I Am A Mummy

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New York City Abuzz Over New Resident

NEW YORK—With word spreading rapidly through office towers, apartment buildings, and across all five boroughs, sources confirmed Friday that New Yorkers were abuzz over reports that a new resident had moved to the city.

Your Horoscopes — Week Of July 7, 2014

ARIES: Your belief that nothing can stop you will be tested this week by depression, procrastination, concrete barriers, dysentery, armed gunmen, and the unanimous passage of several laws targeted specifically at stopping you.

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NEW YORK—As backlash against the Miss USA pageant continues to spread following controversial anti-immigration remarks made by the contest’s owner, Donald Trump, sources confirmed this week that the overt ranking of women is somehow not a part of the ongoing nationwide outrage.
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I Am A Mummy

In 1968, anticipating my imminent demise and wishing to go to the grave looking sharp, I took the precaution of having myself mummified. My major organs were carefully removed by eminent Egyptian physicians and stored in special alabaster jars. (Except for my spleen, whose jar was knocked over and subsequently consumed by field-mice, and my brain, which I still need.)

The only problem is, I have lived far longer than anticipated, and have, as a result, had to endure years of weekly embalming sessions just to keep up the façade. I am normally very co-operative with the embalmers, except when they attempt to remove my brains through my nostrils with an elongated hook. But, with my hollow chest cavity replenished weekly with preserving spices and emolients, and my withered skin slathered with a rare, fragrant oil from the Orient, I am secure in the knowledge that the embalmers generally know what they are doing, and I try not to get in their way.

My mausoleum, too, is being prepared for my expiration. Artisans are at work painstakingly hand-carving a sarcophagus of solid gold, and labor daily on elaborate wall frescoes depicting key events in my life. That way, I may spend an eternity blissfully reliving such glorious times as when The Onion reached a land-mark 50,000 circulation and when I stabbed Brickton Atlas-Trumpet editor P. Oliver Gummidge 17 times with an awl. Crate-loads of solid-gold tubes and catheters, cod-liver oil, and a platinum-coated iron lung have been placed in my burial-chamber as well.

There is, however, a slight wrinkle in the funeral plans. When I pass on, naturally, a few dozen of my loyal servants will be buried alive with me so that they may serve me in the after-life. But there is no way that I will permit that hideous metallic ro-bot nurse of mine to eternally insert thermometers up my rectum! I will simply have to find another nurse. But whom? Certainly not my previous one, the foul traitoress who up and left me without notice!

Now I live in cold fear, not of my actual demise, but that I shall die, and that they will ship that evil mechanical ro-bot down to my burial chamber to forever stare at me with its menacing red eyes!

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