Since the dawn of man, we’ve passionately debated which alternative energy source is best. On and on it goes, boring as hell. Always leading back to one place. Sitting Indian style in a semi-circle asking ourselves, once we’ve blown through all the oil, what’s the best way to make more oil?

Dear Armpit Picker,

Ignoring the “ick” factor, I am astounded, if not awed, by your devotion to personal grooming: shared so generously with everyone in the compartment (bar those glued to their iPhones). Let me applaud you. While your three female companions, shrieking gleefully like starving coyotes over a kill, chose to disregard the no eating or drinking signs posted above them, by cramming their faces with burgers, fries and noisy slurps of bucket-size soda, you remained the outsider, the iconoclast, quietly picking away at your armpit, save for the occasional “shit,” “fuck,” and intensive “motherfucker.” Eyes straining, nay, bulging, tongue hanging out in deep concentration like a thirsty bloodhound. Yours was a very long tongue! I mean, for God’s sake, woman, have you no shame, taking it out in public? Anyway, I jest—and forgive the canine comparison. Undoubtedly, like a bloodhound (and under more auspicious circumstances), you are kind, patient, noble, mild-mannered and lovable. You are certainly persistent!

Dear Sir or Madam or most likely a disintegrating heap of bleached bones,

The editorial board of the Libri Paginarum Minimarum Herculanei thank you for the opportunity to review your submission, but regret to inform you that we cannot include your piece, “Ten Reasons Emperor Titus Will Be Nothing Like His Father (Titus Will Definitely Crucify Me for Number Eight),” in Volume XVIII of our publication, which, incidentally, no longer exists and has not existed for some twenty centuries.

THE LEGAL AGREEMENTS SET OUT BELOW GOVERN YOUR USE OF THIS STORY. PLEASE READ THEM CAREFULLY.

Lehman stepped off the elevator on the 5th floor of the building identified only as 100 Canard Place. Directly across the hall, a hand lettered note was tacked to the wall beside a frosted glass door. It read, “Candidates for the position go inside.”

‘Inside’ was a long, vacant reception room. A single chair was positioned to the right of the door. Above the chair was another hand lettered note that read, “Please be seated.” Lehman glanced at his wrist watch as he sat down. It read 10:40 am. His interview was at eleven o’clock. Perhaps they would call him early, he thought. He kept glancing at his watch until the hands slowly crawled around to 10:58 am. He should be called soon he thought. The straight-backed metal chair was digging into his thighs and the trickle of tepid air that was flowing from the dusty vents only served to add to his discomfort. Suddenly, he was aware of a presence standing directly in front of him.

“Mr. Lemon Farts.”