Let me say straight away that I have no problem living next door to a gay club, even one such as yours that boasts a fisting room in the back. I am a single, straight woman who has had minimal experience in that area, but unless someone is attempting to ram home a tractor, I fail to comprehend the intense groaning and outright wailing that comes directly up our shared air shaft and into my tiny kitchen.

Season 3, Episode 3: Pawfka-esque (The Metamorphosis by Franza Kafka): Wishbone is confused when his owner, Joe, invites him on the couch, while Joe’s mother, Ellen, yells at him to get down, putting our furry friend in a no-win situation.  With such absurdity, he may as well be Gregor Samsa going to bed a dog and waking up a person.

Because I am a proud, patriotic, ambitious, young immigrant to America who hopes to be rich someday and take advantage of all the great new tax cuts, I always try to follow the commands issued by cars bigger and better than mine, especially Hummers which are much bigger than the room I live in. This is especially true of the bumper sticker command “Support Our Troops” that I see on every Hummer on the road. I know Hummer drivers are doing their part, by burning the gasoline our troops are working so hard to keep flowing.

I was starting down the aisle to my seat on Flight 288, moving past the woman with the white hair who was holding the overfed chihuahua, past the curvaceous athletic teenager who dropped her phone under the seat, when I locked eyes with an athletic tanned man sitting in 5C. He smiled, great smile, white perfect teeth, dark almost black eyes, graying hair. Why was he sitting there like that with bare shoulders?

I’m a proud slaughterhouse manager of thirty years. I’ve seen the industry change a lot. But this new generation just might bring the whole thing down. Like, at our weekly “team meating,” my man Gus was presenting about how to best stun a cow with a captive bolt gun and sensitive Sylvester raises his hand and says, “I just think we can get beyond meat.” You know what, Sylvester? I’m Gen-X. I grew up listening to Morrissey. I knew meat was murder before you were even born.