Samuel Gompers Cheated on his Taxes

Hello Dear Breeders,

Coming to you live from inside your computer, it's the Wombury here, giving you another fresh dose of the medicine we call the Truth. Whaddya say kiddies, howsa 'bout we start today with a few headlines and trends? The credit crisis is worsening, Obama and Hillary are getting all nuanced and weird about the civil rights movement, Romney spent another day pretending he's not full of crap, Iran is picking on our navy, the dictator of Indonesia is dying, everyone is raping everybody else down in South Africa, Britney Spears didn't make it to court and is rumored to be moving to...Pakistan. Poor Britney. It's pretty bad when Iraq has its shit more together than you. (Ooh, the Wombury went current, went topical; like ointment).

...and in the Bronx, Lana and Ernie keep making the Wombury dinner without the Wombury's permission, and it's got to stop.

Seriously, readers, Lana and Ernie cooked dinner 3 out of the first 7 seven nights the Wombury's been in the Boogie Down (do you capitalize the "D"?). And we're not talking quick meals. We're talking: Pesto Chicken and Pasta; Mandarin 5 Minute Sweet and Sour Chicken; and a London Broil steak (!) with Twice Baked Potatoes. I know what you're thinking, "Hey Wombury, why don't you just shut the Kentucky up and enjoy yourself once and in while." (Which reminds me of the old Chincse proverb about a gift horse, or gifted whores. yes, that's it, prostitutes in the talented and gifted program).

Lana actually chided the Wombury, only half-jokingly, when he attempted to cook risotto-for himself-for the third time. She sauntered up the Wombury, amid broth stirrage and clucked, "I see you're making the risotto. Uh-Huh." The Wombury almost stopped cooking the risotto, but that would've been the third time, and that's simply not fair to the Risotto. So the risotto was made, but unbeknownst to it, was demoted from entree to a side dish for steak.

Maybe the Wombury is being ungrateful, but it doesn't feel that way. Rather, "it" feels like a normal, rational response to strange form of control based on hospitality, much as if they're using a spring loaded wire cage shaped like a rented bedroom, baited with meat and potatoes on a plate (color: muted red) from Ikea (the Lars Larsson collection) to trap the Wombury in the apartment. And they don't even ask the Wombury if he wants to join them; they just call him to dinner. The three of us eat,(Jordy is usually at his girlfriend's. Way to go Jordy), engaged in stimulating non-conversation, and usually watching quality cable television shows like When Good Pets God Bad or Gruesome Crotch Wounds. Some days it's like I'm their pet manchild, while other days it's like I stepped into the Bronx version of the Honeymooners. Maybe it's a lost episode of the 'Mooners where Ralph Kramden buys Trixie a bald Wombury for Christmas.

My friend Louie, who's also from the Bronx, says it's a cultural thing. Maybe. As far as whether the meals were just isolated events or part of larger trend, the jury is still out. An email might be in order. Difficult to say.

What isn't difficult to say, is hello in Swedish; it's "Hej".

(there are moments when I forget you existed; how terrible)

Until then,

The Wombury