Shandy opened an art gallery in the part of the city where morality usually goes to roll around in the gutter. Its focus was on art produced by members of the public. Shandy lined the walls with whiteboards and attached markers to the wall with strings tied around nails.

The opening was a major success! Many members of the literati arrived, and many of them confided in Shandy that they were thrilled to slum it! Look at the authentic homeless people lining the street! Oh dear, it is time for another toast, darling, I need more champagne! The gallery was booked for an event every day that week.

Shandy opened her gallery the next morning. Five people dressed in muddy, filthy rags immediately occupied the gallery and began writing obscene messages on the whiteboard. Shandy was delighted! Then they began sniffing the markers. Nervous, Shandy asked them to stop. After a few more sturdy sniffs, one of them started creating Legitimate Art.

Of course, Shandy was mortified! This gallery was about Illegitimate Art!

With a second event scheduled for tonight and a wall full of Legitimate Art, Shandy shooed the homeless people out and immediately began erasing the impressive panorama. Unsure that she could produce some Illegitimate Art since she had already held an art degree, she walked down the street to a local kindergarten, where she talked to one of the supervisors. They were more than pleased to be offered such a fantastic field trip! Soon, the gallery had a three foot high example of Illegitimate Art that wrapped all around the room!

The crowd that evening crowed about how the gallery was well and thoroughly past its prime, and moreover that the homeless of the area were artistically bankrupt.

In her last-ditch bid for continued relevance, Shandy revealed that the art was produced by children! The installation was a commentary on the artist’s reputation influencing their audience!

Deadpan eyes raked Shandy with their indifference. Out of the silent crowd stepped a man. He was a handsome man dressed in a fancy suit. Silently, he stripped himself out of coat and slacks to reveal a set of filthy rags underneath. He walked around the room, snapping the markers off of their strings with tiny twangs, and popped off the caps. Then he put the markers beneath his nose and inhaled a lungful of air that would make the lungs of a world-class horn blower pop. He ran outside, stood atop an expensive car and pooped onto the windshield. He threw his hands into the air like a composer in the throes of an explosive movement.

These markers are non-toxic! he roared. The crowd gave the man thunderous applause!

Shandy sold the gallery to the man the next day.

The Moral: non-toxic markers can still be dangerous.

Let’s talk about Marvin and Timothy, two best friends who live in the city. Marvin is having a hard time finding a young woman with whom he would like to go steady, and indeed is becoming more and more flustered by members of the opposite sex with each declined offer of a date.

Timothy doesn’t like to see his friend’s confidence ebb, and thinks that a boost to Marvin’s wardrobe would help. Timothy, unfortunately, has very little money because he was victimized by a white-collar crime that involved a brick, a wool sock, and a Catholic priest. On the plus side, Timothy is an excellent dumpster diver, and digs around in the trash behind a mall. Success! Timothy has found a terrific pair of jeans in Marvin’s size!

Timothy brings the jeans to Marvin. Marvin tries them on, and look! They fit like a dream and conform to Marvin’s athletic butt cheeks!

Did you get them out of a dumpster? Marvin asks.

No, Timothy lies.

Brilliant, Marvin says.

And wouldn’t you know it, that very evening Marvin strikes up a conversation with a young lady of his acquaintenance who has a certain sort of admiration for Marvin. They arrange a date!

Marvin is ecstatic. The pants have made all the difference!

That evening, Marvin arrives at his date’s house. She looks exquisite that night, and Marvin himself looks great in his jeans. On their way to the restaurant, Marvin’s date asks him if he has a tissue. She’s smudged a bit of lipstick. Marvin says, I think so, let me check my pocket. None in the pocket with his wallet, none in the pocket where he holds his keys, none in the pocket with his cell phone. He reaches into the fourth pocket, one which he never uses, and his hand closes around something warm and slippery. With dawning horror, he extracts a blackend, rotten banana peel with several suffocated ants clinging to it. His date screams and does a barrel roll out of the car.

The Moral: Be a friend. Never throw away banana peels, always incinerate them.

Would you deny the wolfman a rabies shot?

How far would you go to protect a vampire from having to use mercury-tainted dirt for his or her coffin?

Consider the sad tale of the Mothman of West Virginia. He was spotted several times in 1966, near an abandoned TNT factory. The sighting scared the townsfolk and search parties were sent out to track down the beast. Neither he nor his lair were even found by the search parties, despite several later sightings.

But I ask you, what has happened to the Mothman?

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