Our resident scientist wants you to recycle. Ignore his advice at your — and your Diet Coke’s — peril.
by mark e. greene
How to procrastinate.
by prescott tolk
LOVE & MATING
To California with love. A long-distance romance begins.
by ben kim
MS. AND MRS.
Minding my potty mouth on the phone with the girl who used to be my best friend.
by annie abrams
Meet Jim Baur, the man playing classical guitar at a ceremony near you.
by michael solita
A NAGGING ITCH? OH, BUT HE'S BECOME SO MUCH MORE THAN THAT
GEORGE W. BUSH IS LIKE A YEAST INFECTION. At first, he was hardly noticeable. Just a little annoying itch you could ignore. You thought maybe your pants were too tight — or the country was too silly. It couldn’t turn into anything really serious, now could it?
But then it was keeping you up nights. All of a sudden its presence was constant. And painful. How could this be? You did everything right. You didn’t sit around in a wet bathing suit. Crime rates were low. You wiped from front to back. The economy was good. You wore white, cotton underpants. Unemployment rates were falling.
But it was there. And it was getting worse. Suddenly it was like there was nothing you could think about but IT. It was driving you mad. Irritating discharge flowed from Bush’s orifice. You couldn’t turn it off. It was on the nightly news. It was all over your underpants.
What had you done to deserve this?
You were going to have to go get medicine. It would cost way too much. You were going to get screwed. You had done all you could to avoid it, but it was going to happen anyway. You were sure after it was gone you were going to feel broke. Cheated. Annoyed. Worried it could happen again. Heck, it had happened before, hadn’t it? And it had been horrible. The father of all yeast infections, you might say. You had thought the lesson had been learned: There would be no other infection of bush as long as you were alive. But you were wrong. Here it was again. And this time, it could even be worse.
It isn’t so bad, some people said. There are more terrible fates.
I suppose they’re right. It could have been herpes. Or Reagan.
jennifer mathieu writes for houston’s alternative weekly, the press.