Sunday night, when I desperately required a good night’s sleep, I was roused at about 2 A.M. by a rattling noise at the window. I nervously opened the blinds to reveal: a fat white cat tapping its paw on the pane! What kind of cat does that? Oh, I know: Satan’s cat. Anyway, I politely told the furball to get the hell out of here, and like, go back to your master, who is known by many names, including Old Scratch. No dice. So I had to get out the Wiffle Ball bat and smack the sill a few times. Now the surely monkeypox-virus-carrying beast set up residence on a ledge a few yards away and proceeded to mew sullenly like I do whenever I recall the result of the 2000 election. Every time I started to doze off, the fleabag started whining again. Finally, at 5 A.M., the caterwauling ceased. Bye, Satan’s cat. I miss it already.


The finale of 24: what a tremendous let-down! Jack Bauer cried at the end? Wahhh, wahhh, wahhh. Big deal.