published in Volume 1, Issue 3 on May 17, 1994
If I were to apply to nursery rhymes the same literalist interpretations I apply to the back of cereal boxes, Donahue transcripts, and the Book of Revelations, then I would have quite a quandary to contend with at the line Sugar and spice and everything nice/that's what little girls are made of since I have diabetes and it would then only seem logical that dating girls would do outlandishly harmful things to my blood sugar.
The only healthy solutions which leap to mind, then, would be to either join a monastery or start dating men.
I don't think I could do the dating men bit. No, I don't loath or fear men who date men, I've simply come to the unshakeable conclusion that men in general are pigs when it comes to dating. I've heard the locker room talk and the jokes at parties and the anecdotes over lunch and, yes, heard the snortings of my own pig within and I know that, with only the rarest and unlikliest exceptions, dating a man would drive me insane (this, of course, branches nicely into a separate discussion about the mental status of most women but neither space nor topic will allow this at the moment).
And the monastery option? I don't think so. It looks like those robes must chafe something awful.
Now then, how does this pertain to The Morpo Review's third issue? Thankfully, that's not up to me to explain as I can leave that to the literary scholars of the future to pick apart and interpret at their will. In the meantime, you, the dedicated reader, must just be sick of me rambling on, so enjoy our latest issue and stop throwing corncobs and moldy cabbage leaves to yours or anyone else's inner pigs.