Dear Foods That I Have Eaten in Cars,

For decades now you’ve been my moveable feast, my chow-down conspirator. You’ve entertained me, sustained me, fulfilled me, and thrilled me in various vehicles across the continent. For your devoted companionship I will forever be grateful. Which is why it pangs me (and I do mean pangs) to announce that, although my feelings for you are as fresh as the day we met, our journey of dietary delights must now come to an end.

Don’t take it personally, Foods That I Have Eaten in Cars. You’re still the sizzling hot sustenance I fell in love with years ago. It’s not you —it’s me.

There are so many reasons to come teach at Dark Canyon Community College.

You want to test yourself under pressure? We got the pressure to test you. We don’t offer tenure to any of our teachers. We call it keeping educators on their toes.

Dear Uncle Jay:

My friend Irwin went to several specialists to be treated for an intermittent buzzing sound in his ears. They treated him with everything from ear drops to anti-psychotic drugs to electro-shock therapy, but it turns out Irwin just had an influx of newly-emergent cicadas under the tree in his back yard. Now that his mind has cleared a bit, Irwin did some research and says that some species of cicadas bury themselves in the ground near tree roots for years at a time. Is that true? What do they do down there?

–B.W., Racine, Wisc.

It happens quickly. One minute you’re walking along Orchard Street asking yourself who casts these so-called “models” for American Apparel because they aren’t even remotely attrac—and bam! There he is, standing on the corner of Rivington.

All prior thoughts are inconsequential as you focus on one goal: find a hiding place. With the feline grace of a snow leopard you dive towards the first thing you see, a mailbox, and send a punk kid’s bagel soaring high into the air. Now there are two problems: the mailbox only covers you from the waist down and the punk kid is causing a commotion, demanding you pay for his smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel that he had only taken ONE BITE OUT OF. The number of bites is irrelevant you say which angers him more, so you thrust ten bucks into his sweaty hand and pray that the tall profile approaching your left retina isn’t who you think it is.

Dear (friend):

Do you love stickers? Don’t you wish you had more? How about bigger stickers? Or fuzzier ones? Are you one of those kids who has to earn stickers by doing menial chores around the house—like practicing piano, cleaning your room, or thanking your parents for almost everything they do? When did parents turn stickers from an innocent childhood pastime into a tool of extortion and bribery?