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Totally ignoring Labor Day, Y.P.R. instead presents a new Feature: Anti-French Sentiment. [Note: This feature is no way fueled by, nor does it comprise, topical anti-French sentiment of the sort that flourished following this spring’s media-instigated Franco-American tiff regarding Iraq; instead there will be non-topical anti-French sentiment, made of old-fashioned stuff like jingoism and the bullying of an easy target. But, to be clear: Y.P.R. endorses satirical wit and/or irony, not xenophobic racism. Hey, we loved Amélie.]
Have you read Geoff Wolinetz's Open Letter to the Panda Handler at the San Diego Zoo over at McSweeney's? Go. Now.
* Enjoy. *
Ever since Wanda, my ex-fiancée, broke off the engagement in order to pursue her lifelong dream of marrying a marine biologist, I’d been keeping my bathtub fully stocked with goldfish, catfish, neon tetras, guppies—pretty much anything piscine and cheap. I stopped eating fish too, even lox—and I loved lox. My fish fervor had become irrational, unreasonable, and uncontrollable; friends were diagnosing me obsessive-compulsive, even borderline psychotic. I knew full well that Wanda was not coming back to me, no matter how much I surrounded myself with low-cost sea life. Plus, 50-cent fish live notoriously short life spans, and replenishing my tank with fresh fish every day quickly became something of an economic burden. But still, almost every day I found myself inevitably returning to the pet store to reload on goldfish or guppies, fully aware that something else would likely be floating belly up in my tub when I returned home.
Resistance is futile. You will SUBMIT.
More groovy daily pieces.
© MMIII, Yankee Pot o' Fun