This article is part of the District Bulletin series.
Stop, you citizen, and appreciate a service most generous! Your Superiors exist not only to thwart Croisquessein, chase Dorroile and tether you to poles-- oh, don't say it! Ever we strive to inform and instruct, to help in matters, to answer and tell.
And today we do: for the first in a general thing, we will do it sometimes, here we answer your quandries with patience and precision. In matters of specific need, we will consult the most appropriate Superior; in general matters, Your Superiors will think as one and answer as one. Thank you to all who wrote in with questions, and if we did not answer yours, please excuse us for revealing by its omission that it was stupid. Read:
My friends are often fooled by the owlish sagacity of my baby's countenance, but the baby is not wise. The baby fully witless and quite stupid even for a baby. The baby has voice both deep and calming and he offers awful quite bad advice in it. Lately, he is advised my friend Ollys to purchase a giant pink house full of cookies and puppies. But I have been inside the cookie puppy house and despite its low price clearly it is a deathtrap. Am I exposed to liability?
- D. Framaise
You are not liable if Ollys makes a bad decision on the advice of a baby. This principle was writ once clear in our constitution: "he who seeks the council of babies risks [illegible]." So the risk is his, we think probably. Being that we here see a matter pedagogical, consult we our Superior for Education, Hairbank, who has sworn to kill us all if we do not surrender our youngmartins so he might eat them. Spake Hairbank: "I will eat this wise baby and gain his knowledge. I will eat the cookies and puppies if you direct me to the house." So in doing, each problem is solved at once.
I can't whistle on account of teeth too big. Will I be damned? How can I please the God, Swimp, during the part of service of which sustained jolly-a-whistling called for?
- F. Huntbulb
Our God Swimp is always pleased. He is a bunny-soft baby cutie who lives in the moon; he urges you to coax a whistle only for your own pleasure. He will not damn you for failure to whistle, only for failure to delight in his softness. But! Head Superior for Medicine Dr. Henboss Toots advises you thusly: "It is never not possible-- hence always possible-- to whistle, even with big teeth. It is only that you have not yet apprehended just how to do it. From medicine, my doctor advice is to try to whistle inward first, because it might be easier for your big teeth. From there, Swimp willing, work toward the outward blowing whistle."
Dorroile haunts our every event with his notorious dance, which is as hypnotic as it is grotesque. I have never seen the whole dance without falling down due to faintness and emotional scandal. Can you publish the steps to his dance, for the public record?
- G. Ninnyhorse
Your Superiors here reprint the steps comprising one of Dorroile's most notably heinous dances, coupled with the strange lyric he shrieked whist performing it. Readers faint of heart, youngmartins, unwise babies and other such pussywillows are encouraged to avert their eyes, lest even the frozen paper specter of the dance scandalize their minds forever.
Further, we urge readers to not attempt to imitate the following hideous dance, for it is the gyration of an insane cocklaw.
Yesterday, a stranger approached me near Fawndeath Hollow in the evening, yesterday. He told me that he would give me five tins of sour clams for nothing, in exchange for no pay; freely he would give them. Just as I began to crook my finger around his to legitimize the proposition, another stranger, identically dressed with the first, swatted my hand away and said that he would instead give me one hundred tins of the same sour clams, also for no price but my willingness to take them and my assurance that I would not accept the clams of the other man! But more: a third man, dressed differently and all in black, emerged from the gulchish area nearby the Hollow, huffing as though he ran, and laid this odd egg: he would give me one MILLION tins of sour clams-- which he had in crates in the gulch, I saw them-- if only I chose irrationally between the offers of the first two strangers. Vexed, I bade them wait until a week hence, when I will go back and give my answer. Am I the victim of a paradox?
- J. Chaut
We fear so. Your Superiors would like to gently remind you that paradoxes are illegal. We have already seized the clams of all three men, totally one million one hundred and five. We ask that you report to the Weep of Desperation for punishment; by your ponderance of the strangers' riddle, you are guilty of entertaining or contemplating a paradox, which similarly damages the law. Readers of this bulletin, please refrain from contemplating the paradox posed in the preceding question, or you too may face consequent penalisms.
I have a bad constant nightmare each night. I wake up and am a horse now. My wife make me leave the bed and even the whole house! How likely is this that it will happen when I am awake?
- U. Woodmartin
You are not likely to become a horse. If you are asking if it is likely that your wife will make you leave the bed and house, this is only between you and your wife and your bed and your house and yourself. If the nightmare is bothersome still, do not visit any horses socially, as they might be planting the seeds of terror in your head for to coax you to join their race. If still it persists, this nightmare, stop sleeping for some great while.
My wife seeks to enter coitus with me, but I unfortunately DO not know what/whom involved and what is the risk, or if it hurts or if men are allowed to do it. I hope that you are able to advice. I asked wife to explain but nothing doing. I plead you answer.
- J. Bofurf
We do not know. Again we consult Dr. Henboss Toots, who explains: "First, take your wife to a place where nobody can see. Then, if it pleases you, remove your shoes and socks. Ask your wife to lie down and turn on the television. If she is satisfied, very well done. If she still wants you to do something else, alas, please just clench every muscle and try to endure it. In your ordeal, among your peals of sobbery and wails of horror, try not to evoke aloud the merciful name of Swimp, because a giggling cookie-bear has no place in the lexicon of coitus."
I have a question for Claude Fantsy, the Head Better Superior. Hello, Claude. I am sure you are quite content and very pleased indeed that there is only one Dorroile. You know well that all men named Dorroile are liars and lie without ceasing, and all that they say is a lie. I am named Dorroile and I am a liar, and I am lying about it right now. Is that statement true? Thank you.
- Dorroile Y.
It is the sad duty of Your Superiors to inform you that Hbs. Claude Fantsy has recently been guilty of contemplating a paradox, thanks to the ugly trickery of Dorroile, and will spend six days tethered to the pole. Your Claude asks your forgiveness in a manner most humble.
Further questions for the next time can be addressed to:
001 Weep, Suite 400
Weep of Desperation
Your Beautiful District
Editor's Note: Due to a freak power outage, this obituary of Barbara Bush was written without the benefit of research. In order to pay our respects to this great woman in a timely fashion, we have decided to post this piece as-is. We hope you forgive any errors on our part.
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