Then that’s who you should be with.

Hunter claimed the substance was powdered cat urine for her son’s science project, but a laboratory exam proved otherwise. Or rather, that’s what the police field tests concluded. Seven weeks later, a proper laboratory analysis determined that the powdered cat urine was, well, dried cat urine.

According to the article I read, “It was not clear if she had an attorney and why the substance might have tested positive for methamphetamine.” The anonymous reporter obviously knew nothing about cats. Anyone who’s spent any amount of time with crazed pusses and seen them bouncing off walls, chasing imaginary objects, and acting generally deranged, knows that cats run on kitty methamphetamine. Or, more accurately, they do for brief, maniacal spurts between naps.

That sounds like a great idea; I wish I had copies of my early writing. I threw everything away when I realized how awful it was. That was before I knew what Thelonious Monk realized, “There are no wrong notes.”

Et voilà! I just redefined hot coffee! I wonder why it took me so long to do something so obviously efficacious?

Julian told me that their contract calls for more than money, they also have to use their plane to help out NASA researchers from time to time. Once Julian told me that, everything fell into place.

I remembered reading that the gazillionaires had a lengthy, public squabble about the design of their bedrooms on the plane. And so the NASA deal makes perfect sense, since research into high-altitude sex is one of the last frontiers in science.

For years, I’ve heard rumors about astronauts having sex in space. Given how conservative government bureaucrats have to be in today’s repressed sexual climate, I doubt scientists will publish any NASA sex research, even if they conducted such experiments.

I’ve been too polite to ask, but I doubt mountaineers have much—if any—sex above six kilometers. The weather’s always freezing at that altitude, and there’s barely enough oxygen to breath let alone sustain more ambitious activities.

A friend, who doesn’t want me to use her name, reported that she and her boyfriend once tried to have sex in the lavatory of a commercial airliner, but they were both laughing so hard that they couldn’t do what needed to be done.

It seems obvious that the ambitious businessmen are prepared to provide valuable scientific information to generations yet unborn. And so, I profusely apologize, without hesitation or reservation, for all the uncalled-for remarks I made about the fine gentleman and their innovative plane. Maybe now they’ll give me a free ride the next time they’re headed to Barcelona or Katmandu.

“I thought you said you had the body of a dancer,” she said skeptically after giving me the once-over twice.

“Actually, I do,” I explained. “I keep it in formaldehyde in the basement. It’s quite interesting; would you like to see it?”

I was relieved when Teena declined my offer. I wonder if anyone will ever call my bluff on that little fib?