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In This Issue

• What To Do With Books
• Craigslist Finds New Ways to Disturb
• Ovary Mining: Profit In Your Pants
• Letters to the Feditors
• Experience? Uh, no
• Sitting On Babies?
• The Internet = Porn. Porn = The Fed. Logically...
• "Which Came First, the Chicken or the Dregs?"
• Hey, Athletes! Need a Team? Call Me Ishmael.
• Hot Sex? Meh. Mock Interviews? Ooo Yeah, Baby.
• Swipe, Suffer, Suffocate
• From The Desk of Lee "El Cuisinart" Bollinger
• Practice Protectionism in the Bedroom
• Living at the Speed of 2.99x10^8 m/s
• Sensitivity Training Averts Termination
• Congrats, You're Fucked
• The Hierarchy of Columbia
• THEY Watch

As a college student, I hate people who have money. The only people allowed to have money are the suckers who employ me. What is my exalted job status? I babysit. Woe betide the offspring who are subjected to my tyrannical rule, but hallelujah to the rich parents who believe that a capable young woman from Columbia will make their children smart through pretentious diffusion!

    These high-class chordates really have no connection to the lives of the common people. And by the common people, I mean anyone who fails to own a beautiful seaside villa in whatever country is currently all the rage these days. Their two children, whose names are too dorky to utter without inducing uncontrollable snickering, have a life of private school humiliation and astro-turf croquet to look forward to. Why do I prostrate myself at the feet of such a brood? Because my salary is higher than a Bob Marley fan.

    “What is the general going rate for young peoples’ wages these days? Five, ten hundred dollars an hour, does that sound right?”

     “Yes, m’lady!” was the only proper response.

    So after I developed a suitable British accent and improved my curtsy, I figured I was all set. Then I found out that the 3-year-old is bilingual and that the baby communicates entirely in sign language. And of course, I needed to learn how to properly groom the ponies. Then, I was dismayed by my discovery that the maid refuses to work with the lower classes and that I had to take over her duties while entertaining the young’uns.

    So there I am, a German-English dictionary in one hand and a feather duster in the other, chasing two children on horseback. Not that I have to do much chasing, mind you, since running is beneath them. Still, how was I to keep these young vagabonds under control? Threatening them doesn’t work, since they only know “discipline” as a vocabulary word. They learned “no” very early on, but they get this really stupid, uncomprehending look when it’s said back to them.

    “That’s it,” I said, “no TV for you guys!”

    My statement was met with cries of joy. Apparently, the only things they were allowed to watch were the BBC and the weather channel.

    “No candy!”

    This didn’t work either, since these kids had enough candy stashed away in their rooms to feed most of China. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had cocaine and circus clowns in the closet. I then gave up, and asked them what they wanted to do.

    Most children like playing games like hide-and-seek, or tag…these two seemed to be racing to see who could write a symphony faster. Whoever wins gets to kick the maid first! And of course, the game before that had been dress-up, and I seemed to be wearing an apron and a little white headpiece…damn.

    Next idea: let’s go to the park. A splendid idea, thought they! A terrible idea, thought I, when they refused to cross the street until someone had spread a coat across every puddle between them and the park. Dirty streets, it seemed, were only a hair less scary than doctors’ visits and serial killers. Perhaps they were waiting for the slave-drawn palanquin to arrive.

    After I’d hired a slave-drawn palanquin (you really can find anything in this city), the complaints arose once again:

    “Why are other people using our park?”

    There were other children playing on equipment that was obviously reserved under their name, and this simply would not do.

    The eldest one walked up to a young boy on the jungle gym and asked to see whomever was in charge. He replied by flailing his arms and shouting, “I’m a super freak!” She ran over to me in horror, and demanded to know what a “super freak” was. I told her it was a rare species of wildebeest in South Africa, which seemed to satisfy. The younger one gestured frantically in sign language that the fresh air was starting to get to her, so we left.

    Of course, I told the parents afterwards that their children had been perfect angels, since I get an extra dollar per flattering comment. It says so in my contract.