Once home, Fred's domestic routine followed with equal military precision: three minutes to grab and sort through the mail, two-and-a-half minutes to take a leak and change into jeans and sweatshirt (with dark and unseen female magic, Alice somehow made dirty and wrinkled clothes reappear clean, pressed, and sorted by season, in the closet) and then eight minutes for the most important part of the Wednesday ritual, preparation of his repast of choice: Tuna fish surprise.

Though Fred was not renowned for his culinary skills, he always prepared this himself. The tuna had to be pre-chilled and packed in oil (tuna packed in spring water tasted too fishy). The recipe called for one tablespoon of mayo (low fat--his doctor had scared the hell out of him with a talk about cholesterol last year), two tablespoons of sweet cubed pickles and--the secret ingredient--a liberal dash of Worcestershire sauce. To be delightful to the eye, this was set between two pieces of lightly toasted bread, which were then sliced diagonally.

Most nights, Fred, like any dedicated tuber, was content to channel surf the evening away; however, on Wednesdays, this wasn't necessary. VBN ran "Classic" television shows all evening, starting with the Beverly Hillbillies at six . Fred recognized the episode at once. It was a classic: Jethro tries to become a double-nought spy.

Smelling the tuna fish, Fred grunted with gustatory anticipation as he settled deeper into the folds of his chair.

"You okay, honey? Can I get you anything? Is your tuna okay?" Alice was from the old school of wives. Fred gave a terse grunt, whose tone conveyed the admonition that she should leave him the hell alone so he could eat in peace.

"Well, I'm gonna be upstairs ironing, so just holler if you need anything," she offered with irritating cheerfulness as Fred settled back for an evening of classic American television.

Fred snorted and laughed between bites of tuna. Granny was standing on her tip-toes, shaking her fist threateningly in Jethro's face. Jethro, in turn, was hollering "Uncle Jed, uncle Jed . . ." Suddenly, the screen blinked.

Granny and Jethro were replaced by the logo for the news office of VBN. In a well-polished baritone, a voice ominously announced: "We interrupt our regularly scheduled broadcast to bring you the following news bulletin."

The logo was replaced by a wide shot of the VBN news office; the camera tightened in on an immaculately dressed anchorman who sat at his desk gazing idly at a sheaf of papers. As the camera came closer he looked up, as if just becoming aware of it, sat his prop papers down, and smiled with all the sincerity a fifty-year old man wearing a bad toupee could be expected to muster.

"Good evening. I'm Barry Dunwilder for VBN." He turned from camera one to camera three, which drew in for a close up. "At 4:48 this afternoon, astronomers at the Cerro Tololo Observatory in Chile announced that they had sighted a luminous object speeding toward earth. For more details, we now take you to our science correspondent, James Oberhime, who is standing by at the Kitt Peak National Observatory in Arizona."

Dunwilder then gave his serious look and turned toward his off-screen monitor. "James, what can you tell us about this mysterious object?"

A panoramic scene appeared. After establishing the live shot, the camera zoomed in for an extreme close-up of the correspondent's face. Touching the receiver in his ear, Oberhime repeated, "Are we on? Are we on?" Apparently receiving off camera confirmation, he said, "Thank you, Barry. Scarcely minutes ago, astronomers here confirmed an earlier report which came from Chile." The camera pulled back to show a domed-observatory towering over Oberhime's left shoulder. "A luminous mass is hurtling toward the earth on a collision course. We should urge our viewers to remain calm. I repeat, there is no need for panic; scientists have assured us that the object is mainly composed of radiant energy. The nucleus is not thought to be large enough to cause significant impact damage, if it survives the trip through our atmosphere. But it is the strangeness of the nucleus that comprises the most interesting part of our story."

The camera pulled back for a waist shot. Now standing next to James was an obese, scholarly-looking gentleman with an ill-trimmed gray bread. His wispy-gray locks fluttered in the breeze which incessantly played around the mountain observatory. Fidgeting and unsmiling, he was clearly uncomfortable out of his ivory tower.

"With me is Doctor Miles Luminoff, Astronomy Program Chairman for Kitt Peak Observatory. Dr. Luminoff, can you tell the audience what astronomers have seen in the nucleus of the object?" He thrust the microphone in the doctor's face.

Glaring dubiously at the intrusive instrument and then back to the correspondent, he said. "Jah, jah. It is what you've just said. In the center is a darker object. And though we cannot determine the exact size right now, it seems to have the general shape of a bi-symmetrical biped; you know, a human shape."

James turned from Dr. Luminoff toward the camera again. "As you and the audience can imagine, Barry, the approach of a luminous light with a human in the center, during the first year of the new millennia, has already engendered speculation that this event may be the long heralded Second Coming! Dr. Luminoff, can your staff tell us when the object is expected to touch down?"

"It is approximately eight A.U.s out. Due to the degree of its blue shift--and assuming no extraneous variables-- it should intersect the earth' orbit within the next hour."

"An hour!" Fred groaned, and took another bite of his tuna fish sandwich. When the network had pulled out the talking heads he'd figured the Hillbillies were kaput, and that was sad. He was pretty sure that Jetherine made an appearance on this episode. But if this thing was due within an hour or so, it looked bad for Gilligan's Island and maybe even Gomer. VBN would be sure to stretch it to the bitter end, as, undoubtedly, all the other networks would, calling out not only the talking heads but any fool with an opinion and fifteen minutes on his hands. Fred did a quick run through the channels with the zapper, confirming his worst fears, then returned to VBN.

Having heard his bleating, Alice called down. "Gee, honey, everything okay? Can I get you a beer when I come down to load the dishwasher?"

Fred grunted affirmatively, then added, "And nuts."

As Fred returned his attention to the screen, Dr. Luminoff had lost his beleaguered look; in fact, now animated and smiling, he had warmed to the camera considerably. ". . . and so you see, that is why we use the Astronomical Unit, or AU, as a primary source of measurement. Would you like me to explain the speed of light to the audience?"

"Uh, thank you, no. You've been quite helpful," James said as he turned from Luminoff. At the same time, the camera moved back in for a close up, cropping the professor out of the shot.

"So, Barry, astronomers predict that this object--believed by many in the religious community to be the Messiah returning--may arrive as early as the next hour. For VBN news in Arizona, this has been James Oberhime."

"Thank you James." The screen returned to the main news room at VBN, this time accompanied by a synthesized version of Handel's Messiah. In the upper right hand corner of the screen was a graphic image of a robed figure surrounded by rays of light and the motto 'The Second Coming'.

"A globe of light moving at vast speeds through space, the figure of a man at the center. Could this be the return of the Messiah? Could some have known the date of His return ahead of time? For a different slant on this rapidly developing story, we take you directly to our sister-station WGAB in Balix, New Jersey, where correspondent Sid Haverstein is standing by.

The synthesized sound bite from Handel sounded briefly, then the Second Coming graphic dissolved into a close-up shot of a small man with a droopy mustache and sad beagle eyes.

"Yes, thank you Barry. This is Sid Haverstein here. Behind me," he half-turned and indicated a drab two-story brick building, "on this seemingly unremarkable street, is Dr. Carlson's Chiropractic Clinic and Apocalyptic Bible Study School."

Sid began walking toward the building, looking back over his shoulder at the following porto-cam; his large sad eyes looked directly into the camera as he delivered his lackadaisical monologue. "Here, in this unassuming little building, the eclectic Dr. Randolph Carlson, chiropractor, researcher, lecturer, and publisher, predicted the return of the Messiah on precisely this day."

The camera followed Sid through the door and into a room of puritanical decor: a half-dozen of Dr. Carlson's supporters sat in impeccably aligned rows of folding chairs as others milled around in small groups, patiently awaiting the Rapture. At the far end, next to a long blackboard, stood a tall fortyish-something man sporting a well-trimmed salt and pepper beard, horn-rim glasses, and a Harris Tweed jacket.

Dr. Carlson smiled patronizingly at the camera as Sid introduced him to the public.

"Dr. Carlson, in 1994 your organization published a book, "Mystic Secrets of the Sacred Cabala and UFO Abductions." Sid paused to pick up a copy of the book from a card table laden with booklets and mimeographed literature, then held it up for the camera; the cover, executed in cheap two-color format, showed a crucified figure being beamed aboard a UFO. "In this book you claimed that the return of the Messiah would take place on this very date."

"Doctor," Sid turned on que and another camera picked up a waist shot of him and his subject, "most theological scholars disdain guessing at such important doctrinal provisions as the Second Coming, yet you not only decided to take the ball and run with it," Sid suggested, using a metaphor that betrayed his recent transfer from the sports department, "but have apparently scored a touchdown. Tell us, how did you come to tackle this problem?"

"Well, Sid," the chiropractor-cabalist began, "it's not easy to explain a complex discipline to lay persons, but I'll try to simplify things for you and your audience."

The camera pulled back as Dr. Carlson turned to face the blackboard, filled with a labyrinth of meandering equations.

"It's simple logic, actually. Our major premise is that God is logical; our minor premise is that the Bible is the inspired word of God; ergo, our deduction that the Bible must contain the logic and coherence found elsewhere in nature. By subjecting the Bible to rigorous mathematical analysis, we discerned patterns God has laid down for the future. I call this science Biblical Number Prophecy. We sort of look for God's zip code, you might say." Carlson chuckled at the witticism he'd delivered a thousand times.

"Oh," Sid said, "so it's like Numerology--finding your lucky number?"

"No no no." Carlson wagged his finger in the reporter's face with the admonitory-yet-patient gesture one uses with less-than-gifted school children. "It is called the study of the Cabala. We've simply brought scientific discipline and digital logic into it."

"Would you please share with our audience how you figured out the date of the Messiah's return?"

"Basically, we started with the prophecies of Daniel and . . . "

"Here's your beer, dear." Alice sat a cold Miller lite, a frosted mug, and a bowl of mixed nuts before Fred. She'd taken all of the filberts out for him; Fred hated filberts. "It won't bother you if I run the dishwasher, will it?" Fred acquiesced to the dishwasher's use with silence.

Alice spied Carlson on TV. "Is that Gomer? My, doesn't he look nice with a beard."

". . . so, you see, once you take the ancient Hebrew calendar system that was in use prior to seven hundred B.C., and convert it into sexigesimal units which relate to the number of hours that have elapsed since the establishment of the state of Israel--and then reconvert in terms of the modern solar year--it's then a simple matter to subtract the number 144,000 from the millennial date of 2000 A.D.--and remember that there were seven souls in the Ark with Noah and seven days of creation, thus our divisor--and, Vola!" With an academic flourish of his arm Carlson turned and proudly pointed to a figure amongst the numerical graffiti on the black board. "The date of the Messiah's Second Coming: today's date."

"Well, ah, I'm sure our audience finds this prophetic number science of your's as fascinating as I do. However, if I may, I'd like to clarify a couple of points?"

Dr. Carlson smiled indulgently and nodded.

"For example," Sid said, "how do you mix 144,000, which I've understood to be the number of the elect--and therefore a reference to people--with time elements? And why do you calculate with the Greek name of Jesus here and the Hebrew name of Jehovah over there? Isn't that mixing metaphors, so to speak? Furthermore, I think you made an error over here in your addition . . ."

Dr. Carlson wagged a quieting finger in front of Sid. "You're not a religious man, are you?" Before Sid could reply, he continued, "If you were you'd understand the role that spiritual inspiration plays."

"But I thought you said it was all science and logic? If your figures are added wrong . . ."

"Well, I assure you I'll recheck them. It is possible some error might have crept in, I was in such a rush this afternoon, but the basic prediction . . ."

"Uh, excuse me, Doctor. Did you just say you figured this out this afternoon? I thought you predicted this date in your book several years ago?"

"Well that date didn't exactly work out. Actually, I figured this out after I heard the first news report earlier today. Then I contacted someone from your news department."

"So you didn't actually predict the Messiah's arrival in advance of the event itself?"

"Well . . . no. Not if you want to get technical. But I've confirmed it as Biblical."

"Hmmm, I see. Well, thank you for your, ah, insight, Doctor." Suppressing a grimace, and planning to have a long talk with his research staff, Sid turned to his best friend, the camera, again.

"Well," Sid's brows furrowed as he sought the right sound bite to wrap the interview, "though some might cynically ask what is the use of a prophetic number science if it can only be verified, as it were, after the fact?, a road map that only tells you where you've been, Dr. Carlson nonetheless represents a contingent of Americans whose belief is fortified with unique perceptions."

The camera closed in for a face shot. "Perhaps, due to subtle nuances of theology, it isn't easy to bat a thousand with prophecy, but Dr. Carlson is certainly a major leaguer to his followers. In the meantime, on schedule or not, the Messiah is apparently on his way. Back to you, Barry.

After flashing the Second Coming graphic again the scene returned to the VBN newsroom. "That was Sid Haverstein with our affiliate station WGAB. Thank you for that illuminating report, Sid."

Barry turned toward camera three for a tight close up.

"With the arrival of the Messiah, no doubt many changes will be wrought in the way we live, what we do, where we go. There are many concerns, not the least of which is 'What will the new world order wear?' For an insightful glimpse into what could happen to the world of fashion when the Messiah returns, we take you now to New York and our fashion correspondent Hillary Perry. Hillary."

"Thank you Barry. I'm standing in front of the Comenique Fashion Institute of New York. With me is creative fashion consultant Shawn O. Peters--an innovative designer whose fashions are often inspired by Eastern themes."

The camera pulled back to a waist shot of Hillary and a tall individual of no easily discernable gender. Peters, whose unnatural ebullience was evident even when standing still, wore a gold, silk, jump suit complemented by a purple scarf around his neck; his crowning glory was a thistle of spiky orange hair. "Good afternoon Mr. Peters."

"Hello Hillary. Has anyone told you that you look like that chick from the original Saturday Night Live?"

"You mean Jane Curtain?"

"No. Not her. Too old."

"Uh, Gilda . . ."

"No, not her. Too dead."

"Oh, I guess you mean Lorraine Neuman."

"Yes." Peters clapped his hands. "The skinny one. You lucky thing."

"Well, uh, thank you," Hillary said, carefully maintaining her professional poise. "Now, I understand you've come up with some ideas on what fashions we may be wearing after the Messiah returns. Would you please share them with our viewers."

Hillary turned briskly as the camera drew back to reveal a male and a female model, each attired in a floor length white caftan with the hems and the borders of the sleeves finished in a golden Alhambresque design.

"I understand you call your design the Jerusalem Koo Koo. What does that name signify?"

Peters stifled a giggle. "Well, Hillary, I named it Jerusalem after, you know, that religious thing. Oh I don't know why I picked the name Koo Koo, except that it's fun to say. Don't you think?"

"I see. And why did you pick the caftan as your basic design."

"Silly." Peters shook his head, causing his orange spikes to bounce around menacingly. "Isn't it obvious? Because in heaven everyone will be androgynous."

Growing steadily more perplexed Hillary held the microphone a little further from her.

Peters' smile disappeared. "I did make one major innovation." He waved a finger at the female model, "Don't be shy now," who responded by gracefully lifting the hem of her caftan to reveal soft, white high-topped boots.

"The sandals. They were so gauche, don't you think? I dispensed with tradition here," he asserted boldly. "These booties are much nicer. And they're made from lambskin." He clasped his hands together as he basked in his own approval.

"Well, Barry, there you have it: fashion in the new millennium: The Jerusalem Koo Koo. And I understand they're wash and wear--no ironing. Oh, one more thing."

With simulated spontaneity the camera pulled back for another long shot. Accompanied by oohs and ahhs from the crowd the cameras had attracted, and wearing a Jerusalem Koo Koo complete with sparkling gossamer wings, a heavily dimpled Shirley Temple clone strolled spunkily before the camera.

With her well practiced smile in place, Hillary addressed her unseen counterpart at the VBN office. "Barry, I understand the wings are optional--unless you've earned them."

The picture returned to the anchor desk where Barry sat stiffly, his body in an awkward quarter turn as he looked at Hillary's face on the large screen behind him. Chuckling insincerely, he said, "Thank you Hillary. And by the way, I wear a forty-two, long, ha ha."

Hillary was smiling docilely as her image blinked off the screen.

"Well, with reports coming in from all over and touchdown time drawing closer, "everyone here is excited." VBN's graphic crew had been working overtime: a bearded, robed figure had been added to the center of a clock face; following a tradition set by Mickey Mouse, its arms tirelessly ticked off the minutes to the predicted touchdown. "In Jerusalem, which, not surprisingly, astronomers have now pinpointed as the landing place, the excitement has mounted to a fever pitch. For a further report, we now take you to our correspondent on Eastern affairs, Irv Llewenthal."

As Barry turned around to face the big screen the Second Coming graphic flashed off and was replaced by a hectic scene in Jerusalem, a clamorous throng of Palestinians, Jews, tourists and media types.

As the camera closed in on the correspondent, a balding middle age man dressed in khaki, he wiped a line of perspiration from his forehead and warily eyed the tumultuous sea of humanity around him.

"Well Barry, it's an impromptu crowd, made of tourists who want to greet Him, the people who live in the vicinity and were drawn by the excitement, people desiring miracle cures, tourists, and several official greeting delegations." He held one hand over his ear as several small boys ran screaming between him and the camera.

"Everything is going as well as can be expected given the short notice, though there was a little trouble earlier with pickpockets," he paused briefly as he instinctively patted his rear pocket, "but I understand that's been cleared up. As you can see, behind me, a landing platform has been erected for the greeting party to meet Him here, near the Mount of Olives. Earlier there was some confusion about who should comprise the greeting party. Fortunately, Israeli government officials have mediated the disputes and selected a welcoming party.

"And now, I'd like to introduce three prominent theologians who will provide us with some expert commentary on the Messiah's arrival.

"Starting to my left is Rabbi Yidchael Hortzben, Director of the Jerusalem Yeshiva." As the camera isolated him, a tall wiry, intellectual looking man wearing thick-lensed, black-framed glasses and a yarmulke, nodded politely. "To my right is Bishop Patrick Stapleton, Vatican liaison to Jerusalem." The red-headed man was dressed in a cassock. About his neck was a thick gold chain supporting an elaborately wrought crucifix. "And, someone our American viewers may recognize, fortuitously in the Holy Land on vacation at this time . . ."

"Pilgrimage," a deep melodious voice from off camera corrected him.

". . . is the Reverend Billy Bob Spears, pastor of the Divine Church of the Holy Name of Zion Television Out Reach Ministry." As Irv finished reading from the card the corpulent reverend smiled at the camera with blissful familiarity.

"First, I'd like to thank you all before hand for coming together in the spirit of brotherhood to lend your collective insight to our audience."

"Thank you, Irv," the Bishop said. "I'd like to mention that the Vatican is preparing a special reception in Rome for the Messiah immediately after his arrival."

"My friend," Hortzben interrupted, "I'm sure our Messiah will travel later, but after this long journey He's just taken, I'm sure He'll want to stay awhile with His people--he has chosen to land in Jerusalem."

The Bishop fixed Hortzben with an icy stare. "Of course. I'm sure Jerusalem would be his first order of business, to settle accounts, so to speak, and . . ."

"Are you implying . . ."

"Friends . . .my Jewish brother and my Catholic brother," looking gleefully up at the growing light in the sky, the rotund reverend positioned himself between the two and gave the pair an obviously unwelcome hug, "I'd like to announce that of all tithes given to my ministry after today, a full thirty-three percent of the net will be put directly at the Messiah's disposal and . . ."

Releasing his unwilling compatriots, Billy Bob's eyes rolled back in his head and his hands flew above him in a characteristic sign of praise. "Amda bomda la alla sha. . . Amda bomda la alla sha!"

In a whispered aside to the camera, Irv explained, "In case our audience is not familiar with this phenomena, I think the Reverend is doing," Irv enunciated slowly as if he were speaking to Barney's friends, "is what is known as 'speaking in tongues.' Do either of you know what he's saying?"

Rabbi Hortzben eyed the reporter as if he had just rolled around in raw pork, shrugged and shook his head. "It's not Hebrew, friend."

"Nor Latin or Greek," the Bishop confirmed.

"Wooo, praise and exaltations!" Panting, his bulldog jowls flushed red, the Reverend finished and brought his hands down.

"Well, ah, that was very interesting, Reverend. What?" Irv's left hand pressed his ear monitor closer. "I've just been informed that the light has slowed its descent. I repeat, our sources have just informed me that the light globe is slowing down and should arrive any minute now."

The Bishop turned toward the landing platform. "Well, Irv, I'd better get down there so I can be on hand when we present Him with the key to Vatican City."

"Excuse me, Bishop," Rabbi Hortzben tapped him on the shoulder, "but I think that as the representative of Judaism I should naturally go first."

"I don't want to be rude," the bishop said, " but He is our Messiah returning."

"A point of theology, Bishop Stapleton: your Messiah left and promised to return. Our Messiah never came--until now."

"Why you impudent little. .. ."

"Friends, friends," Reverend Billy Bob's jocular face came between them, "I don't want to be indelicate," he drawled, "but the Jews killed our Lord, and, according to a impartial interpretation of scripture, the Catholic Church is the Whore of Babylon. Naturally, as the most successful Protestant minister on television . . ."

"Shut up shmuck!" The Rabbi gave Billy Bob a light shove. "Your ignorance is understandable. But my friend the Bishop here is at least familiar with the fact that the Christian Messiah couldn't possibly have been the real Messiah since he didn't fulfil several of Isaiah's prophecies!"

"Oh yeah?" The Bishop's face was now as red as his hair. "Perhaps you should consider . . ."

Irv came between them. "Well we're running a little short on time here, so . . ."

The Bishop shoved him aside, pushing him off screen, and addressed the Rabbi. "You should consider Isaiah 3:11!"

"Isaiah 3:11? Ha! You should read Psalms 89:29! Besides, you people should ask him about Transubstantiation: You've been cannibalizing Him for two-thousand years."

"Look, Hymmie . . ."

"Hymmie! You potato-eating shmuck . . . we'll ask Him about the Albigensian massacre and the Inquisition."

"Ezekiel 8:16! That says it all," the Bishop shouted.

"Are you threatening me? Why you . . ."

Like magnets, the two were irresistibly drawn together. As they bumped together, the Bishop swiped at the Rabbi's head, knocking his yarmulke off. In retaliation he grabbed the Bishop's Crucifix chain and began choking him with it.

Playing the peacemaker, Reverend Billy Bob tried to push them apart. "Gentlemen! Gentle--"

"Gentile!" Without warning the Rabbi's left hand dropped the Bishop's chain and sent a stunning blow to the Reverend's forehead. The Reverend's eyes rolled up in his head again as he staggered backwards mumbling, "Amda bomda la alla sha . . ."

Temporarily frozen in the act of throttling each other, the Bishop and the Rabbi both smiled as they watched the dazed Billy Bob stagger backwards and fall into a group of Palestinians; unable to understand Billy Bob's poly-syllabic mumbling, they chose to take it as insult and fell upon him in a flurry of dusty clothes, kicks, shouts, and fists.

Seemingly pleased with this turn of events, the Bishop and the Rabbi returned their respective animosity toward each other. As they began grappling again, the chaos began propagating through the crowd.

Trying to regain control as the fracas grew around him, Irv managed to get in front of the camera again. "Ah, Barry, we seem to be having some problems here, with the excitement and all. We're going to go back to the network feed and . . .What!"

All at once the fighting stopped and the crowd fell silent as they were bathed in the light of the globe, now hovering scarcely a hundred feet above their heads.

People began scampering out of the way as the globe settled gently on the ground.

"Can the audience at home see this," Irv whispered. "This is amazing. Simply amazing."

Brushing themselves off, the Bishop, the Rabbi and the Reverend Billy Bob--now grimacing as he rubbed his forehead-- gathered around Irv again. Throughout the crowd people were shouting with excitement as they tried to scramble over each other to get a better look. Suddenly, the light of the globe winked out, leaving a milky haze surrounding the solitary figure at the center.

"Behold," the Reverend Billy Bob exclaimed, "I can see his sparkling vestments!"

As the figure moved out of the haze there was a collective intake of breath from the crowd. A portly figure in a garish sequined suit, sporting sideburns and upper lip curled in characteristic smile, swaggered toward the welcoming committee, his short cape fluttering behind him.

"My God! . . . It's Elvis! This is stupendous. . . incredible. . . amazing!" Irv cried out and then fell silent, having exhausting his repertoire of journalistic superlatives.

"Elvis!" the Rabbi exclaimed. " I love that guy! Is he great, or what?"

Turning to the Rabbi with a smile, the Bishop swiveled his hips as he began playing air guitar.

As the crowd roared with delight--Billy Bob's voice whooping loudest among them--Irv hogged the camera in hopes of an historic sound bite. "Well, this is indeed historic. People all over the world have waited for the return of the King; and the King has returned: the King of Rock and Roll! You might say that this event has everyone here 'All shook up.' Indeed, who would have thought that a mere two hours ago. . ."

Click.

Noting the sudden silence from the living room, Alice called from upstairs. "What's the matter honey? Aren't your programs good tonight?"

Fred's only answer was a heavy sigh.

As he ascended the stairs, Fred said, "Alice, I've had what you might call a revelation, here." Alice emerged from the bedroom and stood attentively in the doorway. "Network television," Fred continued, "is run by a bunch of crass, insincere, no-talent bums whose predictable efforts at blurring the line between news and entertainment are intended to appeal only to the lowest common denominator in society--those gullible individuals with no capacity for independent thought!"

"Oh, my," Alice said, placing her fingers to her lips, clearly shocked.

"Now," Fred said as he eased pass her and into the bedroom, "Where did you put this month's copy of Pro Wrestling News?"