Good Greetings (of Doom)

I have a report that I wish to deliver personally unto all of our loyal pods this fine splinter's evening.

I am about to reveal the biggest conspiracy since the people at Kleenex invented masturbation to destroy the handkerchief industry. I'm writing about, as I'm sure you all know, fifty words per minute, as I lack basic digital dexterity. However, in doing so, I am communicating to you all a message about aliens.

Half of the US Senate is extra terrestrials.

There, I said it.

Unlike most claims of conspiracies, this is not theory. I know, because I am in on it. They promised me all the ginger ale I could snort; I'm not a robot.

If you have ever voted, driven a car, or even smelled jumper cables, you have an implant in your brain telling you what to do, and, when everything falls into place, there will be no ginger ale left for any of us. I will kill it with my mouth.

That is all.

No it's not. I also have to tell you why I sold out our species for ginger ale. I *love* ginger ale. - THE EDITOR

EDTRODUCTION

Perhaps you've noticed we exist.

I am The Editor of this fine digital establishment and, as such, am entitled to a share of your children's wages. Forgive my lack of tact. I've only just been taught to paint.

Like any newspaper, magazine, or squash, The Truth About Puppies is a collaborative effort between a number of imaginary individuals. Finding those who can be trusted with not only the production of quality infotainment, but also demildewing the Graille smoothies, is daunting, and so, like a man whose genitals exist beyond time itself, I still must finalize my staff.

In the angrytime, I thank you for partaking of this most joyous Internet based production. Please let me know if there's anything you wish were shinier. These matters interest me greatly.

Proofread? No. Why don't you prove you read it? - The Editor