Victor could not get a date. Maybe it had

Victor could not get a date. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he had a single eyebrow encircling his entire face.

Victor was afraid of the beautician. He had heard that pink shirted metrosexuals with pointy white shoes visited the beautician and did not want to become

part of anyone's weave, but inevitably it happened, just as surely as the swallows returned to Capistrano and the dugongs to Cleveland. Often, in their haste to avoid being weaved

weaves get a little hairem scarem. Weave's really wig out when you try to discard them. They feel stranded. Weaves would like to thread themselves through our lives.

You see, a weave is like a subconscious thought or desire which is woven into the tapestry of our dreams. The problem occurs when the weave just won't let go. We all need closure

or at least an instinct for detection.

I grinned at Det. Smithers' remark. "Then I'm in the clear. You said the killer must have eaten North Carolina pulled pork, and I ate Memphis ribs." He had elucidated more than

I needed just then but the rest still was duly noted and bound in the background. Smithers: You fool, it takes more than a poor sauce to make North Carolina pulled porker from a

a sow's ear. It takes years of study at the Culinary Institute of America. (But by that time Mr. Burns had swallowed his Italian suede change purse and was fast asleep.)