In response, the head of the postal workers union announced a work slowdown, and made it retroactive to 1924.

A controversial roadkill calendar featuring flattened squirrels and dead badgers has become a surprise bestseller.

Creator Kevin Beresford, 58, travelled around the country to take his photos of carcasses, some of which are so squashed they cannot be identified.

I'm thinking it's the perfect gift. There's plenty of bush and beaver and it's still suitable for work.

According to diplomatic documents leaked on Friday, the Moscow Embassy described Russian President Dmitry Medvedev and Prime Minister Vladimir Putin's relationship in cartoon terms. Medvedev "plays Robin to Putin's Batman," they said.

George W. Bush? Rachel Dawes.

Well, thank God. Because speaking as somebody who's seen more than his share of rodents, I can tell you categorically that it's their wrinkles that totally freak you out.

Honestly, I'd like to congratulate the scientists here, because this is a real load off my mind. I can sleep better knowing that the next time I find a dirty little pest in my apartment, he won't be watching "Matlock." Hooray for progress! When stray disease-carrying creatures wander into my kitchen, they'll just eat my cookies and cakes and won't touch the Cream of Wheat. Oh, bravo. I am absolutely thrilled that the world's smartest people have decided that stopping mice from aging is important, because now when I see a giant raggedy one sprinting at me on the subway platform I'll know it's not going to squeeze my cheek.

Jeremy Piven Buys Green Version of Charlie's Angelmobile

Well, I think it's uncalled for, but plan your holiday accordingly.

Art

It's surprisingly easy.

• Take a photo of your genitals and make a slide of it.
• Buy a battery-operated slide projector.
• Find a church with a copy of Velazquez's "Crucifixion."
• Project your genitals onto Jesus.

Thus turning this:


into this:


I guess there's a point to it. When I looked at the photo, I thought "Whoa! That's one holy sceptre!" which may be the artist's intent. I mean, if Jesus were consistently pictured naked, we probably wouldn't notice it. I've seen Michelangelo's David so many times I can hardly remember which ball is droopier.

Maybe the artist wants to portray the scene with more historical accuracy, because the whole towel thing is kind of odd. Think about what kind of day Jesus had, carrying the cross up the hill, getting whipped and all that. And the towel never fell off? I could wrap myself eight layers deep and the second I answer the door mine goes floorward, which is probably why nobody's tried to sell me cookies in twenty years.

"Practicing" homosexuals? It's a penis, not a clarinet. Really, there's not that much to learn. Though I might have put a bit more work into it if I'd known there was a recital coming up.

I think a better adjective would be "observant." That's the word that divides people who say they're a certain religion from the ones who actually follow through. Lots of folks say they're Catholic, for instance, but only the observant ones actually get down on their knees.

You see the Home Shopping Network, I see bored women spending their husbands' paychecks. You see Bristol Palin dancing, I see my dentist doing an impression of Stevie Nicks.

You see Shep Smith, TV anchor at the right-wing, homophobic Fox News, and I see a guy trying to decide between the mauve and the tangerine shorty kaftans at International Male.

Well, it's better than their last tagline: "Just try keeping their paws off your basket."

Mayor Bloomberg is always asking the questions nobody else would ask. I mean, we've had some great mayors in the past, but none ever posed the question, "How about if we turn all the major streets into pedestrian plazas so New Yorkers will never be more than three feet from a panini?"

Still, recently he surpassed himself, wondering "Are all unemployed New Yorkers just brain-damaged, comic-book-reading layabouts?" Evidently the answer is yes, because this year the billionaire financier's primary attempt to lower the unemployment rate is a five-page lecture in a Spiderman comic book.

On the first page, Peter Parker talks to his aunt about being flat broke and unemployed. She tries to cheer him up. He's a photojournalist, right? This is a fine opportunity for him to either branch solely into journalism or morph into a photograph. Peter offers a pregnant woman his seat, but before she takes it she notices it's covered with ink. Because Peter's favorite pen has leaked! Then he literally runs into Mayor Bloomberg, who apparently travels with the only 5'6" bodyguards in town.




Turns out cash is falling from the sky because some evildoer robbed a bank. Peter fights him and wins, then he flies back to Mayor Bloomberg.


Thanks to the mayor's advice, now Peter knows he can find work, even though nobody's hiring. He offers Bloomberg his thanks and a tie to replace the one he ruined. And we close with happy feelings all around, though maybe it just seems that way because the mayor's gone.

So, did you get the lesson, New Yorkers? Yes, you should stay positive when you're looking for work, even though "no available jobs" kind of means this is pointless, and you'll be like the loser at Musical Chairs circling the room in search of an overlooked settee. But definitely wander the streets, because eventually you'll stumble on a bank robbery, and as the old superhero adage goes, "If it's dropped by a crook, consider it took."

Chapter One: Chocolate chip.

Chapter Two: Dino's Clown Room.

I totally agree. If somebody doesn't touch my penis before I get on a plane, I say the terrorists have won.

Vincent Gallo was apparently an actor. He's below the list of recognizable names in my head, though, since I set the absolute bottom at Christina Ricci. You can't remember everybody, you know.

Evidently Mr. Gallo didn't find acting to his liking, and he's become a gigolo. If he was as good an actor as he is gigolo, I know why I've never heard of him. Judging from his gigolo website, dude has got a screw loose.



First, there's something wrong with a guy who wants $50,000 for a couple hours but won't work afternoons. Are they that important to him? Hell, my sister is addicted to General Hospital but even she occasionally wanders away from the TV set, and Pop Tarts don't pay you $50,000 to eat them.

Second, what's with the sailor suit? I've seen both Sex and the City movies and I have yet to see the following scene:

SAMANTHA: Oh, Carrie, that man is fabulous.

CARRIE: He can sure fill out a pair of swim trunks.

SAMANTHA: And think how hot he'd be dressed as a gay porn star!

No, straight women aren't crazy about gay porn stars, and you can't really blame them. At some point during the evening, in my experience at least, they always run to the kitchen and come back with a carrot, and after that your services are no longer required.

Third, there's something definitely wrong with his price list. One woman is $50,000, and two women are . . . $100,000.

Are you freakin' kidding me?

I mean, c'mon, every work of Western art in the last hundred years has touched on how straight dudes want to screw two chicks. If they'd used half the time they spent fantasizing about three-ways on something like genetic engineering, we'd all be riding giant chickens to work. In fact, I'll bet the Pope himself has written a letter that started out, "Dear Kourtney and Khloe."

And just being logical, it's not like another woman would be twice the work. He's already in the bedroom and already in the sailor suit. The second woman deserves a discount, because she's not going to get the quality service the first woman gets. I've had sex with two people before and I know exactly what's going to happen. The first person gets all the passion and, er, physical evidence of excitement, and the second person gets a few half-hearted "Oh! Oh! Oh!"'s before somebody suddenly remembers they've got to feed the fish.

The section where he offers his sperm for sale, though, is where Mr. Gallo gets truly nuts. "Mr. Gallo maintains the right to refuse sale of his sperm to those of extremely dark complexions. Though a fan of Franco Harris, Derek Jeter, Lenny Kravitz and Lena Horne, Mr. Gallo does not want to be part of that type of integration." Racism in crazy people really bothers me. It's extra offensive when somebody says they don't want their kid to be off-white and then they name the thing, like, Bean Bag.

Since we're talking about his potential offspring here, Mr. Gallo gets down to brass tacks. If you have "naturally blonde hair and blue eyes," you get a discount. If you can prove you're related to a "German [soldier] of the mid-century," you get a discount. And if you're a Jewish woman, you get a discount, because if your child becomes an actor, "the Jewish faith would guarantee [the] offspring a better chance at good reviews."

Still, I'm not gonna rain on Crazy's parade. If you've got more money than men, I say go for it. Sounds like heaven on a stick. Experience the wonderful sense of fulfillment you get with "an unusually thick and large" dick. And should lightning strike, well, look out world, here comes Meryl Goldfarb!

Miley Cyrus is celebrating her 18th birthday with a blow-out party this weekend. She actually has a "birthday month," she says. "I do the whole month of November. Thanksgiving, cake -- all about me on Thanksgiving!"

Actually, Thanksgiving's always been about a bland, dessicated bird, so it's not that huge of a jump.




Baseball star Leny Dykstra is so broke, a judge authorized a creditor to repossess his dog, a German Shepherd worth $10,000.

It's that nine thousand dollar subwoofer.

All the time people ask me: Roman, what kind of guys do you like? Well, I'll tell you. I found a picture of the perfect man the other day.


See, I think we can agree on something here: this man is being slowly driven insane by his penis. Most penises just say, "Must fuck pretty woman" or "Must fuck handsome man," but his is on another wavelength entirely. It's got more exotic demands, and obviously he's got to follow through. He has no choice. He just hopes that tomorrow it doesn't make him hang around a petting zoo with hay stuffed up his ass.

I've had enough of regular people. I'm sick of hearing stuff like, "Roman, I'd totally do you, but I'm looking for someone with more possibilities of career advancement." And when I actually get them in the sack, the requirements intensity. "Roman, that feels good, but I can't really come unless you tie me up and say 'Who's my wove swave?' in Ed Asner's voice."

I think this is the biggest difference between humans and the animal kingdom: animals don't complain during sex. Turtles don't whine about how you're touching their shell. Cows don't say they'll never orgasm unless you compliment their cuds.

I don't know when sex got so many requirements: I'm thinking Cosmopolitan might be responsible. When I was a kid, you just fucked, and the fuckees smiled and thanked you. Now, it's out of control. You've got to suck this while rubbing that while spinning a plate on a stick. You have to aim for certain spots, like you're controlling some penile SWAT Team. Whatever happened to just blindly satisfying myself? There shouldn't be requirements. Disneyland wouldn't be nearly as popular if you had to lube up Mickey Mouse before you could get in.

Frankly, about four minutes into coitus with most people, I realize I'd be under far less pressure if I'd just stayed at work. Sex is supposed to be fun, right? I shouldn't be sweating like Bruce Willis trying to stop a runaway train.

When I have sex with regular people, they're never happy. No one has ever bragged to their friends about how great I was in the sack. With this guy, though, it's a possibility, because what do you think his requirements are in a partner? I think "Don't run away screaming!" is probably it. Everything else is gravy.

These are the people I specialize in: men being driven insane by their penises. Just by showing up I meet their requirements.

So color me interested, pantylover. Fingers crossed, I might actually be able to satisfy a dude. And hey, maybe I'll even surprise him. Once in a while I might moan something like "Don't taunt me with your treasures, sweet vixen" or "I don't know Victoria's Secret, but I can sure guess yours!" and I'll bet dude will be so grateful he'll do me until the cows come home.

On "The Late Show With David Letterman," Paul Shaffer frequently introduces guests with musical jokes. For instance, when Simon Baker of "The Mentalist" walked out, the band played "If You Could Read My Mind."

Last night I watched a few minutes of Jay Leno, and it appears his bandleader, Rickey Minor, is following suit. Cutting to a commercial from ex-pres George W. Bush, he played a familiar tune, and when I remembered the lyrics I realized this might be his idea of a joke:

When I came home last night
You wouldn't make love to me
You went fast asleep
You wouldn't even talk to me

You say I'm so crazy
Coming home intoxicated

Was it a comment? Beats me. In a bedroom far away, though, I'm thinking Laura probably choked on her Dubonnet.

A visitor to Greece soon realizes he's somewhere totally foreign. Even the alphabet is an odd jumble that has, for instance, the letter P replacing the R we know. Going to the mapina? It's that way. Need the Metpo? Over there.

It's odd. It's exotic. Still, I don't remember being more disappointed recently than when I went to my hotel's Poof Deck.

"I'm looking at the lay of the land now, and . . . trying to figure that out, if [running for president is] a good thing for the country, for the discourse, for my family, if it's a good thing," Sarah Palin told Barbara Walters.

Dear Sarah:

I'm a huge fan of yours, but after much concerted thought I think you'll have to agree the answer is no. If you became president, you'd have to move to Washington, and without your firm guidance your family would splinter. Willow might start drunkenly trashing neighborhood houses, Track might get addicted to "hillbilly heroin," and Bristol might sleep around or, God forbid, get pregnant, and make a fool of herself on national --

Oh. Really? Then give 'em hell, girlfriend!

RomanHans

They're "tech professionals" who live in a suburb of Minneapolis. They like sporty sunglasses and oversized shorts, and describe themselves as Libertarian. They discuss their blessed little bundle on their blog, posting health updates and ultrasounds.

And they've got a little widget so people can vote: Give birth, or have an abortion?

Dear Pete and Alisha:

Please add an option for "Climb over that low stone wall and throw yourselves into the river.

Thanks much,
RomanHans

[Annie Lennox's] A Christmas Cornucopia is a collection of new, inspired interpretations of 11 traditional festive songs. On Lullay Lullay, Lennox draws direct links between the Nativity and the plight of Africa's child soldiers. "Lullay Lullay alludes to the killing of first-born boy children by King Herod, and going back more deeply into the story of the song, I kept getting images of child soldiers in my head. The violation of children is endemic in many so places."

Okay, who wants egg nog?

I am so totally proud of the Teabaggers, who are keeping the amazingly uncoordinated Bristol Palin on Dancing With the Stars. They showed us! With some grass-roots organizing and hard work, they can propel a totally unqualified candidate into the top spot. Bravo!

Turkish salespeople are much more aggressive than those in the U. S. When you walk past a Starbucks in America, for instance, the clerks won't run outside and try to drag you in. They won't pelt you with questions like, "Have you ever had a frappuccino?" "Do you like frappuccinos?" or "Why don't you get a frappuccino now?"

In Turkey, though, whenever you pass a store, someone will run out and try to drag you in. While Raoul found it industrious, for me it quickly went from odd to incredibly annoying.

Here's what the first four hundred Turkish salespeople said to me.

Hello. Do you want to buy a rug? No? Are you cheap? Are you too tall to reach the money in your pants? You cannot enjoy money unless you spend it. Come into my store and spend your money there. Where are you from? New York! I have a cousin in New York! Do you need a gift for your secretary, or horse? Wait! Come back! It is very rude to walk away.

Here's what the next four hundred Turkish salespeople said to me.

Hello. Do you want to buy a rug? You already bought eighty of them, enough to cover the floor of your home five feet deep? Then how about some for the walls? Really? You don't have any walls? How can that -- you are kidding me. You are making a joke! Where are you from? Getlost! I have a cousin in Getlost. Do you need a -- what? Your secretary ate your horse? Wait! Come back! It is very rude to walk away.

Naturally, Raoul sided with the shopkeepers. "How can you just ignore people talking to you?" he accused. "That's so disrespectful." Of course, it took him forty-five minutes to cross the street.

Me, I figure if I'm rude back home, I have the right to be rude in foreign countries. In the U. S., I don't put up with BS from bums. I won't silently endure long monologues before I say no. It's wasting their time and my time. I know all too well how it goes: "I've been sick, I haven't been able to find work, I got in a car wreck, and now I don't have money for food." Yes, I know, blah blah blah. Call me crazy, but I don't need to listen to the whole drawn-out story before I say, "Look, times are tough for everybody, Mom."

So, a prominent art historian has just come out and said some scenes Michelangelo painted in the Sistene Chapel were inspired by what he saw in gay bathhouses. Needless to say, the backlash has been deafening. You'd think somebody lit one of the Pope's farts on fire.

Anyway, just a cursory glance at these images tells us this art expert is exactly right. In fact, anybody who's spent more than half a minute in a bathhouse can hear exactly what's going on.


"Yeah, lady, I'm sure you know lots of gay men, but you'll still need three forms of picture ID."



"I realize it's crowded and there are trolls watching, but what's the alternative -- Starbucks?"



"Oh, Christ -- it's my ex."



"WAIT! Don't put it away yet. I think I've got some batteries in my car."



"I swear to God, Maxine, sometimes I think every man in the universe is a bottom."

I'm not exactly entranced by Bryan Ferry's new record Olympia. Dude is 65, and I'm thinking he needs to grow up. Every time he sings "girl," I picture Betty White.

So, Raoul and I walk into the restaurant at the Ottoman Imperial hotel in Istanbul for the complimentary breakfast. The maitre d' approaches me with a checklist. "Room number?" he asks, and I say 601. He finds it on the checklist and crosses it off.

Then he turns to Raoul and seems to await a response. When nothing comes, he asks, "Are you two together?"

Let's see. We're two middle aged white Americans of approximately the same age, with similar builds and beards. We walked in together. We were talking.

Do we need to wear matching tank tops for you dudes to put it together?

As we head to our table, I add another item to my bucket list. I want to open my own restaurant. I'll welcome the men with open arms, then turn to their wives and say, with a distasteful glare, "Oh. Are you with her?"

A Walking Tour of Oxford, England

Oxford, England, is home to the University of Oxford, the oldest university in the English-speaking world. The University is composed of over a hundred individual colleges, some dating back to the thirteenth century and all with their own campus consisting of manicured grounds and stately medieval buildings. If you'd like to visit a college, simply follow the directions in your guidebook, or go to the largest building in front.

There you'll find a sign saying that's not the entrance. That's where the students go in. You're not that important, you know, with your Dockers shorts and your Cheetos bag. Here's a map to where the real entrance is. I hope those are hiking boots.

Go to this other entrance just to confirm it's locked. We're not here for your entertainment, you know. If you visit in the morning, we're open in the afternoon. If you visit in the afternoon, we're open in the morning. If you visit more than once, then sorry, but we aren't open to the public because we find the whole tourism thing tedious. Gosh, what a bother you are. I nearly solved Fermat's last theorem but you distracted me.

This small town was perhaps responsible for more scientific breakthroughs than any other area in the history of the world. So, needless to say, any tour of the city will start with the disclosure that HARRY POTTER WAS FILMED HERE. REALLY!!! Like, lots of it. This is the dining room where Harry ate lunch. Bite that, London! And you know that scene where Harry saw his parents in the mirror? That was filmed there! I know! Is that amazing? It's just unbelievable.

Oh, and I think Ptolemy was born nearby.

Now you have to leave because the city has just closed.

Actually, I was pretty proud of myself. Raoul, Linda and I were on a tour of Colchester Castle, and the guide had interrupted her narration with a question. Now, I'm no expert historian, but with a little concentrated effort I came up with what I thought was an educated guess.

"The Romans were fearless fighters," the guide declared, "using any means necessary to intimidate their enemy. When they travelled up the river from Rome, then, they brought with them what big gray animal?

"AN ELEPHANT!" I all but screamed. I don't get that many opportunities to impress.

"That's right!" the guide announced. I beamed while the only stranger on the tour, a sweet-looking old woman, muttered something like, "That's interesting." Linda, meanwhile, rolled her eyes.

"That was certainly impressive," she whispered to me. "I mean, there were so many possibilities. Like . . . " She pretended to think for a moment. "No, I guess that was it."

Instantly I went beet red. Linda was right: instead of looking smart, I looked like an idiot. This tour was designed for five-year-olds, and not especially bright ones at that. Even though there were no kids in our group, the guide still lobbed softball questions designed to keep them involved, with every one loaded with hints so that even the slowest child would get them right.

That's it, I thought. Nobody patronizes me. I swallowed my humiliation and bided my time until the next question came up. "In 54 AD, the warrior Bodecia attacked the Roman settlement," the guide said. "Two thousand years before feminism, what was different about Bodecia?"

"He was a professional dancer," I solemnly intoned, but the guide said no.

"He was in a wheelchair," Linda offered. The guide shook her head.

Raoul stared at both of us like we were idiots. "Bodecia was a woman," he declared.

"That's right," the guide said. We waited until Raoul shot us a smug look and together we rolled our eyes.

By the time the next question came, all three of us were on board. "Bodecia's army was vastly outnumbered by the Romans," the guard announced, "but they were far more adept at warfare. Long before it became common, they donned what protective apparel?"

"Aprons," I confidently stated.

"Football helmets?" Linda offered tentatively.

"Condoms," Raoul said with Walter Cronkite's gravitas. Linda and I choked down laughs as the guide shook her head.

"Suits of armor," the guide said frostily, and the three of us mimed sudden illumination. In unison we said, "Oh."

The guide prattled on a bit before hitting her next question. "Though Bodecia's attack was largely rebuffed," she said, "it nearly destroyed the Roman government. Food was scarce, so the inhabitants survived on what native game?"

Linda's hand flew up in the air. "Grand Theft Auto," she announced.

Raoul and I nearly choked. "Um, no," the guide replied. "By 'game,' I mean -- "

"Chutes and Ladders," Raoul yelled. The guide took a deep breath.

"Idiot, she said NATIVE GAME," I snapped, as the guide shot me a look of gratitude. "It's Quidditch, right?"

All of time stood still as the guide froze us in a furious glare. She was onto us, that much was certain. Without a word of explanation she leapt ahead ten centuries, and when she posed her next second-grade question we didn't exactly jump. "In 1076, construction of the current castle was ordered by what Norman nicknamed 'The Conqueror'?" she asked.

Three pairs of eyes lit up, but without pausing a nanosecond the guide answered herself. "ROCKWELL! That's it: Norman Rockwell, the acclaimed painter of all those Saturday Evening Post covers, also built this castle. Isn't that incredible?"

The sweet old woman eyed the crumbling structure. "He should have stuck to painting," she announced.

The International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees announced it was mounting a strike against "The Biggest Loser" reality TV show, saying producers fought efforts to unionize their employees. The crew walked off the job Monday, and the producers plan to bring in replacement workers to resume production next week.

So, if you were watching the show to get diet tips, here's a new one: think about fat people and scabs.

Modern Art in Turkey

I'm a connoisseur of modern art, and the modern art scene in Turkey is, to put it mildly, light years behind the U. S. All the new works there seem anchored to some political ideology, addressing some obscure uprising that happened years ago. Needless to say, this work doesn't ring with the same emotional clarity as, say, a Festiva covered in Post-It Notes.

Sigh. I knew my vacation was going to be expensive, but I didn't realize just how expensive. Now I've got to buy a whole new wardrobe, because clothes never really regain their shape after they've been pounded clean on rocks down by the river. But hell, the hotel was going to charge me thirty-five bucks, so what choice did I have?

My Vacation Haiku

Everywhere, plinky music.
Hey, I didn't go halfway around the world
to listen to NPR.

Did You Know?

On The Real World: Germany, when the cast talks or jokes about big, meaty sausages, they're actually referring to sausages.

Turkish Joke

Q: Did you hear about the guy who doesn't like Kurds?

A: No way!

Today's Helpful Turkish Phrase

"Evet, Amerika geliyorum. Hayır, herhangi bir satın almaya gitmiyorum benim sekreter ya da benim at hediye."

Yes, I'm from America. No, I'm not going to buy any presents for my secretary or my horse.

Thanks, guy who wrote the motivational saying, "If you're not the lead dog, the view never changes." Now whenever I see a picturesque line of birds on the horizon, all I can think of is one of them saying to himself, "Christ -- another day, another pigeon's asshole."

As a public service, I'd like to offer some simple dating advice so you don't fall into the same trap I did.

Sometimes people talk theoretically about sex. Like, you'll be on a date, and you'll finish a wonderful dinner, and the guy will lean over close and start to fantasize about the next step in your relationship. Maybe he'll want to paint a mental picture in his head of what sleeping with you would be like.

This is a good opportunity for you to reinforce that yes, you'll be everything he desires and more. It isn't a time to iron out the give-and-take of what's going to happen in the sack.

For instance, if he asks, "When you and I eventually fall into bed, will it be fabulous?" don't answer, "Oh, absolutely. Will you still be wearing those sweet white socks?"

I know everybody loves her
And I enjoy the way she sings
But dude, if you play one more song
I'm going to throw my onion rings.

I've got the C'mon, Guy, It's Been Forty-Six Tunes
Too Much Billie Holiday Blues.

I am sick and tired of her whining.
Girl should work instead of just cry.
My cousin Pam bought a Pinto
After eighteen months at DeVry.

I've got the Started Out Sad, Now I'm Steaming
Too Much Billie Holiday Blues.

Billie, maybe you'd find a new man
If you found something cheerful to say.
And maybe you'd find work if
You worked on your résumé.

I've got the Bet She Bought Cheetos With Food Stamps
Too Much Billie Holiday Blues.

He probably wouldn't have dumped you
If you'd cut back on the booze.
And maybe bought a pretty scarf
Or some high-heeled Jimmy Choos.

I've got the You Can Work Wonders With Makeup
Too Much Billie Holiday Blues.

I understand things are miserable.
Nobody said life was fair.
Maybe folks would treat you better
If you took that shrubbery out of your hair.

I've got the What Is That, a Hydrangea?
Too Much Billie Holiday Blues.

Success is in the attitude;
Show people a confident you.
Everybody loves Billy Joel
And he gets to drive drunk too.

I've got the Frowns Don't Fuck Christie Brinkley
Too Much Billie Holiday Blues.

Laughter is serious medicine,
A lifeboat for a sinking ship.
In fact, I'll bet she'd be alive today
If she'd read that "Family Circus" strip.

I've got the Okay, Dude, I'm Outta Here
Too Much Billie Holiday Blues.

I've got the That's It, Dude, I'm History
Too Much Billie Holiday Blues.

Search through those travel books all you want, but they never tell you what you really need to know. Where can I get a taco? Check. Where can I rent a car? Yup. Will every freakin' person in Turkey try to sell me stuff? Reply hazy; try again.

You buy your tickets with blithe ignorance, and minutes after you land you discover the truth. Yes, the Bahamas are picturesque. The weather is great, the beaches are pretty. But the residents are all poor and black, and by stark contrast you're pretty much rich and white. The first day you'll feel guilty having an entire race at your beck and call. You'll feel like you've slunk back in time to the slave era. You're friendly; you're apologetic. By the end of your trip, though, you'll be saying stuff like, "Sam, you've done fine work as my manservant, but if you continue to make untoward advances toward the scullery maid you'll soon feel the wrath of my cane."

As a public service, I'll furnish some vital information that guidebooks on Greece just happen to omit. YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO FLUSH TOILET PAPER DOWN THE TOILET.

Now, I can see the questions forming in your brain. If you can't put it down the toilet, where else can it go? And farther down the line: why can't you put toilet paper in the toilet? Isn't it made for that?

I asked myself these questions, and finally assumed I got it wrong. "Surely they mean tampons," I told myself. "They must mean paper towels." But I found signs in every bathroom, and eventually one spelled it out in graphic detail. DON'T PUT TOILET PAPER IN THE TOILET. It actually offered details of how one managed this.

You use the toilet paper like you normally do. Instead of dropping it when you're finished, though, you take it out, fold it into a little square, and put it in the trash can.

I had two problems with this. One, you know that saying about what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas? I feel the same way about anything in the toilet. And two, IN A TRASH CAN? Are you freakin' kidding me? I spend four thousand dollars a year on potpourri. I've got little bamboo wands that diffuse aromatic liquids; I've got oils I dab onto lightbulbs. Isn't a bucket full of poo-dabbed tissues pretty much the opposite of that?

So call me crazy, call me irresponsible, but I refused. I'm very sorry if I ruined Greece's sewage system. Over seven days, I flushed enough tissue to remove Cher's makeup. Every day I expected the hotel maid to accost me and scream, "VERE ARE DA POO TISSUES IN YOUR TRASH CAN?" But she never did. And for that I'm grateful. I'm thankful. I'm eternally indebted to her.

In fact, if she wants to date my manservant, I'll give it some serious thought.

Even if I wasn't vegetarian, I'd be vegetarian in Turkey.

In Turkey, meat comes in two forms. There's big stacks of sliced meat called döner, and there's little blobs of ground meat called kefte.

Döner is Reason #276 why I hate entrepreneurs. At some point, one of them decided they could make a fortune if they could somehow convert a happily-grazing cow into a tubular shape. Because honestly, the way God made them isn't exactly conducive to fast food. Take an electric knife to one and you'll end up with gristle and bone and cowhide, not to mention hoof marks in your hair.

So, this entrepreneur tosses a cow into a wood chipper and stacks up what comes out. He sells it to restaurant owners, who mount it on a vertical rotisserie in front of a heating element, and the outside cooks as it spins. Somebody walks up, says "Hey, gimme a döner!" and the cook slices off the outer layer and tosses it onto a piece of bread. If the outer layer isn't done, he'll say, "Sorry, it's not completely cooked. You'll have to come back later, okay?"

Ha. Well, I'll bet some of you fell for it.

Döner raises a few red flags with me. First, how do you stack up raw meat so it stays in a cohesive shape? When I play Jenga, the game never lasts more than five minutes, and we're not playing with uncooked cow. Plus, there's all kinds of sanitation issues. Where does this döner go at night? (I mean, is it stored in a refrigerator, rather than does it like to drink and dance.) How many days does the center spin around before it ends up in somebody's sandwich?

Kefte are sometimes called meatballs, except usually they're not in a ball shape. Years ago some chef decided that fashioning tiny balls took too long, so he just squished meat in his fist and cooked it the way it came out.

You know, I've always been extra-suspicious about ground meat. I'll eat stuff that's been sprayed with chemicals, or came from more than eight miles away, but I need a little more than the chef's reassurance that what I'm eating isn't something inedible chopped really small.

Besides, this is probably the worst kind of food shape you can imagine, short of tiny meat vulvas. You can make out all sorts of details, like knuckles and wrinkles and such. I don't know why the Turkish people happily devour these things. Broad smiles splashed across their faces, they dig into plates of food shaped like the inside of a dude's fist. I couldn't do it. I don't like knowing forensic scientists could reconstruct parts of a human being using what's going in my mouth.

Needless to say, I stayed firm. I ate beans and rice, rice and beans. I got curious stares from everybody, but I'd avoid their eyes and steadfastly watch the chefs squish the tiny blobs. And eventually I realized that, in this venue at least, some old maxims were definitely true.

Big hands meant big meat. Small hands meant small meat.

And unless you're looking for trouble, avoid dudes wearing wedding rings.

I'm back.

First, thanks to Blue Star Ferries. I booked them to go from Santorini -- a Greek island paradise -- to Kos, an island just off the coast of Turkey.

I asked the owner of my hotel if there was a chance they'd cancel the ferry. "They never do," she said. I asked the local tourist office. Since she wasn't dependent on me for income, she literally laughed in my face. "They never do," she said.

They did.

So, instead of simply taking a cab to a ferry, I got to take a cab to a different ferry to a bus to a plane to another bus. I got to see a lot more scenery, and discovered that yes, I can still stay up 36 hours straight, though I start speaking in gibberish around hour 25.

On the plus side, Turkey was absolutely amazing. So many men, so few independent eyebrows: it's truly the Land that Manscaping Forgot. Here's a popular film star:


Yeah. And I thought Steve Carrell was gross.

Still, the men couldn't be friendlier. Five minutes after they start talking to you, they hug you and call you their brother. I've got two sisters, and I've got to say the dynamic with brothers is totally different. In eighteen years, my sisters never once chased me down the street screaming that I had to buy their rugs.

Repeat Friday: Surprise

I have to do something. Every morning I wake up and it's like my eyebrows have grown just a little bit bigger, until they threaten to consume my face. It looks like two squirrels are scurrying across my forehead, and very soon there's just going be to one. Years ago, though, after an overzealous afternoon with a razor blade, I learned that shaping and tweezing your facial hair is like trying to remove your own gall bladder. This time around, I decide, I'll let a professional handle it.

I don't exactly keep up with the trends, but I know about threading. I've seen it on the news, where an Asian woman wielding something like dental floss wraps a coil around a stray hair and yanks it out, faster than the blink of an eye. While I run my daily errands I pass eight or nine threading salons, and I slow in front of every one. I feel my eyebrows swelling until I can barely keep my head up. I think, why don't I just go in and get it done?

You hear all these rumors about New York metrosexuals, but I'm the only guy in the salon I finally choose. There's so much estrogen in the building, in fact, I feel like I've accidentally stumbled into Pinkberry. Mercifully, the procedure is quick and painless. Five minutes and fifteen dollars later, the woman passes me a hand mirror. My eyebrows are far apart and half their original size. The delicate arch makes me look ever so slightly surprised.

I look at the woman. She looks at me. "Well, I think they look good," she says.

I race to the bathroom of a nearby Bed Bath & Beyond and survey the damage. They could definitely be worse. They're certainly not that 30s Jean Harlow brow, the thin Sharpie squiggle dancing below the hairline. They could almost pass for natural. Still, the arch is sharp enough to change my default expression. I'm no longer bored. I'm not exhausted. If I keep my face entirely still, I'm somewhere between inquisitive and questioning. Add in even the slightest additional surprise, though, and I look like a man fleeing Godzilla.

I run my remaining errands as I struggle to keeping my face utterly placid. Inquisitive eyebrows aren't such a horrible thing, I discover. They have the attitude that I don't, second-guessing every word I hear.

I stop at a fruit stand for a mango and some strawberries. "That'll be twelve dollars," the man says. I look at him. He looks at me. "Okay, okay," he snaps. "Maybe it's just ten."

I drop in Designer Shoe Warehouse to see what's new. There's a pair of Ecco shoes I almost like but they're clunky, and they only come in brown. "Those are absolutely perfect," a clerk says. I look at her. She looks at me. "If your girlfriend's named Rainbow and you wear fringed vests," she adds.

By the time I head home it's late, and the subway is deserted. Still, a middle-aged man sits down right next to me. His suit is cheap, his hair's thinning, his moustache nearly hides his mouth. "You should be a model," he says, just out of the blue. "I mean, you are absolutely gorgeous. You've got an amazing face, and it looks like you've got a really hot body. You could be, like, in one of those Calvin Klein ads, just wearing underwear. David Beckham's got nothing on you."

I look at him. He looks at me.

"Well, I wouldn't turn off the lights when I fucked you," he says, so imagine my surprise when he did.

Repeat Thursday: Two Mistakes

Every time Richard opens his mouth he makes two mistakes. "I absolutely love Picasso's works from his purple period," he declares at the art museum, staring in admiration at a tiny, colorful work.

These pronouncements always stop me in my tracks, because I never know which mistake to address first. In this case I say, "Actually, Picasso never had a purple period. And that picture in particular is a Mondrian."

"Oh," he says. He nods his head like he's suddenly semi-educated, when in reality he's just moving on to his next mistakes. He doesn't seem to realize how hard it is to talk to him. When somebody makes one mistake, the human brain can easily decipher it. One mistake is glaringly obvious: Ellen Degeneres is married to Portia de Rossi, not Tia Carrera. Narcissus aren't orange, they're white. One can't actually dodge taxes by diverting some of their income to a 10K. The brain decides whether or not the err is worth correcting, and that's the extent of that.

When someone makes two mistakes, though, additional parts of the brain are required, because the conversation receptor is thrown into overload. A dialog starts ping-ponging inside the head. It's like the NYPD caught a naked man holding up a liquor store and then couldn't decide whether the case should go to Violent Crimes or Vice. "Have you seen that movie with Roma Downey Jr.?" Richard asks. "Hawaiian Tropics?"

I have to mentally list all the possible permutations and then rank them by the likeliest. Does he really mean Roma Downey? Probably not. Nobody's meant Roma Downey in quite some time. No, odds are it's Robert Downey Jr. But he never made a movie about tanning lotion, right?

Meanwhile, Richard is standing there blissfully, not a thought in his head.

Now, I kind of like Richard. He's attractive and fun and professional, three qualities I've rarely found before, let alone in the same man. But I can't help but wonder. Making one mistake at a time marks you as an ordinary, fallible human. What does two at a time say?

Still, he's my man for most of December. I bite my lip when he tells me he has a crush on David Beckham, the rugby player who's married to Scary Spice. I sigh sadly when he announces that Oreo cookies are made by leprechauns. I watch in silence as he pours champagne into a martini glass that has colored salt around the rim.

And still, somehow, we make it into bed. The usual way, pretty much: we go out to dinner, drink a bottle of wine, go back to his place and start making out. "I bet you've got a big dick and you know how to use it," he whispers into my ear.

I say, "Oh, just shut up and lie down."

Repeat Wednesday: Greek to Me

It wasn’t easy convincing my landlord that my air conditioner was really broken. He kept saying that the noise and smoke were nothing out of the ordinary, and he stood in the blast of superheated air oohing and aahing like it was a tropical waterfall. When his face took on the color of a medium-rare porterhouse, though, he gave up pretending, and in exchange for a glass of ice water he called a repairman. The next thing I knew somebody was pounding on my door at 7:30 in the morning.

“Open up!” a gravelly voice growled as I glared at my clock in disbelief. “I’m here to fix your air conditioner!” I threw on a towel and opened the door and if I wasn’t fully awake before I certainly was now: the sight of this guy was as bracing as a double espresso. I don’t mind old or out of shape folks provided they wear something to hide it -- like baggy clothes or the Houston Astrodome -- but he had on less than Britney Spears.

I tried to avert my eyes as he lumbered in but I couldn’t help but notice corduroy short-shorts, scuffed brown boots and a tool belt, with lots of blotchy red nakedness in between. He zigzagged through the place until he found the air conditioner, and after the removal of his tool belt sent his shorts plunging to new depths I fled to the shower. When I returned the air conditioner was still grinding like a cement mixer and he was sitting on my bed reading an old copy of Drummer.

Oops. “I’m a musician,” I lied. “I thought that was an instruction manual.”

“No,” he said thoughtfully, “I don’t think so. Though some of the guys look a little like Ringo.” I hadn’t picked up an accent before so I was surprised when he pronounced it “Reengo.” He was from somewhere weird, I thought, but unless he said “Blimey,” “Ah, so” or “Zeig heil!” I wasn’t in a place to guess.

He smiled and showed a jumble of teeth splayed out like shredded wheat. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he said. “I am Greek. My people have been that way for thousands of years. Women are the mothers of our children, but men are for love and companionship. You see, in Greece young men are the tippy-top of beauty. You see that in our art and in our literature. The older men are expected to marry and raise children but also since they hold the knowledge they must share it, along with friendship and love, with impressionable youths. It is their civic duty.”

He tossed the magazine aside, extracted a screwdriver from his toolbelt and pried the front cover off the air conditioner. “Take the philosopher Aristotle, for instance. He was a very wise man. He invented geometry and logic and the VCR. He meets this kid Socrates and he embraces him like a son. He teaches him philosophy, introduces him to politics, and initiates him into sex. But, you know, it’s not just slam bam thank you ma’am sex. It’s a manly thing, like a big friendly hug. Except they were, you know . . . naked.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say. I didn’t know anything about gay sex in the past because I’d been trying to get some in the present. But long ago I’d visited a civilization where men bonded together and paired off and left the women to their own devices. It was called “San Francisco.” And while Castro Street wasn’t the Parthenon and a caftan wasn’t really a toga it was still fun enough.

He pulled the air filter off and a line of dirt sprinkled to the floor. “Me, I’m sad to say I have not found a boy to tutor. Maybe I’m not as smart as Aristotle, but I’ve learned a few things and I want to pass them on.”

Now, to say I wasn’t attracted to this guy was an understatement. Though he was butch as Hoss Cartwright’s left testicle he also had a belly domed like a turtle, and his hair was a shade of black found only on newborn mink and Wayne Newton. He had a thick thatch of chest hair that started halfway between his nipples and his navel, and his legs were lumpy and red. But his story made me nostalgic. I looked at the wrinkles encircling his eyes and started to yearn for a time when sex wasn’t just a temporary bond between strangers, something to kill a couple minutes between laundry cycles. When it meant sharing, and forming a bond so tight it could only be expressed by physical affection.

To make a long story short, he showed me how to adjust my thermostat and then we did it. He undressed me slowly and then yanked his shorts down, and with paint-splattered boots still tied to his feet he had his way with me. “We are like Socrates and Aristotle,” he panted. “I share my years of knowledge and then take you from behind.” He wasn’t particularly instructive, as I’d been in that position once or twice before, but knowing it was a time-honored tradition made it special. Before I even straightened up he was gone.

I woke up in a great mood the next morning, despite the fact this was the second day in a row somebody was pounding on my door at dawn. As I wrapped myself in another towel I realized something had changed. No longer was I a shallow gym rat with no connection to the past: now I was a shallow gym rat tied to history. I flung the door open like I was greeting a fresh new life.

“Hey,” my landlord said, grimacing at my pale pink flesh. “Did the guy fix your air conditioner?”

“He sure did,” I said, blushing. “It’s running great now. That Stavros is a terrific guy.”

He looked at me like a dog would if I asked it to mix me a martini. “Stavros? You mean the husky old guy who needs more clothes? That’s my wife’s uncle Patsy. He ain’t Greek -- he’s half Irish and half Italian. Funny you should say that, though, ‘cause once he told a guy he was Greek, and they actually -- “

By the time he saw my mouth drop open it was too late.

“Oh, jeez. You didn’t fall for that ‘mentor’ crap, did you? The Socrates and Aristotle speech?”

I nodded as blotchy red flesh flashed before my eyes.

“I gotta have a talk with that guy. But you can’t really blame him, I guess. That’s the only way he can get laid.” My mood was as limp as my towel now, and he was looking guilty. “Look, if you really want a mentor, I could give it a try. But I ain’t doing any of that butt-pirate stuff.”

I shook my head, smiling in gratitude despite slowly realizing that a seventy-year-old man had just turned me down for sex. “Thanks, Mr. Carmelo. But it’s really not the same without a Greek.”

“I know what you mean,” he said. “In the forties I sent away to Japan for a mail-order bride. They sent me a German Jew named Schotzi.”

After he left I stood in the dark, listening to the air conditioner’s calm hum and feeling the cold air swirl around me. Sure, he’d tricked me. He’d used me and thrown me away. But was it as bad as all that? Maybe “Stavros” wasn’t going to be my mentor but he’d taught me something important.

If I was going to get anywhere in this world, I’d need to fake an accent.

Repeat Tuesday: Heather Has a Mommy and a Daddy, Part Two

One night there’s a dance at Heather’s school and her parents offer to chaperone. While Heather’s dancing with Danitra she sees from the corner of her eye her mom and dad moving onto the dance floor. She watches in horror as her mom just sort of stands there swaying, her gingham granny dress limply hanging to the floor. She grimaces as her dad starts chopping at the air like Jackie Chan being attacked by locusts.

Occasionally their movements coincide with the beat. Heather runs to the bathroom crying.

“Heather, don’t feel so bad,” Danitra says. “Lots of kids have embarrassing parents.” She starts to lead Heather out of the bathroom, then stops. “Um, maybe we should stay in here a while longer. They just started doing the Bump.”



One day the class projects are due. Heather brings in the model she’s made. It’s a lump of brown Play-Doh with ketchup poured over it and dotted with marshmellows stuck on with toothpicks. She sets it on the table as her teacher comes over to look.

“Why, Heather! That’s . . . nice! Very very nice!”

“What the hell is it?” Tommy asks.

“TOMMY! Heather’s parents had me over for dinner once. This is what they call ‘Salisbury steak.’”

Heather bursts into tears. “NO IT’S NOT! It’s a VOLCANO! That’s lava, and that’s steam coming out.”

Mrs. Weinberg-Lopez comforts Heather. Danitra enters and places her project next to Heather’s on the table.

“Why, Danitra, what’s this?”

Danitra delicately removes the sheet protecting her project.

“Versailles.”

Heather takes one look at the tiny replica of Louis XIV’s summer home, constructed by Danitra and her two dads out of two hundred cubic yards of teak plank, thirty square feet of gold leaf, sixty pounds of Italian travertine marble from the same quarry Michelangelo used, tiny topiary and functional miniature fountains, and cries even harder.

“Why did I have to have a mom and a dad?” Heather sobs. “Why can’t my family be like all the rest?”

Mrs. Weinberg-Lopez pulls Heather close. “Children,” she says,”every family is special, including those conforming to the rigid, stereotypical standard of male domination.” She starts to tell the class about her own family, including her hearing-impaired Hispanic mother, her height-challenged Israeli father, and her Gypsy recovering-substance-abusing brother-in-law and Armenian sex-addict half-sister, but stops, realizing the school year is only 4,074 hours long.

“Just because Heather’s parents are heterosexual doesn’t mean they’re slow-witted philistines, though there are strong correlations you don’t need a PhD in statistics to understand. But Heather is lucky to have a sweet mom and a wonderful dad and a dog named Molly and a hamster named Samson, and they all live together in a lovely house. They’ve got interesting avocado-colored appliances, carpet as long as your hair, and furniture that‘s by-and-large wood that must have taken them hours to assemble. There’s a big plastic sofa that turns into a bed, and a La-Z-Boy -- ”

“A what?” Keanu asks.

“A La-Z-Boy,” Mrs. Weinberg-Lopez repeats. “It’s a big vinyl chair that reclines.”

“Oh, man!” exclaims Keanu, covering his face with his hands. “And I thought our Herman Miller reproductions were embarrassing!”

Mrs. Weinberg-Lopez continues. “But the important thing is, they’re a family. They’re a group united for a common purpose, where each individual is given a sense of empowerment and their shared bonds are formalized in a ritualistic manner.”

“Oh,” the students respond in unison.

Everybody hugs.

THE END


If you enjoyed this story about Heather, ask your local bookseller for these titles:

“Heather’s Mom is Narcoleptic”
“Heather’s Dad Has Epstein-Barr”
“Heather’s Sister’s Problem Still Puzzles Specialists”
and the latest,
“It’s No Picnic Being Related to Heather”

Repeat Monday: Heather Has a Mommy and a Daddy, Part One

I don't believe this. Apparently it's so fashionable to be gay, there are support books for children who have heterosexual parents.

Heather Has a Mommy and a Daddy
Deep in the heart of Dullsville, at the end of a cul-de-sac, behind a lawn of scratchy brown grass dotted with giant plastic butterflies, three flaking cement deer, and a philodendron the size of Bob Hoskins though with fewer decorative parts, lives Heather Thompson.

Heather has a mommy and a daddy. Heather’s daddy is an accountant. Her mommy is a homemaker. Before Heather was born they met, fell in love, and got married.

“I love you very much and I’m having your child,” Heather’s mom said.

Danitra is Heather’s best friend. One of Danitra’s dads is an empowerment facilitator. The other is an aura consultant. Danitra doesn’t know what they do at work, except they don’t need briefcases. Before Danitra was born her daddies met and fell in love, and after seventeen years spent discussing caring and support, handling acceptance, and negotiating intimacy, they had a commitment ceremony.

“I love you very much and I’m designing the rings,” Danitra’s Daddy Mike said.

One day in school Heather’s teacher, Mrs. Weinberg-Lopez, tells the class to draw pictures of their families.

Danitra draws two men, Julio draws two women, and Heather draws a man and a woman.

Keanu points at the woman Heather drew, with squiggly yellow hair, a crude red dress and simple brown shoes. “This dad here’s got some ugly drag going on,” he says.



At lunchtime Danitra sits on the bench next to Heather and pulls a sandwich out of a brown paper bag.

“Want to trade?” Danitra asks. “I’ve got grilled eggplant and goat cheese on marjoram foccacia.”

“Um, I didn’t bring lunch,” Heather stammers, kicking her brown paper bag out of sight. “I’m . . . uh . . . on a diet.”

“Diet?” Danitra asks. “Haven’t your dads told you not to buy into that patriarchal looks-based chauvinism? And anyway, what’s this then?” she asks, holding up the bag with “HAVE A SUPER DAY!” written in sparkle marker on it.

Julio, who was listening nearby, runs up and grabs Heather’s lunch. “Yeah, what’s this? It’s somebody’s lunch!”

Heather jumps at the bag but Julio holds it out of reach. “You give that back!” Heather yells.

“Try and make me!” Julio chides. He pulls Heather’s sandwich apart and drops it like it was electrified. He wobbles away, holding his stomach.

“Oh my God!” he cries. “There’s like dead stuff in there!”

Danitra looks at the sandwich lying on the cement. “Is that MEAT? Is that like SPAM?”

Claudia, sitting quietly at the other end of the bench, bursts into tears. “Heather’s eating BAMBI!”

“It’s friggin’ Wonder Bread!” Julio scoffs.

Keanu walks toward the bread and peers at it. “And it’s got LUBE all over it!”

“You idiot, that’s MAYONNAISE.”

“What’s mayonnaise?”

“It’s like goat cheese for heterosexuals.”

“Heterosexuals?” Keanu asks. “Heather’s mommy and daddy are heterosexuals?”

Heather starts to yell. “No! I don’t have a mommy and a daddy. I’ve got two daddies!”

“Hell-OOOO!” Danitra says, drawing the word out to twelve syllables. “We can see your clothes!”

“Um . . . “ Heather stalls, “then I’ve got two mommies.”

“And we’ve seen you play baseball,” Julio answers.

Heather, unable to think of a response, sits on the bench and starts to cry. Danitra pulls a robin’s egg blue bandana from her pocket and dabs at Heather’s face.

“Maybe your mom’s not really a woman,” Danitra offers.

“Well,” Heather says, sniffing, “she cleans the house, and cooks, and does the laundry.”

Danitra fumes. “We’re trying to establish that she’s female, not that she’s an idiot.”

“Maybe your dad’s not really a man,” Julio suggests.

“Well,” Heather answers, wiping her nose. “He’s big and strong and he’s got a moustache.”

Several of the children wonder what this proves but nobody says anything.

“So let’s say you’ve got a mom and a dad,” Keanu says. “Then where did you come from?”

Heather thinks for a minute. “They went to bed together, and then I was born.” Some of her friends express further interest, but Heather doesn’t have a brochure. “Daddy put his thing in mommy -- “

“Oh, man,” Keanu interjects. “Is that legal?”

“HelLLLLO!” sings Danitra, who gets the word up to eighteen syllables this time. “We’re in CaliFORnia!”

“And nine months later I came out of my mommy’s tummy,” Heather adds.

Several of the children wonder why they didn’t hire a surrogate with a vagina but nobody says anything.