Reports from CERN are that the latest breakdown was caused by a bird flying into an outdoor electrical transformer while carrying a piece of bread. This is not the first time that bread has caused annoyance. I mean have you ever had to listen to a European go on and on about how great their bread is? And how bad ours is? I can tell you that if that bird had been carrying a piece of Wonder Bread (“now more dielectric!”) the Hadron Whatzit would have functioned on schedule, pinched out a new universe and we would now be wondering how to get back into our familiar five dimensions.
Mogo returned from a short jaunt into the near future to make sure the CERN startup won’t turn the space-time contimuum inside-out. He reports that the attitude toward this possibility changed from scoffing to pandemonium when, after the startup and shutdown, the celebrating workers tried to leave the underground facility. When they opened the security door it faced, not the reception and mime area, but a wall of solid rock. All the exits were in the same condition and there was no communication with the outside world. Running, screaming and sex orgies ensued among the elite scientists until Mogo calmed everyone by explaining that the massive torque generated by accelerating protons counter-clockwise caused the 17-kilometer-diameter circular facility to rotate ten degrees clockwise on its foundations. It took two weeks to dig tunnels to the exits, during which time the faculty ran out of wine, cheese, and baguettes. One Frenchman accepted Mogo’s offer to share his (peanut butter and jelly on Wonder Bread) sandwich, but remorse drove him to suicide soon afterward. Despite this tragedy, work on CERN will continue until they finally are able to explain what they are trying to discover when it starts working.
Mogo says he was surprised to find Mr. Obama President and Ms Clinton Secretary of State, instead of the other way around, but he says he often notices minor discrepancies after CERN startups. “No biggie,” he remarked.
It’s a little-known fact that Mogo the Mugger was Martha Stewart’s first ‘date’ after she got out of jail in 2005.
The sequence of decisions leading to this previously unknown historical encounter began with a series of phone calls that Martha made toward the end of her jail term. The calls were to various officers of her Martha Stewart Living Corporation. “I need a man!” she screamed into the inmates’ phone. “Get me a man! Have him waiting for me when I get out! Who asked you for your opinion?! Shut up!”
Martha’s last frenzied shriek (“A real man! Do as I say, or you’re all fired, you cringing sycophants!”) ringing in their ears, the terrified executives convened a locked-door meeting. The problem was apparent. To avoid an even more horrific scandal, discretion had to be the paramount consideration, paramount, that is, after the testosterone-level of the candidate. Whoever he was, the candidate would have to be selected from among the ranks of Martha’s employees, someone who could be forced to secrecy. The difficulty was, however, that the male work-force at Martha Stewart was composed entirely of interior decorators, certified public accountants, and business majors.
At the last moment, someone remembered the new truck driver who had just been hired. A frantic search for the driver’s address and phone number revealed that his address was the same as corporate headquarters, in fact, the man was living in a cardboard box on the roof of the building. A delegation of executives found Mogo squatting in front of a campfire built of office furniture on a sheet of corrugated iron, just finishing a roasted pigeon. “Mogo on break now,” he told them, licking his fingers.
In our last installment, we described how officials of Martha Stewart Omnimedia arranged a blind date between their corporate head and Mogo.
The eyes of the nation were glued to its TV screen to watch Martha Stewart, convicted Securities & Exchange Commission rules violator, leave the federal pen at Alderson, West Virginia. She was handed into a luxurious S.U.V., and taken to the nearest airport. There she boarded her private jet and was whisked to her 153-acre estate in Katonah, New York. After descending from her limousine, she ignored the small crowd of executives and the rows of servants waiting to hail her return, choosing instead to sweep her steely glare around the nearby lawn. “What’s that!?” she demanded, pointing at a hulking object standing in the snow. “You know I hate grotesque topiary! Remove that shrub at once! And fire the gardener!”
The senior executive bent closer: “Excuse me, Ms. Stewart, that’s not a shrubbery, that’s Mr. Themugger, your escort.”
Mogo, docile as usual, allowed himself to be shoved into the light. The team selected by the corporate officers had gotten his hair partly under control, had filed down his finger- and toenails, had applied a coat of Old Spice underarm deodorant to his entire body, and then tailored an Arpegianni suit around him.
The surveillance cameras on the facade of her mansion recorded Martha’s reaction to her first sight of our hero: startlement, a closer look, interest, then a shouted order to the assembled employees: “Outside! All of you! Can’t a woman have her house to herself once in a while?! You rabble can sleep in the stables tonight!” Mogo, delighted, showed his toothiest smile.
It must be understood that Mogo’s walks across the stage of history are not in chronological order. His experience previous to this one had been in the Late Pleistocene. For this reason it had not been difficult for his handlers to make him understand what was wanted of him on this occasion: “Mogo grasp essence of situation!” he assured them. “Mogo make matriarch plenty happy!”
Martha took Mogo’s necktie and started across the portecochiere, only to have her progress blocked by the senior executive. “Excuse me again, Ms. Stewart. I’m sure you don’t intend to overlook your sentence of home detention. Once you enter the house, you will be required to remain there, except during working hours, for the next five months. I’m sure,” he purred, “madame would prefer to be escorted out tonight. We have arranged a helicopter, dinner, theater, a hotel, in Manhattan. The driver will take you to the helipad.”
“My, what-a-surprise,” she said. “It’s nice to know you can do something right, occasionally. Take a stock option for yourself.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said the senior executive without changing his expression. He knew that the corporation’s stock price had fallen seventeen percent upon her release from prison. His billionaire status henceforth would depend on his outrageous salary, at least until the firm goes bankrupt. He turned to Mogo, pointed at the waiting limousine, and barked, “You take woman on date! Savvy?’ Reliable Mogo, having already been told what to expect, nodded vigorously. The limousine sank to the ground as he climbed in behind the doyenne of gracious American living.keep looking »