and it is aimed improperly. But this event will only need one bullet. Death wails its victory scream through the air and happily approaches the Angel of Life.

And in an instant unpredicted by both angels, a mother’s instinct is urged into play by allies unseen. She curls her shoulder around to face Death, not knowing or caring what happens to her. The Angel of Life feels her heart through the baby’s skin, but stays with the child. A mother’s soul makes a terrible noise as it shatters into fragments as Death rides through it. In the same instant, gunfire can be heard striking inanimate objects around them and the melee retreats in the sounds of fading footsteps and angry young boys. Death looks at his work and smiles, reveling in the retracting rhythm of a heart pierced by lead. In a second more, the mother is dead.

The Angel of Death disappears to rejoice with his Master in the triumph, exactly the plan the Dark One had envisioned.

On a solitary streetcorner, faces gather. A baby cries, protected still by the Angel of Life clinging to the child’s soul. Not fully understanding God’s eventual purpose, the Angel will not ask why its mother had to be taken.

Baskin-Robbins Flavors Still Waiting On The Shelf:

1)  Onion and Basil Mocha

2)  Cheetos Crunch

3)  Rum Omelette

4)  Fruitcake

5)  Crappucino

6)  Trout and Langostino Blend

7)  BlueBoysenRaspCran Berry

8)  Pork Rind Swirl

9)  Nutty Road Tar

10) Lime Snot Frozen Yogurt

11) Arsenic and Old Shoes

12) Glowing Chernobyl Cheesecake

13) Calamari Sprinkle

14) Mint ExLax Surprise

15) Imitation Blood Clot

16) SugarFree FatFree ColorFree TasteFree

17) Wood and Recycled Paper Fiber

18) Rodentia Ripple

19) Olestra Polyester Pants Sundae

20) Heavy Metal Shavings

21) CornNuts and Dried Eggplant

22) Aloe Vera

23) Chicken and Honey Dijon Ranch

24) Wine Cooler

25) Hair’n’Dandruff Mousse

In the northeast corner of the state of New Mexico sits a little town by the name of Clayton. Clayton, New Mexico; population... a few dozen. There is nothing exceptional about Clayton. It sits halfway down a stretch of highway that connects drivers from the Texas panhandle to the mountains of Colorado. If this is your first journey down that road, you will applaud at the sight of Clayton: the ride can seem long and boring and Clayton interrupts the monotony. Other than the emptiness of a rolling plain and the anticipation of getting to the higher country, Clayton represents an oasis in the desert of sameness.

Clayton has a Dairy Queen, a post office, a laundromat, a couple of gas stations and a couple of convenience stores. When you get out of your car... say... at the DQ, you may be slightly startled by the fact that you can get a nice breakfast there. That, or a dipped cone at nine o’clock in the morning. You step outside the DQ and into the parking lot, lean against you car, and slurp on your ice cream as you pan your view over the landscape. A cool -- maybe even cold -- breeze whips your hair to the other side of your head. You notice the crispness in the air and how fresh it smells. Occasionally, the tinge of diesel hits your nose and you see an eighteen-wheeler grumbling to 45mph as it tramples through Clayton. In the distance you hear a barking dog. Across the street, two cars are parked in opposite directions, the occupants chatting... and occasionally looking in your direction.

I bite down on the crunchy part of my cone and think how sweet this all tastes. Miles ahead there are bustling cities like Raton and Trinidad. People in Clayton have never seen a mall, and the nearest movie theatre is 70 miles in either direction. A friend of mine says that she lives in the Big City because she can’t stand to be more than 5 minutes away from anything. I asked her, "What is so important about being 5 minutes away from... uh... Blockbuster Video [let’s say]?" I get a look from her of incredulity as she backs away, as if I had gone mad. And in my mind, as I sit in a cold and sterile office and look for Purpose in this particular existence, I go to Clayton, New Mexico.

The winters can be hard. The snow marries the wind and rattles against the screen doors of houses. There is no industry in Clayton, only some ranching and a little farming. You can get lost in the darkness on a night with no moon, or sit behind an old rock wall waiting for a storm to pass over the plains. "How can people live here?!" I ask myself. And then I finish my cone, look around on this peaceful place, and think "How can they not?!"

In the rush and seemingly senseless hustle of a life gone awry, Clayton, New Mexico is a metaphor for order in its simplicity. I may never come to live there, but even now I live there in my imagination: Walking down a dirt road to my pickup truck, grabbing a twig and tapping out a rhythm on my thigh... no schedules, no meetings, no... Blockbuster Video. I do not know where I am headed, but all roads seem to point to Clayton, and in that spot I find my peace of mind. I am content and I want for nothing.

"I don’t know how much longer he’s going to stay up there, Chief! There’s nothing that’s gonna keep him from jumping if he wants to!"

"I know, I know, Johnson! Damn! Where is Walker?!"

"We sent for him twenty minutes ago, Chief! He should be here by now. Oh, wait! Look! There he is!"

A figure appeared on the ledge of the building, looking as though it was walking against the wind. The jumper, startled and then perplexed, was frozen on this odd display. The figure wore black tights and a back-and-white striped shirt and toe shoes; there was a badge on his little black vest.

"Chief Carlson, who is that man up there in the striped shirt and black pants?"

"Why, that’s Dave Walker, FBI Mime. He’s one of our best agents in cases like this!"

Carlson and the news reporter stared up to the 15th floor ledge surrounding the roof, trying to see what was going on. Walker was doing his trademark Stupid Tightrope Walker bit, feigning losing his balance from an invisible wire beneath his shaky feet. The jumper, obviously annoyed at what could only be construed as ridicule, began to shout obscenities at Walker. Walker, undaunted, took a portly stance and did the Fat Man Laughing routine, holding his pretend gut and doing his belly laughs while pointing at the jumper.

"My God, doesn’t he know that that may aggravate the jumper?!"

"No, Walker’s good! He knows what he’s doing! Watch this!"

The jumper was frantic, his actions agitated. He began to look around, searching for something he could throw at Walker to pitch him off balance. Walker started to do his Man on a Unicycle routine, wafting backwards and forwards as the jumper hurled roof pebbles at him. What the jumper failed to notice was that Walker was approaching him inch by inch and soon found himself practically within arms reach. "Step back, pig, or I jump!" could be heard from the ground below.

"Walker’s going to have to think fast on this one!"

Walker, sensing the nervousness of the jumper, went into his Fake Cigarette and Waiting for a Bus act. He looked in an opposite direction, totally ignoring the jumper, and proceeded as if to light a cigarette. Just then, the jumper -- thinking that a cigarette might be just what he needed -- moved toward Walker, who flashed his pretend cigarette case and offered one to the man. The jumper took it, stuck it in his mouth, and when he leaned forward to take the fake light to his fake smoke, Walker flung his arm into him and pushed him backwards onto the roof behind. The heads of policemen could be seen bobbing around the jumper, obviously dazed by his being taken in so cunningly by Walker.

"The man is pure poetry in motion!"

"You got that right! He’s one of our best!"

Up above the din of the streets, Walker continued his little dance of victory on the ledge, walking his fake dog and enjoying his afternoon in the sun.

Nine hundred miles over I-25 this leg alone and the sweetest thing I could have seen was a Superior Inn and the Denny’s next door. I felt like the steering wheel of this rig was spot welded to my hands and the steady growl of eighteen hours of diesel engine was about to lull me to sleep. I pulled over into the lot between the two buildings, hung it cold for the night, and stepped out in the Albuquerque snowfall.

That’s what I liked about this place: consistency. You can come into any one of these restaurants and order the same thing coast to coast, any time of the day or night. At two o’clock in the morning, I’m not interested in variety, just lots of coffee, a quiet bench, and spending the next moments out of traffic and out of that metal box.

I shook the flakes off my jacket and parked my ass on a stool beside the single-eater counter which was empty except for an old man at the opposite end. We acknowledged each other once; that was all for us. A waitress of the large and sexless Denny’s variety came up and my conversation started and ended with one word, "coffee." Okay... two words.... "Please."

A gallon or so of fluid later, my food was on its way, and I sat and meditated over it. The warmth was interrupted briefly by the front door swinging open. The huge bulk of a woman waddled inside the entryway and shook like a huskie just having run the Iditerod. Layered coats and coverings peeled off, but this did not diminish the size of the frame entering the establishment. I could see a shank of brown, shoulder-length hair flowing around countless chins and two eyes buried deep within sockets surrounded by fat. She looked around and nodded wordless greetings to those inside who obviously knew her. A quick glance in my direction and she apparently thought she had found a friend for the evening.

I buried my gaze into my plate and began to talk to my eggs. "Please, oh please God, do not let her sit by me!" But it was too late. She began to amble toward the seat beside me, and I felt the counter shake when she landed on the stool which was groaning metallic agony. She turned to face me briefly and asked if it was okay if we shared the same space for a while. Having no decent excuse, I obliged and nestled my food toward my side of the counter as if she could inhale it, plates and all, into her massive nostrils. I swear, I could’ve put my whole fist into one of them.

She didn’t say much after that, but it became apparent that she was known in these parts. Without discussion, food began arriving before her. Double orders of everything, including bacon, eggs, toast, biscuits, grits, chicken fried steaks, french fries... virtually everything on the menu, plus a few things I didn’t think they served. My meal seemed like a snack sitting beside plates of everything imaginable being served her. I sat in silent awe of the one-person feast, and clung to my stool with one hand as if I could get sucked into the abyss of her mouth at any moment.

Food flew unrelentingly into that hole, and the bad music being played overhead was drowned out by slurping noises and the sound of steady chewing. Occasionally, a belch could be heard which was promptly followed by a curt but ladylike "‘Skuse me..." to which I responded with uneasy grins, so as not to confront the beast. Long after I finished my meal -- even ordering a little dessert, so as not to appear that I was outclassed as an eater -- she continued to graze. All about us, life continued in its usual patterns, waitresses coming and going, and the old man at the end of the bar smoking and absorbing his newspaper, not once looking in our direction.

And the end of this repast, sweat raining on her brow and food bits laying on the counter, big enough to feed starving children, the hulk settled back, apparently satiated by a mug of hot cocoa and some apple pie.

"God, I am stuffed," she said to my amazement. I thought that moment might have happened an hour ago when she finished her last chicken leg. "There’s nothing like a hot, home cooked meal! These places are great! Well, gotta be moving on..." the behemoth announced.

I looked on, speechless, as the shape clothed itself. After witnessing this feeding frenzy, I couldn’t help myself. I said, "Wait.... Wait just a minute! I gotta know one thing. Who ARE you?!"

My question was met by a kindly pat on the cheek and a smile. A business card flew out from the woman’s pocket and, before I could respond, she was gone into the black and brutal night. I looked at the card. It read, simply, "Jenny Craig. President."

My feet made a squishing noise as I trod on leaves washed with jet fuel and firefighting foam. Bright lights added an eerie luminescence to objects hanging from trees and bushes and long shadows trailed behind shards of metal partially embedded in the soil. It felt as though at any moment the earth would rise up from being knocked unconscious and a great roar of collective pain emanate from its depths. This had, of course, been a large injury done it, and everywhere my eyes could focus life gasped for air in a choking effulgence of still-burning wreckage, bodies, and bits.

Bits of everything: Half a tray table, and a seat cushion shredded like confetti. I stepped gently, then jerked back and held my mouth and closed my eyes. Nothing and no one could have prepared me for this. As I regained what little composure I had, I skirted around the arm of... somebody... keeping it in full view as I backed away in my original direction. Under my foot was the hardness of something: the knob of some sort of handle as I raised my shoe carefully. The light hitting my heel revealed the color of once brown leather now married with the redness of blood, and I heaved uncontrollably into a pool of some other mire beside me.

I could not go on, but I knew that I must. Behind me I could make out the shadowy faces of other workers, equally dazed and wandering through the visage of twentieth century death. They did not care about me or what I had just done. It was all they could do to keep their composure as well. Like robots we marched, tracking signs of life and finding none, revulsion occasionally and briefly overcoming our vacant stares.

I thought I saw a face. I did catch what I thought was someone halfway buried in the swampy muck. And I raced to him, overjoyed at finding someone to cling to, wanting him to help me as much as I wanted to help him. I pushed away some nearby debris and wiped the mud from around his face. There was no breathing and no pulse. I spied his shoulders, still wearing his suit, and pulled backwards trying to unearth him. As I pulled, I quickly fell to the ground, there coming a premature end to the resistance. The man was dead, cut in two at mid-torso, the lower half of him not to be seen anywhere. I felt ice white and screamed in horror for what seemed minutes. Around me, faces turned toward me, acknowledged my presence, and then automatically turned away to keep searching. I felt small and stupid, cowardly and childlike.

The hulk of an engine pod rose in the blackness. I was momentarily lost in its shadow. Above me, stars shone and silhouetted the shape before me. I felt a warmth as I sensed the mechanical life bleeding from this object too. It sputtered in places where the metal was still a reddish glow. I walked quickly in another direction, fearing that the beast would come alive. A foot appeared in the light on the other side of the engine, buried beneath its steel carcass.

Calling out for signs of life, I craned my neck to listen for anything above the grumble of diesel engines in the distance. I shielded my eyes from the flash of emergency vehicle lights. I was not sure what it was I searched for, but my gaze drew to a brightly colored bag hanging from an arm of metal about 3 feet from the ground. It seemed almost out of place: something intact in an area totally in pieces. I clambered over some fuselage ribbing and paused when I felt a sharp pain dig into my foot, stopping to find a fork in my sole and carefully pulling it out and throwing it away. This event only hastened me toward my goal, because I had to see what was in that bag. I still could not hear anything; there was too much noise from trucks and choppers.

In the distance, men cried out that they had someone! Lights panned around to the site and I felt drawn to it as well, but I could not stop to leave the bag. A few more feet, and I was on a mound of springy leaves and bramble, looking at the bag and wondering what force of God or nature seemed to have placed it here so delicately. I crawled, carefully, and finally placed my hands on the bag. A Velcro binding tore away under my shaking hands and I yelled with the full force of my lungs as if to wake the sleeping world below.

"I’ve got someone!"

And I cried and laughed and screamed to see the baby that had been placed here, safe, for only me to find.

More Grocery Items That Never Made It:

1)  Tofu Helper

2)  Mrs. FattyGlobsOfButterWorth Pancake Syrup and Spackle

3)  Doctor Kevorkian’s Restful Sleep Herbal Tea

4)  Green Giant One Giant Pea In A Boilin' Bag

5)  ZipLock Padlock Crack Bag

6)  2000 Flushes Chewable Stool-Cleansing Tablets

7)  Gerber Baby Salsa

8)  I Can’t Believe It’s Not Pig’s Feet

9)  Del Monte Molinari Calamari in D’Amato Sauce

10) Morningstar Farms Textured Imitation Bologna Slices

11) StickUps Underarm Deodorant Pucks

12) Big Bens (10 times larger than Ding Dongs)

13) Coca Cola, Thick Formula and Thick Formula Classic

14) Cheez Wuz Brie Flavor

15) Colon Pow Laxative (endorsed by you-know-who)

16) Chef BoyArDee Cheesecakerinos Cheesecake In A Can

17) Ham Spooge (spongey cousin to Spam)

18) HerpeTetenoidSyfylcon Serious Sexual Disease Self-Diagnosis Home Test Kit

19) Microsoft Cookies

20) Louisiana Bayou Blackened Pizza

21) Taster’s Choice School Glue

22) Really, Get Off! Acid-based Insect Repellent

23) Hickory Smoke Flavor Bubble Gum

24) TidyBrat Litter-Filled Disposable Diapers

25) Pita Snack Wallet Edible Purse

About ten miles east of the city of Lancaster in the state of Pennsylvania is the small community of Intercourse. Yes, that’s right... I said, Intercourse, Pennsylvania. Go ahead, look it up on a map. It’s there.

I wanted to take this opportunity to state some truths about Intercourse and also to dispel some of the rumors about it and its citizens.

My name is Effing, Richard Effing. I have been a citizen of Intercourse all of my life. The Effing Family has been a fixture in Intercourse for generations, beginning with Efrem Effing in Colonial Times. Effing generation after Effing generation has lived in this picturesque valley where Intercourse was founded. Our heritage is noted in such establishments as the Effing Library, the Effing Memorial Hospital, not to mention the Effing School for the Arts.

The township of Intercourse is comprised mostly of Effing descendants. Effing children and young adults crowd the streets of Intercourse, proudly displaying their Effing names. Their Effing parents beam with joy at the prosperity they have brought to Intercourse, and have secured its future with investment back into the community. The Effing Bank and Trust, chief financial institution in Intercourse, has been a major backer of projects to bring Intercourse’s name to the forefront of leading communities in Pennsylvania. The Effing Power and Light Company serves surrounding towns in a 500 mile radius. The Effing Telephone and Telegraph Company was one of the first communications suppliers in the state. Decade after decade, the citizens of Intercourse are reminded of the contributions that countless Effing people have made to this part of the state.

If you’re traveling through Pennsylvania, why don’t you stop in and spend some time in Intercourse? You can’t miss our charming billboard that welcomes you to our community. Bill and Fran Effing are pictured there, having Intercourse as the backdrop for a colorful montage of quaint storefront names. There’s the Intercourse Inn, with reasonable daily and hourly rates. There’s also the Intercourse Diner, featuring Ma Effing’s Pigs in a Blanket, a local favorite with afficionados of Intercourse. The Intercourse Car Wash will take the road grime off your car with its special hands-free rub’n’scrub. And while you’re waiting, why don’t you come on in and sample some of the delicacies of the Intercourse Bakery? Wyleen Effing’s cream filled pastries are the best for miles around. Everyone says that for a good roll, there’s nothing quite like Intercourse!

I’m glad you’ve given me this opportunity to speak about Intercourse. Oh, and those rumors I mentioned earlier? Well, let’s just say that Intercourse has had its share of Effing detractors. I believe, though, that once you’ve done Intercourse, every other place will just leave you wanting to come back for more. That’s all I’ll say. And when you come through, just stop at any place and tell them that Effing, Dick, sent you... and they’ll treat you real nice!

[A special Effing thanks to Lapis Lzi for providing this Intercourse inspiration. -Jed]

At the Pope Store, we pride ourselves on a selection of fine personal products, flawless craftsmanship, and a dedication to the belief that you are special. The Pope Store features a line of one-of-kind items, the kind of gifts that say that you are unique, ecclesiastic in your lifestyle and pontificating in your affairs. Not unlike Our Holy Father -- the inspiration for our store -- you seek simplicity and utility in your world. Here is a sampling of some of the things you’ll find at the Pope Store in Vatican City. And be sure to check out our Pope Stores in Paris, New York and Los Angeles, which carry the same exquisite lines of personal products.

The Pope on a Rope Body Bath bar. Made of the same cultured goat’s milk formula used by His Holiness in his daily cleansing ritual, this soap gently removes the dust of the centuries while caressing your skin and protecting it from the chafing caused by starchy clerical clothing. In 4, 8 and 16 ounce, starting at $25.00 per bar.

Papal Jammies. Too pooped to pope? Slip into sensual softness in these lamb’s wool pajamas, with the Vatican crest embroidered over the pocket, for a heavenly night’s sleep. Comes in white and off white. Our special edition pajamas also feature attached ‘feeties’ to help take the chill off those cold marble hallways that seem to stretch forever. Beginning in petite sizes at $109.95.

Excommunicated. Sultry, suggestive, maybe even slightly devilish, this collection of colognes and after shaves is a must. Try this after a soothing shave with our Excommunicated brand shave gel and our gold-and-jewel encrusted handle razor (sold separately). There’s just a hint of musk and ginger in the scent and what other ingredients are in there is strictly secret between you and your clergyman. Starting at $75 for the body spritzer and after bath splash and the 8 ounce sampler of Excommunicated.

With every order of $250 or more, get a free Papal Rain Hat. On clear days, the sides fold up for easy viewing in all 360 degrees. In those wet Mediterranean seasons, they fold outwards to protect you from the elements, with a flick of the switch at each gold-plated knob located at your temples. A $200 value, this is our free gift to you for being a discriminating shopper at the Pope Store. As a guest of our store -- and just for visiting -- stop by the Confessional Cafe for your complementary Pope Tote Bag.

All prices and descriptions here may vary from store to store. The Pope Store is a subsidiary of Vatican Enterprises, 84 Cambio a Caprio, Vatican City, Rome, Italy, and is listed with the NYSE.

I suddenly found myself awake, though I know my eyes had been open for some time. It was if I had just become aware of who I was, my first day on earth. My gaze was downward, toward my feet, and what I saw was… hooves.

I was a cow.

A sputtering came up from one of my stomachs, and I felt as though I was going to be sick. I blinked a couple of times, only to focus on my hooves and the grass on which I stood. My vision felt somewhat askew: I found that I had a wider range of vision, but what I was seeing made little sense.

Thinking to pinch myself, I made an awkward pawing at the ground with one hoof, completely dumbstruck by the discovery of missing thumbs. And, when I lifted one hoof, the bulk of me shifted to one side; so much so, that I nearly danced obliquely into another cow.

My faux pas almost cost me a goring. But panic was beginning to overtake me. It was as if some horrible mistake had been made, that perhaps God was given a script and somehow fouled his lines when it came to my part.

I ambled toward the fence to collect my wits, pretending to chew on this vile weed long enough to keep from drawing undue attention from the other cows. I could hear them "talking" in some strange cow-speak that, oddly, made sense to me. But I also knew that were I to start speaking the King's English, the cat (or cow) would be out of the bag and I would be found out for sure.

As I made my way through clusters of two and three cows, the stench of manure and the rapid-fire insults of random cow farts punctuated the air about me. What a horrible smell! Little did I realize that I left a pile or two of my own waste behind as I meandered toward the fence.

I peered through slats in the fence, trying to make sense of this place. Without appearing "odd," I also took time to check myself out along the contours from shank to tail. I had a coat, a rather attractive one of white mixed with some brown spots. My breath was bad and my tongue felt large and swollen. Another round of farts oozed out from behind my bulk. I had to get out of this… somehow!

Men dressed in work clothes, covered with dirt, and carrying ropes came from a shed nearby, heading to a nearby field. My instinct was to immediately summon their help. I knew that all I had to do was to cry out and they would come to my rescue. Once they saw me, I knew I could explain who I really was.

I mustered my breath to shoot through my vocal cords. A loud "Help!" would suffice. I couldn't think of anything else to say. I inhaled, filled my lungs, and cried out for assistance: "Mmmmmmooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!"

Oh no! What was that!? Did that come out of me!?

I looked around, thinking how I could make a break for it. Obviously my plan was not working. I was worse off than I thought!

The men stopped and faced my direction, then proceeded to walk toward me. I started to move away from the fence and head for the herd, but it was no use. As I mingled with the herd, I felt the rope sling around my neck and choke me. I was being strangled! I fought against the tension in the rope until….

I sat up in bed! I brought my hands to my throat and yanked my tee shirt collar away from my skin. I sat there in a cold sweat, shaking. I looked at my hands, which were hands! I felt my legs -- real legs -- under the sheet! I was here, everything was right, and I was… me!

I wiped the sweat from my brow and leaned to face my wife to tell her about this weird dream.

And when I moved to face her I saw, lying on her side of the bed, the bulk of a large cow, resting comfortably….

Fast Food / Convenience Food Items That Never Caught On:

1)  Campbell’s Frozen Soup-On-A-Stick

2)  Oscar Meyer Toaster Ribs

3)  TCBY Warm Yogurt Pie

4)  Microwave Escargot

5)  Yoohoo Malted Meat Shake

6)  Can of Water For One

7)  Twinkies with the filling on the outside

8)  Lite Oreos (contains no filling)

9)  Genetically Enhanced Skippy (essentially one giant nut in a jar)

10) Pig’s Ear Breakfast Jerky

11) Wipe Eats (moist towelettes that you wipe your hands with, then eat)

12) Fish Flavored Bubble Gum

13) Rath’s Fingers in a Blanket (look just like what you think they do)

14) Hash Browns (made from hashish)

15) Spinach Rice Cakes

16) Cheeze Whizz (turns ordinary urine into a midday snack!)

17) Tic Tac Tofu Pellets

18) Kentucky Fried Rat

19) Famous Anus Double-Dark Fudge Caramel Loaf with Chocolate Sprinkles

20) Floppin’ Fresh Brownies (that stay gooey no matter how long you bake them)

21) Knorr Mustard Relish soup

22) Cap’n Crunch GreyMateys (grey colored cereal; not bad, but what’s the point?)

23) Towering Cheeserino (12 layered pizza)

24) Lock’n’Loaf break apart bread bullet snack belts

25) Corn Plug (nutritious suppositories for those people on the go)

Rose went out in the back yard of her home on New Year’s Eve and took a long, slow drag on a freshly lit cigarette. She was going to enjoy this one; it would be her last she promised herself. It was a few minutes before midnight and her household was well underway in "the usual" holiday celebrations.

She looked inside the patio glass door at the congregation of neanderthals enjoying what little they could hold onto of the old year. Her husband was engaged in heated debate with a colleague over which football team was more worthy of a Super Bowl win. She could read the words as they floated from his beer-soaked breath into the stench of cigars and bad pizza in the room. A belching choir offered up a musical montage to frame the scene.

Out here she had a chance to be herself for a moment. Rose headed for a far corner of the lot and propped herself up against the fence, looking skyward. It was a clear and starry night, with enough wishes to be made to last well into morning asking each heavenly sphere for help. After uttering a few cliché lines of that worn out poem, Rose stopped... considering for a moment the force that put them there. That perhaps she had been wasting a lot of her time dialing the wrong number and should have been talking to that higher power was something that gave her enough pause to ignore the cigarette beginning to burn her fingers.

Rose was momentarily caught off guard by the pain, perhaps something of an omen she thought. Inside the house, the raucous laughter and screaming sounded like the cacophony playing in her head tonight. Along with the cigarettes and go-nowhere job, she was beginning to assess the direction her life would take once the sun came up on a new day and a new year.

So what was the big deal between December 31st and January 1? Just another day, she first thought. A huge roar bellowed forth from her patio and shook Rose to her original thoughts. Even with her kids there, a few family members and friends to fill in the gaps, this perfunctory annual ritual revealed the pathetic fabric of which she felt her life now was woven. And everywhere she turned, she was given the appropriate response: that life with friends and family, in times like this, was the most important thing.

Baloney!

If her friends were really important, Rose felt that they should have warned her that her life would have turned out to be this blasé symphony of useless tasks, errand running, and playing baby oven to crank out more pathetic lives patterned after that same tired model. Where was the challenge? Where was the promise of a better life? How could she change the river’s course?

It was not that her husband let her down, not that her children were a disappointment. If anybody was a disappointment, it was Rose herself, looking back on a life where she tried to get the coach to lower the high jump bar so that she could make it over the mark. She cheated herself. And now, with a couple yellow-stained fingers, she wiped a tear from around each eye and looked skyward as if the answer would come as a bright comet from God through the evening skies.

What was there to complain about?

"Ten... nine... eight... seven...."

Would there be any point to dredging this up again, get the husband all pissed off and alienated, making him feel like the bad guy once more? Is this something that would simply go away after the beer buzz subsided?

Rose looked down at herself, at what the years seemed to have done to her physical self. The pooch in front, the sagging breasts, the stains on her fingernails, some nasty little veins making signatures across her calves. She caught her reflection in the side mirror of the Pontiac and smiled unconvincingly. There was not much here for anyone to fall in love with.

"Six... five... four...."

She smeared her runny mascara from her eyes, sending her eyes skyward again. And in the "three... two... one... Happy New Year!" roar that filled the house and reverberated through her empty chest, Rose blew herself a kiss in the mirror, saying "Yeah... Happy Happy... you dope!" She shuffled back into the house, lighting a fresh cigarette on the way in, then to be devoured in the slobbering kisses of her now drunken family.

"Honk me a good one, ya silly clown!" Ingrid the Bearded Lady said seductively, as she slid around the tent door flap. Her scent was unmistakable: corn dogs and cotton candy. She knew just the sort of thing that could drive a young clown to swallow his own bow tie.

"Uh... uh... Now wait just a... a second there, In... In... Ingrid! I gotta go on in just a few minutes! I haven’t got time for any yanky spanky!"

"Whatsa matter, Jingles? Something got you hot’n’bothered?" She began to play with my sensibilities by twirling a lock of hair from her beard and then sticking it into her mouth and sucking on it. It was obvious she was not going to take "Yuk Yuk Yuk!" for an answer.

She slinked over to one side of my dressing mirror, easing the arch of her back into the curve of the broken merry-go-round horse I kept nearby as a prop. Her breasts rose and fell beneath the breathy tones she uttered alternating with her sucking on her trademark stogie and puffing away. She blew a big waft of cigar smoke in my face. It was always the prelude to a superlative honking and I suspected that I was soon to be done for. I could practically hear the Ringmaster bellowing out "Jingles! Where the hell is Jingles?!" knowing full well where I’d be in about 30 seconds. It’d be under the Big Top alright, but not the one where the crowds were seated.

"I think you have something I’m looking for, circus boy!" and she reached under my oversize pants and pulled out my collapsable flower bouquet by mistake. "Damn it, clown! Give it to me!" and she reached in again, hitting her mark. By this time I was silly putty in her hands and I gave no struggle. Ingrid pulled me into the little clown car and slammed the door behind us.

In a frenzy of beard and puffy gown, cigar smoke and greasepaint, Ingrid proceeded to get that little car a-rockin. I didn’t even have a second to take off my large starched collar, she began riding me like a circus elephant. I held on for dear life, orange hair waving to and fro in the air. And as her excitement heightened, she moaned in successively deeper octaves until she sounded like Darth Vader gasping out commands.

"Do it now, Jingles! Take this roller coaster down!" With that, my fake nose popped off my face in a big "ka-SHOOO!" and we both hit the trapeze, and we crashed back on to the cushions in the back seat and I accidentally fell on my large rubber horn.

"ker-HONK!" went the air through the horn’s bladder, and the inside of the car looked like a Slurpee machine had gone crazy.

"Oh... my... God.... Oh... my... sweet lord! You, clown man, are the best!" cooed Ingrid, pulling the hair back from all corners of her face. She blinked to regain her focus and I felt like I had been hit in the face with a pie, all moist and disoriented, staggering for the door like Jerry Lewis on a ship in hard seas.

"Where... where’s my darn nose, Ingrid?" I hollered. She began that hustle-me-out-of-here act and from the distance I heard a familiar yell "Jingllllllles! Where is that damn clown?!" This life is one big three-ring circus.... I gotta get a new act....

-Jed