Dr. Boli's Celebrated Magazine.

P. 58. For “Balaclava,” read “baklava.” Adjust other instructions accordingly.

P. 103. For “arsenic,” read “allspice.”

P. 171. Add the word “not” thus: “Baking soda is not a good substitute for salt in case of scarcity.”

Please ignore all text on pp. 238-253. When we wrote this chapter, we had just finished Chapter 17, “Know Your Wines and Spirits,” and frankly we ended up saying a few things about snow peas that, in the cold light of dawn, we can see ought to have been left unsaid.

P. 285. For “eggs,” read “flour.” For “broccoli,” read “pitted cherries.” For “cheese,” read “sugar.” For “sausage,” read “butter.” For “pan,” read “oven.” For “omelet,” read “pie.”

P. 317. It turns out that nightshade is poisonous. Who would have thought?

p. 389. The page numbers in the index are incorrect. You may easily arrive at the correct page number by remembering that the index assumes that the pages are numbered logarithmically rather than sequentially.

THE LECTURE BY Prof. Wilton Beard, entitled “I’m Lovin’ It: The Irreducible Alterity of the Metadiscourse of Contemporary Advertising as Formal Poetry,” previously scheduled for tonight at Memorial Hall, has been canceled, because Prof. Beard has concluded that current critical theory, to which he had devoted his entire career, is a load of piffle. Further inquiries may be directed to Holy Assumption Monastery in Spring Hill, where Prof. Beard has begun a new vocation filling printer cartridges.

Death of a Drip, by Norbert William Pfister. The latest case in the popular series featuring Ned Gasket, plumber turned amateur detective, finds our doughty hero responding to a call about a dripping shower head in a suburban bathroom. But what he finds in the shower will make your hair stand on end! Now, on the run from both the cops and the real killers, Ned has to figure out who’s trying to frame him, while still finding time to install Mrs. Bolton’s water heater, because she’ll be really furious if he’s late again. With bonus equations for calculating the capacities of various pipes, valves, and fittings. 8vo, 238 pp.

My Dear Dr. Boli: I must ask you a question regarding the heart. What would you advise me to do if I told you that this utter squirt had taken an unshakable fancy to me? Even his name is dreadful. Once I even heard him say my laugh sounded like a freight train. He even calls my estimable father, a psychiatrist, a “loony” doctor, which I find most disturbing. Please tell me what to do, Dr. Boli, I hang upon every word that you write or say! —Sincerely, Honorable Honoria Glossop.

Dear Madam: Affairs of the heart, paradoxically, require the most painstakingly logical approach. Dr. Boli must pose a few questions to you, and upon your answers will depend his advice.

First, what is your evidence that the “squirt” in question has taken a fancy to you? A man in love does not necessarily compare his beloved’s laugh to the sound of a freight train. Tinkling bells are a more common simile, or perhaps music of the more refined sort. On the other hand, if the young man is a train-spotter or railway fanatic, he may be paying you a high compliment. Again, to call a psychiatrist of some eminence a “loony doctor” is at the very least offensive to the loonies whom he treats; but, on the other hand, he may have meant only that your father was a “loony” doctor, which would be quite unobjectionable if your father is in fact insane. Mental illness is nothing to be ashamed of in our enlightened age.

Let us assume, however, that you have established that the “squirt” is utterly stuck on you, like some sort of—well—sticky thing. You have then only to determine whether his attentions are welcome or not. It may surprise you to discover, upon reviewing your communication to Dr. Boli, that you have not definitely settled this question one way or the other: you may think you have settled it by calling the boy a “squirt,” but on the other hand recollect that he said you had a laugh like a freight train.

In fact, this is the heart (so to speak) of the matter, and here you may need to do some searching deep in your soul. Dr. Boli, who holds a doctorate in psychology from the Boli Institute for Advanced Studies, wonders whether your failure to be specific on this question stems from a deep ambivalence on your part. If you are certain that you despise this young man, then honesty, perhaps accompanied by a roundhouse punch, is the best policy. You may, however, in the process of trawling the depths of your psyche, discover that you rather like the squirt, in which case Dr. Boli would merely remind you of a certain old adage to the effect that the way to a man’s heart is through his valet.

Dear Dr. Boli: How do intellectual giants like you go about earning their doctorates? —Sincerely, An Ambitious High-School Graduate.

Dear Sir or Madam: Dr. Boli has long been a keen observer of the academic world: first from the inside, at his beloved alma mater, the School for Unusual Boys; and then, for the past 213 years, from the outside, as an interested spectator with strong opinions on the course of American education. In that time, he has noted that there are generally two ways of earning a doctoral degree.

The first is by laborious study, which usually terminates in some sort of thesis or dissertation. In theory, this dissertation advances the cause of learning by proposing and defending some original idea. The flaw in this theory is that the supply of original ideas is considerably smaller than the demand for dissertations; and, at any rate, most of the original ideas of the past two hundred years have been bad ones—always excepting, of course, the ideas advanced by Dr. Boli himself.

The second method is by what one might call notoriety. Institutions of higher learning are always ready to confer honorary doctorates on anyone who has proved by his accomplishments that he has no need of a degree. Dr. Boli prefers this latter method as more reliably reflecting the truth of a person’s accomplishments.

There is, however, a third way, which is perhaps more consonant with the individualism that has always marked the American character. Having taken an objective and realistic survey of his own abilities, Dr. Boli determined that they surpassed those of most literary figures who had earned their doctorates by either of the two common methods. He therefore founded the Boli Institute for Advanced Studies to award himself the degrees of Doctor of Laws, Doctor of Letters, &c., &c., based on this candid assessment; and he recommends his method to all honest and intelligent men and women as the least laborious means of earning a doctorate.

Because the successful release of the film in question has rendered it once more relevant, Dr. Boli reproduces this memorandum, which he was first able to reveal to the public slightly more than a year ago.

-

From: The Producer
To: Mr. Ernest Drudge, Screenwriter
Subject: First Draft

Dear Mr. Drudge:

I have read over the first draft of your screenplay for our new live-action adaptation of Alice in Wonderland, and I have but one question to ask you.

Where, Mr. Drudge, are the jokes about flatulence?

Having read your draft once through, I feared that I might simply have missed them. With greater diligence, therefore, I applied myself to a second reading, and still I was not able to detect a single instance of flatulence-based humor.

Perhaps you were not aware that we were attempting to produce a film for children, Mr. Drudge. Perhaps you had forgotten that our endeavor, as we set out upon this enterprise, is to bring joy to the hearts of youth.

I am not in this business solely to make money, Mr. Drudge. Other men in my position have grown cynical, but I have not. I still wake up in the morning with a song in my soul, knowing that my job—my duty—my inestimable privilege is to spread happiness across the angelic faces of little children, through the medium of flatulence in motion pictures.

I look back on each day and judge myself, Mr. Drudge. Have I brought a smile to the face of a child? Have I mined the rich vein of humor that runs through the human digestive tract? These are the questions I ask myself. If I cannot answer them in the affirmative, I count that day as a failure.

Flatulence is a glorious tradition in our literature that goes all the way back to Chaucer and before. Many beloved characters in children’s films are defined by their flatulence. Have you considered, for example, the possibility of having every disappearance of the Cheshire Cat accompanied by the sound of passing gas? The merchandising possibilities are staggering.

But I should not have to come up with these ideas: that is the purpose for which I have hired you.

You come to us with a good reputation. Your three Golden Globes, two Oscars, and one Nobel Prize suggest that you are capable of better work than what I see in this draft. It is, after all, an early stage in the writing; perhaps your early drafts are always unpolished in this fashion. If so, I respect your methods, and I assume that I shall be much better pleased by your next draft.

But do not forget the children. Their innocent laughter is, in the end, the only thing that makes our business worthwhile—that sets it apart from digging ditches or selling insurance. I could never forgive myself if I thought I had failed, through my inaction, to bring the same joy to  the little hearts of the boys and girls that they expect from every De Novo film.

I have enclosed a whoopee cushion as a gift from me to you, and it is my sincere hope that this small token will serve as a source of inspiration as you commence your revisions.

Sincerely,
Maximilian De Novo
Producer
De Novo Productions, LLC

IT IS A truth universally acknowledged, that a novel beloved by generations of readers may yet be improved by the addition of legendary monsters. The prolific and versatile Mr. Irving Vanderblock-Wheedle continues his series of adaptations of classic novels altered to fit the taste of a generation of readers who grew up convinced by their English professors that comic books are the apex of literary accomplishment. Already available:

Wuthering Heights and Werewolves

Great Expectations and Gorgons

Pamela and Pixies

Ulysses and Unicorns

Tom Jones and Chupacabras

Moby Dick and Leprechauns

Now in preparation:

Dracula and Vampires

OUR YOUNG PEOPLE are writing with greater enthusiasm and frequency than ever before, largely because of the prevalence of text messaging in the youth culture of today. Yet the abysmal literary quality of these communications has often been remarked. Dr. Boli is of the opinion that this deficiency is to be attributed to the lack of good models, such as were readily available when he was a young man in the form of “standard letter-writers,” collections of letters for every common circumstance. In this occasional series, Dr. Boli attempts to fill that gap by providing useful examples to show how the art of text messaging might be raised to a higher standard.

-

Letter from a Gentleman to a Lady, disclosing his passion.

-

MADAM,

It cannot have escaped your notice that the considerable merits of your person and conversation have attracted my attention, and indeed on more than one occasion I have ventured to speak with you, however briefly. Having been moderately pleased by these encounters, I have resolved to declare my sentiments of affection for you, confident that in doing so I am making a rational decision that is reasonably likely to redound to the happiness of both of us.

You will doubtless be happy to know that I have done my “due diligence,” as the lawyers say, and have not entered into this enterprise lightly. When my attention was first attracted in your direction, I took some care to ascertain that you were indeed the sort of young lady to whom it would be suitable to pay such respects as I now express to you. For the preliminary survey, I was fortunate to be able to rely on the assistance of an acquaintance who is employed by the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and please let me be the first to say that I find nothing unforgivable in your negligible criminal record. Judging by the police reports, I do believe that hot-dog vendor had it coming to him.

Having made these brief investigations, I determined to find out whether you were indeed the sort of person with whom it might be tolerable to share a household. It was, of course, essential that you should not observe me as I made my own observations, so that your behavior should be as natural and unaffected as possible. For this purpose the maple trees that give your house such delightful shade in summer proved eminently suitable. After weeks of observation, I determined that you had a charming way of attacking a grapefruit, that you did not leave the sink a revolting mess after brushing your teeth, and that you cheated only moderately on your income tax. In short, my judgment was on balance favorable to you.

Trusting, therefore, that you will grant me a favorable reply at your earliest convenience, I now sign myself,

Your affectionate admirer and sincere friend,
[Name.]

A Child’s Picture Book of the Sarbanes-Oxley Act. In 2002, a revolutionary piece of legislation completely changed the face of accounting in the United States. Yet, incredibly, until now there has been no comprehensive examination of the Sarbanes-Oxley Act aimed specifically at children under the age of twelve. Now, at last, Dr. Boli rectifies this glaring omission in the publishing world. A Child’s Picture Book of the Sarbanes-Oxley Act is aimed at children who have exhausted the resources of the more general accounting picture-books and wish to have specific information about Sarbanes-Oxley in a visual form. Enchanting illustrations bring auditor independence, corporate responsibility, and enhanced financial disclosures to vivid life. The Public Company Accounting Oversight Board is represented as a friendly cartoon squirrel. 8vo, 352 pp.

OUR YOUNG PEOPLE are writing with greater enthusiasm and frequency than ever before, largely because of the prevalence of text messaging in the youth culture of today. Yet the abysmal literary quality of these communications has often been remarked. Dr. Boli is of the opinion that this deficiency is to be attributed to the lack of good models, such as were readily available when he was a young man in the form of “standard letter-writers,” collections of letters for every common circumstance. In this occasional series, Dr. Boli will attempt to fill that gap by providing useful examples to show how the art of text messaging might be raised to a higher standard.

-

A Young Gentleman at School, Thanking His Mother for a Packaged Luncheon.

-

Beltzhoover Elementary, January 24, 20—.

My dearest mother,

Though I needed no token to recall you to memory, and indeed it would be impossible that any material demonstration of your affection could cause me to hold you in more sincere esteem than I do already, yet the excellent luncheon of which I have even now only just completed the consumption, and which was as delightful to the gustatory and olfactory senses as it was nourishing, has occasioned me to dwell with even greater earnestness on all your past favors, and to marvel once again at your ceaseless attention to my comfort and happiness. I may tell you in confidence that the luncheons you provide me, which by their very appearance testify to the many minutes of loving care you have lavished on their preparation, have aroused no little envy among the other students in (Mr./Ms./Miss/Mrs.) (name of teacher)’s kindergarten class; but I am happy to say that the good nature of the children, and the patient but firm leadership of their teacher, have prevailed, and that their envy has expressed itself rather in friendly congratulations to me than in any of those unbecoming species of behavior that so marred my otherwise enjoyable experience of nursery school last year. I am sure I need not tell you how grateful I feel for this fresh mark of your maternal devotion, as I trust you will give me credit for those filial feelings which are appropriate to a boy who has received such a singular demonstration of his beloved parent’s affection.

As for myself, and what has happened to me since I departed from you at the bus stop this morning, I have little to report. I continue to enjoy excellent health, and nothing has occurred to cast a cloud over my general happiness, so that I am confident of meeting you this afternoon in a state of good cheer appropriate to one who has received far more than he can ever hope to repay from his beloved mother. With my best duty to my father, believe me,

My dear mother,
your ever dutiful and obliged son,
(name).