Dearest Doctrinaires,

I imagine with all the fun we have around here, some newcomers may get the wrong impression of me. To those I say, "If you knew me to the bone …"

For instance, remember in our last journal, my regard-cultivating instruction that you never again act as if you're voting for a U.S. president? To illustrate my profound lack of care for you, females may continue to do so with no substantial reduction in regard from me. After all, we only recently granted you permission to do that. It doesn't enhance my feeling of male superiority to so soon strip you of it.

Elections aren't the only unbelievable thing about leap years. February 29th was an ill-tradition day that will haunt me for the rest of my life.

— I needed some groceries, but wanted out of Walmart before I got there. I was cutting down aisles like Pac-Man, slapping junk into my cart. Just as I swept the final corner, still sweaty-clinging to my sigh of relief, I heard her say …

"Sir?"

"No, no, NO!", I protested. "I shan't submit to your love facade, you mindless, worthless, careless, covetous CUR!"

Actually, she also said, "I can ring you up", but it was her lingering after "sir". I knew she was about to try to marry me, and I almost let her have the "no" that she was too dumb to comprehend and appreciate anyway. I still told her in my mind, though. It was the greatest thing ever.

It's way unfair. We advocate saving suicidally depressed quitters, but she-demons can spew guacamole po-zession all over me on Leap Day. I decree a new law …

"Females may not communicate on February 29th."

Can you dig it? I knew that you could.




Brian