Dear Mr. Flounder: I’ve been worrying about my job lately, because my supervisor has been acting a little odd. I don’t mean to sound judgmental, and it’s certainly true that our company doesn’t have a strict dress code, so, you know, fashion choices are none of my business. But when a guy wears a coat full of medals all the time with a sash and a sort of tiara thing, and when he tells his team he wants to be called His Magnificence Alvin I, Emperor of the West Virginians, then you kind of wonder whether he’s still suited for the lawn-care business, and I think we’ve all been polishing up our resumes. So I was thinking of moving on to some more challenging field of endeavor, such as janitorial services, but I thought I’d ask you whether the stars or the spirits or whoever you talk to had any advice. —Sincerely, His Excellency Stan Fenderman, Exarch of Weirton.

Dear Sir: Directing my gaze upward, which is quite easy for one of my species, I fell into a kind of trance state, during which I was granted a vision by the higher powers. I saw an ostrich with an accordion, but the ostrich could not play the accordion, owing to the inadequacy of its wings for the task of manipulating the buttons; so the ostrich was simply looking at the accordion, which was on the ground in front of it, while humming a medley of polka favorites. Then the accordion sat up and said, “Where do you get off with that square stuff? Make with some solid jive, Jackson, or I’ll blow this joint and find me a hep rutabaga.” The ostrich made a reply which I shall not repeat, and then they both walked ten paces, turned, and fired, but to no effect, since neither one of them was armed. Then there was a mighty rumble and roar, and the earth opened up between them, and from the chasm issued Marie Curie glowing an eerie pale green, and she remarked, “Personally, I prefer heavy metal.” Under these circumstances, it would probably be wisest to continue in your current job while taking night classes at the community college.