CURRENT ISSUE 06/17/03 Front Page Weekly Features Ain't That America? To-Do List Riding Shotgun With Adventure Frank Haskins Musing With Mitch Moth's Diary News from Travistan Info Archives Crap Shop Who's at Fault? Contact Us! Aye, mateys! Get you some Daily Probe booty!	Saturday 14th June This morning, at the last moment, I was enlisted to help sit on my nephew Roscoe's back for his quarterly haircut. I charged my brother a beefsteak pudding, a potted meat sandwich, and a bottle of very old brandy before I agreed to enter the fray. I should have taken his eager acquiescence for what it was: true and awful desperation, and for good reason. Now that Roscoe's getting older, it takes three to hold him down and one to hold the clipper, and even then, his struggles insure the worst results imaginable. He writhed like a spirit possessed, green foam flecking his lips, a scream having started somewhere south of the Islets of Langerhans minutes earlier that issued frenziedly out his nostrils like a steam whistle. No amount of coaxing could free him from his reptilian rage and he slithered free from rock-solid holds like a sunburnt anaconda. Later in the afternoon, somehow able to forget the earlier terrors, Roscoe played in the garden labyrinth apparently without a care in the world or even a semblance of an unpleasant memory. He doesn't even seem to mind looking like a recent, if cut-rate, convert to Nazism. I looked on from the terrace, gulping down my fifth brandy, right hand trembling obscenely. The potted meat sandwich I pushed away untasted, and the pudding I dumped over the hedge. I could hear a squirrel working away at it like billy-o. How anyone, or anything, has stomach to eat I cannot tell.
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