Zounds! I still have readers. What’s more, I’ve got readers I haven’t even met. How weird. Some of them have actually taken the time to send me messages via this magic medium we call "e-mail", which is, of course, an abbreviated version of the phrase "frightening and possibly criminal messages from total strangers".

Besides the usual deluge of messages about explicit Nigerian teen fisting videos, which I will need a case of Viagra to enjoy, and a new mortgage to afford, all happily provided to me by a bewildering number of online merchants, I found a few legitimate messages from some people who obviously have enough free time on their hands to read this horrible blog. Good Lord! Get to work, you slackers.

If people are kind enough to write me messages that aren’t spam, though, etiquette, the cold, stern, bitch- mistress that she is, demands that I respond.

Somebody named joeboy asks, "So, do you like working for Apple? Which building are you in?" before launching into a minor rant against a group of people occupying a particular spot on the Cupertino campus. Well, joeboy, I do like working for Apple, on the whole, but I’m not travelling aboard Mothership Cupertino. I can relate to your rant, though, which I shall refrain from publishing here, keeping your awful secrets safe from HR, your wife, Apple security, and the soft-drink vendor who services your building. Sweet Jesus, man, remind me to never piss you off. Anyway, like joeboy, I also work upstairs from a couple offices full of complete pricks.

The offices that I work in occupy the entire second floor of our two-story office building.

Downstairs, the floor is shared amongst some sort of real estate/developers, a technology planning firm, and a pair of law offices. I heard that there was once only one law office downstairs, but, left undisturbed in the cool, damp downstairs climate, nourished by a steady supply of the sugary white jism that floats atop their quintuple Columbo-Arabica latté supremo mochette decaf frappucinos, binary fission has taken place, as is the way with all bacteria, and we now have a new set of lawyers.

Basically, all the younger legal eagles are complete tools. Hold a door open for ‘em, and they sail past you as if you were expected to do so. No "thank you", no nothin’. They drive like assholes in the parking lot. They don’t move out of the way if you’re carrying a box down the hall. Sorry about responding with a rant of my own, but my, it’s always cathartic to out somebody else as an asshole, isn’t it? Mmm, catharsis.

Delving further into the mailbag, a fellow by the name of Mike Augspaugh asks: "So, how old are you, anyway?" Well, Mike, with a question like that, you’re obviously some young punk. I’m old enough, that’s how old I am. Old enough to "know better", whatever that means, or so I’ve been repeatedly told. You don’t need to know, anyway. I’m glad you enjoy this humble website, but there’s something creepy about strangers asking for personal information. Nothing personal, dude, but that really freaked me out.

Admonishment was the word of the day when Schpinner wrote in to upbraid me for still having links on the page that don’t go nowhere. Yeah, I know, OK? It’s embarrassing. Someday soon, I swear. Especially the link to buying all kinds of crap with my artwork poorly printed on it by Cafepress. The one that doesn’t exist yet. I’m sure there are loads of people out there just aching to buy a thong with my ugly face on it, or some other such monstrous atrocity against God and nature. As soon as I find out who you all are when you order one, I’ll also be filing restraining orders against you (as soon as the payment clears), but that’s another story. One that I hope never, ever, ever to write.

Lastly, the articulate BashHasher asks, simply, "WTF?". Well, I really can’t say. Mankind has been asking that question for thousands of years. I don’t claim to have all the Fucking answers, or claim to be able to divine, exactly, what the Fuck is going on. I especially don’t know who the Fuck all you people are, but I’m glad to have you all peruse my corner of the Internet. Seriously, though, I thought I had an unlisted URL. I’m gonna have to talk to those Google people.

Tune in next time when I answer the unasked question, "How long does unrefrigerated mustard remain edible?". The answer, my friends, may shock you. Viewer discretion is advised. Especially if you read this over lunch.