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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

Newton under the apple tree.

Yesterday, while throwing baseballs perpendicular to the earth, in a vacuum, on a freight car of constant velocity, I realized something disturbing about myself. It’s something that I’ve always known, on some level, even when I was little and had a mass that barely overcame wind resistance.  When I’m at ease, shooting monkeys and then mapping the subtle parabolic curve of my bullet’s trajectory, I can ignore these subtle inconsistencies.  But something about the baseball’s clearly 2-dimensional parabolic arc reminded me of my own futile attempts at escape, in spaceships, rocket-blasters, and occasionally slingshots.  It just seems that no-matter how non-sequitur and escapist my behavior, Newton’s laws remain constant. Then I finally admitted it: I am living in the practice section of a physics textbook; specifically Peabody and Johnson’s "Physics Fundamentals", circa 1998.

    Of course, things aren’t all bad.  Even if my employment changes with the whims of my publishers and I haven’t had sex since an amusing typo in chapter 8 of the 1996 Teacher’s Edition, at least the universal constant of gravitation keeps me from hurtling into a gas giant.  It’s comforting to know that, although the physics students who read about me in their textbooks will later retire to fuck and suck the night away in drunken frat-house orgies, they’ll never be 100% certain that the burning between their legs is really excess heat energy caused by the friction between Brittany’s tight vaginal passage and Brent’s 28 cm penis, or actually a herpes flare-up.  No, I’m safer in a world of absolutes, with my 473 cubic centimeter can of cheese whiz and my 200-watt television set, providing me with 3,947 kilojoules of chemical energy and 96.69 lumens respectively – who says success cannot be quantified?

    But won’t someone trigger this surplus of potential energy?  How long must I continue to drift through the emptiness of space without a heavenly body to pervert my trajectory?  I dream of a sturdy companion who will exert a force normal to my earth weight or, better yet, a force that averages my earth weight but undulates rhythmically with an amplitude of 272 Newtons and a frequency of 1.8 Hertz, if you catch my drift.  For those of you interested in the prospect of continuous motion, I am a 1.67 meter high female with an average density of 9,759 grams per cubic meter.  Although I have only existed for 22 solar rotations, in that time I’ve traversed the circumference of the moon, descended 3,872 meters below sea level and held 72 jobs including stints as a kamikaze pilot, pizza-flipper, unicyclist, and crash-test dummy.  I like vacuums, electric play, suspension bondage and swivel chairs (the applications of centripetal force excite me).  Although I am, myself, primarily concave in nature, I am open to people of similar topology.  If your configuration is such that you find my Northern pole repellent, rotate me 180 degrees and, I guarantee you, we will bond.  Nonetheless, I have a very strict code of conduct; the only sort of experimentation that interests me is safe, consensual and, above all, imperial.  You must exist in a dimension that isn’t too incongruous to my own; a few worm holes are fine but I’d prefer it if you traverse time in a linear manner and space on no more than three axis (anything more is simply heretical).  If you enjoy imperial experimentation and hate inches, please contact me at Meunahan Publishers’ Warehouse, 402 Victory Avenue, Detroit.