Allow the divine light of Caligula to brighten the shadowy cesspools of your mind:
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New York’s Sewers = De Facto Alligator Habitat
Ambrose, my juvenile Alligator mississippiensis, slid graciously down the toilet last week; I have not heard from him since. Obviously he has assumed a role in an alligator colony or established one. Either way.
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Spontaneous Generation
According to my mother—and mothers cannot lie, as mom says—she has scrupulously avoided consummating her union with my father in preparation for its “inevitable dissolution.” When she and dad were ready to have a child, she explains, they showered (separately) in our luxurious bath house, dried off, and wedged their damp towels under a pile of hot stones for a period of incubation. Thus from abiotic elements did I spring, pre-swaddled, and hence my rather incongruous looks, moldy scent, etc. Haven’t you wondered at the meaning of “baby shower”? You didn’t really think there was a cloud that rained babies, and that women nurtured whatever they caught?
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Correlation Implies Causation
Nearly all published correlative data sets cause me to yawn.
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Prometheus & Pandora
Inconsistencies notwithstanding, I believe Robo Jones, our neighborhood’s resident hard-luck panhandler, when he ravingly declares himself protagonist of this Grecian narrative. Frankly, the story adds up; his survival despite unlivable conditions bespeaks his immortality, and the liver problems are a dead giveaway, not to mention less-than-oblique references to a “bitch” who “unleashed all worldly evil.” While investigating the probable titan’s claim of gifting mankind with fire, I encountered a police officer who confirmed Robo had “done a little time for that stunt.” Of course—bound to a rock by petty Zeus, all for some spoiled eagle’s convenience!
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You Can Marry Mr. Darcy From Pride And Prejudice, He Is Somehow Real
This past November I had no choice but to roost in a cheap Las Vegas motel (forgetting yet again to book a room months in advance for ConCon (our national conspiracy theorist convention)) and, upon realizing the suite next door was the site of raucous celebration, drilled a discreet glory hole near the ceiling to facilitate more thorough surveillance. It was a bachelorette party, I discovered, complete with literate, highbrow entertainment: amongst the ladies strutted a striking if dandyish gentleman decked in early 19th century British garb. When shamelessly pressured into removing his costume, the cad rebuffed his audience with perfectly caustic parlor wit. He had these drunk women swooning over put-downs! It could be none other than distinguished society’s original bad boy, inexplicably made impeccable flesh. I made note of his flawless left hand:sans gold ring.
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Geocentrism/The Ptolemaic Solar System
Apparently some people can’t be bothered to watch a sunset. I pity those who’ve abstained from such damning beauty by choice, and to the blind, I say, trust me—the uncanny fact of the matter is staring you right in your unsettling faces.
The sun completes yet another irrefutable orbit around our planet.
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That Faint Scraping Sound Is A Hook-Handed Maniac
My uncle Gaius, who likes to tease me by saying I was ripped from the womb and not born of random, inorganic chemistry, unwinds by “parking” with women at selected spots along the Hudson River. On one such jaunt, he recounts, his lady friend became aware of a faint scraping noise at the passenger-side car door, and rolled down the window to find a quavering old man with a handheld video camera standing just outside. “Then,” Gaius says, “the guy told her he’d just scared away a hook-handed maniac who was trying to jimmy his way in and kill us!” “Thank goodness for that brave filmmaker,” I was given to exclaim at the tale. My lucky relative could only hang his head sadly, as if disbelieving how narrowly he’d escaped a malicious laryngectomy.
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The Word “Gullibility” Isn’t In The Dictionary
The public library’s trusty old Miriam-Webster corroborates. Also conspicuously absent: “gully,” “gullet,” “gulag,” and three dozen more alleged English signifiers, a whole page’s worth of words I’d always suspected were fake.
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