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June 23, 2005


I once lived across the hall lobby from a really irritating couple who locked the lobby screen door once, probably on accident, and refused to come out and unlock it when I couldn't get back in. After politely asking them to unlock the door -- I was directly outside their living room window, which was open, and could clearly see they were hiding behind the couch in embarassment -- I ended up literally yanking the cheap screen door off the hinges, and making my feelings about them known. Rather loudly.

I hate neighbors.

Oh, right, THANKS, Ben! Apparently we don't know each other anymore!

After what you did to poor little mittens? You're damn right!

So this did not happen to you yourself, Ben? That means I can chalk it down to the time Bertie rang the firebell and everyone got locked out in their pyjamas? (Come to think of it, the text does not say how Jeeves is dressed, and even implies that Bertie is the only well and warmly clad one. But I find it impossible to imagine Jeeves locked out in a dressing-gown, even for tactical purposes.)

Ben Wolfson is uncomfortable with my federally-subsidized mittens-to-socks program, but has no problem with my Mittens-to-soup program. Is Ben Wolfson someone we can trust?

Dave Zacuto claims to use all parts of Mittens for the public good, making both socks and soup. But did you know that he grinds her bones to make his bread—and keeps it for himself? Dave Zacuto: what won't he steal?

Ben Wolfson sure talks big about my bonemeal-for-bread program, of which I have never made a secret, and which provides essential nutrients to many low- to no-income families, but why won't he speak publicly about his ties to Big Dog By-Products? Is Ben Wolfson a murderer? Possibly not, but ask yourself this: does he embezzle money? Again, there's no certainty that he doesn't, but it really makes you wonder: if Ben Wolfson were guilty of any felonies, would he hide any evidence in his boat? Ben Wolfson: What's in that boat of his, anyway? Corpses?

You've undoubtedly heard latest round of allegations from Dave Zacuto's office. I have to admit, they were effective—even got me wondering about myself. (pause for laughter.) He's got some great people working for him, no doubt about that. But have you ever asked yourself, "what do these people really do?"? I don't doubt the intelligence of a man who can mastermind the largest collectivity of meth labs in the midwest, but why is he on Mr. Zacuto's payroll? Is that what underlies his paranoia? At Big Dog By-Products, if we're getting tired, we just drink some coffee.

Well, it looks as though Ben Wolfson and his team are at it again. Don't they ever get tired of embarrassing themselves in public? Some people are just gluttons for punishment, I guess. But perhaps I shouldn't be so harsh; after all, here at Industrial Feline Concern Ltd., we understand well the desperation of hunger. Maybe that's why we've been the largest national provider of cat-bone-meal-bread to homeless shelters and low-income families for 26 years and running. We just feel that it's important to give something back to our community, and to all communities we can. Unlike that awful Ben Wolfson. All he seems capable of giving are unfounded allegations, doubts, and excuses. Ben Wolfson isn't even sure of himself anymore. And poor people know you can't eat that. Dave Zacuto: He's not Ben Wolfson, thank God. Ben Wolfson: Incurable pornographer?

p.s. Ben, meet me at the docks at midnight. Bring the key to your boat. Also send Duggins an e-mail about our encryption program. Seems on fritz. XO, Dave.

Well, well, well. Another day, another desperate rear-guard action from the Zacuto campaign. You know, we here at the Committee to Elect Ben Wolfson to The Office For Which Ben Wolfson Is Running sometimes wonder why he's so quick to mention what his companies do—is it because he himself has no redeeming qualities or experience? No matter. At this point we'd be satisfied if he would finally come out and deny the rampant speculation that he's a brain-eating alien from Neptune. Why all the dodges?

Baby-raping aliens: Ben Wolfson isn't one. Is Dave Zacuto?

(members of the press & public: what follows is secret so please ignore it. ps Dave, we're working on bringing the encrypted channels back up. In the meantime, though, please try to include at least some security measures, like I did. See you on the docks.)

It's business as usual inside the Wolfson compound, apparently. What does Ben Wolfson have against brain-eating aliens from Neptune, anyhow? Aliens need to eat, whether they're from Mexico or Neptune; the Wolfson camp can't even seem to decide if Neptunians are baby-rapists or brain-eaters. Could anything be massive enough, excluding of course another sweetheart no-bid government dog processing contract, to dam the incessant stream of rabid anti-immigration paranoia that is emitted daily from the CTEBWTTOFWBWIR? The Friends of Dave Zacuto Campaigning for Ben Wolfson's Rightful Defeat would liuke very much, by the way, to enumerate Mr. Zacuto's many and varied accomplishments, but refrain from doing so only because the average Earthling brain is far too delicate to withstand the majesty of such a list without losing its flavor and consistency. Dave Zacuto: Living The American Dream. Ben Wolfson: Why is He Allergic to The Sound of a Child Laughing? Go On, Ask Him.

[p.s. Ok, I think it's working again. What was that liqueur we had on the yacht last week? Was that limoncello? Please send me the recipe and a vial of protein r-29 by carrier pigeon.]

More flustered verbiage from that shifty-eyed Italian-Neptunian, I see. Why can't he just give the American people what it wants, a direct, to-the-point statement of his beliefs? Here's one of mine: unlike Dave Zacuto, I do not endorse forcing the elderly to engage in gladiatorial combat for their social security checks.

(Pigeon on its way. Try not to eat it like last time, they're expensive.)

Ben Wolfson continues his awkward public love affair with failure, so it seems. Perhaps he's just lonely; I know I would be, if I had his astonishingly bizarre history of being made a widower anew each vernal equinox for the past three decades and three years. Why is it, exactly, that Ben Wolfson's last 33 wives all managed to perish in the same bathtub, having been electrocuted by the same oddly-located late-model toaster oven, having been reading the same issue of the NY Times from 1972? It's probably just a coincidence, not unlike the coincidence between his making the charge that I support geriatric gladiation, while a certain Sexual Dysmorphia Construction Brothers Ltd. has begun work on a colosseum whose arena floor is made of a proprietary wood, the surface of which resists the slippage of canes, walkers, and wheelchair wheels, deep inside the Wolfson compound. Dave Zacuto, to answer Ben Wolfson's scurrilous accusation, believes in Good Things. Mr. Wolfson, regrettably, believes exclusively in Bad and Crazy Things. Dave Zacuto: Fighting For Justice, So You Don't Have to Fight For Your Life In Ben Wolfson's Senescent Amphitheatre. Ben Wolfson: Reincarnation of Nero, Caligula, or Both?

[Pigeon was delicious. Many thanks. Pls pick up check and non-stick waffle-maker you requested at usual place]

I have nothing to say at this time. If Dave Zacuto wants to exploit my family's tragedies to further his own cause, well, that just shows what kind of person he is. Please excuse me. I have an appointment with a violin maker.

(DAMMIT! I am cutting you off, you hear me? From now on we use human couriers—I hope you'll have the sense not to eat them.)

Don't you think it's time we got past the tired old Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum fake choice between Wolfson and Zacuto? While good honest Americans look around for the rest of Mittens, Wolfson is making an appointment with a violin maker. Can this be a coincidence? Have we finally figured out the mystery of where Seabiscuit's tail went?

Vote Matt Weiner. He knows where his keys are.

Well, well, well. Leave it to a fellow with such a suspiciously meat-related trade-name as Mr. Weiner's to demonstrate a solicitous interest in the location of Mittens' remains. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go foil Mr. Wolfson's dastardly attempt to construct a violin which, when played properly, will cause Americans to think that dogs are food; I may also steal back my decorative antique key-shaped starter pistol set from Mr. Weiner. Dave Zacuto: Cobbler For the Thread-Bare World. Ben Wolfson: Super-Villain sans Super-Powers. Matt Weiner: About to Completely Wreck The Driver's-Side Door In His Gremmie.

Mr Zacuto: evidently: obsessed: with colons. I mention this only in passing; I wouldn't want anyone to draw scurrilous conclusions from it. This debate should be conducted on a higher level—a level on which it is appropriate to ask why Mr Zacuto wishes to halt the construction of my violin, which, when played, will cure all victims of AIDS within hearing range. But I can see why Mr Zacuto wouldn't want to answer that, since then he might have to explain exactly what's in that human blood culture he adds to each and every kitty bone loaf he ships to the nation's unsuspecting poor.

As for Mr Weiner, well, why would anyone support someone so eager to run away that he goes out of his way to point out that he's capable of leaving as soon as the tide turns against him? Of course he knows where his keys are—if spent your life driving from your creditors you'd make sure you knew where yours were, too.

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