OK. It looks like our "What is Mr. Winkle?" 2004 wall calendar's nefarious plans have been laid to rest. As you may remember, in my previous entry in this diary--the second most downloaded document on the internet after janet_jackson_tit.mpg by females age 3 - 6--I revealed that an adorable dog calendar was plotting to destroy these great states of America. Although the details I provided were, according to one FBI telephone operator, "really lame," I was convinced that I was right; how else could you explain the following story I'm not about to make up right now: I was sitting at my computer working on the global warming problem when I received an email from [email protected] promising me financial freedom and retirement within my reach in 3-5 YEARS. Sounds great, right? WRONG. Think about it, if enough global warming scientists retire in 3-5 years, by 2009 there won't be anyone working on fixing the ozone layer, which means the various ozone holes over America will grow so large that the deadly UV radiation given off by the sun will no longer be converted by the atmosphere into friendly sunshine that wakes the birds in the morning so that they can sing, tans your skin as you relax at the beach, and nourishes your crops with its gentle glow.

Instead the sun's powerful rays will remain as deadly radiation, and when it enters the atmosphere the birds will awaken to find their feathers alight, and they will cast themselves to the ground chirping madly like screaming balls of flame. Your fun day at the beach will be turned into a nightmare as the sun boils your flesh, turns the sand to glass, and melts your only beach ball. Your crops will wither and turn to ash as the untamed rays of the sun call them names and sets fire to their stalks. These thoughts raced through my mind as I read the email's promise of a better financial future, until I couldn't take it anymore and so I shut off the monitor. Then I saw it. On the black surface of my monitor screen the dim reflection of the Mr. Winkle 2004 calendar stared back at me from its place on the wall.

For over a year I floundered around, not knowing what to do. Who would believe me? Was it too late? Who knew how many global warming scientists had already been ensnared by his trap. Then last week I caught the break I had been looking for. I was watching the news when a story broke about a poison ricin scare in Washington D.C. Now was my chance. "Aha!" I told the Mr. Winkle 2004 calendar, "You're too late." I imagine if he could talk he would have said "What do you mean, silly human?" "Poison ricin." I told him. The calendar hesitated before continuing to not say anything. "You can't compete with that." I said, "whoever unleashed this attack certainly has his ducks in a row. Just inhaling a single spore of poison ricin powder is enough to turn a human into... a mindless flesh-eating zombie. Washington D.C. will be teeming with them in under an hour." "There's nothing left for you to do here," I told him, "except for reminding me when Kwanzaa is!" With that I laughed and then offered to throw him in the trash since I already knew what day Kwanzaa was. I haven't heard a peep from him since. World: saved. Me: hero.