As most of you know, Thumby is my beloved housemate, a narcoleptic plastic doll-child from the deep South. This winter she lay dormant for weeks, raising her nimble head only once to simply pouf out the cryptic word "fug."

This morning, in a panic, I woke her to tell her of my new initiative – "The Expatriate Act," which is basically a plan to hatch a bunch of one-way tickets for us to couscous on out of here.

Party time is over. The lunatics have taken over the asylum. And the spooky puppet president proves to be a laxative of evil.