Dear Dr. Babooner,

Just today I ended a 9-year involvement with someone – a relationship that was troubled from the start and tumultuous throughout. I admit that I was the aggressor. I invaded this person’s life because, frankly, I thought they had given their love to a dictator. I had decided that some regime change was in order, and I expected to be welcomed with open arms. Instead, I was attacked and resented, and now that I have finally decided to withdraw, I’m dismayed to hear how much my departure is appreciated and how thoroughly I will not be missed.

Nine years is a long time to spend on something that leaves such a bad feeling, but I can’t undo it. I can only move on. Even friends and acquaintances who watched this situation go through its various phases seem to regard me with trepidation, as if the newly-freed me is anxious to lurch into another intense involvement. Honestly, nothing could be further from the truth. I can’t afford a new adventure right now, emotionally or otherwise.

Part of me is sorry this is over. Part of me wishes I had listened at the beginning and not become involved. Part of me hopes that a messy aftermath will bring the too-late realization that I was a positive influence, overall. But that would be wishing ill for someone I thought I was helping. At least that’s what I told myself I was doing. Parts of me thought that, anyway. As you can tell from all these parts I’m describing, I’m a little broken up.

And then there is the uncomfortable fact that we are both still “on the scene”, so to speak, inhabiting the same world. When our paths cross in the future, as I’m sure they will, I intend to behave with calm dignity where once I only wanted to elicit shock and awe.
I don’t know what to expect in return.

Dr. Babooner, what is the best policy if one’s goal is to get along with one’s exes?

Conflictedly,
Won’t Miss Drama

I told W.M.D. that when it comes to complicated relationships, post-involvement amnesia is a great fence-mending strategy that can work sometimes, but only if the other party also has it. On the negative side, amnesia makes it possible to slide into an identical entanglement in the future. But that’s just one opinion.

What do YOU think, Dr. Babooner?

No doubt the former Governor of the State of Illinois, sentenced to 14 years in jail yesterday, will soon be immortalized by the jailhouse poets. Oh, yes, there are many denizens of the gentler arts behind bars! Among them is the great P. Oswald Effinger the Third, a convicted and unrepentant repeat pedant, who has already offered a modest effort. P.O.E. III, as he is called, holds the title of Poet Incarcerate at Paul Powell Penitentiary in Pawnee, IL, which is one of only a handful of fully alliterative detention centers in the U.S.

A note from the poet: “The newly minted inmate will find a warm welcome in jail. I predict people will want to call out his name from their cells because it is such a treat to say, and so it will echo up and down the halls of the penitentiary. I believe his name is a marvel. With four full syllables, it permits full expression and can be spoken in such a way to match any human emotion. On paper, the name looks like a mess. It is a pure deception. The name wants to be rhymed, needs to be rhymed, begs and pleads to be rhymed. What I have given you, then, is a poem that some may call an abomination, but I assure you, all the couplets are completely consensual.

Now it is Christmas, so be of good cheer!
All the townsfolk will gather their families near.
With their hearts full of kindness and mercy and joy, of which
not very much will be shared with Blagojevich.

He had been rather great for a very short while
Like his hair he impressed us with volume and style.
He was boastful and brusque. You could not call him coy. And which
laws he’d obey was known just to Blagojevich.

He was caught on tape saying “I’ve got it … this thing.”
“And it’s golden,” he said, clearly thinking, ka-ching!
Illinois is a state that grows corn stalks and soy. A switch
isn’t too likely. Just ask Rod Blagojevich.

In the prison they’ll cut off his iconic locks.
there’s enough there to weave into ten pairs of socks.
Though to wear them is something you wouldn’t enjoy. An itch
needs to be scratched if that itch is Blagojevich!

How important is it to have an impressive head of hair?

There is no such thing as a common news item that our breathless reporter Bud Buck can’t inflate into a major crisis. Witness the latest technological leap forward in the construction industry …

This is Bud Buck with Bud’s Newsbucket of News!

Your intrepid reporter has learned that the 21st Century Robot Wars have moved one step closer to reality with the development of sinister whirlygigs that have been built expressly for the purpose of stealing the millions of stable, high-paying jobs that we have long relied upon in the dynamic foam block construction industry.

Woe to you if you are an ultra-light materials builder. View the video below, and see the coming apocalypse!

Yes! Mechanical airborne demons have now mastered the skill of constructing vast, wavy-sided foam block corrals where we will all soon be quarantined, watching in helpless wonder as waves of infernal heli-stackers quickly surround us with Frank Gehry-inspired barriers of doom! Be afraid!

How serious is this? I see it as another giant step forward in our increasingly brisk walk towards total destruction. We have known for generations that this day would come, ever since today’s elders foresaw the assault as part of a widely shared generational nightmare.

Just like the wall-building robots, notice how much programming those monkeys need before they’re set loose! Blah, blah blah blah blah! But then they spring into terrifying action! If your children are still wondering what line of work they should enter – carpentry or code writing – wonder no more. The handwriting is on the undulating wall!

This is Bud Buck!

Ever been replaced (or merely threatened) by a machine?

I had a nice chat with Inspector Goatlock the other day. We were at the Farmer’s Market looking at produce and he appeared to be quite hungry. Still, I engaged him in conversation about his work and he told me a few things about a recent case he’d had. When I pressed for more details, he pulled a journal from his pocket and tore out a page, saying “Here … read all about it. I’ve got to find a stand selling rutabagas.”
The page read as follows:

One brisk December morning I was on a casual search for some loose hay with hints of red clover and weedy mix in a warehouse area on the outskirts of an eastern city when I noticed a crowd milling around the entrance to Michael’s Wholesale Furniture Distributors. An odd gathering, I thought, given that this was the week AFTER Black Friday’s “Door Buster” deal making. I ambled over and several members of the group turned at the sound of my hooves on the damp asphalt of the parking lot.

“Hey!” one of the millers-around exclaimed. “We found something you’ll really get into. Can you climb up on the roof to look for a hole?”

“During the night something crashed through the roof of our warehouse,” voiced another. “We think a passing aircraft has lost an important part! Maybe a piece of an axle of some sort. Airplanes have axles, right?”

“No,” offered a third. “It’s clearly from the gun turret of an alien spacecraft. We are under attack!”

“Nonsense,” blustered a fourth. “This projectile was launched by extreme weight pressures building inside the broken suspension of a passing boxcar.”

Intrigued, I quickly scrambled up on to the roof, but in spite of the initial claim made by the first person I spoke to, there was no hay. However I did find a small hole, and through a jagged opening I could see shattered ceiling tiles scattered across the floor of a warehouse chock-full of ugly plastic-covered sofas and ghastly settees.

Just then, a man appeared at roof’s edge. He had climbed up a hastily procured ladder that had been steadied against the base of a nearby industrial-sized wood chipper. He held in his hand a cylindrical five-pound chunk of metal. It matched the hole perfectly.

When I asked to investigate the artifact, he recoiled.

“What you hear about goats eating anything is absolutely false,” I said. “We’re actually rather picky.”

The strange object carried no telltale signs that would reveal its origin. Its roughly shaped ends suggested it had been violently sheared from a larger piece of equipment.

“Why would something so strange and inexplicable happen here? Camelot Industrial Park has got to be the quietest, least interesting section of Plymouth, Massachusetts!”

“Not so strange,” I said to the strange man. “It all makes perfect sense …”

The bottom of the page was missing. The moistened edge suggested that Inspector Goatlock had, in desperation, taken a bite from his own notes. And by the time I looked up, he had disappeared into the crowd.

What could explain the mysterious chunk of roof-crashing metal?

Although it’s clear that I have no formal direct influence over the economic policies of the State of Minnesota, I would still like to take full credit for yesterday’s prediction that the state will have an 876 million dollar surplus at the end of the next two years.

My reasons are simple. Nobody knows what really made this thing that hasn’t happened yet happen, yet everyone else is taking credit too. So why not grab some of the premature glory before it disappears?

So, how will I did it?

Easy! When even tougher future economic times were about to hit, I attacked consumer debt by cutting way back on my projected spending. A lot of people panic and focus on their actual spending, but changing that can be difficult and painful. Projected activity is easier to control, because it’s all about making assumptions. Once you get the assumptions right, solving future problems becomes simple!

I merely assumed I would start smoking next year, which made my personal deficit balloon. Then I predicted that I would quit the filthy habit shortly after starting, and instantly saved a boatload of money in the process. I then imagined that I would use the extra money to buy a small retail shop of some sort in a fantasized perfect location where it is predictably impossible to go broke, and conjured a rare midwestern typhoon with an extremely selective footprint that wiped out all my competitors. I then envisioned myself as a wealthy and beloved pillar of the community, hiring many deserving local people who I expected to be both highly enthusiastic about my strangely undefined business and intensely grateful to me for employing them.

Viola! Surplus time! Happy Days Are Here Again!

How have you saved the future economy from continued disaster?

Welcome to the first day of December! Time rushes wildly on. I was solemnly considering a closetful of carefully stored Christmas decorations yesterday when I was startled by a sudden knock on the door.
Of course it was our local public service alarmist – Bathtub Safety Officer Rafferty.

BSOR: At ease, civilian!

Me: I was at ease before you showed up. Now I’m worried. What’s wrong?

BSOR: I’m simply doing a house-by-house intervention in your neighborhood, reminding people that December is quite hazardous because it is a high gravity month. During a high gravity month, it’s best to stay away from ladders and keep your arms below your head at all times!

Me: I beg your pardon? High gravity? Isn’t gravity the same all the year through?

BSOR: Technically yes! But December combines normal amounts of gravity with high levels of friction loss, high ground hardness and high hanging decorations, inside and out. That’s a potentially lethal combination!

Me: Ah. OK, thanks. I’ll keep it in mind while I’m putting up the tree.

BSOR: Bringing a tree into your house is very, very foolish. There’s a reason trees live outside! All trees fall over eventually. Critters live in them. Trees can catch fire, and they are hit by lightning with surprising regularity! If a strange person had all these qualities, and you discovered he had been living in the forest for most of his life, you would not invite him into your house! And you certainly wouldn’t string lights around him and pile expensive things at his feet. For safety’s sake, do not open your home to a wild tree, and especially not during a high gravity month!

Me: These are cherished traditions and I don’t think we’re going to change anything to please you. Of course it’s always smart to be careful, but I’m going to go ahead practice all my usual December customs in spite of your nervous hovering.

BSOR: Hovering is inherently unstable. I never hover!

Me: Whatever you’re doing, it’s not going to work. Tree trimming, candle lighting and decoration hanging are going to continue around here, all the way down to putting up the holly and the mistletoe.

BSOR: Mistletoe? Mistletoe is one of the most dangerous seasonal health threats! Not only does it promote random, unfettered kissing among certain reckless individuals, but sensible people who are trying to avoid being caught under the mistletoe often wind up in the emergency room with sprained ankles and twisted backs! You might as well hang a loaded gun from the your door frame!

This conversation went on for far too long, and though it got a bit heated at times I felt a definite chill. It might have been the cold efficiency of the safety scolding I was getting from Bathtub Safety Officer Rafferty, or it might have been the fact that we were standing there with the door wide open on a day with a high in the mid-30’s.
I think I might be coming down with something!

What holiday tradition are you ready to drop, for safety’s sake?

There were plenty of amusing comments yesterday about Bart the Bear and his indignation over the possible authorization of bear hunting in New Jersey, of all places.
But there was one irresistible string of imaginative pondering that made me wonder … what if?

That’s just too good an idea to pass up. You asked for it.

If you were going to appear on the cover of a magazine, which magazine would it be?

It has been a while, but today we hear from our bearish friend who found a cell phone in the woods. For ease of reading, the message has been translated into English from its original Ursus Textish.

Yo, it’s me, Bart.

Ever feel like you had a price on your head?

I do, especially since I found saw this online article from New Jersey that’s all about killing bears – and it includes a picture of ME! Think I’m paranoid? Take a look!

They’re hearing oral arguments in a courtroom in Trenton this morning about whether the state should release more than six thousand hunters into the woods over the course of just six days to shoot animals that look JUST LIKE ME! I’m absolutely shocked. I didn’t know New Jersey had woods! And I can only imagine what New Jersey hunters are like. I guess they got to shoot some bears last year and liked it so much, they decided to try again – the first time in four decades that they’ve had two consecutive years when people could go out and kill my kind with no penalty at all! Sure makes a guy feel wanted, and not in a good way.

The Sierra Club says this is just a bit of recreation and should not be allowed. Because they had a bear hunt last year and have already “harvested” 592 of my brethren, opponents say this can’t be justified as an effort to get “nuisance” bears. And believe me, I’m all for thinning the herd when it comes to “nuisance” bears, because I’ve met a few! What’s a “nuisance” bear? Mostly, they’re bears who just don’t know the limits of another bears interest in their stupid adventures.

I had a “nuisance” bear bend my ear one night about some bee hive he located in a hollowed out stump in out in East Jesus. Yes, the bees were angry, and yes, the honey was sweet, and blah, blah, blah, blah. No I don’t care how many times you were bitten, and please, I’d rather not hear about how your stomach ached or the way your scat squished when you dropped it on the path a day later. Honestly.

But here’s the part that frosts me. The bears who give bears a bad name are the citified ones who can’t get enough of downtown, hanging around coffee shops and bus stops, getting their kicks by jaywalking and going through dumpsters in alleyways. The bears who get shot by hunters are the ones like me – bears who never leave the woods and spend most of their time minding their own business or cruising the Internet to find the latest blogger who’s using my picture without permission! Where’s the justice in that?

So please, tell the people in New Jersey to worry about controlling the growth of their own insufferable human population, starting with those obnoxious folks on “Jersey Shore”. I admit that I’m tired of the monotonous antics of “nuisance” bears, but isn’t delivering a death sentence a little steep for the sin of being dull? If those are the rules we’re playing by, there are a whole lot of humans with reason to look over their shoulders!

Lying Low,

Your friend,
Bart

Where’s the safest place to hide?