(Note: this tale is not autobiographical. It is entirely fictional. Honest.)

Ambrose Pringle stared at his cursor.

The cursor blinked back, rhythmic and judgmental, waiting. It was Thursday. His weekly humour column, “Pringle’s Pieces,” was due to the Gazette by 5 p.m., or his editor, a man named Mort whose vocal cords sounded like two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together, would ensure Ambrose’s next assignment was the obituary section for local livestock.

Ambrose was desperate. He had already written about his socks, his toaster’s existential crisis, and the time he accidentally joined a synchronized swimming team for seniors. He was tapped out. The well of whimsy was bone dry.

“I need a hook,” he whispered to his black cat, Beelzebub. Beelzebub licked a paw and looked at Arthur with the profound boredom only a feline can muster. “Something relatable.........

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