Her name was Patricia. She was an accountant at the medical supply company where Kim worked, a mother of two and some sixteen months removed from a divorce. She was on the tall side, slender and attractive in that simple, understated way that too often goes unappreciated in our surgically perfected pop culture society.

We agreed to meet on a Friday night at a quiet little French-American restaurant in the heart of downtown. Such places are always a good choice for first dates. The food and drink is generally good enough that even if your date doesn’t impress you at least walk away still feeling the evening was somewhat worthwhile.

We started off with the usual pleasantries, tried-and-true icebreakers like ‘where are you from’ and ‘what’s your retirement plan look like’. Patricia was charming enough and clearly intelligent. She even had a decent sense of humor and an easy smile to go with it. All the same, though, by the time the appetizers had arrived I knew she had sorted me out and placed me in the ‘not potential love monkey’ bin.

I had a pretty good idea why I was so easily and summarily dismissed. Patricia’s subtle double-take when I had stood to greet her at the table was a clue. I had assumed that Kim had told her all about me or at least mentioned the obvious things. I figured she would have slipped in any potentially problematic factoid between a couple of minor exaggerations to the positive in order to balance things out, something like, “He’s ridiculously rich, has a little bit of a handicap, and can pick a lock with his tongue.” Judging from Patricia’s initial reaction, however, I gathered Kim hadn’t mentioned any of those things. Then again, maybe she had. There can be a big difference between knowing something and actually seeing it.

In any event, I could see throughout dinner that Patricia was wanting to ask the inevitable question. To her credit, though, she managed to refrain from doing so until the third glass of wine had arrived, which as anyone versed in social decorum knows is the acceptable moment for bluntness.

“What happened to you?” she asked setting her glass down.

Now, the interesting thing about having a noticeable handicap is how people feel it’s completely within their right to ask you about it. It irritates me, to be honest. And it down right pisses me off that in asking they obviously feel I am somehow obligated to answer. I mean, no one—no one in their right mind at least—walks up to a pregnant women on the street and asks, “So, tell me how you got fucked?”

How I handle the situation in large part depends on my mood. When I’m feeling nice I’ll respond with something like, “Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong with you and I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me.” When I’m feeling a little less forgiving I lie. I make up some total fabrication of a story, something so tragic, so heroic, or so astounding and improbable as to leave the person dumbstruck for the better part of a week.

War stories are a popular way to explain away a physical disability. They’re full of drama and heroics and manliness and everything that makes a girl moist. However, I shy away from them out of general principal as I don’t think it’s right to use the backdrop of war to get laid … unless the girl is really, really, really hot.

Childhood trauma stories can also be a very effective genre but require a nuanced performance in order to come across sympathetic without being pitiful. For me, the risk of provoking a woman’s mothering instinct is too great. There’s just too much of a chance you’ll become a salvage project instead of a fuck buddy.

No, I much prefer tales of high adventure like mountain climbing or race car driving, stories where you laughed in the face of danger and gritted your teeth through painful recovery after surviving through sheer will and determination an accident that would have killed any other mere mortal. Yes, those are the stories I prefer. If you pull it off, it will leave your date weak in the knees, and leave any other man within hearing distance feeling like a limp-dicked wonder.

So I sat across from Patricia and carefully considered the situation. Clearly there wasn’t going to be a second date or, for that matter, any after dinner activity requiring a pair of velvet lined handcuffs. In the absence of sufficient motivation, then, I decided that I wasn’t inclined to discuss something so personal just to satisfy her curiosity. I decided that if she wasn’t going to fuck me, then I would simply have to fuck with her.

I have to admit, I out did myself on the story I told her. I know absolutely nothing about sailing yet managed to convince her that I had attempted to sail around the world on my own only to be capsized in a storm off the Cape of Good Hope. I honestly don’t know if Great White sharks roam the waters off South Africa, but I can tell you I fought off several in the three and a half days I waited for rescue using nothing but a ballpoint pen and a condom. I’m actually thinking about hiring an agent and selling the movie rights.

The story was so effective, in fact, that as we were leaving the restaurant Patricia actually invited me to her place for a drink. I graciously declined explaining that I had an early morning haircut appointment and needed to finish watering my plants before going to bed. I shook her hand, thanked her for a wonderful evening and walked back to my car.

Honestly, even if the opportunity was there, I had no desire to take advantage of Patricia, or more to the point I had no desire for her, period. Call it a personality flaw, but I have trouble sleeping with someone when the me they’re sleeping with isn’t actually me. Besides, I knew that Patricia would be talking to Kim at work come Monday and my somewhat little white lie would be revealed. Yeah, Kim would be duly pissed. But I was righteously peeved. I figured this made us square.

Back in my car, I pulled up to the parking garage attendant’s booth and handed the young man inside my ticket. “That’ll be seven dollars,” he said.

As I fished through my pockets for the money, he added, “I noticed you walking up to the garage. Looks like you’ve lead an interesting life, too. Can I ask what happened?”

I looked up at him and for the first time noticed his one arm.

“You want the truth or good war story?” I asked.

He laughed. “The truth. I’ve got a enough stories of my own.”

“Really?” I replied. “I should set you up with this girl I know.”

- A.K.

“Hey.”

“Hey, Patricia called me back!” the voice on the other end announced.

The voice belonged to my buddy, Mark, a brilliant engineer, hapless romantic, and unfortunately nice guy. The ’she’ he was referring to was Patricia, an upwardly mobile professional, emotional work in progress, and the latest mistake for whom Mark had fallen head over heals.

“That’s great, Mark. But didn’t you leave her a message, like, three days ago?”

To be honest, I surprised myself by remembering even that much. It seemed like every other day he was calling me to give the latest account of his ‘relationship’ with Patricia. After a while I had begun to just tune it out.

“Yeah, but it’s okay. Patricia said she’s been busy at work and hasn’t been feeling well. Plus her favorite TV shows have been airing new episodes.”

“Uh-huh. Well, as long as she had a good excuse,” I said, trying to strike a tone that balanced supportive friendship with bitch slap sarcasm.

“That’s exactly what I said,” he said, the bitch slap having apparently missed the mark. “I played it cool, though, and just told her, ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad you’re all right and we’re getting a chance to talk now.’ And, man, did we talk! Can you believe we were on the phone for over two hours?”

He paused waiting for my reaction.

Shit. There it was. The cue for me to ask. I really didn’t want to but sooner or later he’d find a way to get into it. So, deciding to get it over with and not prolong the inevitable, I opened my mouth and forced the words out before I could close it again.

“What did you guys talk about?”

I braced myself with a swig of beer, picked up the remote and began flipping my way through all 427 digital channels, even CSPAN-HD where you’re able to watch politicians lie in high definition.

“Well,” he began. “You know that guy she’s been seeing, that Major League Soccer player? He’s a total jerk! Listen to this …”

I didn’t listen. I didn’t have to as I already knew what was coming. Yeah, okay, the details were different but the theme remained the same. A guy who’s too nice for his own good meets a girl who’s too confused to realize that she is. They talk. Confused girl says that all she’s looking for is a nice guy. Tragically, if somewhat predictably, nice guy believes her. Insanely, if somewhat humorously, confused girl even believes herself.

A few dates and endless phone calls later, confused girl decides she really likes nice guy but not in “that way”. Nice guy, having fallen head over heels for confused girl and being, well, dumb, believes that if he hangs around long enough and continues to show just how nice he can be she’ll change her mind and fall madly in love with him.

Meanwhile confused girl begins dating sexy and exciting but self centered and emotionally stunted musician/athlete/heart surgeon/gangster. Nice guy, being a nice guy, remains very understanding about the whole situation, somehow still believing if he just continues to be her girlfriend with testicles that someday, someway she’ll fall madly in love with him.

Eventually, despite all the sexy and exciting times with her sexy and exciting boyfriend, confused girl finds herself emotionally unsatisfied by the self centered and emotionally stunted part of him that isn’t 8 inches long. She wishes with deep earnestness that he were more sensitive and understanding, that she could talk with him in deep and meaningful ways about love, life and cats.

In other words, she wishes that he were more of a nice guy.

Confused girl, seeking to touch and caress her neglected emotional g-spot, turns to nice guy who is all too eager to play the part of surrogate boyfriend. For confused girl it’s the best of both worlds: hot sweaty sex with real boyfriend and deep emotional stroking courtesy of nice guy.

For nice guy it means more wasted nights masturbating to Internet porn. For nice guy’s friend it means less quality beer time.

“Are you there?”

Mark’s question snapped me out of the hypnotic hold put on me by this strange, yet oddly compelling Japanese game show where contestants all too gleefully take on perverse and vaguely masochistic challenges for apparently nothing more than the sake of 15 minutes of fame.

“Sorry. The phone cut out for a second. What did you say, again?”

“I said, what do you think of this whole thing with Patricia?”

I set the empty beer bottle down and headed towards the fridge for another one.

“Mark, have you ever heard the term ‘emotional dildo’?”

- A.K.

“Yeah, I guess you could say something happened alright. I remodeled my home.”

“What?! You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope. Afraid not.”

There was a pause. “Dude! What the fuck made you do that?”

It was a good question. Why did I decide to remodel my home? What latent sadomasochistic tendencies drove me to abandon reason, common sense and financial liquidity? What twisted government conspiracy had tainted my water with mind altering drugs causing me to make so many trips to the hardware store that I could cash in my credit card reward points for a round-trip tick to the International Space Station?

I mean, come on! I survived without a refrigerator for the first nine months I lived in the damn place. I can go weeks at a time without turning on the stove or dishwasher. Seriously. And until now the closest I ever got to redecorating was changing the background image on my computer screen.

So why all of a sudden did thoughts of stainless steel appliances, glass top vanities and recessed lighting fill my mind? How did the choice between Dove Feather white and Aspen Powder white become so monumental that it required more input from friends and family than the decision to buy the house in the first place? And the toilets! The toilets! What sick force of nature pushes a man to spend endless hours searching for the perfect commode as if it were some sort of porcelain grail?

The answer, of course, is sex.

At some point in life home remodeling replaces thick hair, ripped muscles and fast cars as the number one mating call of man. It becomes, in short, suburban foreplay. In the absence of hair and in the presence of love handles remodeling becomes the means by which men can express to their mates their desire and suitability to do the nasty.

“Look at me!,” says the hammer swinging, paint brush stroking, checkbook wielding remodeler. “I am strong in credit rating and virile in home equity. Let’s get it on!”

Of course, men wouldn’t be rushing to learn the finer points of spackling unless the effect that remodeling has on women was undeniable. There is something about hearing a man discuss the merits of crown molding or seeing him hang a ceiling fan that causes a woman to swoon. I have even heard stories told in the seedier corners of the plumbing supplies aisle of women bursting into spontaneous orgasm while watching granite countertops being installed.

I, myself, have witnessed the aphrodisiacal affect of remodeling first hand. With my girlfriend, Samantha, it seemed that during the entire remodeling process even the most innocent and tedious of tasks could suddenly erupt into sexual serendipity.

“You know, Hon,” I began one evening as we were halfway done flipping through a small mountain of wallpaper sample books. “I’ve changed my mind. Let’s go with that Georgia O’Keeffe floral pattern you like so much for the master bath.”

Her eyes lit up. “Really? You mean it?”

“Sure.”

For a moment her eyes gazed at me with deep affection. The next moment they devoured me with a look of pure lust as her face turned flush and a dangerous smile crossed her lips. With a purr she moved to straddle my lap and laid a toe curling kiss on me. “I want you. Now!”

Suddenly the crippling second mortgage I had taken out seemed totally worth it. I picked her up in my arms as her legs wrapped themselves seductively around me, and made for the bedroom as her lips danced across my neck to my ear.

“Bring the samples,” she whispered breathlessly.

What a wild night of kinky, postmodernist sex that was! I’m not sure, but I think at one crucial point I actually yelled out, “Who’s your interior decorator, baby! Who’s your interior decorator!” Enough said.

Of course, remodeling isn’t all window treatments and bondage. It has its darker side as well.

Men are by nature competitive. It is both our gift and our curse that we can make a competition out of anything. Drinking? Done. Pissing? Done. Seeing who’s made the most trips to the emergency room for injuries sustained while performing a dare? Done and done. No surprise, then, that remodeling projects can quickly become battles of manhood pitting neighbor against neighbor, friend against friend, fool against fool.

Not two weeks after I started my remodeling project, my neighbor, John F. Bastard (not his real name), started his own remodeling project. It was obvious straight away that the only reason he was doing it was to upstage me and take away my newly found remodeling mojo.

“Did you see the size of John’s hammer?” Samantha said walking through the front door. “That thing is huge!”

The Master Carpenter 1000 Titanium Edition. Oversized titanium head with SweetSpot(tm) technology, counter balanced carbon fiber handle with bullet proof Kevlar wrap and optional Bluetooth-enabled MP3 player. Yeah. I had seen it.

“Hey! It’s not the size of the hammer but how you swing it that counts,” I retorted.

“Awww, does someone have tool envy?” she teased, pulling me close. “You know I love your hammer, baby. And I love the way you swing it. In fact, I got something you can nail right now …”

Samantha’s hammer-loving ways not withstanding, John had laid down the remodeling gauntlet and I fully intended on picking it up and bitch slapping him with it. The ensuing war was fast, fierce and color coordinated. It was also expensive. Very, very expensive. If I put in recessed lights, he put in recessed lights with motion sensors. If he put in a bidet, I put in a bidet that could tell you if your fiber intake was too low.

The knockout punch came in the final stages of our respective kitchen remodeling jobs. Having secured the favor of an inside informant - specifically his talkative 8 year old son with a penchant for ice cream - I had learned that John intended to install countertops made from granite quarried in the most remote mountains of China where it had been cut by eunuch monks and hand-polished by vestal virgins.

“That bastard!” I fumed, banging my fist on the checkout counter. “How am I supposed to top that, Duke?”

Duke, as a point of clarification, is the owner and namesake of Duke’s Hardware & Plumbing Supplies. It isn’t the biggest hardware store around, but what it lacks in selection is more than made up for by Duke’s sensei-like knowledge of all things remodeling.

“Oh,” started Duke, who started a lot of sentences that way, “I might have an idea or two.”

“Really? Like what?” I asked with guarded hope knowing that Duke could have a somewhat cruel sense of humor at times.

He leaned forward and whispered his idea.

My eyes grew wide. “No way! Are you serious? I thought that stuff was illegal?”

“Oh, I have a few connections in the remodeling black market.”

The element of nefarious danger only served to heighten my interest. No telling how kinky Samantha was going to get when she heard about this!

“How much is it going to cost?”

“A fair bit.”

In Duke speak a ‘fair bit’ meant that I could kiss off buying a new car anytime this decade. Still I didn’t even hesitate. There was no way John F. Bastard could beat me with this.

“Okay. Let’s do it.”

While Duke’s friend, Lenny “The Contractor”, made it clear I am not to discuss the details of my latest remodeling addition, suffice it to say I won. The victory was so crushing, in fact, that John almost had a nervous breakdown and had to be placed on antidepressants. You can’t put a price tag on results like that!

The best part is Samantha and I continue to reap the rewards of our efforts as I had the good sense to record the whole project from demolition to unveiling. Now when the lights are low and we’re snuggled on the couch for a night in, all I have to do is start up the video and play the part where the granite countertops are being installed and next thing you know it’s, “Who’s your interior decorator, baby! Who’s your interior decorator!”

- A.K.

Never let it be said that lawyers don’t have a way with words. This particular pearl of wisdom was being proffered by Ron Parker, tax evasion specialist, self-proclaimed gym rat and lover of rock ballads. He was a good enough guy, easy to get along with and over time had more than made up for the rock ballad thing with free personal training advice.

“You know, Ronnie,” I replied, reaching into the locker for my gym bag, “that analogy wouldn’t bother me so much if you weren’t standing there naked. And by way, has anyone ever taught you the concept of personal space? In this case, I’m going to need to ask for about six feet.”

We had finished our unarranged but habitual Saturday morning workout routine and were continuing the conversation that had started sometime around tricep extensions. It was a topic I had brought up on apparently one too many occasions and Ron had finally decided it was time for me to put up or shut up.

“Look,” he continued, ignoring my attempt at derailing his lecture, “all I’m saying is that you can think about changing careers all you want but until you dive in and actually do it, you can’t know how it’s going to go.”

“And all I’m saying is put some clothes on! Seriously. I don’t talk business in the nude with anyone except my ex wife and only then if I need something.”

Ron laughed and turned toward his locker. “Fine. Whatever. You know I’m right!”

Yeah, I knew he was right. Six pack abs and insightful. Fucking bastard. I briefly entertained the idea of running him down in the parking lot but then realized I’d have to start paying for personal training if I did. And if I ever was going to switch careers, I was going to need every freebie I could get.

I read once that Americans change their careers more often than any other people in the world. Some would say this exemplifies the personal freedom we enjoy. Myself, I think it shows just how much your average job sucks. We all go around jumping from one to the other in the desperate and futile belief that somewhere there must be a job that doesn’t make you want to go home and bathe in paint thinner while drinking cheap whiskey and playing with matches.

At any given moment 93.7% of Americans hate there job. That number would be higher but the other 6.3% are too busy looking for another job to take a survey. The number one reason people hate their job, of course, is their boss, those insipid little bastards that couldn’t find their ass with both hands yet somehow manage to screw yours. By coincidence the number one reason bosses hate their job is the employees and, oddly enough, for the same reasons. As fucked up as the situation is, it’s a wonder that every workday doesn’t end in gun fire.

Still, sensible people get up every morning, grit their teeth, go into the office, keep their head down and thank their lucky stars they have shitty health insurance. A few, however, eventually descend into a type of madness known clinically as Delusional Self Employment Mania, or D.S.E.M., a condition characterized by waking dreams of freedom and independence, and a euphoric sense of personal manifest destiny. Less formally these individuals are referred to as ‘crazy’.

I know firsthand the difficulties of living with D.S.E.M. having personally contracted the condition two years ago while sitting in a strategy meeting during which 47 minutes were spent debating whether we as a company should standardize on using the spelling ‘e-mail’ or ‘email’. At the end of it a vote was taken and the spelling ‘e-mail’ chosen on the grounds that it would present us as being sophisticated and learned and thereby double our annual revenue. It was at that moment I experienced my first waking dream of self employment freedom and I have struggled with the affliction ever since.

It has been particularly difficult for me in the fact that I suffer from one of the most acute forms of D.E.M.S. While some people with the condition may see themselves as a freelance web designer, opening a restaurant, becoming a porn star or engaging in some other kind of respected and marketable career, in my delusion I see myself as a writer working on the great American novel or, worse, maintaining a blog on the Internet and making money off of banner ads and the sale of self-promoting merchandise.

For a time I was able to treat it with a monthly dosage of bill paying. A form of shock therapy, the jolt of making mortgage and car payments, and seeing the devastating effect the violent act had on my bank account was enough to keep me grounded in reality for days or even weeks at a time.

Eventually, though, the effects of even the most aggressive bill paying therapy would begin to wane and the voices in my head would return more insistent than before. “Who needs insurance!” “Food is overrated!” “If you bathe only twice a week, you could save enough money to make it work!”

Now, over the last few months, things had gotten to the point where nothing was abating the dreams and the lines between reality and fantasy had begun to blur. I found myself saying things like, “Jon, either you approve my departmental budget or I am not inviting you to the book signing!” The only positive was that people were inviting me to fewer and fewer meetings.

The battle within myself, the struggle between the side that wanted to live the dream and the other that wanted to be able to afford new underwear, was coming to a head and while I didn’t want to admit it, I knew which side was going to win. And so, like a man about to be pushed off a ledge, the logical part of me was fighting for a toehold while at the same time trying desperately to figure out where I was going to land and how I could do it without breaking any bones.

As we walked out of the gym and into the parking lot, Ron paused at his car door.

“Your problem,” he said, “is that you’re over thinking it. You need to just make the leap and worry about the rest later.”

“That’s really comforting advice coming from a tax attorney. Tell your clients your philosophy?”

Ron smiled, “See you next week. Be ready to work those abs until you puke!”

“Great. I can hardly wait.”

I got into my car and sat thinking for moment before starting the engine.

“Good thing I’ve been working out,” I said to myself, turning the ignition and putting the car into first. “I’m going to have to talk some serious business with the ex if she’s ever going to give me a break on the alimony and make this work.”

- A.K.

In the meantime, however, I was bored and in need of a suitable diversion to while away the remainder of the day. I considered the pile of paperwork on my desk for a moment, dismissed it as work and proceeded to examine the contents of my pen holder with great interest. Finally, after several minutes in which I decided that I would definitely have to use the blue pen with the medium point the next time I signed something, a suitable diversion came to mind. Liz!

Liz, you see, is our Director of Corporate Communications and is what you might call a neoconservative, which is to say that she’s a Baby Boomer who grooved on sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll in the 60’s and 70’s, lived by the motto “greed is good” in the 80’s, and then in the 90’s found religion when she realized the Grim Reaper was moving into her neighborhood.

Liz also happens to be a lot of fun to argue with.

To get her going only took the slightest provocation. Even simple statements would set her off, things like, “The Baby Boomers are the most pathetic excuse for a generation this world has ever seen! They are a bunch draft dodging, drug using, sex addicted, obese, self righteous, oil guzzling money sluts who don’t care about anyone or anything beyond their own self gratification. And the only proof you need of that is to look at the first two Presidents their generation has produced: Bill Clinton and George Bush! One dodged the draft, smoked pot, ate McDonald’s everyday, and got blow jobs under the desk at work. The other dodged the draft, snorted alcohol, drank cocaine and invaded an oil rich nation because, he claims, God told him to!”

Sometimes Liz would get so mad I’d swear she really was going to stab me with that miniature samurai sword letter opener she kept on her desk. Today, however, I felt like getting her really worked up.

“Hey, Liz,” I said, casually walking up to her by the coffee machine, “I have a couple of friends back East who are getting married next month and have no idea what to get them. Any suggestions?”

“Well, what interests do they have in common?”

“Well, I know they both like antique furniture. Of course, Judy likes Amish style while Sarah likes …”

Liz interrupted, “Sarah and Judy?”

“Yeah, Sarah and Judy.”

“They’re both women?”

“And they both like antique furniture.”

“They’re Lesbians?”

“Yes, but Sarah prefers Victorian furniture.”

I looked at Liz. She looked at me. And for a moment nothing happened while she searched for the right words to express her innermost thoughts on the matter.

“That’s disgusting!” she announced, her face turning a quite lovely shade of Indignation Red with just a touch of Self Righteous Purple thrown in for accent.

“I can’t believe you asked me to help you find a wedding gift for a couple of … of … homosexuals! I can’t believe that there’s even a place in this country that would marry those … those … people! Marriage is a sacred union between a man and a woman. It’s the moral cornerstone of our society and you Left Wing liberals attack it and try and tear it down every chance you get! I can’t wait until Congress finally amends the Constitution and abolishes gay marriage for the abomination that it is. The blessed sanctity of marriage has got to be protected!”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

She blinked, her face suddenly unsure of what color it should be.

“What?” she queried.

“You’re right, Liz. The sanctity of marriage needs to be protected.”

“What?” she asked once more for the sake of clarity.

“Look. Sarah and Judy may be friends but that doesn’t mean I think they should be allowed to marry. I mean, okay, I’m not going to say anything to them this time only because I know the whole thing is going to be invalidated by the Constitution sooner or later. So why rock the boat, right? Why make an issue about something that will be a non-issue by the time ‘W’ is out of office? My only problem is that I don’t think an amendment to ban gay marriage is going far enough. Personally, I think a lot more needs to be done by this country to protect the institution of marriage and return it to its rightful place in our society.”

“I … had no idea you felt this way,” Liz said, looking at me with newly found non-disdain.

“Yeah, well, I do. In fact, I want to see more constitutional amendments. For starters, we need an amendment that bans divorce. I think divorce is the number one threat to marriage and family values.”

Liz gasped in gleeful surprise. “I thought I was the only one who wanted to outlaw divorce!”

“Get out of here! Really? Me too! You know, in fact, I think that the government should annul the marriage of anyone who has remarried after getting a divorce. They should be compelled to get back together with their original spouse. I mean, if they were in love once, they can do it again, right?”

“Well, that might be a little extreme …”

“Oh, no! I don’t think so. No man should be allowed to break the sanctity of marriage! It’s time this country stood up and began correcting the wrongs of the past, put these families back together and get us back on the straight and narrow. That same amendment should also make adultery and premarital sex illegal. Sex should only be allowed between a man and a woman within the confines of marriage. No condoms, no birth controls pills, no nothing. Sex is meant for procreation, not recreation! And that means none of that oral or hiney sex, either! Straight up missionary should be the only position allowed under the Constitution. Anything else could lead to deviant behavior.

“And speaking of deviant behavior, I think it’s high time we eradicated gay and lesbian terminology from the English language. Having it around can cause weak willed people to spontaneously burst into homosexuality! So I propose an amendment stipulating that the word ‘gay’ will revert back to its original meaning of happy, and ‘queer’ will simply mean strange. In addition, the terms lesbian, lez, lezzie, muff diver, ass pirate, rough rider, switch hitter, dyke, twink, nice dresser, color coordinated, artist, fashion designer, actor, playwright, opera singer, navy and Bruce will be stricken from the public record and added to the FCC’s watch list! Likewise, the term homosexual, itself, will be changed to ‘homeopathic’. The people practicing homeopathy will just have to deal with it.

“Finally, I want a constitutional amendment forcing my neighbor lady to at least wear a robe when taking out the trash on garbage days. I know this is a personal one, but if you ever saw her in a nightgown, you’d support this amendment, too!”

Somewhere during my impassioned diatribe that look of cold disdain had returned to Liz’s eyes.

“You’re sick,” she stated flatly, turned on her heels and with a huff began marching back to her office, presumably to get her letter opener.

“Who’s the Liberal now, Liz?” I called after her. “Who’s the Liberal now!”

Momentarily satisfied I looked down at my watch. “Hmmm. Twenty more minutes until quitting time. I wonder if that new IT guy is in his office?”

- A.K.