Oh, What a Fortnight!

Sorry, ladies: 1/3 of Yankee Pot Roast’s council of editorial elders is now off the market. As the tin cans clank down the street in the wake of Nick and Wendy’s limousine, Y.P.R. reflects upon what it has missed in its two-week hiatus.

We ask our dear readers to assume this journal of literary satire handled the publication of President Clinton’s memoir thusly:

Nací en Perro-remiendo rural, a un hillbilly descalzo y desdentado y a su esposa adolescente innata. ¡Yee-haw! ¡Ole!

Assume we covered the big (for nerds) hoopla surrounding the 100th anniversary of Bloomsday as so:
Ulysses
the adapted screenplay
FADE IN:

INT. DUBLIN – DAY

LEO BLOOM (30s, nebbishy) walks around. He thinks.

Assume we parodied the new Michael Moore documentary with Fahrenheit 411, about the inconsistencies and fabrications in telephone information services in the New York City metro area. Or a personal essay comparing Michael Moore’s splotchy whiskers with those of Yassir Arafat’s. Also, assume that Clint Howard was involved in one way or another.

Assume we’ve baked cakes for Mary-Kate Olsen, and iced them to read EAT ME; that we’ve barbequed pork ribs and shot off bottle rockets in celebration of the premature birth of Iraqi independence; and that we’ve tried and failed to stand eggs upright by the dozen when the solar clock struck summer solstice.

Assume that we got officious and responded to the many submissions that currently clog our inbox (which we will this week, we promise).

Assume we know that something’s farked up in our Sitemeter logo (on display in the Art Gallery), and we’re totally stymied as to how to fix.

Assume we’ve made asses of u and me, ha ha.

Assume we’re still working off our Big Kamehameha hangovers.

Assume that forces beyond your control or perception are currently working against you.

Good night.