She lived upstairs. In the apartment that

She lived upstairs. In the apartment that the doctor had died in. He was a shut in. Smoked, fed his cats, and died in bed. The owners never told her that Dr. Gibbs

was a fraud. The only -ectomies Dr. Gibbs had performed were couponectomies on the Sunday paper. She found his scissor collection in a cabinet above the dead cats. One pair was gol

f shorts, which I inherited from uncle Jack. Uncle jack never played golf, but he collected shorts. He wanted this to be his legacy to us kids. Each of us felt we got shorted when

which formed dust-devils in decorated chariots somewhat downwind of us, by some reports. But for us, our lot was to stand and even walk against the constant yet variable wind, for

it emanated from the butt cheeks of the God Ra. A dusty devil hove to in his rococo chariot. "Hop on," it snarled, "Boreas has received your complaints. He'll see you now." The God

of the Nether Winds, the Bringer of Befouling Bluster, in short the Lord of Farts, was in an amiable mood & asked me to pull his finger when I'd brought my offering of a can'o'bean

a & a broccoli salad. "I'll pull your finger if you pull mine...at the same time," I said. "Let's have a contest, Lord of Farts." "On the count of three," he agreed, raising his

to meet mine. "One. Two. Three!" Pfft! I realized I'd underestimated our combined potency within such a small room when the windows exploded. All we could do was wait for the fumes

to seep out in billowing droves, and even though they did over time, it took a lot of time. And that, good people, is how this whole kitsch Y2k2 OpenSSL Heartbleed fiasco happened.