I resigned my position as an associate editor of SpecGram some time ago. I honestly thought I was finished with that part of my life. Now the other editors have returned to make me write a piece for Trey’s Festschrift.
They’re standing around me in a circle, wearing Scicon Nasal Masks to hide their identities, but they’re not fooling me. I know who they are. They keep screaming “Write! Write, you miserable little sod!” It’s horrible. Madalena is the worst. That shrill voice! Oh the humanity!
Luckily they’re all illiterates, so they can’t actually read what I’m typing. So please, Trey, when you read this, dial 9-1-1 and get me some help. Quickly, before they bring out the laryngoscope.