They had just finished a long and tiring photo shoot production for GAP® Summer wear and Thómas was famished.

"I haven't eaten since you made me breakfast this morning, Bruce," Thómas complained. Bruce winked knowingly at Thómas.

"Let's all go get some Starbucks® lattes!" piped up Chlóe, emerging from her dressing room clad in a summer orchid dress halter, beige low rise khakis and white summer classic flip flops.

All of the GAP® models nodded their heads excitedly at this wonderful idea. As always, they exited the building two-by-two in a perfectly synchronized line. Erik and Chlóe were first, followed by Levi and Dani and then Dominique and Marcy. Thómas and Bruce took up the rear position.

As they walked through the crowded streets of New York City, people in the crowd recognized them instantly. "Mommy, mommy, are those the GAP® models?" a little boy exclaimed, tugging on his mother's pocketbook with glee. Marcy patted him on his head and gave him an autographed laced thong.

More and more people began to notice the commotion and crowded around their favorite retail outlet celebrities. Suddenly a commotion at the back of the crowd began to brew and the crowd parted. A group of surly men and women stood in a poorly choreographed circle, dressed in rib-knit logo tanks, big-cut capris and canvas painter jeans. It was the Old Navy® models, fresh from their shoot in San Francisco and they wanted revenge.

"You don't match," said one of the female models to Chlóe. Chlóe collapsed to the ground, stunned by the blow. Thómas and Bruce bent over to help her up.

"This street isn't big enough for two dance numbers," said one of the male models. "This is our turf."

Erik, the leader of the GAP® models stepped forward. "Listen, we just want to buy some coffee and we'll be right on our way." For extra measure he added, "We mean you no harm."

"You want coffee?" sneered one of the female models. "Have mine!" and she splashed her creamy mocha Frappuccino® all over Marcy's purple iris double front tank and rinsed stretch boot cut capris. Marcy autographed them and gave it to an onlooker.

Not to be outwitted by a retail outlet targeted to the lower-class, Erik challenged the Old Navy models to the ultimate dance-a-thon. "We didn't want it to come to this, but you forced our hands. Now you will feel humiliation at the hands of our feet."

Levi set down a boom box on the curb and a spritely 60's tune started playing.

The Old Navy® models flailed around in a low-budget dance rendition of "A Streetcar Named Desire" for a few minutes and finished their act by clumsily falling all over each other.

"Beat that," sneered one of the females, huffing for breath.

The GAP® models lined up in perfect tandem and then, with perfectly executed double-barrel rolls they were off!

Dominique and Dani parasolled around a lamp post and kicked their heels together in tandem while Thómas grabbed Bruce from behind and flipped him onto the wiener stand. Levi swung Marcy around and she whirled around like a top for fifteen city blocks.

Next Erik and Chlóe jumped up onto a deli awning and gracefully landed on top of a bus as it screeched to a halt. The bus driver smiled out his window and began snapping his fingers along with the catchy tune. Taxi cabs began honking their horns along with the tap dance numbers.

They finished their dance number by performing a flawless human triangle atop the Empire State building.

The police had seen enough. "You thugs are all headed back to San Francisco," said Officer O'Reilly to the Old Navy® models. "When will you learn that you can't beat the GAP® models?"

He also gave them a citation for loitering and then tipped his cap at the GAP® models."Have a nice day gang. You earned it."

Marcy autographed a guava lace favorite bra and gave it to him.

The Maytag repairman was tightening the belt on a dryer drum when the alarm went off. He hated waking up before he'd had a chance to put his tools away. He stood up and put on the uniform he ironed and laid out before bed. Perhaps tonight the iron wouldn't work and he'd have to fix it.

He went to the kitchen and put two slices of Wonder bread in the toaster. He pushed the handle down and the electrical elements began to glow. "I don't know why I get my hopes up," he thought to himself. "I suppose there'll be no problem with the coffee either."

The coffeemaker performed flawlessly and the repairman poured himself a cup before getting in the van for the drive to the shop. He held the accelerator down for a moment before attempting to start it, but it still started, so he put on his seat belt and backed out of the garage. He paused by the mailbox and watched the garage door go down as efficiently as it had gone up.

He had almost half a tank of gas, and the shop was less than 5 miles from home, but he stopped for gas anyway, only to find that the pump was in sound working order.

There were two traffic lights on the repairman's route. Both were working properly, and one even remained green until he had passed.

He parked at the far end of the lot so that in the event that any customers came, they would be able to park near the door.

Once inside, he flipped the light switch only to find that no bulbs had burned out. He removed his uniform jacket and detected that the heater must be working. He sat at his desk with the newspaper. He gave his test pencil a gentle push into the electric sharpener and the sharpener responded immediately. He put it back in the cup and picked up the phone, which greeted him with a clear, strong dial tone. The computer jumped to life next. No new messages on the company site. Nothing but spam in his box.

The repairman stared at the company's web page, waiting to see if any messages came in now that it was 9:00 A.M. and business could begin. He stared and sipped coffee until almost 10:30 and he could be sure that the newspaper would carry him through to lunchtime.

He topped off his coffee before easing into the headlines. He theorized that people would be repairing their appliances rather than replace them now that the country was at war. Pretty soon he'd be putting in over-time, and the extra mileage would probably cause the van to fall into need of repair. He was warmed by these exciting ideas and got up to adjust the heat. The heater stopped instantly when he touched the thermostat.

The repairman's dreams of overtime came to a sudden halt when he realized the "OPEN" sign wasn't lit. He ran to the switch and turned it on. Nothing happened.

He wasn't sure what to do next. He stepped toward the desk, then toward the door, then wondered how much business he'd missed by not having the "OPEN" sign on. He started toward the door to get his toolbox from the van, but stopped halfway and turned around with a slow, sick, sinking feeling. In a complete emotional 180, he went to the sign and plugged it in. It lit up.

He went back to his desk and wrote himself a reminder so that when the company was going over the year's activities, he could explain the lack of business on a Tuesday morning. He e-mailed a copy to the regional manager (it was delivered without a hitch) and put a copy in his daily store log.

He returned from lunch with another newspaper and a 32-oz coke. He checked for messages. He checked the site. He checked his e-mail. Nothing. He checked the phone for dial tone. Finding one, he settled down to read the paper.

The repairman took the wastebasket containing 2 newspapers and an empty coke out to the dumpster before heading home in the properly operating van, through the properly operating traffic lights, and under the properly operating garage door.

He made dinner in the oven, which gave a stellar performance, aligning the marks on the dial to the temperature on the test thermometer the repairman kept inside it. There was hot water when he did the dishes, and there was still hot water when he took a shower later that evening. The washer washed his uniform and the dryer dried it, and neither of them had a bit or trouble. The repairman ironed his uniform and went to bed, slightly concerned that he'd be late for work if the alarm didn't go off in the morning.

There are many tales about the Energizer Bunny. Tales of Adventure. Tales of Romance. Tales of Bunnies.

This is not one of those tales.

This is a tale of the Energizer Bunny’s Battery Boy. Unknown to most, the Battery Boy, whose name is Bill, chases after the Energizer Bunny and replaces his batteries on those (according to the commercials) rare occasions that the Bunny needs new batteries.

Bill’s job was boring. His boss, the Bunny, didn’t move very fast, and spent a lot of his time between commercials very specifically not going and going and going, which meant that the opportunities for Bill to do his job were extremely rare.

So it was that Bill found himself on a sunny beach in Florida one Spring day. At first, this might seem great thing for a young man—scantily clad women prancing about, etc. But the scantily clad women were mostly prancing about the Bunny. Adding insult to injury, not only did Bill get zero attention from the women, but he was responsible later on for cleaning all of the sand out of the Bunny’s fur.

Being a battery-powered person, the Bunny cannot be laundered. Vacuuming got most of the sand out, but it was an awkward and difficult operation at best. Much had to be painstakingly plucked out grain by grain.

After this was done, the Bunny decided that rather than just rest he’d rather have a night on the town. Bill the Battery Boy followed the Bunny from bar to bar then, watching as the Bunny, popular as ever, picked up one girl after another. He’d go into a bar, spend about half an hour there, then move onto the next with a new girl or two in tow.

By the time they reached their fifth bar of the night, it was getting difficult for Bill to keep an eye on his charge, surrounded as he was by a bevy of beauties (who were all quite pointedly ignoring Bill).

The fifth bar offered a brief bit of relief. For they found at this bar none other than the super sexy singer/actress Jen. (Not her actual name, of course, that could not be used here.) At a gesture from Jen, the six honeys that the Bunny had gathered from his bar-bunny-hopping so far seemed to just disappear.

At first, Bill thought that while he would be as ignored by Jen as the others, at least he could enjoy looking at her a lot while keeping track of the Bunny. But such was not his luck:

“Excuse me, are you staring at Jen?” a burly woman suddenly asked Bill.

“Actually, I’m in charge of the Bunny.”

“Not anymore,” the woman told him.

The next thing he knew, he was waking up with a severe headache in the men’s room and being clueless as to how he got there. Panicking, he flew out of the bathroom, looking wildly about. No sign of Jen or the Bunny.

For a moment, Bill considered looking for the Bunny. But his headache told him it would not be worth it to deal with Jen’s bodyguard again, so instead he sat down at the bar. Largely by coincidence, he sat down next to an attractive girl. His luck with women being what it was, he was quite startled when she spoke to him.

“How’s your head?” she asked.

“Huh? Oh, in pain, but it’ll go away.”

“Marge was a rougher on you than she needed to be.”

“Marge?” Bill asked.

“Jen’s bodyguard.”

Bill turned to look at her.

“And you are?” he asked.

“Lana. I am—or maybe was—responsible for Jen’s lipstick.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I know, it’s lame. But I have the bizarre ability to make lipstick appear when I need it.”

“Well, I’m—or maybe was—the Energizer Bunny’s Battery Boy, Bill. I make batteries appear.”

“Wow,” Jen said.

For a moment, they looked into each other’s eyes. In some other tale, it would have been love at first sight. But this isn’t a tale of romance, so the two of them just sighed.

“Do you know where…?” Bill half-asked.

“Hilton, down the street.” Lana answered.

So the two of them left together and went to the lobby of the Hilton down the street to wait for their prospective employers. Upon arrival, however, they were told that Jen and the Bunny had continued on down the street.

Bill gave a knowing smile and said to Lana, “Come on, we ought to be able to catch up to them.”

“How do you know? What if they stopped somewhere?”

“They haven’t. It’s the curse of the Bunny when he’s got a purpose (and Jen is definitely a purpose): Every place they’ve come to, they’ve kept on going and going and going…”

Life was a constant adrenaline rush for Jeff. And yet, he was bored. Only 10 AM, and already he had been launched from the bed-catapult he had built, slid the zip-line down to where his street-luge was parked, and slammed a six-pack of that yellow-green caffienated gold that to him was the stuff of life.

His pancreas hurt.

Veering through cobblestoned streets on a dirtbike, he briefly thought back to the early days. They had all been so naïve then. It started out simply enough: an impromptu mudfight, someone’s idea to stack furniture in the street, carefully place the last 20-oz. atop the precarious structure, and then a game of “king of the hill.”

If only life were still that simple.

Slamming the dirtbike into its rack at full speed, Jeff twisted as he hurtled through the air, suppressing a yawn with one hand while springing off the railing with the other. He was almost caught up to the guys, both of whom were on skateboards, slipping straddle-wise down the rail and whooping with all their might. Stretching his body out, Jeff’s arm unfurled, slinging his bike-lock chain with it. On the end, the open combination-lock hooked Mike’s board, yanking it out from under him and into Jeff’s arms.

As Mike racked himself up on the rail, Jeff tried to remember if he had ever eaten solid food. He was pretty sure that was just something people made up, to look glamorous in commercials.

‘Come on, Jeff,’ he chided himself. ‘When was the last time you experienced a true adrenaline rush?’ It had been a while. Had he realized that this was because his adrenal glands were now two pea-sized lumps that rode shotgun atop his overtaxed kidneys, he probably wouldn’t have been so upset. But he still believed he was capable of feeling the exhilaration that only comes from mashing a friend’s face into hard pavement while riding a unicycle with thumbtacks on the seat during a tropical storm.

Staircase gave way to rocky mountainside. Jeff wondered if the other guys ever felt the same way. He’d ask--if he ever caught up to them. Jeff wouldn’t bother trying for Mike’s opinion; ever since he took on a bighorn sheep during mating season, Mike just hadn’t been the same person.

Life moved pretty fast. Tim was faster. Leaping onto the dragstrip, already Tim had grabbed the crash-cage just as the dragsters took off. Grabbing the other dragster, Jeff noticed Tim cutting his driver’s drag-chute with a Swiss Army knife. ‘Damn,’ Jeff thought. ‘Wish I had thought of that.’ As his own driver slowed, Jeff flung himself off the skateboard. Sticky, green-yellow sweat oozed down Tim’s skin, making it easy to grab onto his arm.

Tim’s eyes had the same glow the rest of them had; they noticed it about a year ago while parasailing into a tornado after being fired from a cannon. Something about the storm-swirled, overcast sky had made it noticeable. Mike had looked right at him and said, “Duuude.” That said it all. The next time they had ridden an afterburner strapped to a backwards-facing Pinto into a mirror factory, Jeff saw the vivid pulse of green as plain as day.

This was always his favorite part of the day: they’d just leapt into the crack neighborhood. Tim whooped with joy, and Jeff heard Mike’s strained cry from behind, giving way to that creepy Joker-laugh he’d picked up after being mauled by a cheetah for ramming his arm down its throat. Some people just didn’t have much luck with animals.

No time to think: they’d just tailgated onto a carful of gang members fleeing a convenience-store robbery. Unfortunately, they’d chosen a wrong turn, passing right in front of another carful of gang members doing a drive-by.

Jeff grabbed the car’s trunk. As the gas tank ignited, he stood up and rode the crest of the orange fireball that erupted under his feet. His sneakers started to melt and stick to the metal. Jeff twisted sideways as the mangled hood slammed against a pair of conveniently-located signposts. He slipped between them with ease and let the melted rubber of his shoes bungee him through the door of the Seven-Eleven. Lunchbreak! Finally! Already the guys were picking out 2-liters and drawing Big-Gulp Dew Slurpees.

This was it! Jeff could feel it. A surge of…excitement? Yes! This time, he would do it. ‘While we do the Dew,’ he thought, ‘I’ll bring it up! I’ll get it out in the open, this whole feeling of boredom! These sensations, everything they mean to me—the guys have got to be feeling it too!’ Walking right up to Tim, Jeff grabbed his shoulder and whirled him around.

He opened his mouth.

“—“, he said. And, “…”, as his heart stopped.

A low growl of annoyance building in the rear of his throat, his paw fumbling hastily to press the power button on the remote, once again, Spuds was hit by the realization of how bad life sucked. A world filled with beer commercials featuring nothing but humans. The thought disgusted him.

Back when the commercials and merchandising were in full swing, he had been proud not to have to rely on some human to take care of him. But alone, he found himself dreading the inevitable task of trying to fill up his bowl with the sweet nectar that once made him one of the richest canines in the world. Opposable thumbs or not, he managed.

He could no longer deny his age either. His beard was turning gray. Although barely noticeable against his white coat, he knew it, and that was enough. He’d worn out his sense of smell long before, back during the endless white powder booze parties of a neon lit, and pastel colored world. The period of drinking the good stuff was long gone. He was now living the Schlitz life and the lackluster glory it entailed, in this decaying apartment.

Sheila, his b***h, had left him several years ago, taking the five pups with her. He knew it must have been when he’d gone into a rage while that bloody commercial had played that’d driven her over the edge.

“Yo quero your mother, you deformed runt!” he had barked in a drunken fury.

Sheila had padded into the bedroom, tail between her legs, shutting the door behind her. When he awoke in the morning from his drunken stupor, she was gone, leaving a brief note, “arf Spuds, arrf”…

“Bah, I never should’ve shacked up with a gold digging, uptown poodle in the first place“ he thought, then sighed.

Pulling the tattered, white string, attached to the handle of the living room mini-fridge, he peered inside with a sense of horror. It was empty, just like his bank account.

Thinking with desperation about the liquor store down the street, a dark plan began to form. His teeth were sharp enough, he could still look fierce when he wanted to…He had no choice.

He shimmied his way into his red sweater, glancing back at the framed picture on the television of Sheila and the kids. Lowering his head in shame, he turned and slid through the plastic doggy door.

On the way, he began thinking of his old childhood idol and the catchphrase that had once seemed so legendary. “Take a bite out of crime". It was enough to make him slow his stride and have second thoughts.

“Sorry McGruff, this time all I really need is to take a bite out of some sour mash whiskey and a bottle of Old E, he thought, fighting off the invasive morality. He was already there.

Bursting past a customer, through the door inside, he ran up to the counter, barking and snarling fiercely, baring his canines at the balding heavy-set clerk on the other side. “Hand over the money fat man!” he growled.

“How the hell did you get in here?” he said. “Get out of here ya mutt!” the man shouted, grabbing a broom and waving it in Spuds’ direction. He ran around the counter to the door, paying little mind to Spuds, and pushed it open, gesturing in a sweeping motion with the broom for him to leave.

Seeing it was hopeless, Spuds obliged and padded sullenly out onto the street. He walked a few paces and sat down on the sidewalk. Watching the bustling traffic before him, thoughts of ending it all came, swallowing up any lingering rationale.

From the corner of his eye he saw a middle-aged man with a six-pack under one arm approaching. The salt-and-pepper haired man kneeled down in front of him, his eyes looking intently at the front of Spuds sweater.

“Budweiser huh? What are you doing out here by yourself fella?”

Spuds shook his head, unable to do anything but whimper pitifully.

“Don’t you have somewhere to go, someone to look out for you boy?” the man said, reaching down to pet the top of Spuds’ head. “Looks like you could use a bath".

The man glanced around, then down to Spuds who gazed back with a dull gleam in his eyes. “Well…why don’t you come with me, we'll get you fixed up. The man started to walk off, patting his leg for Spuds to follow.

Eyes on the six-pack, Spuds thought, “what the hell, maybe things are looking up after all.” He rose to his feet and started to follow the man in the gray suit, entertaining hopes that he was leading him to a better life and not some stupid twelve-step program.

A Heartwarming Yuletide Tale

It is said that Christmas is a season of the heart. A time for renewal of hope. A time when past wrongs are forgotten and new bonds of friendship are created.

Gather around me children, and I will tell you a true-to-life Christmas tale, where the magically unexplainable happened. The following is the tale of one such incident. It is the story of a remarkable young orphan girl who had enough room in her heart to adopt a lost stray alligator, just in time for Christmas dinner.

Maria Cessna had been just 4-years-old when she defected with her parents from Havana, Cuba, in a raft made out of used rubber bands and cotton puffs. As her parents soon learned, about five feet into the fateful voyage, rubber bands and cotton puffs do not float and the raft capsized and sank to the bottom. Her parents tragically, having never learned to swim, drowned in the three foot depths. Maria, having a smaller body, and not having been tied to any rocks or anvils for good luck like her parents, was washed upon the shore by the ebbing tides.

A week after her parents were located and laid to rest, this now orphaned sweetheart took a plane to Miami, Florida where she moved into an orphanage to live out the rest of her childhood.

Through it all, Maria longed for a pet. But, not just any pet would do. She wanted a cute little black Labrador puppy that would love her unconditionally and do tricks when you kick it. Each day she begged the orphan headmistress, Miss Yvette Deauvoix, for just one chance to find the object of her desires and fill the aching void in her heart. But Miss Deauvoix, sadly, was a b***h and always said "no."

Finally Christmas Eve came around and little Maria could not bear the loneliness anymore. After packing her few possessions into a bag and saying goodbye to her friends, she quietly snuck out the window and lowered herself to the ground. Sneaking off of the orphanage grounds, she headed for the nearby beach, hoping to find some drunken hobo with a puppy she could steal.

Reaching the beach she gazed in each direction but saw nothing. Suddenly she heard a barking in the distance. Padding softly in the sand, she ran to the noise. It looked like a black Labrador puppy! Running faster and faster, she felt like her heart would burst out of her chest. Indeed, it was a puppy and it looked as lost as her, as it wandered around on the beach. She stopped five feet in front of it with her arms outstretched and tears rolling down her cheeks. The puppy was beautiful and sleek.

Then she heard a noise from behind her. "Oh Griffin, there you are. Come away from that strange little orphan girl. It's time to go have a Christmas feast." The puppy bounded off with its owner and she was left alone again. She sat down on the beach, crying softly to herself.

Hours passed and finally she fell asleep. She had a strange dream that night that something big was dragging her along on the ground for a fun ride.

When she awoke that fine Yuletide morning, she saw a sight more beautiful than Christmas snow. A seven foot 'gator was dragging her towards the ocean, presumably to play water polo or some other type of fun water sport.

"You are the most beautiful gift I have ever been given on Christmas!" she cried out closing her eyes and thanking God for this wonderful miracle.

Taking a meat sandwich she had prepared for the puppy out of her pocket, she stood up beside the love-starved reptile. She spoke softly to it and leaned in to give it a hug as it snapped its jaws at her to give her a kiss.

"Because you have filled my heart with love, I will fill your belly with food," she said.

And, that's exactly what she did.

The Pewter Jockey was a rich and gallant fellow. He and his horse owned much property, including hotels and houses. All the property had been won and paid for with great care and skill. But, a dread came over he and his horse as they neared a great territory not owned by them. A huge red hotel marked this property. It loomed above them, too close already, only five paces away. The Pewter Jockey patted his horse as he neared the property. It became two paces away, and the Jockey feared that he would have to stop at the hotel. He was still on his own property at this point; the Pewter Jockey had been wise enough to purchase as much as he had, but another owned the looming red hotel. The Pewter Jockey knew too well that the hotel belonged to the infamous Pewter Iron. He wished to pass by, but if he saw giant snake eyes, he knew that his fate would be to pass the night in the hotel.
The very same hotel had been the ruination of three of the Pewter Jockey’s close friends. The Pewter Shoe, the Pewter Hat, and the Pewter Thimble had all met their fates there. The Pewter Jockey feared that he might share their fate, thus allowing the Pewter Iron to win.
Silently, the Pewter Jockey and Horse watched the horizon, anxious to see their fates written on the pale dawn. The Pewter Jockey gazed ahead with tears in his eyes; before the white expanse he saw the black dots reading his destiny. He beheld three dots and galloped past the red hotel to a sign reading, “GO -->> COLLECT $200.00 SALARY AS YOU PASS.”

1)He stood there, selfish, long, but not too long. Silver as a 50 cent piece and worth as much. Sandy hadn't known him for long, but she new he was the one, the one she could call friend, the one she would use to play her drums.

"I've got to have that one." she said to the clerk.

"This one right here?" He said, pointing towards big silver.

"That's the one." she replied.

2)Roddy had only been on this earth a short time but he knew he had found the perfect mate for his drum hitting obsession. He couldn't wait until they arrived home and she slid him into her soft hands and then ever so slowly built up a rhythm for the band. They would make beautiful music together, Roddy and Sandy forever.

When they arrived home the band had already set up, Sandy, ready to go as always quickly unsheathed Roddy and slid him into her right hand. The left hand picking up another piece of wood which looked strangely familiar to him.

"1...2...1.2.3.4!" she screamed as the band broke into an incredible melody of sound and resonance.

Roddy was elated with joy as she smacked him into the tom, then into the cymbal, oh how he loved the feeling of that cymbal, cold and hard.

"Keep going!" he yelled in his mind; "If only I had a voice, I too could sing like an angel."

After the song, strangely enough the band called it a night. They all left and it was then only Sandy and Roddy there. She looked at him with hungry eyes, then she did the one thing that he was waiting for all night; a monstrous drum solo. He went left and right, all around, the cymbal over and over, he was in drumstick heaven; And then he broke.

The sheer agony of it all, the snap of his spine, the non-chalant toss into the garbage, being left there in pain for days until the darkness came.

That was the end of it all, he couldn't take it anymore. He looked up, and then, on his last breath gave his final words:

"I love you.....Sandy."

An alarm clock went off next to Jim's head; startled awake at the unexpected noise, he quickly sat up and mumbled, "huh? wha? huh?" as he made a confused face and looked around the room, until finally locating the offending noise maker on the night stand, about six inches from his pillow.

"Damnit, what time IS it?" Jim asked himself, as he scratched his rear end.

"Noon?" he said in annoyance, after looking at the clock, "It's too damn early! Why do I have to get up at NOON???"

As Jim prepared to go back to sleep, his bedroom door opened, and his mother walked in carrying breakfast on a platter. "Here's a nice big breakfast to get you going! Today's the big day, Jimmy!"

"The big day for what?" Jim asked sleepily.

"Silly goose, the day you look for a job! I know you've been in a slump for a few years, since you got fired for spitting in the food at McDonald's, but you're 43 now, and I think you've matured enough to try for something better!", his mom cheerfully replied.

Jim looked at his mother with a combination of suspicion and fear, as the horrid thought of having to earn his keep came creeping into his mind, and he asked, "What kind of better?"

"Your uncle knows a guy who's the assistant manager at Walmart! I thought maybe you could apply there! They don't have any open food in the store, so you can't spit in it, and as long as you stay out of the knife section, you won't be violating your parole!", replied his mother, then she left the room.

"Crap." Jim muttered as he headed to the bathroom, scratching his backside again, this time with more gusto. After using the toilet, Jim smelled his fingers and decided that they weren't too dirty, so he could wait to wash them. Picking up a piece of sausage in one hand, he took a bite, then started picking his nose. By the time breakfast had been eaten, and his fingers licked clean, Jim had come up with a plan for the day - if he went to Walmart, and filled out an application with someone else's name, he wouldn't be lying to his mother about putting in an application, and then he could use his mom's ATM card to buy himself some new t-shirts. That would keep her from asking him to get a job for at least another month.

Slowly digging his stinkiest clothes from the bottom of the large, moldy heap of dirty laundry on the floor, Jim dressed and got ready to leave.

"Life is good." Jim said quietly to himself, as he thought of getting home in time to watch "Oprah" and "Dr. Phil" on TV, before heading out to the bar to pick up chicks.

"Yep," he said, "Life is good."

There is terror lurking below the streets of Paris, which is unknown to most people. But I know it; I’ve seen it with my own two eyes. And I consider myself lucky to be here today to tell the tale. This is a demon which thrives on striking fear in the hearts and bladders of weary tourists. She is the evil guardian of the pay toilets, known as Madame de Toilette.

It was the spring of ’97, and I was a young, impressionable girl on her first trip to Europe. I was intoxicated by the wonder of the culture, and the bold sense of history emblazoned within the architecture. I felt invincible. It was not until I was on the train through the Channel Tunnel from London to Paris, that I started to feel my own mortality. At first I thought that the fear in my bones was based on the idea that the tunnel might collapse, committing me to a watery grave. But I was wrong. My bones predicted a horror that my mind had not yet fathomed. I was on a train straight into the lair of Madame de Toilette.

Upon arrival in Paris, my bladder gave me the familiar ‘I gotta go’ warning, and I asked my traveling companion to be patient while I found a restroom. I then strolled unknowingly through a door and wound up face to face with the gatekeeper, Madame de Toilette. She immediately screamed her riddle at me in an ancient foreign dialect. I stood trembling and searching my mind for the magical phrase. I had been taught the phrase weeks before, and knew that recalling it would be the only chance to save my immortal soul. What was that phrase? Urgency and adrenaline were mottling my mind, and it seemed as though I was doomed when suddenly I blurted out, “je ne parle pas francais!”

Wrong answer! Laser beams shot from her eyes, striking the concrete ground, causing it to quake and open up revealing a smoldering underworld. I barely had time to shriek and jump back before being sucked into the firey chasm. Just then, my companion peeked in to see what the fuss was about. Again, Madame de Toilette screamed her riddle. He calmly answered the riddle, and further subdued her by offering a gift of shiny coins. And though all the requirements had been met for me to pass through her gate, she did the most horrible, despicable thing imaginable… She escorted me into the MEN’S restrooms. Why she did that, I’ll never know. Perhaps to remind me that it was a man who saved me from damnation. Perhaps it was to punish me with visions of men standing at urinals. Perhaps it was because the ladies bathroom was closed for cleaning. All I can do is speculate.

One thing I do know, fellow travelers. Madame de Toilette is out there. And she’s waiting for you.