Cork on a Fork (or Why I Was Tired Yesterday)

Someone (who will remain nameless) commented on my last post (in a somewhat critical and/or scoffing manner, I might add). She questioned how I could be so tired when I was posting before ten in the evening. Because I do, at times, get slightly defensive, I'm taking the time to answer her question. So this post is her fault. You have been warned.

It was after school, I was on my way home, and I get a call from my immediate superior at the agency. This time we'll call him Mister Slightly-Panicky-On-The-Phone.

"Mr. Morgenthall," he said, because we are so not on a first-name basis, "you are our closest consultant to the Blorgman Brugles Bagel Bakery. We need you there right away." No, he didn't say 'Blorgman Brugles' but he used a name of a bagel company that took over another bagel company, which is now defunct, and I'm still in mourning, so I'm not saying the name here, and I'm never saying the name of the new bagel company, and that's something you'll have to deal with.

"What's happening at the BBBB?" I said.

"Magical assault. We don't know the exact weapon, but it's blown out one wall, the roof, and half the fabric store next door."

"I'm on it," I said.

"Sounds nasty," said The Dog when I hung up.

"Less talk, more pretending like you have to hurry to keep up with me when I hurry."

"See my tail wagging?" he said. "That means I'm working hard."

We ran to the BBBB. It was true. Dust was still rising through the hole that used to be a ceiling, and people were running out of the fabric store with pillaged swatches.

"What do you see, Dog?"

"I don't think you're going to like it," he said.

"I have to know what we're getting into. Give it to me straight."

"Looks like a man, mid thirties, and he's holding a fork."

That shook me, but I still had to ask the question: "Anything on the fork?"

"I said you weren't going to like it."

"Dog."

"It's a cork. He has a cork on a fork."

We dealt with it, but now can you understand, oh nameless critic, why I might possibly have been tired yesterday? A cork on a fork, and I dealt with it. Me! Okay, me and The Dog, but still mostly me. I had a right to be tired. I'm still tired. So there.

I'm Tired

I hear that fatigue is not an excuse for not blogging. In fact, based on some blogs I've read, it seems that a person should be half asleep in order to really blog the right way.

Take, for example, Monson Mayhew Mariston, otherwise known as The Happy Hermeticist. Does the man simply refuse to face the fact--an extremely well documented fact--that the writings of Hermes Trismegistus have been proven--again and again--to be the equivalent of 2nd century pulp fiction? They were a soap opera, for crying out loud!

And here he is, our Mr. M and M and M, happily hiding his head in the sand. It's not magic, Monson, it's drool, it's drivel, it's dog-slobber (with all due apologies to The Dog).

All I can think is that he writes his blog when he's as tired as I am. Right now.

Good night.

Caves

"What," I asked, "is the point of a cave?"

"If Rich had asked that question I would be interested in what came next," said The Dog.

"They're big holes in the ground," I said.

"Still not interested," said The Dog.

"The Wamapazangi people believe that caves are God's way of cooling the earth," I said. "Like a fork in a cake."

"You made up the Wamapazangi."

"While the Pora Lanuta from the Arctic feel that crevasses in the ice cap are how demons enter the world."

"That's true about the demons, but you made up the Pora Lanuta, too."

"And then the Rochemont family is famous for their pet cave."

"The Rochemonts are also famous for only marrying first cousins."

"But," I said decisively, "none of this changes the fact that caves are just holes in rock. Holes. In rock. What's the point?"

"Okay, I'll admit: the middle part was interesting," said The Dog.

"What about the beginning and end?"

"Don't ask," he said.

Last of Shmisneyland--I'll make him talk.

"He's not going to talk," said The Dog.

"My friend doesn't think you'll talk," I said, blocking the costumed figure's escape. "But I think you will. I think I'll make you talk."

"How?" asked The Dog. "These guys are like the guards at Buckingham Palace. They are trained for silence. They stand them out for hours in the sun, not talking."

"Now you're messing with me. All they get is a two-word instruction: don't talk."

"How do you know that?" asked The Dog. "My explanation is just as reasonable."

"That's ridiculous," I said. "And this guy will talk."

My target put his hands over his over-sized mouth and shook his head, smiling idiotically the whole time. Taunting me.

"I bet you were born dumb," I said, "and I mean intelligence, not just the talking thing."

"There are books," said The Dog, "about how to insult people. You should buy one."

"Help me out here, Dog! I'm desperate."

"Okay, I'll help. Why don't you block this guy's way while you talk frantically to an invisible friend?"

I took The Dog's advice because I couldn't help it. "Talk, darn you! Didn't your mom teach you to be polite? See? I'm sneezing! Achoo!"

The costumed figure patted me on the shoulder and rocked his head from side to side. Sympathy. Sympathy as torment. Stupid grouse.

"Pete!" yelled Morgan. "Mom says we're leaving."

"I can't! He hasn't talked yet."

"Stuff it," said Morgan. "Let's go."

"I'm dying of cancer!" I yelled. "And I have allergies--fatal allergies! All I want is for you to talk. It's my final wish! Make my last minutes complete!"

Morgan dragged me away, and that white glove waved me off. Mocking me.

"I'll be back!" I yelled, then I whispered the promise again to myself. "I'll be back."

More From Shmisneyland--A Chat With An Employee

"How long have you been here?" I asked.

"Ninety-seven years," Arthur said.

"But Shmisneyland hasn't been around that long."

"I'm one of the originals," he said. "Three of us died here before they built the place, and they kept us on."

"You enjoy it?" asked The Dog.

"It's not bad. Fly around a bit, moan. I get my turn with the waltz thing on the weekends, and last Tuesday Jerry let me possess the suit of armor. That's always a kick."

"I bet," I said. "You get out much? I mean, outside of the whole Haunted Mansion."

"I used to, but not much point. My friends are all here, we have the Jungle Tour memorized, and honestly, once you've seen fifty years of tourists, they start to look the same." The ghost sighed. "This is where I get off. It was nice talking to you."

"Good to meet you, Arthur." I waved as he flew off, giving us a ghastly moan as a goodbye.

"What a nice guy," said The Dog.

"We'll have to do this ride again," I said.

It's A Small World (or More From Shmisneyland)

"Can I get out my cookies now?" asked Morgan.

"It's not that bad," I said.

"Jail is boring," said The Dog.

"But I want to blow them up," said Morgan. (As a reminder, Morgan uses cookies in her magic. And she likes blowing things up.)

"Rich, can you stop her?" I asked.

"Mom put you in charge," said my brother, his mouth full.

"In charge of Morgan? What was she thinking?"

"She was thinking you're older than us."

"I really, really want to blow them up," said Morgan.

"Why all this rage?" I asked. "They're small. They're animatronic. They sing."

"Yes," said my sister. "They sing the same song, over and over and over, and Rich has dragged us onto this ride three times, and something is going to explode. It's me or the international twitching robot children. I choose the children."

"I think she's serious," said The Dog.

"Don't worry about it," said Rich, swallowing.

"How can I not?" I asked.

My brother smiled at me.

"You ate the cookies," I said.

"I like this song," said Rich.

Hello from Shmisneyland!

We're taking a little vacation here in Shmisneyland. Yes, Shmisneyland, because if the Shmisney corporation isn't going to give up its copyright hold on Grickey Grouse, they're certainly not going to react well to what I have to say about Shmisneyland. There was logic in there somewhere.

All that aside, let's talk about lines. You've stood in them before, and I'm standing in them now: the endless Shmisneyland lines that weave in, out, around, under, over, and back. The lines that are so convoluted you'd swear they were designed by M.C. Escher and--every so often--you'd swear you can see yourself going the other way.

You can.

How do I know this? I tried to cheat. Yes, it's shameful, but I did it, and there it is. The Dog wasn't happy with me, but I did not travel all this way to spend my time staring at the outside of Trash Mountain. So, with a little careful application of Baumgarten's (R) Plastic Clips, I shortened the line for Rich, Morgan and me. Then we passed the sign telling us we had a twenty minute wait. Again.

That's right, we went past the sign again.

"That's impossible," I said.
"You made the line longer," said Morgan. "I want a refund."
"Did you mess up the spell?" asked Rich.
"No," I said, "and you didn't pay me anything to do that spell anyway. No refund."
"Dog?" asked Morgan.
"He did it right," said The Dog. "There's something strange here."
"Hey," said Rich, "is that us over there?"

There you have it. Incontrovertible proof that the Shmisney company bends time and/or space to trap you in lines so long you finally go crazy and find yourself smiling back at the nut-jobs in princess costumes, and then you buy grouse ears.

Happiest place on earth? I don't think so.

Cacia's had a baby!

"Neighbors had a little girl," said Mom.

"Congratulations," said The Dog.

"What did they name her?" I asked. "Hang on. We'll guess."

"Good idea," said The Dog. "He's a trumpet player, she's a jazz singer, so it's going to be something musical. Stella."

"That's theatrical," I said. "Street Car Named Desire, right?"

"You've seen Street Car Named Desire?" asked Mom. "I'm not sure how I feel about that."

"I just saw the 'Stella' scene, Mom. I don't even know what it's about."

"So not Stella," said The Dog. "Carmina Burana is musical. They could name her 'Carmina.'"

"If we're using song names," said Mom, "then they could name her Stormy Weather."

"Mom," I said, "that's a cool name."

"They didn't name her Stormy."

"But they should have. Let's call them and suggest it."

"Pete."

"Okay," I said, "not Stormy. Is it even something musical?"

"Not so much," said Mom. "Wait. A Beatles song."

"All I can think of is Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds," I said. "Rita? They want their daughter to be a meter maid?"

"Michelle," said The Dog.

"Very good, Dog," said Mom. "Michelle Catherine is what they named her."

"I still like Stormy," I said.

"Well," said Mom, "we don't all get what we want."

A short short-story

The idea for this one showed up while I was walking back from the local drug store with a bag of discount candy.  (Never underestimate the power of candy, I suppose.)

It's a fast read, so those of you who are put off by longer stories, this is a good place to get your feet wet.

Oh.  That's right.  Here's the link to Google Docs.  Enjoy.

New email! (And telephone lines.)

I finally got my own email address to use for this blog. 'Didn't you have email before?' you ask. 'Of course,' I answer patiently, with a touch of condescension, 'but who is going to give out their personal email on their blog? Not I.'

So here it is: peteandthedog@gmail.com. Use it. Cherish it. Treat it gently. Also, send all your questions and blog ideas there. I'll blog about anything. I have an opinion about everything. And if I don't, I'll find one fast.

Seriously. Any clean idea you send me, I'll use it. That's how amazing I am, but I'm also kid friendly. Because I'm basically a kid, and I like me, so that's why.

Speaking of kids, my little brother, Rich (who, I suppose, is a teenager-but-still-counts-as-a-kid-too), noticed I had a new email.

"You know about phone lines?" he asked.

"This ought to be good," said The Dog.

"Birds sit on them, with both feet, looking down on the world, while between their toes race thousands and millions of words and ideas. And then they poop."

"I knew it was going to be good," said The Dog.

"All our excitement and jealousy and creativity and everything else, condensed into a slender cable that birds poop on." Rich shook his head. "Kinda gives you a new perspective, doesn't it."

"On something," I said.

Onions Are Evil

"Onions are evil," said Morgan.

"You can't hate onions," I said.

"Why not?"

"I already complained about food on this blog."

"But they're like the playground bully of vegetables," she said.

"Now, see, you really can't say that."

"But think about it," said my little sister.  "They take over everything.  Say you've got a nice roast beef sandwich on rye."

"Have you ever eaten rye?" asked The Dog.

"Shut him up, Pete," said Morgan.

"Let's be supportively silent," I suggested.

"Roast beef on rye," Morgan continued.  "You put on the mayonnaise, the tomato, the lettuce, and maybe even a pickle.  But then, you add a simple slice of onion, and that's all you can think about.  What if a guy shows up at our house and he doesn't like onions?  All he'll notice is my onion breath."

"You think about guys?" asked The Dog.

"So help me," said Morgan, "I will hit you."

I decided to distract her while The Dog made his escape.  "You're telling me you don't like onions for social reasons?"

"It's more than that.  The flavor bites at you, and then it stays with you, and while you might want to remember the milder meats or the mellow cheeses, onion is your only companion.  It is your Raven, crying 'Evermore!'"

There was a long pause.

"That was very dramatic," I said.

"I've been studying for English," said Morgan.

"You could always cook the onions," suggested The Dog.

"Then they just give me gas."

"Okay," I said.  "I'll make your sandwich without onions."

"You're the best, Pete."

--Pete

National Curmudgeon Day

I declare today National Curmudgeon Day.

So, all you curmudgeons out there, get together with your family and do some curmudgeoning.  You could have a curmudgeonly festival, perhaps together with any other curmudgeons in the neighborhood.  Do the curmudgeonly dance.  (Curmudge to the left!  Curmudge to the right!)

Let loose and curmudge to your hearts content!

The Dog wants me to prove that I know what "curmudgeon" means, but I'm out of time.

--Pete

Happy Anniversary!

"Leather," I said.

"Exactly," said The Dog.  "What are we talking about?"

"The modern gift for the ninth anniversary is leather.  That seems odd to me."

"I'm confused," said The Dog.  "So you buy your wife a leather jacket?  I could buy my wife a dog collar, I suppose."

"You're married?" I asked, incredulous.

"That's irrelevant," said The Dog.  "The point is, the only kind of leather gifts I can think of involve very large watch bands and metal rivets."

"Let's go back to this 'married' thing," I said.

"Forget it," said The Dog.  "What is the traditional gift?"

"Pottery and willow."

"That's much nicer.  At least more decorative.  What is Andrew doing for his anniversary?"

"He asked me to write a blog post."

"Can you write a blog post on leather?"

"Don't be silly, Dog."

"Why not?" he said.  "'Leather' for a gift is certainly silly."

"You've got a point," I said, "but I'm going to finish this up: Happy Ninth Anniversary, Jan Marie.  There.  All done.  Now can we get back to this 'The Dog is married' thing?"

"Let it go, Pete.  Today isn't about me."

"We're coming back to this," I said.

"Another day," said The Dog.

--Pete

A Weekend of . . . Joy?

My aunt visited over the weekend (which I hope explains the delayed blogging; sorry).  She likes music.  A particular type of music, which she puts on when she comes over, and my dad 'ooo's and 'ahhhh's as if he actually likes it.  I, on the other hand, can't quite figure it out.

"They wear dresses," I said to The Dog.

"That's not even a criticism, and you know it," he replied.

"I know that's a week comment, but it's a bunch of guys getting together in robes to sing in Latin.  How is that cool?"

"Actually," said The Dog, "everything your aunt played this weekend was in English."

I stared at him.

"You're kidding."

"I am always deadly serious about English choral music."

"Now you're kidding," I said.

"You see right through me," said The Dog, "but the lyrics were all English."

"How are you supposed to understand any of it?" I asked.  "It's like a group of injured people gathered in a church and decided to moan in four-part harmony."

"You really don't like it?" asked The Dog.

I shrugged.  "It's not my favorite."

"Now that I think about it," he said, "we've never really talked about music.  I always ask you to put on my CD's, but somehow I don't know what you like."

"John Denver," I said, without hesitation.

"Now you're kidding," said The Dog.  "You don't even own any John Denver."

"Country road..." I sang.

"Stop it," he said.

"Take me home...to the place..."

"Knock it off."

"I belong!  West Virginia..."

"I'm leaving," said The Dog.

I took pity on him and stopped.  Then I started singing 'Thank God I'm a Country Boy.'

--Pete

It's Magic!

"I swear, it's magic," I said to The Dog.

"Do you feel anything magical coming from it?" he asked.

"Maybe," I said.

"Any tingling in your fingers or toes?"

"No."

"Aching in your jaw?"

"No."

"Any spots at the edge of your vision? Numbness in your joints? Is your hair standing on end?"

"This is getting ridiculous," I said.

"Perhaps," said The Dog, "but do you see any of the usual signs that this stuff is magical?"

"Look at this, Dog! You press on the goop, and it goes hard, but the moment you let go--SHAZAM! It's a liquid again."

"Pete," said The Dog, "corn starch is not magical."

"Well," I said, "we may just have to agree to disagree."

--Pete

Short Story: The Spring Child (Version 2)

Thank you for all the wonderful comments on the story--the positive and the helpful and the helpfully positive.  Lou is now less grumpy, some lines people liked had to go, and there's some new, little things that (I think) make the story better.

So, you can read the new version here.  I'm still happy for feedback on the story, though I'll probably print it out and go turn it in tomorrow.  I don't want to be taking it in on the very last day like someone did for the contest last year.  Can't imagine who would do that, but it won't be me this year.

We'll find out results of the contest in the middle of November, so I'll keep you posted.

Thank you again for reading my stories.

--Andrew

Toe Lint and Tomatoes

"The way I see it, they're a curse from the old gods."

"Who is?" asked The Dog.

"Not who," I said.  "What.  And the answer is toe lint and tomatoes."

"I've never felt a need to ask before," said The Dog, "but I'm assuming you were dropped on your head as a small child."

"Think about it for a second," I said.  "In any of the old books we've read--and we've been through a lot--have you ever seen mention of toe lint?"

"Do I have to answer?" asked The Dog.

"Yes."

"Then no, I haven't."

"So!  That means it's a recent occurrence--I'm guessing the last hundred years.  And what else happened in the last hundred years?"

"People started wearing socks," said The Dog.

"The correct answer," I said, "is people forgot the old gods.  Zeus, Vishnu, Thor, all the rest.  People don't respect them anymore, the gods get mad, and bam!  Toe lint.  We need to start spilling some wine around, show some respect for the old guys.  And gals."

"Or you could do your laundry," said The Dog.  "Now, even if I accept that toe lint is a curse, how do tomatoes come in?"

"I don't like tomatoes."

"You like pizza."

"Pizza sauce barely remembers what it was like to be a tomato.  Doesn't count."

"Can't get pizza sauce without them, though."

"This," I said, "is why we start spilling lots of wine.  Make the Greek gods happy enough, they'll figure out something."

"I'm not talking to you anymore," said The Dog.

"I'll even go for pizza with white sauce."

"This conversation is over."

"You're crushed by the power of my logic," I said.

"That's right," he said.  "That's absolutely right."

--Pete

Not Blogging Today

"I don't want to blog," I said.

"You have to," said The Dog.

"Why?"

"Consistency," he said.  "People expect it."

"People, who?"

"Your blog has over two-hundred hits.  Someone is reading it."

"Meh," I said.  "Half of those are probably my mother."

"She knows you have a blog?" asked The Dog.

"Good point," I said.  "But still, no one is counting on this blog for their emotional stability."

"What if Nancy is reading this?"

"I'll blog," I said.

--Pete

Andrew's Short Story--The Spring Child

Another short story contest this year, and here's my entry as it stands, finished around an hour ago.  I have until the 13th to turn it in, so if anyone feels like giving feedback before then, don't hold back.

As usual, the feedback that is most helpful is:
1. What didn't work for you.
2. If I lost you, and where.
3. What things you couldn't believe.
4. Anything that was unclear.

It's my job to figure out how to fix it (and how to get rid of 28 words).

If you want to read it simply to enjoy it, that is great, too.

--Andrew

Old Movies--I Mean REALLY Old

"Homework is a plague on our society," said--yeah, get this--The Dog!

"I can't believe you're saying this," I said.

"It's true," he said.  "Homework promotes delinquency and short attention spans, culminating in Attention Deficit Disorders, smoking on school grounds, and public hangings."

"You lost me," I said.

"I went too far with public hangings, but the rest is true."

"Do explain."

"When teachers assign homework, it gives kids an out.  'I don't have to pay attention in class,' they all think, 'because I can learn it all when I go home and do my homework.  So their minds wander, reducing their already stunted attention spans even further, and then they jump from thing to thing, text message to doodle to comic book they're hiding in their textbook--"

"I hardly ever do that," I said.

"And before you know it," continued The Dog, "you've all been diagnosed with ADD, and addicted to tar and nicotine, and our society is taking a long walk off a short pier.  All because of homework."

"Dog?" I said.

"Yes, Pete."

"I'm sorry we're missing the Fred Astaire marathon, but I'm still going to do my homework.  You could always go without me."

"Right," said The Dog.  "You're funny.  And Fred Astaire is so graceful.  There will never be another tap dancer quite like him."

"What about Ginger Rogers?"

"Don't quibble," said The Dog.

So there you have it: homework is the scourge of our society.  And don't stand between The Dog and his old movies.

--Pete

Revenge Is a Dish Best Served When I Have a Cold

I picked up a cold today.  I tried to put it down, but evidently it's not that easy.

"I've never had a cold before," I said.

"Hold still," said Jo.  "This aluminum foil isn't going to wrap itself."

"I'm still confused about why this is necessary," I said.

"You remember what happened when you used to wet the bed?" asked The Dog.

"I'd rather not," I said.

"But you do remember," said Jo, "and it wasn't pretty.  Now imagine what could happen if you were to sneeze.  Wizard boogers can be dangerous."

"But why do you need to wrap--hey, careful of the ears--wrap aluminum  foil around my head?  Is this special aluminum foil?  Magically shielded or something?"

"Nope," said Jo.  "Now hold still.  I need to take a picture."

"Why do you need a picture?"

"Morgan asked me to take one.  There.  You look lovely."

"The foil doesn't do anything, does it?" I asked.

"Not a thing," said Jo.

"Morgan's getting me back for the lemons and limes, isn't she."

"Yes she is," said Jo.

I picked up a cold.  I'm never getting one again.

--Pete

Lemons and Limes

“They’re the same fruit,” said The Dog.

“How can you possibly think they’re the same fruit?” said Morgan.  “To start off, one is yellow and the other is green.”

“Unless the lemons aren’t ripe,” I said.  “I hear that unripe lemons are green.  Like another fruit I’ve heard of.  I believe they’re called ‘limes.’”

“See?” said The Dog.  “They’re the same fruit.”

“They are not the same fruit!” said Morgan.  “Rich, back me up on this.”

“What?” asked Rich, looking up from a book about Mother Theresa.  (Okay, I made up the ‘Mother Theresa’ part.  It was probably a book about the Dalai Lama.)

“Don’t drag Rich into this,” I said.  “He’ll agree with you just to be nice.”

“And avoid a beating,” muttered The Dog.

“But they are completely different fruit,” said Morgan.

“They’re both citrus,” I said.  “and they’re both roundish with knobbies on the end.”

“Okay, not completely different, but they really don’t taste the same.  Take lemonade and limeade.  No one is going to mix those two up.”

“Wait,” interrupted The Dog, “did you mean lemonade and unripe lemonade?”

“Actually,” I said, “I’m pretty sure they just add Green Number Six to lemonade and repackage the stuff.”

“You two are impossible,” said Morgan, stomping away.

“That was satisfying,” said The Dog.

I had to agree.



--Pete

Butterflies and Sleep Deprivation

I'm tired.  When I'm tired I'm grumpy.  When I'm grumpy I'm impatient.  When I'm impatient I miss Nancy.

"Pixies are like wasps," I said to The Dog.

"Excuse me?" said he.

"They fly around, you can never quite trust them, you don't know where they're going to land, and they're like wasps," said I.

"You're begging the question," said The Dog.

"What does that mean?"

"Never mind.  The point is, you could just as easily say that pixies are like butterflies.  They fly around, they're free spirited, you don't know where they're going to land, and they're like butterflies."

"Wasps."

"Pixies don't have stingers."

"They have teeth."

"You've been bitten by a pixie?"

"That's not the point," I said.

"What is the point?" asked The Dog.

"The point is that pixies hang out with Nancy."

"Oh," said The Dog.  "You miss Nancy."

I didn't bother to answer.

"But," he said, "if you think about it calmly, you have to admit that pixies are more like butterflies than wasps."

"Fine," I said.  "Pixies are like butterflies."

"Glad you could overcome your fatigue-induced-grumpiness enough to admit it," said The Dog.

"I hate butterflies," said I.

--Pete

The Great Wiki

I was going to explain how The Great Wiki, an extra-dimensional being of massive intelligence, was the origin of science, how she has gradually leaked knowledge into our world until we reached a point that she could directly intervene in our affairs--through her medium of choice, of course, which is Wikipedia--and how she's generally benign, except for her preference for '80's fashion (which means you can expect it all to be coming back, including the jelly bracelets).

But then The Dog and I got into an argument about pronouns.

"The Great Wiki isn't a 'she,'" said The Dog.

"I know that," I said.

"Wiki is genderless."

"Yes, but I thought it would be nice to tip my hat to any female readers of this blog, not to mention women in general, and have us all imagine a great Marie Curie in the sky who didn't die from aplastic anemia."

"Women don't need that kind of artificial respect.  They can stand on their own two-to-four feet, if we're including female dogs in this discussion, which I feel we should."

"Should we use the proper name for female dogs in that case?"

"Not necessary," said The Dog.

"So we're acknowledging the achievements of women and lady-dogs, but we're not artificially inflating them."  I paused.  "I think I just said something wildly inappropriate."

"How?" asked The Dog.

"I'm not explaining," I said.  I might have been blushing.

"It sounded to me you had the right idea," said The Dog, "and we do need to watch how we refer to everyone to avoid offense."

"I'm confused," I said.  "Are we being respectful here or politically correct?"

"I'm not sure anymore either," said the Dog.  "How did this all get started?"

"Wikipedia and science."

"I think we've dealt with that adequately.  Write more tomorrow."

And since I always do what The Dog says, that'll be it for today.

--Pete