Kittens Anyone?

I just love kittens. They are so adorable and cute. So are puppies. But while puppies grow up and turn into sweet, lovable dogs, kittens just grow up and become . . . cats. And I hate cats. It’s like when God decided to pick out an annoying animal, all that was left was the cat. They are aloof, hissy, unfriendly . . . the whole nine yards. And yes, I know that there are some people out there who have perfectly wonderful cats, so please don’t write me about this. Even the most devoted cat lover would have to admit that kittens are cuter than cats. Any day.

Well Doctor Richard (Ree-shard) Dubrowski knows what I’m talking about. His office is filled with those cute kitten calendars and magnets and things like that. He loves kittens. But due to a very bad childhood experience, one so painful that he won’t even discuss it, he hates cats. So, he set out to do something about that. He is the inventor of the kitever.

Dr. Dubrowski reasoned that if people can have their beloved pets cloned, why not create kittens that never grow up? Kind of Peter Pan kittens. Thus was born the kitever–short for kitten forever. They have become the tribbles of Persiphonia (for all you Star Trek fans). Only they don’t eat up all the grain and start intergalactic wars. They just stay little, playful and positively adorable. And everyone in Persiphonia simply MUST have one.

Forget Paris Hilton lugging around those ugly naked Chihuahuas dressed in outfits stupider than hers. In Persiphonia, everyone has a kitever poking its adorable nose out of the top of their handbag. Some of the teacup kitevers are small enough to fit in your jacket pocket. We have guys who take them to work and sit them on their desks, and they aren’t even gay. They just love kitevers.

And over there in Oslo, the Nobel Committee decided that the kitever was such an important discovery that they have awarded Doctor Dubrowski with one of their nifty little prizes in the field of felineology. Bravo Doctor!

Here is the story of kitevers–now named Persiphonia’s Official Animal . . .

We haven’t exactly been blowing our own horn a lot lately, but the Nobel Prizes keep rolling in here in Persiphonia. We are up to 17, and we couldn’t be prouder. Some of them, I cannot discuss with you because they are top secret government projects, but occasionally I will let you in on a great project done by one of our Nobel winners.

Today, I would like to tell you about Doctor Richard Dubrowski. Only never call him Richard. He pronounces it Ree-shard and he is very fussy about that. Doctor Dubrowski won his Nobel in the field of felineology. He studies cats.

Doctor Dubrowski noticed that everyone loves a cute kitten. They are cute and funny and huggable. They are easily adopted at animal shelters for those reasons. They are playful and fun to be around.

But the problem with kittens is that they grow up to be cats. And most cats are aloof, and disinterested in people. They scratch furniture and draperies. They spray. They scratch. They howl at night to be let out or let in. It is much harder for animal shelters to adopt cats. A lot of people love kittens, but hate cats.

So Doctor Dubrowski set out to resolve this problem. And he did. He discovered a way to genetically alter cats so that they remain cute little kittens forever. He is a genius. Now, animal shelters in Persiphonia. have absolutely no trouble adopting kittens. Kittens have become the newest “accessory”. People carry them around poking out of handbags the way Paris Hilton and her friends used to carry Chihuahuas. They are cute and cuddly and they stay that way forever. They never grow up and become cats. The few remaining cats in Persiphonia are kept in his laboratory where they breed these adorable little creatures he calls Kitevers—Kittens Forever. And it is getting hard to keep up with the demand. Everyone wants them.

He considered doing the same thing with dogs, but large dogs are banned in Persiphonia anyway. We only have cute cuddly little dogs. He also considered doing it with babies, but who wants to be changing diapers forever? However with cats, it works fantastically. Some people even have more than one—to match their outfits. I took one home to my shih tzus and they love their new little playmate. They used to lay around and sleep on the furniture most of the time, but now they are much more playful, happily chasing their little friend around the house. Both of them have actually lost weight. We named our new little addition Morgan and we love her. My son Feral Moonstorm and his girlfriend Malicious Intent have a black one they call Melancholia Fairie Corpse. All I can say is thank God those two don’t have children.

Today, I am sending you a box of cute cuddly little kittens. Believe me—they will go fast and you will want more. The Nobel committee was absolutely astounded at Dr. Dubrowski’s new development and our animal shelters are eternally grateful. Cats don’t sit in there forever anymore. His next phase is being able to develop designer Kitevers for clients. You will be able to choose the sex, the color of the fur and eye color. It is a major breakthrough in Felineology.

We aren’t sending any entertainment today. The Kitevers is all you will need. They are endlessly entertaining and fun to be around. Enjoy them. And if you want to order more, contact Dr. Dubrowski at 1 800 KITEVERS or www.kitevers.com. He will be happy to place you on the waiting list. Kitevers sell for $199.95 with a portion of the proceeds going to the SPCA. Order yours today!

Wedding Bell Blues

Like I always say, it’s a good thing you get to choose your own friends, because the people you end up with as family sure do suck sometimes. There should be a rule in this world that if you happen to have rich parents, you cannot inherit their money until you do something for yourself. There are just too many of these bronze skinned, polo playing yachters who travel around the world on Mom or Dad’s ticket and don’t even wait for the body to get cold before they meet with brothers and sisters and start carving up the empire.

Do you sense a little King Lear in there somewhere? Well I think that for Christmas this year, I’m going to send all of my tycoons in Persiphonia a nice leather bound edition of the play. “How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child!” And what a shame that often Mom and Dad are pushing up daisies when that thankless child rears its ugly head.

But even worse than that is when the kids start making their move while Mom and Dad are still moving. Take this case in point. Oliver Wendell Carrington, #4 on Forbes’ List of Billionaires in Metropolis suddenly gets the hankering to remarry. And he chooses as his intended one Sasha von Sachet, 19 year old B Movie starlet and lavishly endowed  young model.

So what if Oliver is 90 and gets around in an electric wheelchair? Should it matter that Sasha’s grandmother is 10 years younger than Ollie? Not in my book. If they are two consenting adults who are in their right mind and they appear before me, I’m issuing a marriage license–no matter what Ollie’s nasty children, grandchildren and great grandchildren think about it. And if Ollie wants to change his will and include the young Mrs. Carrington,

I say he earned the money and it’s his to spend as he pleases. He could die and leave it to a flock of barn owls in Kentucky if he wants to. None of my business. And not theirs, either. Daddy has given them enough happiness, time for him to find some of his own. That’s what they have viagra for. Personally, I hope they wear out a couple of mattresses before Ollie kicks the bucket. And maybe they’ll have a couple little ones along the way. Good for you, Oliver. Knock yourself out.

Ah, but the course of true love never does run smooth. And no sooner was the ink dry on the wedding certificate than his blood-sucking family started working on getting it annulled. Fortunately, by that time, Mr. and Mrs. Carrington had retired to the boudoir and from the sounds of ecstasy emanating from behind the door, had consummated the marriage. With viagra, it’s all about timing, isn’t it?

Well, this time I played the part of King Lear and thrust these ungrateful fruits of Oliver Wendell Carrington’s loins out into the cold, scary world with only the clothes on their backs. Little did they know that as they left the reception, they passed underneath a very large electromagnet which screwed up all the plastic in their wallets. By the time they were able to call the company to order new cards, Ollie had closed the accounts. I sent them each away with a dollar bill and a push broom. Hopefully they can turn it into a fortune as their father did.

And my dear friend Oliver and the lovely Sasha promised to name their first child after me. I sure do hope it’s a girl.

Here is their story . . .

As Mayor, today I officiated at a very lovely wedding. The groom, Oliver Wendell Carrington is one of Persiphonia’s tycoons. In fact he is THE tycoon around here. He is currently ranked #4 on Forbes List of Billionaires in Metropolis. He began his career sweeping floors in a small feed and grain store in Northern Persiphonia’s farm country. He soon saved enough money to purchase the store and opened three more. From there, he began building other business up until he founded Carrington Enterprises. Of our 110 skyscrapers in Persiphonia, about half of them as well as many of the 150 conference centers are owned by Carrington Enterprises. Mr. Carrington is still going at 90. Though wheelchair bound, he still goes to work every day at the crack of dawn and works until dark. This is his 8^th marriage.

The bride, Sasha von Sachet is one of our young starlets in Persiphonia. She is best known for her recent role in that 3D thriller The Return of the Vixens from Venus. Even though she is only listed in the credits as “Third Vixen” and her only line in the movie was “Look! Here they come now. Let’s get ‘em girls!”, she got a lot of notice in the press—perhaps for her rather voluptuous body and the skimpy costumes the worm by the vixens. Miss von Sachet recently turned 19 and this is her first marriage.

The happy couple met at the world premier of Vixens, which was held at Gustav’s Chinese Theatre here in Persiphonia. When Miss von Sachet leaned over to put her hands in wet cement, she lost her balance and fell forward. We ended up with two prints of another part of her body instead of her hands. If you happen to be walking by, I strongly recommend you watch where you walk. The imprints are smaller than some potholes I have seen around the city. When it rains, they turn into two little swimming pools.

It was a lovely wedding held at Chez Pierre near the Eiffel Tower. The bride wore a gown designed by the same designer who did the costumes from Vixens from Venus. What little of it there was, was very pretty. The wedding had a Venutian theme in honor of the bride—with silver flowers and different sized disco balls hanging from the ceiling to represent the planets. As a wedding gift, he gave her a solid gold cellphone embedded with diamonds that looked exactly like the communicator she used in Vixens from Venus. She didn’t give him a gift at the reception. She said she intended to give him his gift privately. Of course, the paparazzi was out in full force, trying to get shots of the happy couple.

The only thing that spoiled the happy couple’s day were the 12 children, numerous grandchildren, great grandchildren and great-great grandchildren the groom has accumulated over his seven marriages. He even has a couple of illegitimate children from affairs along the way. The family is simply furious over Miss von Sachet and claim that she is nothing more than a gold digger after the family fortune—a charge she vehemently denies. She and Ollie are in love, she claims. In fact, they intend to start having children right away. She got kind of teary when she talked about little babies taking rides on Daddy’s electric wheelchair.

The family has filed charges with Persiphionian Supreme Court (aka me) claiming the marriage is a sham and should be annulled immediately. In the statement they filed they suggest that “Dad just play around with his little toy for a while, pay her a few million dollars and send her home when he is done with her.” Oliver filed a counter charge requesting that his children “butt out”. After about two seconds of deliberation, I sided with Oliver and his new bride.

I am sending this slew of whiney, greedy and ungrateful relatives along to your cities. Help yourself to one. None of them has ever done a decent day’s work in his life. I am also sending along enough brooms for them to start their own fortunes the same way that their father/grandfather/great grandfather did—by the sweat of his brow. The only blisters this group ever got was from holding a tennis racquet too tightly or from the reigns of their polo ponies. It’s time they stopped living off Daddy and earned a decent living.

Mr. Carrington and the new Mrs. Carrington will have Carrington Manor all to themselves. I hope they do fill it up with babies. In the meantime, Miss von Sachet, who intends to keep her own name professionally, intends to keep working. In fact, she has just been cast as Nala in Nymphettes from Neptune. She will be the star of the movie. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that it is being produced by Carrington Productions, a new division of Carrington Enterprises.

For entertainment today, I am sending along a wedding video of the happy nuptials and a box of tissues. The background music is Going To The Chapel by the Dixie Cups, an oldie but goldie. They look so cute with her sitting on his lap as he wheels his chair down the aisle. Enjoy.

Brandon Wattle- Man of Dreams

Where would this world be without its Don Quixotes, its Kermit the Frogs? Those lovable and slightly off base dreamers? All I can say is that I wouldn’t want to live in a world where people couldn’t at least have the chance to reach out and try to make those dreams come true. Those are the brave people. They don’t just talk about their dreams. They are the ones who let go of that security blanket, throw the ballast overboard and let that hot air balloon soar to whatever heights they can possibly reach.

Such a person is Brandon Waddle. From the time he was a kid, Brandon was always a big dreamer. Maybe having someone hang a name like Brandon Waddle on you just makes you try all that much harder to be somebody in this world. And Brandon sure has tried. He has spent most of his life hoping to make something of his life. But life hasn’t always been a bed of roses for him. In fact, for the most part it’s been mostly thorns. But does that stop Brandon from his quest? No. It just makes him dig in harder, take another step outside the box and try again. Like Cervantes says of his infamous Knight-errant, Brandon is ”spurred on by the conviction that the world needed his immediate presence.”

And yes, Brandon. The world does. Someplace, sometime, there will be glory for you. Never give up. Don’t let this world get you down. Remember that you are free to be whatever you want to be. Or as our famous Knight would put it, ”Liberty, Sancho, my friend, is one of the most precious gifts that Heaven has bestowed on mankind”. Or perhaps Kermit put it best when he said, “It’s not easy being green.” Stay green, Brandon. And don’t worry about finding your way in this world. Let it find you.

Here is Brandon’s story . . .

Brandon Waddle was always a dreamer. Even when he was a kid, he always had these get rich quick schemes. He collected soda bottles, but his parents complained about all the ants that it caused in the garage. He collected newspaper, but he couldn’t sell it to anyone and it got wet in the rain and turned to mush. He had a paper route. He was the kind of kid who sold the seeds and greeting cards they advertised on the back of comic books trying to win the bicycle, but ended up with a cheap transistor radio instead. Nobody ever really gets the bicycle. He even collected Bazooka gum wrappers until he found out you needed like 12 billion of them just to get a bell for your bike.

When he got older, he was always going around to garage sales, hoping to be the guy who pays a quarter for the item worth a million dollars—like you read about in the papers.

He tried alpaca farming, but the alpacas all ran away because he forgot to lock the gate on their pen. That was a darn shame, too, because those alpacas were really cute. He bought 10,000 acres of land near the water in Florida to build hotels on; only to find out that the water it was near was The Everglades swamp. He was a used car salesman, but he was too honest for the job. He kept telling his customers what was wrong with the cars. Over the years, he has probably bought a million dollars worth of lottery tickets. He’s the guy who actually orders the magazines and returns the Publisher’s Clearing House contest forms. He even owns all those books about free money from the government, although there doesn’t seem to be any money left anymore. Just a lot of books.

Brandon watches a lot of television—always searching for some kind of trend or some new invention where he can get in on the ground floor and make a fortune. One of the shows he watches without fail is Oprah, because she always has the latest information on her show.

That’s how he found out about the acai berries and the acai diet that Oprah swears by. And he had a great idea. He was going to sell his house, buy a farm out in Persiphonia’s countryside (we still have one!) and become Persiphonia’s first acai farmer. He figured he could sell the berries to all the gyms that have juice bars and to the beach resorts. Everybody wants to lose some weight! He even had the idea of making acai berry muffins. He was sure about this one. Acai berries were going to finally bring Brandon the fortune he always dreamed about.

So he sold the house, bought the farm, ordered 100 thousand acai berry plants and began to plan for his future. How hard could it be to grow berries? Berries grow wild all over the place. And look at cranberries. A few years ago, the only time you heard about cranberries was at Thanksgiving. Now cranberry juice is the biggest thing. And it’s great with vodka. He began to dream up acai and vodka cocktails.

But there were a couple problems. He wasn’t aware that the episodes of Oprah he was watching were reruns from over a year ago. Since then, Oprah has gained around 50 pounds. It seems the acai diet she raved about didn’t do her very much good after all.And acai juice doesn’t taste too great, either.

Then when the bushes arrived last month, it was freezing in Persiphonia. He hadn’t checked on the climate needed to grow acai bushes. It seems they grow in the Brazilian Rainforest—a far cry from the below zero temperatures we were having in Persiphonia. He tried to take the plants inside and keep them warm, but the farmhouse wasn’t big enough to hold them all. He farmed them out to his friends, promising them a piece of the action. He bought space heaters and grow lamps. He stood over the bushes misting them night and day to simulate the conditions in the rainforest.

But it was too little too late. All 100 thousand of the bushes died. Despite the government’s alleged bailout plans, Brandon lost the farm. He’s currently living on a friend’s couch. And his friend’s wife isn’t very happy about it.

Perhaps your city has a climate more conducive to growing acai berries. Or maybe you can use a lot of acres of Florida swampland. If so, Brandon is your guy. Right now, he is so downhearted that he doesn’t even feel he fits in with bipolar people. He needs a fresh start.

Help Brandon Waddle out. He still has all the books about getting free money. Who knows? One day, he could be one of your famous tycoons. But right now, he is coming dangerously close to becoming Persiphonia’s newest homeless person. Give him a break. Everything he owns is in his car. He can leave immediately. Just send directions.

And while you’re at it, maybe you can help Oprah get her weight problem under control, too. This yo-yo dieting thing she has going is not healthy for her.

If you need entertainment, I am sending along a DVD of the first season of The Beverly Hillbillies. How cool was that? The guy goes out to shoot some possums for dinner and ends up striking oil. Why can’t something like that happen to Brandon Waddle?

Please, Mr. Postmen

When you are Mayor of a bunch of bipolars, every day is a new adventure. And everybody has a gripe. This time it was the mailmen. It seems they can’t handle delivering big heavy fashion magazines to the women of Persiphonia. So, like what are we supposed to do? Go out and buy them ourselves at full price? Steal them from the dentist’s office?

Fashion magazines are big, there is no doubt. Because they are full of ads. And forgive me, Nina Garcia, but we don’t buy Elle Magazine to read the great articles inside. We buy it for the pictures. We drool over those ads. We scrutinize every handbag, every pair of shoes. If we want to read magazines, we buy Cosmo and read about how women can make men better in bed and stuff like that. Ten secrets men don’t want you to know. 1)It’s smaller 2)It’s smaller … and so on. And Cosmo is pretty big, too.

So what am I supposed to do when my mailmen say they aren’t going to deliver magazines anymore? I mean, except for my mother, who sends letters anymore? We text, we e-mail, we Facebook. Other than bills, about the only things we expect to find in our mailboxes these days are magazines, catalogs and circulars. And what else is there?

Well, it was time to take action. And with a swish of my hand, I Donald Trumped all of them. Fired. Gone. Don’t let the doorknob hitcha. Then a quick trip to the local gyms and we had a new crop of mailmen. Mailmen who I might add fill out those grey shorts a whole lot better. And mailmen who aren’t afraid of a couple of Vogues.

Hey, that’s why I pay myself the big bucks. Read all about the mailmen incident . . .

When I arrived at my office the other day, I was assaulted by an angry contingency representing our Letter Carriers. It seems that the postmen of Persiphonia have a serious complaint.

The ladies of Persiphonia love their fashion magazines and they subscribe to them all. Vanity Fair, Harpers Bazaar, Vogue, Cosmo, Elle . . . and that doesn’t even include the high end interior design magazines we all adore and subscribe to as well. These magazines have become quite bulky. They are filled with advertising and sometimes top out at 700 pages or more. And they are heavy. The mailmen demanded a raise for having to carry huge stacks of magazines to the women of Persiphonia.

I can’t let that happen! If I give the letter carriers a raise, then the sanitation crews find out and want one too, then the city workers want a piece of the action, and before long, we are using all the money in our treasury to pay for services. That takes away all the fun stuff, like buying Eiffel Towers and Burges and bungee jumping Macao Towers and having state dinners. The next thing you know, I am living in a hovel in Spitzerville with all the other disgraced mayors driving a Yugo.

I flatly refused. They took an oath when they became postmen. “Neither wind nor snow nor dark of night nor heavy magazines and tons of junk mail will keep us from our appointed rounds.” Excuse me, but I don’t see anything about raises in there.

Then, they came up with another idea. Curbside delivery. They would drive around in little cars and deposit the mail in curbside mailboxes without having to actually carry all the stuff. Curbside delivery? Are these guys nuts? It would take the women in Persiphonia an hour to do their hair and makeup and change into some pretty lingerie before they would venture out to the curb to pick up their mail and wave to the neighbors. Nobody wants to be seen the way they really look when they get up in the morning. This is Persiphonia, not Mayberry RFD. We aren’t dashing out to the curb in our flannel nightgowns to pick up the mail. We would rather die than be seen like without lipstick.

So they went on strike. Big deal. Who needs the bunch of sissies anyway? I could find other people to replace them in a heartbeat.

I considered using our 178 tycoons. I mean, what do they do anyway but sit around and say ‘you’re fired”. I do that myself. But believe it or not, only 3 of the tycoons could actually pass the standard Postal Service Exam. The rest of them inherited the money from their Daddies and haven’t got a clue how to actually work. Honestly, it’s amazing they can even find their way to work, which is why they have chauffeurs and helicopters. Otherwise they would just wander around like Diogenes in search of an honest man. And they would be hard pressed to find one in their crowd, too.

Then I considered our 121 soccer stars. They are completely useless here since there is no such thing as soccer in Persiphonia. In Persiphonia, we play baseball. However, I have plans to use them as towel boys when the beaches open up.

So I got in my limo and headed to the gyms. There, I found enough beefy hunks to fill up the positions. They look great in the uniforms and they can lift those magazines. In fact, instead of walking their routes, they jog. They finish in half the time and I have actually cut down the cost of delivering the mail. Naturally, we pay them hourly wages. Of course, they aren’t the sharpest knives in the drawer, and occasionally they do make mistakes. But they will get the hang of it soon enough. And there isn’t a lady in Persiphonia who isn’t peeking out her window when the new mailmen go down the block and drooling at the sight. They are hot.

Once again, tragedy is averted in Persiphonia. And at a considerable savings to our taxpaying citizens. But more importantly, I don’t wind up in Spitzerville with the other disgraced politicians. I am passing along to you the wimpy striking postmen. I am sure you can find some cushy jobs for them where they don’t have to pick up heavy stuff like magazines. Maybe they can work as perfume demonstrators in the department stores. Surely they can handle holding a bottle of perfume and spraying passers-by. That sounds right up their alley. Dress them in pink smocks or something attractive.

For entertainment, I am sending along a copy of Please Mr. Postman. In fact, I am sending two. The original by the Marvalettes and the remake by the late Karen Carpenter. What a gorgeous voice she had. Enjoy.

Travel On, Traveling Salesman

It’s bad enough that the “No Calls” List doesn’t work and we are all still plagued with sales phone calls–especially at dinner time. But now, we have an influx of traveling salesmen, too. And believe me–if I am not opening my door to the Jehovah’s Witnesses, I am sure not opening it to an encyclopedia salesman. What do I need a set of encyclopedias for anyway? I have the internet. In fact, I had a set of encyclopedias and even the LIBRARY didn’t want them! I threw them out to the curb, and I am sure someone picked them up and is happily using them.

I worked as a telephone salesperson once as a kid–for about three days. It was a termite company. And the deal was I was supposed to call people up and tell them their neighborhood was infested with termites and that we had already booked dozens of jobs in their area. I then offered them a free inspection. My boss would show up at their house during the day when the man of the house was at work, with an empty jelly jar filled with termites and show it to the terrified housewife who signed up immediately because he only had one spot left in his book for the next six months. If she waited any longer, her house would be one story shorter. After about three days of praying that nobody would answer the phone at the numbers he gave me so I wouldn’t have to tell people that crap, I quit.

And ever since then, I have had a hard spot when it came to the lines that salesmen use. I could barely sit through the movie Glengarry Glen Ross without wanting to kick Alec Baldwin right in his brass balls. Hell, there were times when I wanted to punch out The Music Man.

So when I heard salesmen had invaded Persiphonia, it was time for signing more laws. I have a pen and I am not afraid to use it.

Here’s the whole sordid story . . .

From what I see and read in the papers, the economy in Metropolis isn’t in the greatest shape in every city. In fact, some cities are in very bad shape. I have heard of a lot of going-out-of-business sales and a lot of major businesses closing down. This is very serious. No Mayors want to see people unemployed. Then they can’t pay us taxes.

One effect of the current recession is that people who are out of work have resorted to old ways of making money. One of them is the old door-to-door salesman. They seem to be preying on the wealthier cities in search of lucrative sales. Persiphonia has a very healthy economy despite our consistent 40% tax rate. We have malls and designer malls and have recently opened a homeless shelter despite the fact that we really don’t have anyone to put in it. So, our city seems to have been targeted by door-to-door salesmen lately.

The Persiphonia Police Department, 36^th Precinct got a call the other morning from Velma Livingston out on Hammond Street, one of the nicer parts of town. In the background, they could hear quite a commotion. They hurried over to see what was going on.

Mrs. Livingston’s house was in shambles. Her living room carpet was covered with coffee grinds, marbles, fireplace ashes and wood shavings. A vacuum cleaner salesman was desperately trying to get his demonstration machine working while her three Yorkshire terriors, Tuffy, Spike and Sweetie were growling and chewing on the legs of his pants while he frantically tried to kick them off. Her two young twins Ramona and Rocco were sitting on the couch in their pajamas, spilling cereal all over the place and laughing hysterically. Mrs. Livingston was crying. In addition to being bipolar, Mrs. Livingston is an OCD clean freak, the poor dear.

The police finally arrested the vacuum salesman when Mrs. Livingston told them that he forced his way into her home and started pouring the stuff all over her beautiful new white carpeting. It looked ruined.

Later, it took the boys at Stanley Steamer 6 hours to clean the junk out of the carpet and the cereal out of the couch. Mrs. Livingston called the vacuum cleaner company, but kept getting put on hold. She’s writing a letter to our television news consumer reporter to try and recover the money it cost her to clean up the mess.

That is why I have enacted the Traveling Salesman Act of 2009. ALL traveling salesmen who want to sell products in Persiphonia have to report to City Hall first and fill out 11 forms in triplicate with a black pen. We require 9 pieces of identification including your third grade report card as well as 13 notarized statements from the company stating that any and all damage to the customer’s home will be the responsibility of the company. So many laws, so little time. This Mayor seems to do nothing but sign new laws lately.

And then, we will politely refer you to Harpo at our Help Desk where he will stamp DENIED in big red letters across your forms. We sell vacuum cleaners at the mall. Let them get their carpets dirty. We also sell Tupperware, bibles, encyclopedias, jewelry, Christmas decorations and kinky lingerie, so don’t even bother trying.

Today, I am rounding up all traveling salesman in the vicinity and passing them on to you. Hopefully you can find work for them so they don’t have get dressed up in a suit with a nifty bow tie, stick their feet in people’s half opened doors and bother them. Let them sell their vacuum cleaners in a store.

If your town requires entertainment today, I am sending along a lovely old recording of Roger Miller singing ‘King of the Road’ and a lovely set of encyclopedias. There are no kings of the road in Persiphonia. Not anymore.

Turn It Down, Foo!

Contrary to what my son sometimes tells people, I was not born in the 19th century and I was not present at Ford’s Theatre the night Lincoln got it. No, it was not my idea for him to sit in the balcony for a better view of the stage. I am a Love Child–child of the 60′s who grew up on The Beatles and Woodstock and The Grateful Dead. And I do not deny that listening to such music at a wimpy elevator music volume just doesn’t cut it. I like my volume turned up as much as the next person–particularly if the next person is as close to deaf as I am. But come on, gang! When you are locked in a car smaller than the inside of my closet, you do NOT need that volume turned up loud enough to cause nearby telephone polls to rattle. Turn it down! What difference does it make? Even with that volume, you can’t understand the words anyway. It’s all YO YO YO and really bad forced rhymes. Trust me, it sounds exactly the same when you keep it to a volume that remains inside your vehicle. You do not need to remove the back seats and use most of the trunk to house speakers and tweeters and woofers and synthesizers. It’s a CAR for Heaven’s sake! You listen to music when you’re driving and then you get out and turn it off. And unless you are a long distance trucker, in Persiphonia, you aren’t in the car for that long. I mean, we do have a shopping mall exactly every 2.5 miles and a mandatory pizzeria on every block. You can hardly listen to a complete YO YO YO song before you arrive at your destination. Which is why I enacted legislation making such loud music illegal. In addition, it is illegal to drive and put on makeup, read, text, talk on the phone, do your homework, drink coffee, eat food, shave, give birth (except in rare emergencies), engage in any type of sex, do your hair, or anything else considered to be multitasking. Sure, you have Freedom of Speech in Persiphonia. Just endeavor to do it quietly.

You can read about it here . . .

This afternoon, I was in the back of my limousine on my way to a very important meeting of our local Civic Association. Running late, I was finishing up my speech on the way. Suddenly we pulled up at a red light and this terrible sound began. BOOM BOOM BOOM. The windows of my car were literally shaking. I looked around to see if there was some kind of construction or demolition going on in the area. There was nothing.

Then I looked in the car beside me. Behind the wheel was a young girl dancing away to the music that was so loud that I could hear it in the back of my soundproof limousine with both my windows AND her windows rolled up. She was talking on the cellphone to someone while using her rear view mirror to put on eye makeup. A cup of coffee and a hairbrush were between her knees. She was also talking to the passenger in the car—another young girl who was talking on the cellphone while her foot was up on the dashboard so she could apply toenail polish. On her lap, her laptop was open and she was Facebooking. Sighs. Another Facebook addict. Just what I need.

I was furious. I ordered them over to the side of the road and had the driver get out. Then I lowered the volume of her radio significantly, switched it to a classical station, pulled the knobs off and tucked them in my pocket. I confiscated both cellphones, put them on the ground and stepped on them. They crunched nicely—just like cicada shells. No more bars for those two phones. I asked whose car it was they were driving. The girl behind the wheel said it was her father’s and they were on their way to school. I took the keys from her and told her that her father could pick them up at any time. Then I gave them both enough change and dropped them off at the nearest bus stop. They were two very angry young Persiphonians, but I really didn’t care.

When I returned to my office I signed the No Multitasking While Driving Bill of 2009 as well as the Car Radio Volume Bill of 2009. From now on, Persiphonians will think of the other drivers on the road when they drive. Driving is a serious matter, and when driving in Persiphonia; that is ALL you will do. If you wish to make a phone call, put on eye makeup, check your stocks in the newspaper, feed the baby, drink a latte, eat lunch, shave, shower, break up those fighting kids in the back seat, Facebook or whatever else you find it necessary to do, you will pull over to the nearest curb and take care of all other business before proceeding. Or get yourself a chauffer. And if you wish to listen to that rot on the radio, you will do it at a volume that does not disturb others. This is Persiphonia, a Cultural City, not the ‘hood.

I have also outlawed teenage driving and increased bus routes. Mothers and Fathers can thank me. Unless the bus has an accident, you know your kids will return home safely. When they have proven that they can drive without any form of multitasking, then they may apply for a driver’s license. We expect three things of our citizens, responsibility, respect and revenue . . . well . . . tax dollars.

So if you should find yourself driving through our crazy town, remember that we have a new motto. “Drive slow—see our shops. Multitask, blast your radio or speed—see our cops.” I think that about covers it, folks. It ain’t easy being a Mayor of 200K people, is it?

I am sending you a teenage driver. Since they are so good at multitasking, they should make excellent short order cooks. For entertainment, listen to them whine about having to take the bus.

The Annual Queen of Denial Pageant

Let’s face it–there’s a little bit of denial in every woman. Some more than others. Which is why the Annual Queen of Denial Pageant is such a hit in Persiphonia. It gives women who would never ordinarily have the opportunity to enter a beauty pageant the chance to hit the runway and strut their stuff. They practice their routines, shop for that perfect gown and bathing suit and work on their pageant walk and waves.

We’re no different from any other beauty contest. These ladies know all the tricks, Vasoline on the teeth for that perfect smile, spray glue on the butt to hold down that bathing suit, Preparation H under the eyes to take away those dark circles, double sided tape to hold down the bodice of the gown. Only in our case, some women resort to more stringent measures. Duct tape to pull in that waist and tummy. It is also excellent for last minute waxing. Wite-Out to whiten up those teeth. Then there’s the old toilet paper to fill out the bra. In fact, some women even arrive for the pageant with tool boxes along filled with their own little beauty secrets. And of course, dieting usually starts about 3 weeks before the pageant when ladies decide to lose 50 or 60 pounds. The stores usually run out of Ultra Slim Fast about that time. Most of these women manage to lose more like 5 or 10 pounds, but every little bit helps when competing against other women.

Then of course, there are hours standing before mirrors practicing that sweet smile and the answer, “World Peace” that brings the audience to its feet every time.

This year’s pageant was a little bit . . . different. Here’s what happened . . .

Tonight was a big event in Persiphonia. It was our annual Queen of Denial pageant. Women of all shapes and sizes compete every year to become this year’s Queen. Competition is fierce. Women started planning for this year’s pageant the day after last year’s pageant crowned Imogen Mulligan as Queen.

The pageant is pretty much like any beauty pageant. The contestants compete in evening gowns, swimsuits, talent and of course that all important question at the end to which the answer “World Peace” always draws a thunderous round of applause.

The host of the pageant is, as always, that silver haired one time movie extra Sergio Sabata. He always does a wonderful job, and that powder blue tuxedo with the ruffled shirt and platform shoes is still such a great look for him. This year’s judging panel included Leonora Baker, owner of Plump N Sassy, a plus sized dress shop here in Persiphonia, Maynard Witherspoon, owner of Sugar Shock Bakery, Maurice Mandela, manager of the local Starbucks and Jimmy JJ Walker, who I met in an airport recently begging for spare change and convinced to come and be a celebrity judge. He would do anything for publicity.

The pageant began with a beautiful version of “I Feel Pretty” as the women floated (or in some cases stumbled) across the stage in evening gowns—many of which came from Plump N Sassy. It was a virtual kaleidoscope of color—from lime green to fuchsia and just about everything in between. Believe me—a lot of two-sided tape and industrial strength of undergarments go into holding these ladies into these gowns.

Next came the swimsuit pageant. Oddly enough, many in the audience use this portion of the program to visit the restroom. However, nothing judges a woman’s level of denial better than seeing how daring she will go in a bathing suit. And many lived up to the challenge. I wasn’t even aware that thong bikinis came in such sizes.

The talent portion is always fun. We were treated to everything from an off-key version of the opera Carmen to Sissy Lafferty’s wonderful version of ‘Climb Every Mountain’ played on tuned bells while dressed in lederhosen. One of the standouts was Hazel Kennedy, who dusts off her tap shoes every year for the pageant. This year, she performed a rousing military routine to The Marine’s Hymn on top of wooden drums. When she fell through the middle drum, trooper that she is, she just dragged herself out and continued on with the routine. The crowd went crazy at the end when she actually managed to get about halfway into a split and salute while pulling a flag from her bosom and waving it wildly. It was a gutsy performance.

Then it was back to evening gowns for the question section of the competition. The question, “What do you want to see most in this world?” ranged from “happiness for my children” to the obvious “world peace”. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

Finally, the judges made their decision. It wasn’t an easy one. Then it was time for Sissy Lafferty to take her final walk as last year’s queen. The stakes were high. Prizes included a 50 dollar gift certificate to Plump N Sassy, a 35 dollar gift certificate to Sugar Shock, two dozen roses from Persiphonia Posies and a year of free lattes at Starbucks. Not to mention the very beautiful crown and the right to be Queen of Persiphonia’s summer pageant. Tension was high.

Then the announcement was made. For her gutsy performance after falling through a drum during her tap routine and her lovely pink and purple strapless gown, the crown went to Hazel Kennedy.

That’s when all hell broke loose. Imogen Mulligan insisted that her year wasn’t up. She was Queen of Denial. She deserved it. She tore the roses from Hazel Kennedy’s arms. Sergio Sabata literally ripped the hairpiece off her head trying to get the crown, but Sissy was tough and held on. She was not giving up so easily. The other contestants tackled her, but she went down kicking and screaming that she was the rightful owner. Hazel Kennedy stood there and cried.

After they finally let Imogen up, makeup running, gown torn to shreds, clutching the crown in one hand that the bent and disheveled roses in the other, the judges conferred. Nobody was in more denial than Imogen Mulligan. Therefore, it was decided that she would serve another year as Queen. She took her victory walk, one shoe missing, hair hanging over her forehead, gown town to shreds, one black eye and her two front teeth missing, but she was truly Queen of Denial as she placed the crown back on her head and gave the queen wave to the crowd. They broke into thunderous applause.

Hazel had to be escorted from the stage, in a full panic attack, while someone went to find her some Valium and someone else helped her by using old La Maze breathing drills. Sissy Lafferty picked up her tuned bells, and with a few choice words for Imogen, accepted the honor of first runner up.

We are sending Imogen’s entire royal court with her on a full tour of Metropolis. She will be giving speeches on her favorite charity, designer clothing for the homeless. It is her belief that if homeless people have designer clothing, they won’t want to get it dirty, so they will stop being homeless. A noble cause. They will be visiting your city very soon. Feel free to keep one of our Queens of Denial contestants if you wish. One less to worry about next year when Imogen will probably pull the same stunt and go for another year. They will be accompanied by Jimmy JJ Walker, who really hasn’t got anything else to do. You can keep him, too, if you want.

For entertainment, Sissy will be bringing along her extra large lederhosen and her tuned bells. She will be performing the complete score of Sound of Music for your people’s pleasure. She also takes requests. You have never heard anything until you have heard “She Bangs” played on tuned bells.

Let It Snow–If It Really Must

Remember how much fun snow was when you were a kid? Well, for those of you who live where there is snow anyway. There was nothing better than waking up to a foot of snow knowing that Dad was going to go out and shovel it so that you could grab your sled and take off for the nearest hill. If you were smart, you listened to the weather reports the night before and took your chances at skipping homework and watching TV instead. Once in a while, you got nailed when you woke up to find the snow missed you completely and you went into school looking like an idiot without your homework. Hey, but so did everyone else.

For me, the worst part of a snow day was always my mother. She was standing at the doorway with a garbage bag filled with scarves, sweaters, hats and mittens and she didn’t let you out the door until you were so stuffed that you walked like a combination of the Michelin Tire Man and a zombie. Little did she know half of that stuff ended up in a pile at the top of the hill anyway. After about the second run, you aren’t cold anymore. Then when you got home, she was standing there waiting for you with a nice bowl of . . . soup. I’m sorry but to me soup is not food. It’s . . . soup. And I hate it unless it’s French Onion covered with a thick layer of cheese and broiled in the oven. But Campbell’s soup sucks. Having to choke down that crap almost ruined the whole sled riding day for me.

Now, you are all grown up and when it snows, you see the world in a whole different light. YOU are the one who has to get up two hours early and get dressed so you can go dig the car out of the driveway. Let me let you in on a little secret. As a Mayor, I come in contact with the road crews who go out and plow the roads. And believe me, they get their kicks out of deliberately plowing people in. It’s what they live for. Next time you see them going down the block plowing, give them the finger. Or maybe not. They might decide to plow you in twice.

Blessedly, Persiphonia really only gets hit with about one big storm every winter. Sometimes not even that. But when it does, it’s a major hassle. Especially when you are a high maintenance Mayor who likes to sleep late under piles of down comforters.

Here is the story of the Blizzard of 2009. Nothing major. We survived. But it did suck. Now, we wait nine months for the baby boom . . .

Sorry for the delays today, but Persiphonia is socked in with a foot of snow and possibly more on the way. So the Mayor had to get into her heavy weather gear—her mink coat with a hood on it and her latest Uggs boots—and head out in her Cadillac Escalade all terrain chauffeured mayor car and take care of problems. Problems everywhere!

Electricity has been sporadic. It seems the pirates over at the recycling garbage into energy power plant have never seen snow before (being ‘of the Caribbean’ and all) When they first saw it gathering on the ground, they thought they died and went to heaven. It took a while to explain that it was not something they could snort.

After that, they started hooting and hollering and tossing each other into the white stuff, having a good old time. It was impossible to get them back into the plant and before long, the fire that feeds the generator died. Next thing we knew, the squirrels that run the generator died. Sporadic brownouts and blackouts began to appear all over the city.

Now where does someone come up with new squirrels when they are hiding someplace, riding out the storm the way smart people should be? The answer was simple. I tracked down our contingency of Chinese Rednecks that have been graciously given to us by our friends in Xianbianalojing (sp?) and cut a deal. They could have the dead squirrels for stew as long as they could find new ones to replace them.

That was all they needed to hear. They went tearing across Persiphonia rooting through people’s garages and attics in search of squirrels and before long, they dragged an entire crate full of the screaming little critters back and we had the generators up and running in no time.

Then there was the problem of feeding the fire. The pirates were totally useless. They were still out having fun in the snow. By then, they had learned how to take garbage can lids and use them as makeshift luges, pushing each other up and down the streets. The pirate Winter Olympics was in full swing.

Once again, I turned to the Chinese Rednecks for help. I told them that if they shoveled garbage into the furnace, they could keep any good stuff they found. Before long, they were happily sifting through the trash, tossing junk into the fire and making a pile of good stuff they were going to keep to furnish their hovels. And slowly the electricity started to return. The pirates are now in bed with colds, and the Chinese Rednecks are collecting all sorts of great trash.

Of course, down at City Hall, most workers chose to use the old “I can’t get my car to start” excuse and stayed home in bed. The only one working was that Harpo guy we got from the President of Freedonia. He was at his usual desk at the Complaints Department, listening to complaints about no heat, no electricity, no cable TV, no Hi Def and other really important stuff. Of course, since he doesn’t talk, it’s very frustrating trying to file complaints with him.

Fortunately thanks to my lifting the ban on fire, people were able to use their fireplaces to stay warm. The fire department had the situation well in hand. However, I was quite annoyed with the Department of Roads and Highways when I learned that they were taking the beautiful pink sand I had specially imported from Bermuda for our beaches to spread on the highways. They have NO idea how expensive that stuff was. Heads will roll, I guarantee you.

Crews fanned out across the city in search of people in need. Oddly, during the process we discovered that we actually DO have a homeless person. It is a homeless shopaholic who actually purchased a brand new set of Viking appliances just to live in the boxes. I thought that was very classy of them.

Of course, expecting the snowstorm, most people shopped for essentials in advance—milk, bread, eggs, batteries, bathroom tissue, wine, condoms. However, even with sales of condoms way up, we can expect a baby boom 9 months from now. Happens every time we have one of these big blizzards. Once, 9 months after a hurricane, even this Mayor had a bouncing baby boy. Well, there wasn’t much to do then.

We are working this out. Even some our 160 tycoons have been out there pitching in. One of them offered his old hairpieces to help keep small animals warm. The only ones who don’t seem to notice the difference is our 93 Facebook addicts, who are just sitting there staring at blank screens in a daze.

Not to worry though, Persiphonia Pam, our weather forecasting mink, has told us that the worst is over. Start your diets, ladies, bathing suit season is just around the corner. Let’s all hope she’s right or the Chinese Rednecks get to eat her.

As a way of getting rid of some of this snow, today, we are having the people of Persiphonia make snowmen to send across Metropolis. We hope you enjoy them—for as long as they last. For entertainment, they are prepared to sing you a half hearted version of “Let It Snow”. We are also sending along thermoses filled with hot chocolate and tiny marshmallows for on top. Enjoy it.

Straight Talk From A Straight Talking Mayor

I am putting this story here instead of in Metropolis because it is a little controversial and I try to keep things light and funny there. And while I want to make a point here by using the city of Persiphonia, this is a subject I don’t take lightly therefore I placed this short piece here instead of there.

–Mayor Persi

I was standing on line in the grocery store the other day doing exactly what every woman does while they stand on line—flipping through the magazines and gossip sheets. The headlines on all of them was just about the same. Some entertainer named Rhianna was having a cozy, romantic reunion with her boyfriend—kissing and cuddling in the ocean while wearing a white strapless bikini. It looked like a lovely scene until I figured out what it was all about.

First of all, let me say that I mean no disrespect, but I have no idea who Rhianna is. As my son will tell you, I am hopelessly stuck in the 60’s when it comes to entertainment. If I see one movie a year, that’s a lot. The last really great female singer I know of was Janis Joplin. But I take it that Rhianna is a singer or actress or perhaps both.

Apparently the reason for this loving reunion was that her boyfriend had seriously battered her recently. And she has chosen to forgive him and take him back.

Let me explain this in Persiphonian terms. If Rhianna wanted to have a romantic reunion with this young man, it would be on visitors day at the local prison speaking on a telephone that smelled of Lysol through a plastic wall. Period. Persiphonia has a zero tolerance policy when it comes to domestic violence. Male or female, you lay hands on someone and you go to jail. And if the person who has been assaulted refuses to press charges, that’s why I’m the Mayor. I am prepared to file charges for them until they come to their senses.

Now, this person would not be spending his jail time sitting in a cell watching television or playing basketball in the exercise yard. He would be evaluated by a physiatrist and if necessary, medication would be issued. They would also be spending time in anger management classes until they learned how to keep their hands to themselves, their abusive mouths shut and walk away when they felt this type of anger in them. Then they would be released into our probation system. All of our probation officers are former heavyweight boxers. If this guy feels the need to take someone on, his probation officer will be more than happy to put on the gloves with him and beat him to a pulp in the ring. And by the way, there are ways to ensure that such a person is compliant when it comes to medication. It’s called blood tests. And yes, we do them.

Whoever Rhianna is, I hope she knows what she’s doing, but in my heart, I know that she doesn’t. She is falling into that trap that so many battered women fall into. The flowers, the candy, the “I’m sorry baby, it won’t happen again” crap. And that is just what it is. Crap. An abuser will remain an abuser unless he is reprogrammed within the system by competent professionals. He or she cannot make these changes on their own.

Now you see why I didn’t post this at Metro. Because it isn’t funny. However it is a part of my vision of Persiphonia. And if it gets through to one person out there, then it was worth the time that it took me to write. Thanks for reading.

Sincerely yours, Persiphone Hellecat, Mayor, Empress, Queen and Exaulted Grand Poobah of Persiphonia, Land of the Free and Home of the Bipolar. (We have an excellent medical plan that includes prescriptions!) A PROUD NO NUKES CITY!!! We are now SOLAR!!! Let the sun shine in!

Metropolitan History 101

It always amazes me how little kids these days know about history. Do they even teach it anymore? Don’t they know that, as George Santayana once said, “those who forget the past are condemned to relive it?” Well, if that is the case, we can expect many of our school kids to do a lot of reliving. I guess that’s why only old people seem to belong to Historical Societies.

We teach history in Persiphonian schools. And yet every day someone asks me about that doggone horse in the park. Which really burns me up because we pay 500 bucks a day in upkeep just to keep the pigeon poop off of it. 500 bucks! Can you believe that? I could toss some Dawn on it and hose it down myself for about a dollar a day.

Anyway, since it is costing Persiphonians so much tax money to maintain it, I think the least they can do is learn about who it is. And, I am proud to say, it is a distant relative of mine.

Here is his story . . .

I get asked all the time who is the man on the horse in Sulley Park. That’s General Hezekiah Hellecat, who, along with his wife the first Persiphone Hellecat founded Persiphonia a little over 85 years ago. They were my great-great-great-great grandparents and also bipolar.

Now, if you know anything about statuology, you know that there is a code. If the horse has both front legs raised, it means the rider died in battle. If he has one foot raised, the rider died later of wounds from the battle. If the horse has both feet on the ground, it means the rider was too fat for the horse to even move. Old Hezzie’s horse Betsy has both legs in the air showing that he died in battle—sort of. And we are very grateful that he chose a female horse because I hate it when kids stand around giggling at statues with exposed naughty parts. It’s just so rude to give your children a lesson in sex education by taking them down to the local horse statue and letting them have a peek at what’s underneath. Do what everybody else does. Let them learn about sex the right way—on the playground from their friends.

At any rate, back 85 years ago in Metropolis time, a group of people decided that they were tired of being repressed by America and having to pay taxes. They had representation, in fact some of the best politicians of the day came from Metropolis, they just didn’t want to pay taxes. Their battle cry became “No Taxation With or Without Representation!”

They wrote a Declaration of Independence, but the Americans simply laughed and tore it up. It might have helped if the rebellious lot had gotten someone who actually was able to speak and write English to write the declaration, but that is neither here nor there. The Americans tore it up, and that made the rebels mad.

So Hezekiah appointed himself a general and made a plan. He knew that the Americans were delivering a boatload of Budweiser to what was then New York and he decided to confiscate it in the name of the rebellion. He and the others dressed up as sailors while Persiphone and the other women folk dressed up as ladies of the evening. Okay, they dressed up like hookers.

The women lured the sailors from the boat with promise of shore leave and a darn good time. Having not seen decent looking women in a month of Sundays, the sailors went for it hook,line and sinker. They were off the boat in a New York minute—which is where the expression came from. The ladies lured them into a dark alley where they were beaten senseless with tire irons and left for dead. Even in the name of freedom, Persiphonian women don’t put out for sailors.

In the meantime, Hezekiah rode up to the ship on his mount Betsy, and boarded the ship along with 100 members of the rebellion. At first, they tried to throw the shipment of beer into the harbor, but it was very heavy. So Hezekiah made what turned out to be an important tactical military decision. They would drink it all and throw the empties overboard. There was one rebel named Alphonso Gore who had a problem with throwing empty cans into the river, but he was overruled. They threw him in the river instead.

They began drinking. Now, as everyone knows, you can’t buy beer, you can only rent it. So it required several trips to the restroom before all the beer was consumed.

When the left the ship several hours later, it was floating several feet higher in the water and the rebels were seriously inebriated. General Hezekiah tried to mount Betsy for the ride home. He fell off the other side, landing in a puddle of muck where he drowned because he was too drunk to get up and everyone else was too drunk to notice he was missing—technically Metropolis’s first battle death.

I know, it wasn’t much. It wasn’t exactly as though he got run through by a sword or a light sabre, but it was close enough for the new Persiphonia to order his statue with both of Betsy’s legs lifted in the air. Having no testicles, it looked even better. The city was named after Persiphone in honor of her sacrifices—beating a dozen horny sailors senseless with nothing but a tire iron and a knee to the groin all by herself. Amused America surrendered quietly and soon, bipolars from across Metropolis flocked to Persiphonia where their ancestors remain today. And Hezekiah became the only casualty in the war for independence.

Historians at the Hester Prynne College here in Persiphonia have determined that far too few Metropolians know the history behind their country. Therefore, we are sending history professors throughout the land to establish tenure at your colleges and teach Metropolian history to your citizens.

If it is entertainment you require, we are also sending along a DVD of The Patriot starring that hunk Mel Gibson. You have to admit, the American Revolution was a LOT more exciting.

Sincerely yours, Persiphone Hellecat, Mayor, Empress, Queen and Exaulted Grand Poobah of Persiphonia, Land of the Free and Home of the Bipolar. (We have an excellent medical plan that includes prescriptions!) A PROUD NO NUKES CITY!!! We are now SOLAR!!! Let the sun shine in!

Johnny We Hardly Knew Ye

My heart goes out to John Mc Cain–really it does. The guy did everything in the world he could to become President, but the odds (and Sarah Palin) just weren’t working in his favor. He’s a great guy. A good family man, a war hero, a proud member of the Senate. But he is getting on in years and things slip his mind now and then. We all saw it a couple of times in the election when he couldn’t keep his Sunnis and Shites separated. And heck, anybody could forget where they are when they are traveling as much as he is giving speeches. So what if he said “Good Morning Iowa!” once in a while when he was really in Oregon? Sometimes I can’t remember what I had for breakfast. Sometimes I can’t remember what breakfast even is.

But for Heaven’s sake, it’s time somebody sat him down and let him know that this thing is over. The man needs some well deserved rest. I’m sure he’ll understand when you tell him. He does have a good sense of humor. I’ve seen him on The Daily Show and The Colbert Report many times and he seems like a genuinely funny man. I bet if you tell him the election was 4 months ago, he will thumb his forehead with the heel of his hand and say “Me bad!” But in the meantime, someone has to do it. I don’t know. Draw straws or something. But please do it soon. The longer you wait the harder it will be. Let’s not let this guy wander around with a lantern like Diogenes in search of an honest man forever. He may never find one.

Here is John Mc Cain’s story . . .

I was sitting in my office the other day trying to get some work done when suddenly I heard this loud patriotic music being played over loudspeakers outside on the street. I looked out and saw a large red, white and blue bus coming down the street.

People were gathered around to see what was going on. I ran down to the street to discover John Mc Cain’s Straight Talk Express bus parked at the curb. The doors opened and out he came, John Mc Cain himself, blue shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows, tie undone—that “I am working hard for you” kind of look.

The people of Persiphonia started to tell him that he seemed to have strayed—that he was no longer in America, but in Metropolis and that the election was all resolved some 3 months or more ago. I silenced them. The poor dear seemed so enthusiastic that it was heartbreaking to disappoint him. His wife Cindy was standing behind him, looking very uncomfortable. I think she knows the truth. Nobody’s had the heart to tell him the truth.

We allowed Mr. Mc Cain to give his speech, and a fine speech it was. He made many good points. Some of them, I might actually consider for Persiphonia. The Persiphonians gave him a nice rousing round of applause and then he dove into the crowd shaking hands and posing for pictures. We even managed to drum up a couple of very cute babies for him to pose with.

Then he headed down the street toward Lillian Coleman’s coffee shop, where he had a cup of coffee and a donut while sitting at the counter discussing the important issues. Issues that might be important in America—but really have no relevance in Metropolis. However, everyone was very nice and chatted with him. He even signed a photo for Lillian’s Wall of Fame. She put it right next to the picture of Ricardo Montalban and that midget. Ricardo dropped in once for a bowl of chili.

He asked me if Sarah had dropped by for a visit. I told him she had and that she was a lovely woman. I neglected to tell him about the other stuff, which you can read in my blog about her visit. I’m sure John would have been very upset to learn what a pig his running mate is.

After he passed out hats, buttons and bumper stickers, Mr. and Mrs. Mc Cain got back on the bus, and off they went—music blaring and John waving out of the window at his new Persiphonian friends. In a way, it was a fun day, but in a way it was tragic. One of his campaign workers who knows the truth managed to slip off the bus and stay behind in Persiphonia. Nice young kid. I think I’ll be able to give him a job here at city hall.

Mr. Mc Cain is now headed to your town. Please, treat him nicely. The man is, after all, a war hero. And help one of his campaign workers to escape. They are very embarrassed by the whole thing.

For entertainment, John has a very rousing selection of John Philip Sousa marches that he can play through his loud speakers. They really get the blood pumping. And please send my regards to John and Cindy. Such a lovely couple.

Sincerely yours, Persiphone Hellecat, Mayor, Empress, Queen and Exaulted Grand Poobah of Persiphonia, Land of the Free and Home of the Bipolar. (We have an excellent medical plan that includes prescriptions!) A PROUD NO NUKES CITY!!! We are now SOLAR!!! Let the sun shine in!

Half A Pot Is Better Than None

Nothing can be worse than seeing two old friends fighting. And when it’s over something totally stupid, it’s even worse. But every once in a while, two old friends get into some kind of a fight that even the judgement of Solomon couldn’t fix.

This is what happened recently to our resident old coots Ernie Cheney and Chester Wiggins–the infamous ice fishermen. Technically Chester was in the right. Ernie was throwing the pot away and he said Chester could have it. However, Ernie didn’t know the history of the pot or he wouldn’t have been throwing it out in the first place. So what do you do in a case like this? When two little old men are throwing stink bombs down chimneys and lighting bags of dog poop on front porches–acting like spoiled children.

Well, basically you send out a bulletin to the cities in Metropolis and see if someone wants one of them and try to get them as far away from each other as possible. And since they can’t agree on ownership of said pot, you confiscate it in the name of Persiphonia and put it on display for everyone to see.

Which is exactly what I did. Some very kind city decided on Chester and he moved lock, stock and barrel minus the pot to the other end of Metropolis. He was doing pretty well for a while. He got a job as a school crossing guard and started to make new friends. But every once in a while, he would say something like, “I need to tell Ernie about this” or “I wish Ernie was here to see this.” It was clear that he missed his pal.

And back in Persiphonia, Ernie was spending most of his time playing dominos down at the corner pub sighing and saying pretty much the same things about Chester.

Finally, the Mayor of the other city contacted me and told me that Chester simply had to come home. He was homesick and missed Ernie too much. So I agreed and let Chester come back. I sat the two of them down in my office and told them what we were going to do. First, they were going to be equal partners in the ownership of the pot. They were going to donate the pot to the Persiphonia Historical Society for full value. Then, they would each take 50% of the deduction on their income taxes. The pot would be left on display in City Hall until such time as we have a museum to display it in and the two old coots can come and visit it whenever they want.

In the meantime, since Chester was so good with the children as a crossing guard, we assigned him a post here. Ernie then volunteered himself and he was assigned a post nearby. The kids love them. They call them the “Lake Monster Dudes”. All of which goes to show that even a pot worth a half million dollars can keep two old friends apart forever. And by the way–they spend every weekend going through the rest of the junk in their houses. And they’ve agreed to split any money they make if they find something else that’s worth a small fortune and go on a singles cruise together. I hope the old widows are ready for them.

Here’s their story . . .

Maybe you’ve heard me talk about Ernie Cheney and Chester Wiggins—Persiphonia’s resident old coots. You may remember the incident with the ice fishing? If not, you can find it on the blog.

Ernie and Chester are next door neighbors over on Knotty Pine Lane where they have lived all their lives. When their wives were alive, the four of them were inseparable. Now that they’re alone, you can always find the two of them out hunting or fishing together. They can be grouchy at times, but mostly they used to be pretty nice guys. Used to be.

Not long ago, Ernie decided to clean out his house. His wife was a collector—salt shakers, depression glass, dolls, teapots . . . Penelope Cheney collected just about everything. So Ernie decided to have a garage sale and get rid of a lot of the clutter. Dust collectors, he called them. Chester helped him and he made a good bit of money on the sale. He planned on using it to rent a cabin during hunting season so he and Chester could spend a few days in the woods.

Everything that was left over from the sale, the two of them hauled out to the curb for the trash. Yes, Persiphionia has curbside trash pickup. Part of what we charge people 40% taxes for. Chester’s eye caught this old pot. It looked like just the right size to pick up all the nuts and bolts on his workbench and keep them inside. He asked Ernie if he could have it and Ernie said okay. And sure enough, it made a perfect pot for holding nuts and bolts.

Then The Antiques Roadshow announced they would be doing a show from Persiphonia. Chester decided to take the old pot over and see if it was worth anything. The appraisers were beside themselves when they saw it. It seems it is the work of Chauncey Potter, Metropolis’ first potter. It is one of his very early pieces and was actually made as a jar to keep odds and ends in on his workbench. It dated to 1725. They didn’t have nuts and bolts back then. Chester almost fell over when they put a value of $500,000 on the jar and told him it was a museum quality piece.

He didn’t mention anything to Ernie when he got home. He just carefully set the pot in a safe place and went about his business calling auctioneers to put it up for sale.

Everything was fine until the show came on the air. Ernie stormed over to Chester’s house demanding the pot back. Chester said it was his—that Ernie gave it to him out of the trash. Ernie said it didn’t matter, it was still his.

Thus began the battle of Knotty Pine Lane. Ernie struck first. He mowed his lawn and tossed all the grass clippings over the fence into Chester’s back yard. Chester found a dead bird in his yard and put it in Ernie’s mailbox. Ernie climbed up on Chester’s roof and dropped a stink bomb down the chimney. Chester put a bag of flaming dog poop on Ernie’s front porch.

Then things started to get really nasty. Ernie chained the rear axel of Chester’s truck to the fire hydrant so that when he drove away from the curb, his back wheels fell off. Chester threw a brick threw Ernie’s picture window. Ernie ordered ten pizzas to be delivered to Chester’s. Chester ordered twenty magazine subscriptions in Ernie’s name. Ernie put up a signs at the library and in all the grocery stores listing Chester’s house for sale. Chester called the local funeral home and told them Ernie was dead and they needed to send over a hearse.

Now, I have had it. Something has to give. Or maybe something has to go. So, I’ll just send the pot over to your town. Ha ha. You went for that one, didn’t you? I may be biopolar, but I’m not nuts. Actually, I have commandeered the pot in the name of Persiphonia and intend to display it in the Town Hall until such time as we can get a suitable museum built. Soon, my children, soon.

However, Ernie and Chester are up for grabs. If your town needs a resident old coot to sit in the park and make rude remarks to passers by while he plays checkers, spits and farts a lot, these are your guys. Every town really does need a resident old coot just to add some character. They are great for hanging out in front of the barbershop and complaining and hacking up a lot of phlegm while they pull their pants up around their necks. And they are a lot of fun at the early bird specials in restaurants. What would waitresses do without those nickel tips?

So take your pick. I’ll keep the other one. And the pot is ours. If you need some entertainment, ask Ernie or Chester to tell you how life was when they were a kid. And expect the answer to take hours. Let us know which one you want. They can be ready to go in a couple hours. Or ask them how they feel and be ready to be shown all kinds of surgical scars dating back 75 years or more. I really hate to do this to an old coot, but for the sake of peace and quiet, I have no other choices. Who said being The Mayor was going to be easy?

Sincerely yours, Persiphone Hellecat, Mayor, Empress, Queen and Exaulted Grand Poobah of Persiphonia, Land of the Free and Home of the Bipolar. (We have an excellent medical plan that includes prescriptions!) A PROUD NO NUKES CITY!!! We are now SOLAR!!! Let the sun shine in!

Harry Geyser–The Man, The Myth, The Corrupt Politician

There is nothing sadder than political corruption. Don’t you just hate it when you read in the papers that someone in whom you put your trust has betrayed you by getting caught with a hooker or embezzling funds from the city? It makes you feel as though you have thrown away your vote.

But Harry Geyser is the king of political corruption. We’re still trying to figure out one little thing that he did RIGHT while on the Persiphonia City Council. How could we have been so deceived? Harry will go down in history as the most corrupt politician ever. Nixon can rest easier in his grave knowing that there is a Harry Geyser. This guy did it all. But it wasn’t until that God of Television Chris Hanson nailed him online with an underage hooker that the story came together. So have a seat over there. Enjoy a margarita and a chocolate chip cookie.

Incidentally, one of the Mayors from a town nearby had the courage to take a little peek at the unmarked videos we found in Harry’s car. It seems they were bootlegged copies of Walt Disney Princess movies. Will this man stop at nothing?

Here is Harry Geyser’s story–every sordid detail . . .

It had to happen sooner or later. We knew it would. Political corruption has come to Persiphonia. This evening, one Harry Geyser, member of the City Council of Persiphonia was arrested by the PBI (Persiphonian Bureau of Investigation) coming out of the No-Tell Motel with a hooker who was less than half his age. They were tipped off by none other than Chris Hanson. (The man is a GOD!)

The young woman identified herself as Tabbi Sandborne and told the police that she was ‘unemployed’. The police produced internet ‘chat’ conversations between the two of them showing that Miss Sandborne was in fact Clarissa Petrie, a junior at Jim Morrison High School. Mr. Geyser was using the name HOTBOY4U to chat with the young Miss Petrie on the internet and convince her that he was 18 and wanted to meet her. He sent along several naughty photos, but obviously none of them were actually him.

Earlier in the day, the police witnessed the exchange of a large suitcase—given to Mr. Geyser by Grady Littlehorn, a lobbyist for Neutro Nuclear, a nuclear power plant company trying to get permission to build plants in Persiphonia. The suitcase was located in the trunk of Mr. Geyser’s city owned Mercedes. Inside was $250,000 in cash along with information about building power plants.

Search warrents for Mr. Geyser’s home turned up a lot of evidence. First off, there was a brand new giant screen TV in the living room, a hot tub in the garden and they had recently broken ground for an inground pool. In the bathroom medicine cabinet were several containers of ‘the clear’ and ‘the cream’, both illegal steroids banned in Persiphonia—both linking Mr. Geyser to the Balco Chemical steroids scandal.

Further, Mrs. Geyser was away in Paris having a boob job and the two young children were being cared for by Esperanza Gomes, an illegal alien housekeeper from Guatamala who the Geysers do not pay taxes on. In the bedroom closet were leather corsets and handcuffs—evidence that Mrs. Geyser was a Dominatrix, plus certain larger items of female clothing indicating Mr. Geyser was a cross-dresser, and there was a mirror containing a razor blade and lines of white powder on the dresser and the trash was filled with empty vodka bottles.

A check of Mr. Geyser’s city Mastercard showed that he had padded his expense account and stole money from the city and that he used it to entertain women on a regular basis. In fact, on occasion he even used it to entertain men. It seems Mr. Geyser was an equal opportunity corrupt politician.

Needless to say, Mr. Geyser out of City Hall faster than Michael Phelps’ picture was off the cereal boxes. What is this world coming to when a politician—a person who is charged by the public lead them—would throw it all away for a teenage tramp, a suitcase full of cash, a giant TV, a pool, big muscles, a wife with large breasts, bisexual dinner dates, an illegal housekeeper, a vodka martini, a pair of frilly panties, a good spanking and a little blow when you can afford it?

Interpol was immediately contacted and is extraditing Mistress Jennifer AKA Jennifer Geyser to Persiphonia immediately. There will be no trial in this case. GUILTY all around. I have banished the Geysers—in two different directions. If one of them turns up in your city, hard labor is in order and plenty of it. With all the steroids, Mr. Geyser should be more than capable of it. And if Mrs. Geyser can crack a whip, she can certainly scrub toilets.

The two children have been adopted by a very lovely family who have no kids but lots of dogs and horses out in our countryside. They are very happy there. Esperanza Gomez has been deported to Guatamala along with three relatives also working for the Geyser’s—a gardener, a chauffer and a maid. Miss Petrie’s parents have taken away her laptop computer and sent her off to a convent school for a few years. It’s only a shame that this had to make the headlines. One bad egg can ruin a whole city. From now on, Persiphonia will be more careful of who it elects to its City Council.

For entertainment, we found a couple of video tapes in the back of Mr. Geyser’s car, too. Nobody had the stomach to look at them. Take a peek if you’re so inclined. Who knows? They may be funny. They may also be plain old creepy. We’ll also send a copy of All The President’s Men so crooked politicians can see what happens to the likes of them when justice prevails.

Sincerely yours, Persiphone Hellecat, Mayor, Empress, Queen and Exaulted Grand Poobah of Persiphonia, Land of the Free and Home of the Bipolar. (We have an excellent medical plan that includes prescriptions!) A PROUD NO NUKES CITY!!! We are now SOLAR!!! Let the sun shine in!

From Red Hats To Orange Jumpsuits

There is a poem that begins “When I am old I shall wear purple…” It is certainly a lovely sentiment. I personally enjoy wearing purple and I’m not even old (coughs). However, in Persiphonia, we have added a little line to that poem. Here we say “When I am old I shall wear purple–unless I act up in public, and then I will replace the purple with an orange prison jumpsuit.” We have them in all sizes. Plenty of them. So if your Red Hat Society group decides to get a little wild and hit the wine spritzers too hard, they can expect to spend the night in the pokey. As did our first chapter of the society, Helle’s Grannies. Yes, they got just a little too rowdy and their husbands were a little slow in coming down to the jail to post bail for them. Hence, their first meeting was held behind bars–but not the kind of bars they intended.

Since then they have been perfect angels (pun intended) and we now consider them model citizens. In fact, a second chapter has sprung up called Voluptuous Vixens. And yes, we even have prison jumpsuits to fit them should they act up. But for now, they are focusing on tea parties and dinner parties and their manners have been commendable. I guess for some, all it takes is one night in the old Greybar Hotel to learn a lesson. Perhaps when I am old enough, I might join. You might want to stand back. Lightning is about to strike.

Here is the story of The Red Hat Society in Persiphonia . . .

The Red Hat Society is a world wide organization for women over the age of 50. Maybe you’ve seen them. They wear bright purple clothes and huge red hats raising a raucous wherever they go. It’s supposed to make them feel younger.

Well Persiphonia has its first chapter. They are called Helle’s Grannies. A bunch of women from the library book club and some of the ladies from the Historical Society. Or maybe I should say Hysterical Society.

They decided to have their first meeting last night at Chez Pierre’s French restaurant over near the Eiffel Tower. Things started getting rowdy right away. They were loud and they were flirting with anything that walked by them wearing pants. To say the least, it was embarrassing for their 21 year old waiter to have a 65 year old widow grab his butt and then try and take him home and adopt him. Another one pulled her waiter onto her lap and she tried to unzip his pants.

Of course, yesterday we finally got our firehouses and so fire became legal in Persiphonia. That meant that the crepes suzettes were flaming when the waiters carried them out. One of the ladies, Mamie Yarbeck suddenly gets up on the table and starts dancing and yelling “Woo Hoo!” as she swings around this feather boa. She had a couple wine spritzers and she was a little unsteady on her feet. She started hiking up her skirt until everyone could see her girdle. The other women were cheering her on.

The Maitre’d came over and insisted that Mamie get off his table and behave herself. That’s when Harriet Robinson grabbed him, pulled him toward her and laid a big wet French kiss on him. Just as she did, a waiter carrying a flaming dish of crepes suzettes walked by. The flame caught the feathers on her hat on fire. There was mass pandemonium with broken glasses, dishes and furniture everywhere as people stormed the exits. Persiphonians are just getting used to fire.

Fortunately, we have a firehouse on nearly every city block and 9 of the best looking firemen you ever saw came rushing in with a fire extinguisher and started spraying the place. It was too late though, because the Maitre’d had already put the fire out by pouring a pitcher of water onto Harriet’s hat. Harriet was hitting him over the head with her purse and screaming at him for ruining her hat when the firemen arrived. One of them had to rescue him – our first fireman hero. Then Harriet noticed the firemen hunks and their rippling muscles. They don’t wear shirts under those hot rubber jackets and all our firemen moonlight as models for the covers of romance novels. They make Fabio look gay. She ran over and jumped into Brad Winston’s arms, insisting she needed to be rescued. With her hands around his neck and her legs wrapped around his waist, he carried her out of the restaurant and directly into a waiting police wagon.

The restaurant insisted that the women pay for all damages to the restaurant. They all called their husbands for bail money, but oddly, none of them answered the phone. That’s because they were all over at the Dew Drop Inn watching hockey and drinking boilermakers. The poor women—all 16 of them—ended up having their very first Red Hat Society meeting behind bars after being frisked, deloused, photographed and fingerprinted by one very mean prison matron. When their husbands arrived sometime mid morning, three of them were being given oxygen and Harriet had passed out completely.

They were brought before me in court early this afternoon. They were a mess. All of them had been crying and their running eye makeup made them look like Heath Ledger in Batman. Using Persiphonia’s rock, paper, scissors method of justice, they were found guilty. They were sentenced to pay the restaurant for all damages and spend the next ten Saturdays scrubbing the floors and bathrooms at City Hall. And they were ordered that any future meetings of Helle’s Grannies be respectable and ladylike. If I hear otherwise, their sentence will be increased. And I ordered them to turn all credit cards and ATM cards over to their husbands until their sentences are carried out. The hubbies loved that part—especially right after the new malls opened.

They were all very grateful to be out of jail and promised to behave themselves. Usually when I have such court appearances, the defendants are teenagers, not senior citizens. But sometimes a Mayor has to be tough. You let one granny get away with molesting a 21 year old waiter and pretty soon they are all molesting 21 year old waiters. And then we have anarchy!

I urge all Mayors to check and see if they have a local Red Hat Society group operating in their neck of the woods. I will send Harriet over so you can see what they look like. If you do, beware. Looks are deceiving. They may look like innocent grannies, but they are nothing of the sort. They are lecherous old women. And watch out … fire and big hats don’t mix.

For entertainment today, ask Harriet to table dance for you. Tell her I said it was all right just this once.

Sincerely yours, Persiphone Hellecat, Mayor, Empress, Queen and Exaulted Grand Poobah of Persiphonia, Land of the Free and Home of the Bipolar. (We have an excellent medical plan that includes prescriptions!) A PROUD NO NUKES CITY!!! We are now SOLAR!!! Let the sun shine in!

Let The Good Times Roll!

Happy Mardi Gras! Here I was getting ready for a wonderful, fun day when a note from the President arrived on my desk. We have begun taking a daily Census and tracking certain types of people. And right there in my note it stated that Persiphonia had 7 homeless people and 1 shopaholic. I was shocked! Obviously the Census Taker caught me leaving the big sales and nailed me as Persiphonia’s first and ONLY shopaholic. That’s only because my friends left the mall before I did. Since then, a lot of my friends have gotten nailed. And as for the homeless people, Mickey Rourke is a good friend of mine and he was in town to visit me. He always looks homeless. That’s just how he is.

So before I went off to snatch my share of Mardi Gras beads, I just had to dash out a memo explaining the stats. They are inaccurate and I wanted everyone to know that. Then it was off to Mardi Gras for some fun–carefully making sure to avoid  Mary Beauvais who just refuses to keep her shirt down, even though it’s against Persiphonian law to share your boobs with others an Mardi Gras. She just gets away with it every year because the cops are too afraid to get close to her fearing she’ll flash them, too.

Here’s how Mardi Gras went in Persiphonia this year . . .

Before I begin, I must make the following Mayoral statement . . . There are not 7 homeless people in Persiphonia. They counted those 6 people laying on park benches in Sully Park as homeless when in fact they were members of our stargazing group holding a meeting. Included in that group was Dr. Hillary Quark, a Nobel Prize laureate in astronomy from our world renowned Obi Wan Kenobi Planetarium. Hardly homeless. She lives in a small room in the back of the Planetarium. The 7^th one was Mickey Roarke here visiting after the Oscars. I can’t help it. He always looks that way. And now on to today’s story . . .

Laissez Les Bon Temps Roulez! Happy Mardi Gras! Happy Shrove Tuesday! Happy Carnivale! Let the good times roll!

Here in Persiphonia Mardi Gras is a really big day. Why? Because it’s Mayor loves BEADS!!! We have parades all over town and thousands of strings of beads get thrown into the crowds. Everybody loves a good party, and in Persiphonia Mardi Gras doesn’t disappoint.

However, we do have one rule that differs from Mardi Gras in New Orleans. In Persiphonia, there are penalties for lifting your top for beads. Namely a night in one of our holding cells in our courthouses. Mardi Gras is a family affair and we want everybody to have fun. It’s too darn cold here to be lifting your top anyway. There are certain parts of the body where one would prefer not to have frostbite. Even opening your coat for a cheap string of beads is really asking too much.

We really only have one problem with this rule. Mary Beauvais and her husband Henry settled here several years ago from New Orleans. In fact, they were instrumental in starting the Mardi Gras tradition in Persiphonia. However, Henry passed on a few years back and Mary is getting on in years. She’s starting to think she’s back in New Orleans and 18 years old. The police have caught her a few times lifting her shirt and screaming “Hey baby, check these out. Where’s my beads?”

It isn’t a pretty sight. Let’s just say that if Mary Beauvais went jogging braless, she would be in serious danger on hitting herself in the knees. Unfortunately, we all have to live with the fact that gravity isn’t just a good idea, it’s the law, and sooner or later it catches up with all of us girls. Things go south, if you know what I mean. Well, Mary’s have gone WAY south. And along with the great gravity drop unfortunately comes senility.

The police are very nice to her and try to get her to pull her top down before she freezes. And the people in the parades make sure she has plenty of beads around her neck so they kind of hide what’s underneath. Fortunately Mardi Gras is only one day out of the year. The rest of the year, Mary is a perfectly respectable citizen and a sweet old lady, but on Mardi Gras, she just lets loose.

Last year, she actually got up on one of the floats, lifted her shirt and started singing “Twist and Shout”. I will never be able to listen to that song again without remembering Mary shaking it up, baby. Several people had to leave the parade to go wash out their eyes. Optometrists offices were filled to capacity the following day. By the way, I am sending her over to your city with a load of beads for your citizens. I’ve asked her to behave herself and keep her shirt on. We can only hope . . .

Anyway, we will finish the day off with a King Cake. My son Feral and his lovely Goth girlfriend Malicious intent have decided to make it this year. Usually, you cook a little plastic baby doll into the cake and the one who gets it is the lucky one for the year. Only Feral and Malicious have decided to use an adorable little skeleton instead. How sweet. Can you hear the sarcasm in my voice? I am trying very hard to deal with a son who now wears black lipstick and eyeliner. Hopefully it’s just a phase and it will pass. Hopefully sometime before I completely go ballistic or before he gets anything pierced.

So it’s off to Mardi Gras, dressed in my costume and mask, ready to grab a couple dozen strings of beads and dance the night away. In Persiphonia, even those who aren’t Catholic and practice Lent know that it isn’t called Fat Tuesday for nothing. By law, Mardi Gras is followed by 40 days of dieting. As of tomorrow morning, it’s Jenny Craig time in Persiphonia. Bathing suit season is coming fast, and we have bought a number of new beach resorts. So eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow it’s Ultra Slimfast all around.

For entertainment today, I am sending you a copy of My NOLA, by New Orleans’ own son, Harry Conick, Jr. Have a blast. Ask Mary to sing Twist and Shout. Or maybe you’d better not.

And by the way, since we are now keeping score, the ONE shopaholic in Persiphonia is it’s Mayor. Isn’t that obvious?

Sincerely yours, Persiphone Hellecat, Mayor, Empress, Queen and Exaulted Grand Poobah of Persiphonia, Land of the Free and Home of the Bipolar. (We have an excellent medical plan that includes prescriptions!) A PROUD NO NUKES CITY!!! We are now SOLAR!!! Let the sun shine in!