Well, the MWC staff is back from its trip to Pittsburgh. The trip started when we were picked up by a man we'll call "Sleep Apnea Limo Driver Guy." At first, we thought he just had a snore-like breathing problem, but the way his head slumped to his chest every four seconds and the alarming frequency with which we were in the median convinced us otherwise. Fortunately, we had company on the ride, because we stopped to pick up someone we'll call "Diet Sprite Boy and His Amazing Doberman Pinscher."

A couple things: First, anyone who spends perfectly good money on Diet Sprite when they could be drinking something with sugar, caffeine, or "hops" should be, and we mean this in the least violent way possible, kicked in the head. Second, everyone reaches a point in their lives when it's time to give up on diet drinks. We suggest that that time is when you're 300 pounds and the rest of your breakfast is a slice of pizza and a sleeve of Girl Scout Cookies. We also have a story about the Doberman Pinscher, but as alert readers will notice later, the staff has trouble opening up about deeply personal and traumatic events. Suffice it to say that no one was happy when we got to the airport except the dog and possibly Sleep Apnea Limo Driver Guy.

So anyway, we made it to Pittsburgh, where on one occasion we (this is true) walked upwards of four miles for our dinner. It turns out that, notwithstanding the hotel concierge's information, 35th Street is very nearly 35 blocks from where the street numbers begin at our hotel. We had a much quicker trip back to the hotel from the restaurant, which (and this true fact should tell you what you need to know about Pittsburgh) is a microbrewery in a former church located in the "Strip" district. The staff called us a cab, and it zoomed over from the Pittsburgh-area cab waiting zone (located in Cleveland, Ohio) in only 35 minutes and whisked us back to the hotel.

While in Pittsburgh, we participated in the traditional activity of going to see our accountant. As everyone knows, April 15 is quickly approaching, and we are certain that subscribers share our understanding of the weighty significance of this fateful day, in the sense that it is the one-year anniversary of the day that the crack staff got its "Dear John" letter from the crack staff's wife. Via email. Unlike the letter from "Dave" Edwards featured in Issue 7, this email is not available for inspection at the MWC home page. Not yet, anyway.

Apropos of nothing much, let me offer one piece of advice: Consider a situation in which your mate asks you, "Do you think there's only one right person for each of us to be with?" Okay, the first tip is, don't point out the preposition-ending-the-sentence thing. Second, the truthful answer is obviously, "Of course not. That romanticized view, thrust upon us every day by every medium, gives us unrealistic expectations that will never be fulfilled, leaving us with an empty spot in our soul when our relationships don't measure up to fictionalized standards." Sometimes, however, it's hard to come up with a thoughtful, well-reasoned answer right on the spot, such as the actual correct answer to the question, which is, "Yes."

A note: Now seems to be a good time to mention, to those subscribers who don't know and who have read the last two paragraphs with their eyes closed, that the crack staff and its wife are split up. The crack staff is not suicidal or despondent. The staff tries to keep perspective on how its problems relate to the problems it's possible to have in this world, and the staff would, for the most part, like to take the high road. By this it means, the crack staff's wife's parents are on the email list, and it wouldn't want to damage its generally good relationship with them. For example, the staff would like to avoid bringing up unpleasant information that its in-laws might not know, such as the fact that their daughter recently got a navel ring.

In more upbeat news, over the last two weeks, the state of Florida has resumed its population control plan. Several people have had their lives taken, execution style, including some death-row inmates. This spate of killings means that on the list of the nation's riskiest professions, "Florida prisoner" has moved just ahead of "Arkansas middle-school student." There had been no executions for almost a year after a controversy erupted, as if in flames, over whether it was cruel and unusual punishment to use "Ol' Sparky," which is what they call the great big vat of boiling acid that Florida uses to dispose of prisoners. The state was given the go-ahead to resume killing its prisoners by a 4-3 vote of the state supreme court. I mean to say they got the go-ahead because of the vote, not to suggest with a misplaced modifier that they're literally killing the prisoners by a 4-3 vote, like they're hitting them over the head with the book the 4-3 vote is recorded in. That would probably be cruel and unusual.

Republicans were appalled by recent tragic events in Arkansas, where Judge Susan Webber Wright threw out the Paula Jones lawsuit. This had nothing to do with the fact that the case was ridiculous and had no merit. Judge Wright instead cited the importance of the historical tradition associated with the presidency: "LBJ, Oswald, and Jack Ruby; Reagan and Bill Casey; Bush and Atwater; Clinton, Vince Foster, and now Jim McDougal. That's one list I don't need to be on."

Meanwhile, in Jonesboro, the NRA lauded the success of its "Eddie Eagle" program, which teaches youngsters, such as Mitchell Johnson and Andrew Golden, how to handle firearms without hurting themselves. [Note: The NRA does not refer to this program as "Joe Camel with Feathers."] Many have lamented the disadvantages Mitchell and Golden have faced in their lives, but they miss the point that some kids in the poverty-stricken cities have it even worse. For example, here in Chicago, where not everyone has access to the type of weaponry used in Jonesboro, sometimes kids who want to kill other kids have to drag them to the tops of buildings and throw them off.

[Aside: Hmm. My goal here was along the lines of the story of Lenny Bruce and one-time JFK impersonator Vaughn Meader. On November 22, 1963, the story goes, Bruce opened his act with, "Man, poor Vaughn Meader." So that's what I was going for. I'm pretty sure it just turns out I'm an [bad word], but I felt compelled to give it a shot. I'd like to apologize to an alert reader I'll call "my Mom," who suggested I use fewer gunfire-related anecdotes in these things, which advice I had fully intended on taking. Please stay tuned for the next issue, when the staff will once again attempt to include actual humor.]