AMHERST, Ma - “Receiving Me?” Simply utter the phrase and scathing thoughts come shivering down your spine; there is no denying its forcefulness; the sheer aggressiveness of words, arguments, and attacks regularly deployed within these hallowed virtual pages is terrifying to all. Men have died, women have been impregnated, children have lost control of their bowels– some of this behavior even had to do with the content of Receiving Me?. Sadly, however, all of this wonderful destruction nearly came to an end just yesterday.

At a staff meeting held in Amherst, Ma. attended by Editor and Chief, Bernard Bygott, and some of his closest imaginary co-workers, the bent of Receiving Me? was damaged in what seemed like irreversible fashion. Bygott was perusing the daily AP headlines for easy fodder and was settling on a few topics that seemed suitably destructible. The first was Meghan McCain (Senator John McCain’s daughter). Some pictures provided inspiration:

Why isn’t she hotter? Sure, her father was once studied by paleontologists and found to be significantly older than “just about everything”, but (in early cave drawings) he was a real looker. Of course, Cindy can still turns heads. But Meghan… well, she’s got a real great personality….

But, in the middle of that thought, Bygott’s stream of consciousness was interrupted by several make-believe staff members. They were all shouting alien convictions: “You can’t make fun of her, it might hurt her feelings. She’ll probably read this and wonder why people are so mean to her for no reason, or maybe she’ll even believe it and start hating herself– all because of you! You evil, evil, bastard! Just die and go to hell, but most importantly just stop writing, never write again! Also, no reincarnation! But most importantly, NO WRITING!” It was a very damaging and repetitive reprimand, especially coming from a bunch of imaginary people, but there was no denying its resonance. Bygott could not in good faith, or (more importantly) bad faith, continue to make fun of Meghan McCain, his made-up staff simply would not let him. He soldiered on.

Realizing that feelings can get hurt when an article touches on elements of truth, Bygott decided to free his thoughts from the shackles of fact:

George Bush decides to Nuke Ice Cream Factory- Ben and Jerry cry Fowl! During a break in the badminton action at the Beijing Olympics, president Bush took some time to consult with vice-president Dick Cheney over the phone concerning a few non-sports related issues. One of the most pressing subjects they covered was skyrocketing American obesity rates, and how, in Bush’s mind, these rates were responsible for “America’s failure to kick the hell out of all these foreign bastards and be the victator of every gold medal.” When Cheney attempted to explain to Bush that a country only need win a majority of the medals to be considered the overall winner of the games, Bush responded, “You’re always showing off your math,” to which Cheney acquiesced, “I didn’t mean to come across as the addition victator; I’m sorry.” They then agreed that the best way to re-solidify their friendship was to bomb something, but not being able to quickly think of something they weren’t already bombing, they decided to play a game: Cheney asked Bush to name the last meal he had. “Does Cherry Garcia count?” Bush asked cautiously. “The factory has just been taken out sir,” sniffed Cheney, “and congratulations on your continued effort to eradicate obesity in America. As usual, you’ll be holding a press conference tomorrow to explain your actions after the fact. Go team USA…. that’s an acronym, sir.”

Needless to say, Ben and Jerry were displeased with the new Bush policy, calling it “patently calorist!” Bush addressed the duo’s concerns with his usual vigor and charm: “I didn’t even know Ben and Jerry were black! However, I can assure you that even if I did know, I would still bomb them. Go team USA… that’s an anacronym, folks!”

“No, no!” cried Bygott’s imaginary counterparts. Bombs aren’t funny. Bombs kill people. What if somebody who is getting bombed reads this? How insensitive! And what if someone who isn’t getting bombed believes this and never goes to ice cream factories again– all because of you! You evil, evil, bastard! Just die and go to hell, but most importantly just stop writing, never write again! Also, no reincarnation! But most importantly, NO WRITING!” It was a very damaging and repetitive reprimand, especially coming from a bunch of imaginary people who already said most of it before, but there was no denying its resonance. Bygott could not in good faith, or (more importantly) bad faith, continue to make fun of bombing ice-cream factories, his make-believe compadres simply would not let him. He soldiered on.

Realizing that feelings can get hurt when an article mentions things that exist, Bygott decided to free his thoughts from the shackles of existence.

On the seventh star of the planet Celsiun 7 somewhere in the Great Valley of Song, there is a small child sitting cross-legged on a mushroom cloud floating just three feet off the ground. She’s a girl of no more than three of four years of age, but that’s counting in Celsiun years, so she’s only been around for about three Earth seconds. Celsiuns come from every corner of the valley to watch her float because she’s the only Celsiun in the Great Valley of song that doesn’t sing; she just floats. They all travel to her as quickly as possible because nobody lives longer than thirty seconds, and traveling anywhere in the valley takes at least twenty. Not to mention singing, which they’re all doing incessantly (except for her), takes ten, so it’s usually a rather quick but memorable event. No Celsiun has ever lived long enough to say whether the trip is worth it, or determine exactly how generations of Celsiuns have managed to meet with a girl younger than the time it takes to visit her once; there just isn’t enough life to dwell on details like that when you’ve got thirty seconds to fill, and many believe that solving the timeline anomaly would just ruin the trip. Besides, Celsiuns have more important things to worry about, like seeing a non-singing Celsiun girl floating on a mushroom cloud just three feet off the ground…

“Cease and desist! Cease and desist,” yelled Bygott’s fathomed friends. “A race of alien people subjected to dying before they realize they’ve been duped into a life-long pilgrimage to a Mecca of mediocre entertainment is cruel! What if this were to actually happen to somebody? How insensitive! Or what if someone reads this and passes up a trip to someplace nice for fear they may just die by the time they get there? You evil, evil, bastard! Just die and go to hell, but most importantly just stop writing, never write again! Also, no reincarnation! But most importantly, NO WRITING!” It was a very damaging and repetitive reprimand, especially coming from a bunch of imaginary people who already said most of it at least twice before, but there was no denying its resonance. Bygott could not in good faith, or (more importantly) bad faith, continue to make fun of the resident aliens in the Great Valley of Song on the seventh star of Celsiun 7, his dreamed-up amigos simply would not let him. He soldiered on.

Realizing that feelings can get hurt when an article mentions anything at all, Bygott decided to free himself from the shackles of mentioning stuff. He did this for about as long as it takes to write this sentence and pause… and then…
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He soldiered on.