Mormons knocked on the door. Mom-mom said,

Mormons knocked on the door. Mom-mom said, "You, go talk to them. Pop'll sneak around behind 'em with a slingshot." I begged, "Make me not your sacrificial lamb," and hid under

her hoop skirt. Mom-mom sighed & opened the door to greet the Mormons. Pop never showed up with the slingshot, so I had to do something. I made a soft mewling sound.

I'd learned this in my Hot Yoga class. It releases your fifth shakra, or the opal energy which is lodged at the top of your crack. The sound I made could be described as s

illy. The yogi strode over to me. She looked like a stringy piece of beef left to dry in a desert wind. "Lie down," she hissed, "your crack chakra is distressing the class & preven

ting them from achieving Ganja Ananda." She glared. Then the yogini stroked my psoas minor. "How can you achieve Asampranjata if your crack lines are as crooked as a drunken naga?"

That was an unanswerable question. The naga took ten deep breaths and so did the yogini. The cat slept through the whole thing, dreaming about mice and food. The radio was off.

Yet, each of the 3 described hearing the most sublime music. A music that transported them each to a different world where they lived 10 years with the unanswerable question. Holy

the Christ child, or at least to a nearby Wendy’s. At last the Wise Men saw a sign in the sky, aided by a cheap telescope. “That’s it! Let’s go!” “Go where? The star isn’t moving!"

"Wise guy, eh? Towards the star, chowderhead!" When they finally arrived, they bore witness to a once-in-a-lifetime miracle: the junior bacon cheeseburger for ninety nine cents.