The disease is the cure.

I wonder why lots of women don’t go bald? They must, but I can’t see them. Better wigs?

Actually, I never said that; I just heard that on a radio program. The quote was attributed to “some junkie,” so I figure I can steal it with impunity. The only reason anyone thinks I have a modicum of cleverness is that no one—including me—knows how much of my work has been obtained by shameless thievery.

“Funny as in pathetic loser?” I asked.

“No,” she replied.

“Funny as in squaresville, daddio?” I continued.

“Nope,” she responded.

“Please don’t say funny as in dirty old man,” I said nervously.

“Fortunately not,” she reassured.

“Then I give up,” I concluded, “what flavor of funny?”

“Funny as in ha-ha funny,” she explained.

At first, I was pleased by the compliment, but then I started to worry, which is what I do best. Is having one’s work appreciated by a gifted, percipient teenager a Good Thing or a Bad Thing?

Of greater consolation is the news in the recent edition of Cancer Research: capsaicin kills prostate cancer cells and inhibits the growth of tumors. Since capsaicin is the chemical that puts the hot in hot peppers, I look forward to even more self-medication.

When I told Roberto the good news, he reminded me of a study a few years ago that masturbation is also efficacious in warding off prostrate cancer. A quick poke around the Internet revealed that xanthohumol—a flavonoid compound—is helpful in fighting the disease. And where can one obtain xanthohumol? Since it’s only found in hops, the answer is simple: beer and ale!

I must remember to send these notes to my mother; she still worries that I’m not taking good care of myself.

“I am accused of having said that the [Chinese] Communists used to eat children. But read The Black Book of Communism and you will discover that in the China of Mao, they did not eat children, but had them boiled to fertilize the fields.”

A few days later, Berlusconi issued an apology that wasn’t an apology.

“It was questionable irony, I admit it, because this joke is questionable. But I did not know how to restrain myself.”

I did not know how to restrain myself—that’s what all the despots say!

As everyone knows, a Saint Stupid’s Day parade must have a drunken trombone player. This year, though, no one volunteered, so Bishop Joey had to hire a union musician. That’s so very, very wrong.

Later, along the parade route on Columbus Avenue, I saw that a wig shop was having a Saint Stupid’s Day special on hairpieces. Oh dear, this holiday is getting to be all too commercial.

Feh!

Fisheries and Oceans Minister Loyola Hearn, sensitive to reports of pups being skinned alive or choking on their own vomit, insisted the hunt was humane because the prey died instantly by having their heads bashed in or by being “shot with one quick bullet.”

One quick bullet?! Not true. Those few Newfies (a term of endearment for the citizens of the maritime province of Newfoundland) who don’t use clubs use ancient, rusting guns with twisted, corroded barrels. Combined with underpowered Canadian bullets, Newfies shoot seals with slow bullets.

Slow bullets? Fast bullets? Doesn’t matter; the seals just lie there like the apocryphal Victorian virgin on her wedding night.

Lights out!