I Loathe Writing. On The

I Loathe Writing. On The Other Hand I'm A Great Believer In Money.

One Stifling Summer Afternoon Last August, In The Attic Of A Tiny Stone House In Pennsylvania, I Made A Most Interesting Discovery: The Shortest, Cheapest Method Of Inducing A Nervous Breakdown Ever Perfected. In This Technique..., The Subject Is Placed In A Sharply Sloping Attic Heated To 340 F And Given A Mothproof Closet Known As The Jiffy-cloz To Assemble.

All Right, So Call Me Miss Cliche Of 1960, But The Thing About The Married Ones That Always Spooks Me Is How Sweet And Attentive They Are At First, When They're On The Prowl.

I Guess I'm Just An Old Mad Scientist At Bottom. Give Me An Underground Laboratory, Half A Dozen Atom-smashers, And A Beautiful Girl In A Diaphanous Veil Waiting To Be Turned Into A Chimpanzee, And I Care Not Who Writes The Nation's Laws.

In Pulp Fiction It Is A Rigid Convention That The Hero's Shoulders And The Heroine's Balcon Constantly Threaten To Burst Their Bonds, A Possibility Which Keeps The Audience In A State Of Tense Expectancy. Unfortunately For The Fans, However, Recent Tests Reveal That The Wisp Of Chiffon Which Stands Between The Publisher And The Postal Laws Has The Tensile Strength Of Drop-forged Steel.