Your ambition is in your way.

I wouldn’t be surprised if the New Republic investigative journalists don’t soon reveal that the Easter bunny didn’t really die on the cross. Or maybe they’ll take the easy approach and just audit a White House press conference.

I note with satisfaction that no one from the New Republic has ever challenged the veracity of anything I’ve ever written. It’s like I said in the last millennium, everything I write is true.

(Time for a little joke. What would Richard Nixon be doing if he was alive today? Scratching at the lid of his coffin.)

I suppose my ersatz cemetery might be better described as some flavor of purgatory; I’m not sure. Theology is one of those pursuits I’ve always found profoundly uninteresting.

For example, standard tomography equipment can’t accommodate people who weigh over a hundred and twenty kilograms or so. At the racetrack, though, no patient is too blubbery to accommodate.

Such logistical considerations don’t sway Da Silva, who complains, “Having to be treated where animals are is not helping their self-esteem.”

I told my dear friend Dr. Uebbing—who works with healthy horses and unhealthy, fat people—about this story.

“If I treated my obese patients as well as I treat horses,” she replied, “they’d probably be much happier with me.”

“You’ve gone too far,” Marge declared when I showed her my latest acquisition.

I decided against telling her I was chuffed when a trusted friend told me I’d gone too far; I don’t hear that enough. Instead, I simply explained that Rolls of Honour was an art project.

“That’s not art,” Marge replied, “that’s just cheap.”

If there’s anything that gives me more satisfaction than hearing that I’ve gone too far, it’s the pronouncement that my art isn’t art. I was tempted to argue, but decided that squabbling over toilet paper was even too petty for me. First time for everything!

Happy Eostre!