The girl on the radio sang, "He has South

The girl on the radio sang, "He has South Dakota arms," and I have no idea what that could possibly mean. Why not North Dakota arms? Are his arms on the Mt. Rushmore of arms? Help!

The girl on the radio shifted her weight. CRACK! The radio broke beneath her feet. She was a zaftig girl. The girl said, "AM sucks!" The Radio Shack clerk fingered the shotgun unde

-rwear he had forged from antique pieces stolen from his father's collection; the briefs were stiff and scratchy, but made him feel masculine. "Listen, girl," the Radio Shack clerk

replied, "We don't deal with antiques. Our universe radioactive Galacticene matter, disguised as smart devices. You don't belong here." Then our protagonist ended up in Galaxy X2.

Since the Matrons in his last dimension had been Swiss-like in their efficiency, our protagonist assumed they had gotten the proper visas. If they had it wasn't under any of his al

ma maters. The Matrons, for all their efficiency, lacked the inefficiency needed for technological advancement. The bold ideas, the first drafts, the guesswork and hypotheses. He

-ll would freeze over before any single Matron would come up with any sort of original idea, much less an invention worthy of the light of day. In fact, these "Matrons" were just a

-ndroids in drab A-line dresses who couldn't have a creative idea if it was programmed into their artificial intelligence. These Matrons were only good for nagging and scolding

, which was OK because (honestly) I needed it consistently to reinforce my negative self-concept. My thoughts wandered back to my father, who was responsible for this whole mess.

It was at this point that I ran into the end.