The Pillow-Biter Yesterday, dear reader,

The Pillow-Biter

To be honest, dear reader, our journey wasn’t terribly interesting. Sure, we made our collective way through various portions of the country that we deemed well-nigh unlivable. If you ask us, nothing makes you appreciate America quite like motoring through its sundry uninhabitable regions.

All the same, we don’t have too much to offer about our travails. Naturally, a few yokels gave our fleet of gray Honda Civics the once-over as we filled up our tanks on the interstate. And, naturally, we had our share of unfortunate victuals: Could Roy Rogers survive if it weren’t conveniently located on the highway? We collectively think not.

And yet, dear reader, we can share with you a pleasantry that two of our senior editors—let’s just call them “Chip”—experienced. We don’t think it will change your life, but who (David Bowie notwithstanding) wants to change all the time? Certainly not French women: They never change. And they never shave either. But we digress.

Having recently arrived at the new Official Headquarters, our senior editors—whom we have deemed “Chip”—headed off to the local Ikea. For those of you blissfully unaware of Ikea, allow us to inform you that it is essentially an uppity Euro-warehouse dedicated to hawking cheap furniture.

Our two senior editors—whom, for the purposes of euphony, we have deemed “Chip”—found themselves in a mammoth Ikea on a busy Saturday morning. Patrons, suspiciously akin to cattle, were packed in the place, ogling at couches and intermittently mooing.

And then, dear reader, our senior editors—whom, as we noted above, we have deemed “Chip”—beheld a particularly unbecoming visage. Right before their twinkling eyes, a small child—the kind that could easily fit in a knapsack—was biting the corner of a pillow, much to his parents’ delight.

Now, we don’t want to hear any garbage about this little kid as some sort of “pillow-biter”; we find such a lowbrow gay joke utterly unbecoming, and beneath the storied dignity that is “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly.”

All the same, can you fathom the stupidity of this tyke’s parents? Their little Johnny had just placed a display pillow—which was probably touched more often than Lindsey Lohan—into his pie-hole, and all they could do was giggle with delight. Rather distressing, isn’t it?

Accordingly, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” kindly offer this solemn advice: If you ever find yourself purchasing something at the déclassé Pier One Imports that is Ikea, check for drool first. Gosh, we hope that never comes in handy.