by Christopher Howell
It’s Tuesday twice in a row in the unemployment line.
“I’m the president,” says the president.
“I’ll break every mirror in the garsh darn place.”
by Joan Connor
For thirty-two years Caspar Weems—who was actually a novelist, which he would have been happy to explain to anyone who asked but no one did—had written obituaries for the Glad Rag, the newspaper with the third largest circulation in Hobson’s Choice, a city dwindled to middling in size, once renowned for its production of tractor parts and for rendering duck fat.
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