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In This Issue

• The Colombia Spectador... Online!
• President Bollinger Cancels Barnard
• Locals Don't Care About J.J. Food
• Allegations of Animal Intimidation Rock MEALAC Professors, Laboratories
• Six-Year Old Held in Terror Scare
• Saving the World, One iPod at a Time
• Letters to the Feditors
• A Slow Descent into Health
• Eat Shit and Die - or Learn to Love It
• Cholera Gives Me That Lovin' Feeling, Diarrhea
• An Open Letter to My Unborn Son
• Disorders to Earn You Psych Services' Lovin'
• On Dieting
• Bladder Stones and Other Terrors
• The Life and Times of Deranged Freak Babies
• Is It Abuse, or Is It Medical Care? See for Yourself!
• A Fed Tradition Continues Unfettered
• Johnny Cash Conquers the Martians
• Neverland Ranch v. Pleasure Island
• Marauding Interviewer
• THEY Watch
• The Staff of 20.7

Ted Holden

The Life Cycle of a Fetus: From Young, Helpless Fetus to Fetus in Space

Dear Unborn Son,

I haven't met your mother yet. I mean, I'm pretty sure I haven't. I've met a lot of women, and all of them have been... well, let's just say, not "your mother" caliber. But I'm only twenty. I've got a lot of time to find your mother. Five or ten years down the road, I'll meet her at a friend's Christmas party. Her name will be Diane. We'll flirt over eggnog and poorly made gingerbread men. She won't be beautiful, but she'll be kind, and gentle, and she'll laugh at all of my jokes, and that will be all that matters. Also, I will be quite drunk at the time.

Your mother and I will date, fall in love, and get married. We will buy a small house in the suburbs. Your mother will sell pottery at craft fairs. I will be an eccentric musician/scientist, spending hours in the basement trying to calculate the resonant frequency of Tupperware. I will not succeed, but I will invent several new woodwind instruments. On New Year's Eve, we will celebrate our first year of marriage by guzzling wine, and you will be conceived, My Unborn Son. Like all New Year's accidents, you will be born in September.

I don't know what we're going to name you yet, My Unborn Son. We could name you Simon, but that would be cruel. All the kids would laugh at you. "Simon Diamond! Simon Diamond!" they'd shout. Your self-esteem would plummet. You would start hanging out with the rejects, the losers, the outcasts. You would listen to angry music and steal cigarettes from convenience stores. You would smoke weed out of an apple, since nobody would have a real pipe. That would be pretty pathetic, My Unborn Son. Seriously, save up some money and buy a bong. You kids are capable.

My Unborn Son, you will grow to hate me. I know this for a fact. You will hate me as all sons have hated their fathers. This much is inevitable. But I will not hold it against you, My Unborn Son. I will understand that I am "not cool," and that spending time with me will become a chore. I will try to make things easier on you. For example, I will not take you fishing. Also, I will not give you The Talk. Your Sex Ed teacher will do it much better than I can. Besides, you'll probably figure it out on your own. It's not that complicated.

I have high hopes for you, My Unborn Son. I want you to show me up. I want you to be smarter than me, better looking than me, funnier than me. I want you to be braver than me. I want you to be stronger than me, in every way possible. I want you to be a better person than I was. But most importantly, I want you to be happier than me. I want you to be the happiest person on the planet. That's all I really want from you, My Unborn Son. That's what I want the most.

Oh yeah, and if you wreck the car, you're fucking dead.

Your Already-Born Father,
Matt Diamond