how someone becomes a columnist? (e:dragonlady7) was pondering on this some years back, and I just kinda shrugged and said I dunno.

Turns out, the way you become a columnist is, you happen to be standing around when the editor says, 'we need another columnist.' The point of this being, (e:dragonlady7) is our newest food columnist , and I get to be Guest. Yays!

She did Tru-Teas this week, but I'm trying to steer her towards Buffalo's excellent selection of greasy spoons, Greek diners, hot dog joints, and wing shacks.

- Z

Because in no other country in the world would someone invent 'freako instruments' called The Egotar, The Swiss Army Bass, The Droning Betsy, or the Great Train Wreck. Out of duct tape.



- Z

Any country where you can be invited to a state dinner for the president and the press and proceed to lambaste both, and still wake up the next morning, is OK in my book.

Guys like us, we don't pay attention to the polls. We know that polls are just a collection of statistics that reflect what people are thinking in "reality." And reality has a well-known liberal bias.

- Z

I just got an IM from (e:dragonlady7) at home - we just had the health inspector drop by for tea and biscuits!

I guess he stopped in, had a look at the Compost Pile of Plague and Pestilence, said 'Yeah, this is cool. Maybe put it up on bricks. I'll give you a week; if you need more time, just give me a call and I'll give you another week. Nice yard, by the way.'

Ooooh. I'm just so irked. But- this means that, bricks aside, we now have legal authority to compost with impunity, and thus shall the End Times begin! Behold my terrible power!

- Z

but I swear I use my powers for good and not for evil. So my miserable old cuntbag of a neighbor, who is most famous for uprooting my garden , started ringing on my doorbell this lovely Sunday afternoon. The first ring, I thought maybe I had a package. The second ring a second later, I thought maybe somebody was visiting me. The third ring I thought a friend was visiting, but by the fourth ring in as many seconds I knew exactly who it was.

'Mrs. Bob,' I said, never having been properly introduced, 'is the doorbell broken?' Which apparently caught her off-guard, because she stammered a bit before laying into me about the compost heap. I leaned in the doorway and kind of half-squinted and half-smiled and just basically thought about baseball. And when she started winding down and expected me to say something, I just kind of kept squinting and smiling like I was waiting for her to get to the point, so she started right up again, and I just kind of stood there. The cycle repeated itself about five times before she finally realized:

'Are you listening to me?'

OK, I admit it - I'm a terrible liar. When somebody calls me out like that I gotta fess up. 'No, not really.'

'Well are you going to take it out?'

'Take what out?' And then it started again. She went through another three cycles of complaints wherein a compost heap would cause rats, a pox on the first-born, and Armageddon. 'So are you going to take it out?'

I didn't really have any inclination to do anything with it except make compost for our vegetable garden, so all I said was: 'no.'

Wo boy, and then she got really mad. Her face split; the skin and hair split and came off of her face so that there was nothing except the skull. An orange light came out of her hair, and it lit all around. Fire shot from her eye sockets and began to burn my stomach.* She left spurting invective and cursing to gods long dead and also, coincidentally, threatening to call the Health Department. I just stood in the doorway and waited until she left. She started complaining to her husband ['Mr. Bob,' who did properly introduce himself], who was then mowing the lawn and who I cannot say I ever thought would ever stand up to her, say 'Stop. I'm trying to mow the lawn. OK?' [Baby steps, Mr. Bob. Baby steps.]

So maybe En-Con will be by tomorrow and we can sit around and work through an Ad Council coloring book about proper composting technique. Wouldn't that be fun? Oh-- and this compost heap which will inevitably usher in the End Times? It's about a foot and a half square by about a foot high.

- Z

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• Bill Cosby, 'Chocolate Cake for Breakfast' gather:0732920001146437417