Thursday, August 07, 2003

Somebody has unearthed a "Where's Waldo" book from the dregs of my childhood boredom, and it wanders freely around my house now, where, every now and then, it's picked up by Zack or I, who proceed to search the final page-- the one with all the Waldos-- for an unsettling amount of time. This action, I can state proudly without fear of error, makes me the foremost expert on Waldo, and, at long last, I, and I alone, can tell you exactly where he is:

Waldo is off dry-humping Carmen Sandiego.

And now you know what they wouldn't tell you when you were nine. Welcome to adulthood. On with it.