'For as soon as I heard Tewkesbury tell of screams and wailings in the air, and no one to be seen,' said Elzevir, 'I guessed that some poor soul had got shut in the vault, and was there crying for his life.

He played the ukelele with ease.

They're the ones slavering like Wile E. Coyote over that low-fat commissary quesadilla, or Heepishly dry-washing their red little hands while they pore over next month's studio spread sheet.

electrical brainstorm