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Episode Four — Warren Weber meets Richie, Ralph, and Joanie Cunnobi at the Jedi Temple’s Sock Hop Singles Mixer. Warren is a talented engineer but an awkward dancer. While dancing the Rhumba, he mistimes a “Force jump” and crushes Ashley Pfister’s right foot. To prevent this from happening again, Warren and Richie construct a Dance Protocol Droid from plumbing and electrical products in Mr. Cunnobi’s hardware store.

Episode Five — Warren and Richie fly to Las Vegas for a one-day Light Saber Assertiveness Seminar featuring Jedi Master Way-Gon Fonz (Liam Neeson). After the keynote speech and the hands-on breakout sessions, Warren is chosen to protect Senator Leather Tuscadero (Natalie Portman) from agents of the Confederacy of Cartoonish Villains (C.C.V.).

Episode Six — Lost episode.

Episode One — Halfway through the fourth episode (which, inexplicably, is called Episode One), Warren’s mother calls. She tells Warren that she has been kidnapped by the Tusken Shrimp Raiders on Planet Olivegarden. Warren immediately flies to her aid, but he arrives too late. Mrs. Weber, who has been force-fed Barolo by Shrimp Raiders, dies in Warren’s arms. Seized by a violent rage, Warren kills everyone at the Early Bird Special. Later, he confesses to Senator Leather, who tells him not to worry, “because the old goats were probably on their last legs anyway.” This makes Warren feel much better. Warren and Leather have wild sex all afternoon and then go to Arnold’s to meet Ralph and Richie, who have been captured by separatists.

Episode Two — To free his friends, Warren must fight Separatist leader (and fallen Jedi) Count Chachi. Count Chachi (Christopher Lee) mocks Warren’s fighting skills and then severs the young Jedi’s right forearm with a sizzling-hot french fry. Just to add insult to injury, Count Chachi’s apprentise, Mary Lou Milligan, gives the unconscious Warren a hicky. Later, Richie says the incident was “funny as a crutch.”

Episode Three — Warren finally realizes that Ralph is Darth Malph, the Sith Lord who the Jedi have been seeking since long, long before the beginning of Episode Four (also called Episode One). After a few cocktails, Darth Malph gives Warren a choice — come over to the dark side posthaste or have all remaining organic limbs severed with a sizzling-hot french fry. Warren goes over to the dark side and takes the Sith name Darth Potsie. This sets up the big fight scene with Ritchie Cunnobi.

In recent weeks, I’ve recieved email messages from several people with unusual names. Automate T. Patch dropped me a note, as did Swelterings B. Attributives, Laughingstock A. Fooleries, Impeaching H. Oddball, Normandy C. Naturalism, HotBabe4u, Lillian Vernon and Norm Thompson.

Some of these names are obvious fakes — Norm Thompson, for example — but I know for a fact that there is a person named Impeaching H. Oddball. He attended the University of Maine at Orono during the Fall semester of 1980. I know this because Impeaching Oddball was one of my college roommates.

Impeaching was a generally unremarkable person with one remarkable quirk — he ate potatoes morning, noon and night. I don’t mean that he ate potatoes with his baked bean breakfast burrito, and potatoes with his lobster roll, and potatoes with his savory mooseloaf pie. I mean, he ate nothing but potatoes. It’s a good thing he lived (and ate) before the invention of fad diets, because Atkins would have killed him dead.

My other roommate that semester was Lester “Littleneck” Biddeford Daigle III, better known to hip hop fans as LL Bean J. In 1978, Lester came to UMO to study Pulp and Paper Technology at the School of Forestry. In 1979, he took a year off to paint murals on subway cars in New York City. There, through a spray-painter friend, he met Hip Hop pioneer Kurtis Blow. Kurtis introduced Lester to rap music. Lester introduced Kurtis to the lobster salad roll. The rest is history.

Lester returned to UMO in 1980, but he never returned to his studies. Pine trees didn’t catch his eye anymore. He was all about the music. Between Labor Day and Thanksgiving, Lester sold all of his Kansas, Styx and Foghat records. After Thanksgiving break, he changed his name to LL Bean J and began to perform his “raps” at the Oronoka Restaurant’s Open Mic nights. These open sessions quickly became a regular gig, and in the Spring of 1981, LL released his seminal live set, Health Code Violations: Live at the Noka. Many of his platinum hits, such as What up Lobsta, Haddock and Bread Buffet, and Fear of a Plaid Planet can be traced to LL’s “Oronka period.”

Tragically, my friend and roommate didn’t live long enough to enjoy his success. LL Bean J, “the Down East Rapper,” was fatally injured while running with the moose at the Festival of Saint Bullwinkle in Pamplona, Maine. He died young, even for a rockstar, but at least he didn’t choke on his own vomit. That has to count for something.

I’m working on a new novel called Ulysses. It will be a long, difficult, stream- of-consciousness thing.

As most of you know, Ulysses is an important character in Homer Simpson’s poem about the Trojan wars, The Oddity. “Over the wine dark ocean . . . da dee da dee da.” For those of you who don’t watch enough TV, I will recap Homer’s story. First, the Trojans steal the Greeks’ girlfriend, Helen, and then the Greeks and Trojans wrestle for ten years, and then the Greeks mount a big wooden horse. Sick, but predictable. Rest assured, there won’t be any Greek horseplay in my novel. No Greeks. No horses. Period. There will be an Irish guy with round glasses who tries to get into Molly Bloom’s bloomers, and there will be some Trojans, but the Tojans will be condoms. Yes, condoms. In Chapter 6, when angry Vikings invade Gaul, the French maidens will certainly want the invaders to roll on some latex before the ravaging begins. (Remind me to make sure that none of the French maidens have latex allergies.)

Yes, yes, I know — another famous guy with round glasses has already written a novel called Ulysses, and it, too, is a stream-of-consciousness story about an Irish guy with round glasses who tries to get into Molly Bloom’s bloomers. But there are no Trojans or Vikings in the other guy’s novel, and there is no puctuation. To the other guy’s credit, there aren’t any Greeks or horses in his novel, either. Putting Greeks and horses in the same story is just asking for trouble. Every writer knows this. Only a master like Homer would take such high-stakes literary risks.

By now, many of you have heard Jay-Z’s new Budweiser commercial-song (songmercial?), Show Me What You Got. If not, here’s a little taste of the lyrics:

Hey Hey Hey Hey Hey Hey Hey

Uh Huh

Show me what you got lil mama
Show me what you got lil lady
Show me what you got shawty
Show me what you got baby

Pretty fly, eh? I mean, in a repetitive, list-like way? And that’s just the chorus. The real poetry happens in the verse. That’s where Mr. Z offers to buy as much tequila as it takes to persuade mama-lady-shawty-baby to show him what she’s got. And when she doesn’t go for that, he offers to take her shopping and on long vacations if she gives him a quick lil peek at some of what she’s got. Finally, when all else fails, he offers to detail her Budweiser Ferrari, recycle her empty Budweiser beer cans, and give her two Budweiser Skybox seats for the Barbra Streisand concert at the Staples Center. All she has to do in return is send him a brief written description (by email) of what she could show him should she ever decide to show him what she’s got.

The whole thing seems kind of vacant and gangsta-needy to me, but maybe I’m too quick to judge. After all, the song’s sponsor made heavy demands on the creative team — the lyrics had to be simple enough for Jay-Z to recite while steering the lil red Budweiser Ferrari through hairpin turns with both of his hands waving above the open sunroof and while he maintained eye contact with a camera mounted on the bottom of the Budweiser blimp. Oh, and the whole songmercial had to time out at 60 seconds. I think they jammed in about as much content as one could reasonably expect under such conditions. Jay-Z adds a touch of irony at the end, when, after 60 seconds of unrelenting nothingness, he says, “expect everything.” That, my friends, is why Mr. Z calls himself “The King.”

Okay, now it’s time to pick on whitie. . . .

Sting was on CBS Sunday Morning last weekend. He was promoting his new collection of Renaissance dance tunes, Songs From The Labyrinth. When asked why he decided to cover the music of 16th century lutenist John Dowland, the Big Bee told Harry Smith that friends had been begging him to do it for years. He put them off as long as possible, he said, but eventually he succumbed to their pressure. Perhaps you just raised an eyebrow in disbelief. I’ll say it again. According to Sting, his funky friends insisted that he lay down some smokin’ lute tracks. Who are these friends? My guess is that Mr. Sting has been taking his tea in the parlor of Lord and Lady Snottybottom.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that John Dowland isn’t worthy of tribute or that he wasn’t Bob Dylan in a lace-trimmed doublet. And I’m not denying that Dowland was the first musician to tour with groupies and the first to add unreasonable backstage riders to his performance contracts. Above all, I’m not making fun of the lute, so simmer down, you lutenists! Bunch of wild men. Kripes. All I’m saying is, Sting is full of crap. I think we can all agree on that. It’s no wonder Stuart Copeland tried to paradiddle the Big Bee’s cranium with a 16″ Vater drumstick.

A final word about Songs From The Labyrinth — the record company is reportedly having some trouble culling a single from the 20 English Renaissance ballads. The Most High and Mighty Christianus the Fourth, King of Denmark has reportedly tested well with the target audience, but insiders are betting on the bouncy Fine knacks for ladies.

In the opening scene, fresh-faced supermodel Paulina Porizkova plans a grand soiree. She sets the date and time and sends invitations to all the other characters. Napoleon (Sean Astin) loses his invitation and the French army arrives one week early. When officers of the French Imperial Guard (Paris Hilton, Nikki Hilton, Las Vegas Hilton) find no hors d’oeuvres in Paulina’s pantry, they sack and burn Moscow (Tampa/St. Pete). This irritates many of the movie’s biggest stars, including the ambiguous Prince Stolichnayashotsky (Kevin Spacey) and the freethinking but intoxicated Pierre Bongonovskynovsky (Matthew McConaughey). Stolichnayashotsky and Bongonovskynovsky organize a posse and chase the French all the way back to Paris. While pursuing Napoleon’s army, Spacey and McConaughey miss the soiree scene, the closing credits and the Academy Awards.

Late in Scene Two, the Norwegian army crashes Paulina’s soiree. Having learned a valuable lesson from the Napoleonic hors d’oeuvre incident, Paulina plies the rambunctious Norwegians with Aquavit, fishcakes and flirtatious small talk. When the fishcakes are gone, Norwegian General Junior Fortinbras leads his men in a merry sing-along. Paulina heads for the punch bowl.

At 5 feet 10-1/2 inches (180 cm), Paulina Porizkova is the perfect height for the catwalk. As she pours a glass of cranberry vodka punch, a representative of the Elite Modeling Agency offers Paulina a sweet modeling gig in Paris. The offer includes a top-ten spot on The World’s Fifty Most Beautiful People list and appearances in Vogue, ELLE, Harper’s Bazaar, Self, and Popular Fishcakes magazines. This is an extremely tempting offer for a teenager who is eager to get out of Petersburg. Even so, Paulina worries. In Paris she might be hounded by the ambiguous Stolichnayashotsky, the intoxicated Bongonovskynovsky, or the vengeful and hungry French Imperial Guard. What is a tall girl to do?

Now that MySpace is thoroughly broken in (obsolete), I have decided to give it a go. Here are my initial observations:

1. Every new MySpace user is provided with one default friend. His name is Tom Defaultfriend, and everyone hates him. I deleted Tom’s heinie immediately. Once Tom was out of the way, I added two replacement friends to my “social network.” One of the replacement friends is from my real, walkin’ around world. The other is a fairly menacing, computer-generated Hip Hop musician named Nostradamus or Prophecy or something. It’s probably too soon to pick my “Top 8 Friends,” but while I’m waiting for Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, and Eight to arrive, I will spend some time rearranging my Top 2.

2. Eh, I guess I only have one initial observation. Let’s call it my “default observation.” Feel free to delete this observation from your social network.

Come over and have a look. MyLameLink.

Yesterday afternoon, on the Masslive Politics Board, a grouchy fellow named DeToqueville (his misspelling) called me an “elitist bigot.” Dr. DeToqueville also opined that I “inadvertently revealed my deep-seated inadequacies” when I insulted NASCAR and Mr. Toby Keith. I took umbrage at that. There was nothing inadvertent about my insults or my revelation of inadequacies. Both were totally intentional. I swear.

Since I did not wish to disrupt the loving harmony of the Masslive Politics Forum, I tried to make peace with Mr. Detoqueville. I apologized for my insensitivity and promised to be more tolerant of other cultures, particularly the beer-swillin’, pork-rind-lovin’, rusticated hayseed culture. This seemed to appease him. Our truce did not last, however. During a discussion of contemporary redneck poetry, I made the mistake of suggesting that Toby Keith’s song Beer for my Horses was metrically unsound, and that it appeared to be written in Iambic Beercanmeter. That’s when the whole “elitist bigot” thing flared up again. Sheesh. You have to be so careful of what you say these days.

According to Britain’s Daily Mirror and Sun newspapers, David Hasselhoff caused a “blazing drunken row” at Wimbledon last week, when he was denied entry to the lady’s locker room. Onlookers reported that the actor became aggressive with security guards and began shouting, “Do you know who I am? I’m the Hoff.” Just days before the Wimbledon incident, Mr. Hasselhoff was treated for cuts and bruises after a mysterious accident involving a chandelier.

Not all of last week’s news was bad news for Mr. Hasselhoff, however. On Wednesday, Hip-hop pioneer Ice-T agreed to produce the Hoff’s first rap album. “He’s gonna come out as Hassle The Hoff,” Ice-T said. The debut cd will reportedly be titled either Don’t Hassle the Hoff or Da Big Vanillah Lady Killah. Mr. Hasselhoff, who is already a pop music superstar in parts of the former East Germany, recently expressed disappointment that he hasn’t been recognized for helping to end the Cold War through his music.

To make room in his busy schedule for the hip-hop project, Hasselhoff abruptly backed out of a commitment to play Captain Hook in a DreamWorks pantomime version of Peter Pan. This move came as no surprise to Hollywood insiders, who say the actor cooled to the pantomime project when he learned that The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences had dropped it’s Best Pantomime by an Actor in a Supporting Role category.

Let’s call the spy Ethan Hunt. That way, even before he snuffs his first international weapons dealer or kidnaps his first waifish actress, the audience will know what he’s all about. They’ll know he’s a hunter . . . or a stalker, at least.

What? Hunt is too subtle?

How about Ethan Pursueandkill?

Overkill? Ethan Overkill? Oh, I see. You think Pursueandkill is too strong. You think the audience has enough smarts to figure this guy out without a fancy name-label. I dunno. Sounds risky.

Forget the name for a second. What do you think of the actor?

I don’t like Tom Cruise in this role. What kind of name is Cruise, anyway? It doesn’t tell me anything. Why not get Ethan Hawke to play Ethan Hunt. Heck, why not just change the character’s name to Ethan Hawke. Hawke has all of Hunt’s “hunter” connotations and much, much more. The hawk is strong, swift, fierce, protective. He soars in circles over the earth, asking the earthbound to view their lives from a higher perspective. And then he swoops down and snuffs some international arms dealers. Perfect.

What’s that? Hawke is overkill, too? Even with the extra “E” on the end? Cripes. Audiences are getting awfully sophisticated.

Okay, what if we name the spy after a specific bird of prey? The Aztec god of sun and war was an eagle named Huitzilopochtli. If we named the spy Ethan Huitzilopochtli, we’d get all the benefits of those “bird of prey” connotations and no one would be the wiser. Except for the Aztecs, of course.

You think Huitzilopochtli sounds too ethnic for the general movie-going audience? Okay, I guess you know your demographics. Huitzilopochtli probably wouldn’t fit on the back the Agency softball jersey, anyway.

So, what if we call the spy Ethan Protagonist? Would that work for everyone?

Darth Vader buys the black plastic bodysuit a few days after Obi-Wan cuts him up in a lightsaber fight. For the badly wounded Vader, the black suit (with it’s matching cape and hat) is not fashion statement. Vader is no intergallactic Johnny Cash wannabe. Perhaps he is aware that black makes the Sith seem slimmer, and perhaps he hopes the dark palette will make him more menacing, but these are secondary considerations. This black suit is primarily a remedy for Jedi laser surgery. It is the container that will keep Mr. Vader’s vital parts in place.

Dear Kate Moss,

I have scratched lottery tickets on many surfaces. I’ve scratched them on books, tables, album covers and dashboards. I’ve scratched them on bartops and rooftops. Once, in my younger days, I scratched a $100 winner on the bare back of an friendly stripper. (She demanded 125% of the winnings!)

Ticket scratchers must adapt to their environments. We must use the tools available to us. For an experienced scratcher like me, all of the previously mentioned surfaces work well enough, but none of them works as well as a big thick magazine that smells like a lady. That’s why my preferred lottery ticket scratching surface is your cover issue of Vanity Fair Magazine. I know what you’re thinking, Kate. No, the sniffing of Vanity Fair lady fragrances does not make the scratching of lottery tickets any easier. However, the sniffing does make scratching more enjoyable. (Perhaps that was too obvious to mention.)

Well, that’s all for now, Kate. Have a fashionable and profitable day.

Mr. Squirrel

P.S.: Kate, when I say that your Vanity Fair issue is big and thick, I am certainly not trying to suggest that you are big and thick. That would be cruel, especially after you’ve taken so much crap for being small and thin.

Dear Kate Moss,

I’m sorry I spilled coffee on you. Don’t be angry. I can explain.

You’ve been sitting on my coffee table since late November, Kate. I haven’t asked you to do anything but stare wistfully at the ceiling. I’ve kept the Vanity Fair back issues and the gossip rags away from you. In fact, you’ve had the place to yourself ever since I moved Scarlett Johansson, Keira Knightly and their friend Tom Ford to the old magazine pile in the hall closet. By the way, those three are fine. Last time I checked, Tom was nibbling on Keira’s ear, and the whole crew — including Scarlet’s fine naked ass — was lying directly on top of Lindsay Lohan’s freckly February issue. You may be thinking that lying on top of Lindsay Lohan is a good gig, but my closet is too cramped for wild girl fun. Wouldn’t you rather be the queen of the coffee table? Of course you would. The coffee table is prime real estate. It is center stage. It has good lighting and plenty of traffic, but it has it’s risks, too. The occasional coffee spill, for example.

Yes, we had a little accident, my friend, but please don’t fret. The coffee stain only proves what your jealous rivals have been saying all along. “Kate can wear anything,” they say. “It’s so unfair. Even a coffee stain looks good on Kate.”

They are so right, Kate Moss. They’re so right.

In 1982, Great Britain and Argentina fought for possession of the Falkland Islands. Today, Great Britain and Ireland stand ready to battle Argentina for possession of a hat.

The crisis began late Thursday night after a U2 concert in Buenos Aires. Attendees at a backstage afterparty reported seeing Argentine soccer superstar Diego Maradona sneaking off with Bono’s favorite white cowboy hat. Maradona attended the show as a VIP guest of the band.

Local authorities were unable, or unwilling, to recover the hat. Early Friday morning, representatives of the Irish and Argentine governments were called to an emergency meeting at the United Nations in New York. A team of British diplomats was brought in to mediate. Negotiations reached an impasse when Argentina demanded English midfielder David Beckham, Posh Spice, a keg of Guinness Stout and the Falkland Islands in exchange for Mr. Maradona and Bono’s hat. Ireland agreed to these terms but Great Britain did not.

After the unsuccessful session, British Undersecretary for Hats and Trousers, Sir William Willingly Nobb, issued the following statement on behalf of Her Majesty’s Government:

“The Crown is firmly opposed to the unlawful confiscation of property. One simply mustn’t pinch one’s neighbor’s stuff, whether that stuff be a litter of the queen’s corgis or a cluster of Argentine islands or a rock star’s hat. Let no one doubt the queen’s resolve in this matter. That means you, Argentina! If the British people were willing to wage war to recover the Falkland Islands, then we and our allies will most certainly do no less to recover Bono’s favorite hat . . . eh, umm, even if Bono is a bloody irishman.”

In a joint announcement yesterday, Royal Caledonian Curling Club President Gifford Rickard and Fox Vice President Mike Darnell confirmed that Curling with the Semi-Famous will be added to the Fox lineup as a midseason replacement. The series will feature six celebrities paired with international curling superstars. Following the format of several similar reality programs, the pairs will compete in weekly elimination performances.

The six pairs competing in the season opener are:

• Margaretha Sigfridsson and Kristy McNicole

• Hammy McMillan and Leif Garrett

• Anna Bergström and Scooter Libby

• Pål Trulsen and Emmanuel Lewis

• Peja Lindholm and Vanilla Ice

• Mr. Kunio Nando of Japan and Bootsy Collins

Recently, I’ve heard unpleasant rumblings from my sources in the White Castle “slider” community. Not the usual gastrointestinal rumblings, but genuine expressions of concern that their beloved “sliders” have become trendy, maybe even chic. “How could this have happened?” they ask. And then they ask, “is nothing sacred?” and finally they ask, “If sliders have been trendified by the beautiful people, then what will be trendified next?” (Yes, I know, “trendified” is not a proper word. Not yet. But it will be soon. Please be patient.) I would like to take a stab at the third question in the sentence before all the sentences in parentheses. The next darling of the urban-chic consumer machine will be Pabst Blue Ribbon Martinis.

You heard it here first.

8:00 A.M. – 9:00 A.M.

Dorothea Bauer and her younger sister Celia are counter-terrorism agents of good birth and marriageable age. They live a quiet country life with their bachelor uncle Jack at Tipton Grange near Middlemarch, California. Dorothea is a woman of pragmatic temperament, and she is reluctant to keep the precious jewelry or the pearl-handled 9mm handgun (with suppresser) that she has inherited from her dead mother (also named Jack). Just moments before guests are to arrive for an 8:17 A.M. dinner party, Dorothea gives the family jewels and the handgun to Celia for safekeeping.

At the dinner party, middle-aged terrorist mastermind Gassy Ed Casaubon vies with Sir James “Cheater” Chettam for Dorothea’s attention. Although Sir James is a dashing country squire (drug kingpin), Dorothea is much more attracted to the bilious Casaubon. Celia, who does not like Casaubon’s complexion or his moles, fakes her own death and retires to her boudoir.

Unbeknownst to Dorothea and her guests, Casabaubon’s moles are North Korean ninja moles sent to assassinate the Bauers and steal their family jewels. The moles wait until Casaubon has finished the last of the cold mutton, and then they threaten to release a devastating biological weapon.

Young Wayne Newton, his older brother Jerry, and his even older brother Isaac arrived in Las Vegas in 1959. At the time, Wayne was 15, Jerry was 16, and Isaac was 317 years old. The brothers’ first gig was at the Fremont Hotel, where they were billed as Sir Isaac and the Mathematicats. Later, at the urging of their agent, the Newton brothers changed their stage name to The Newton Brothers.

On March 9, 1963, Jerry overslept and missed the afternoon performance at the Copa Lounge. The crowd failed to notice his absence. Jerry continued to oversleep through the summer, fall and winter of 1963, and early in 1964 Isaac and Wayne decided hire a new brother. Taking the stage name Shemp Newton, Bobby Darin joined the act in April of 1964. In May, Darin changed his name to Curly-Joe Newton, and in July he switched back to Bobby Darin and went solo. Wayne and Isaac continued as a duo.

In 1970, Isaac Newton suffered a nervous breakdown and retired from the music business. The reasons for this breakdown were the subject of intense speculation. Isaac himself blamed his rigorous schedule — eight shows a day, six days a week for ten years — but his biographers believe the breakdown was caused by toxic chemical cocktails Isaac ingested during his alchemy experiments.

After Isaac’s retirement and subsequent hospitalization, Wayne Newton changed his name to Bobby Darin and went solo.

In 1982, Wayne “Bobby Darin” Newton won the Entertainer of the Year award and was knighted by Queen Elizabeth II of England. This was the first time any American lounge singer had been knighted by a powerless European figurehead. Unfortunately, this great accomplishment was overshadowed by Wayne and Isaac’s bitter and very public dispute over which brother had invented calculus.

Sopranos creator and Executive Producer David Chase was so impressed with the Plantation Man’s screen test for the upcoming Lost in Chicopee episode, he reportedly offered the giant a recurring role in the show’s second, and possibly final, final season. The top-hatted giant, whose character will reportedly be named Giant Top-Hatted Pussy, will appear in the first three Season Seven episodes, tentatively titled The Big Stiff, Top Hat Rat, and Too Much Pussy.

Congratulations, Plantation Man. Don’t get whacked!

When I was a young squirrel, I used my overpowering sex appeal to seduce all five of the so-called “Spice Girls.” They could not resist me. Spice Girl Ginger was forced to “pursue other career opportunities” when my small-animal-magnetism began to overwhelm her — to drive her “nuts,” as it were. Finding themselves one lip sync artist short, the remaining band members asked me to join them. They would call me “Old Spice,” they said. It was a flattering offer, but I simply didn’t have the time for both pop stardom and foraging, so I declined.

Today I am pursuing a new group of scantily dressed pop sex-pots — the Pussycat Dolls. The Dolls and I are a match made in heaven. The four or five or six or seven or eight of us will make a perfect couple. Here are just a few examples of the many things we have in common:

1. Like the Pussycat Dolls, I was born in a tiny dance studio in the L.A. garage of actress Christina Applegate.

2. Like Dolls’ lead singer Nicole Scherzinger, I am a squirrel of Hawaiian-Russian-Filipino descent who knew from an early age that I was destined to become an entertainer. As pups, Scherzinger and I both watched our families perform Polynesian shows featuring our mothers as lead hula dancers and our grandmothers — both named Tutu — as the singers. (I think you will agree, the parallels between our lives are almost unbelievable.)

3. I am also very much in tune with the views of Carmit “Foxy” Bachar, the fire-hot redhead of Dutch-Indonesian-Israeli descent, who is as talented as she is beautiful. Foxy says, “You have to be comfortable in your skin and exude confidence,” and I agree. In the Spring, Autumn and Winter seasons, I am perfectly comfortable in my skin. (The fur does get a bit warm and itchy after vigorous summertime dance routines, however.)

4. Like Jessica Sutta, a dancer of Irish-Russian-Polish-Bavarian-Elvish heritage, who dreamed of being a prima ballerina until she tore the ACLs in both knees as a teenager during a pickup basketball game, my persona echoes a that of a Bettie Page pin-up. Eh, well, not exactly, but Jessica and I are both former captains of the Miami Heat dance troupe. Okay, okay, I don’t have much in common with Jessica Sutta. I do have some nickname advice for her, though. Jessica “Kama” Sutta has a nice ring to it, does it not?

5. Like all the Pussycat Dolls, I try on a daily basis to shatter stereotypes with my blend of exotic beauty, charisma, and undeniable talent. And while I’m doing all that, I drink a helluva lot of coffee.

There are some differences between the Dolls and myself, of course. That’s what will keep our relationship fresh and exciting. So far, I’ve come up with exactly two differences:

1. According to Nicole, “The Pussycat Dolls have no boundaries.” I do have boundaries. In fact, my territory is limited to the space between Mrs. McGillicuddy’s “Yankee flipper” birdfeeder and Umpah Heinl’s concrete Otto von Bismarck bird bath.

2. Also according to Nicole, the Pussycat dolls “continue to stretch and find themselves in every performance.” My routine is a little different. I stretch before every performance and then find myself after the performance but before I go to sleep.

Hey, we can work through these things.

Blues musicians often change their names to fit their occupation. This time-honored tradition usually makes good sense. For example, McKinley Morganfield was wise to go with Muddy Waters. McKinley Morganfield sounds like a stockbroker name and it’s too long to fit on the back of the jersey. The same could be said of Chester Arthur Burnett, who dropped the mediocre presidential moniker in favor of the lasciviously bluesy, Howlin’ Wolf.

Those guys obviously did the right thing, but what about Amos Blackmore?

If I were an up-and-coming blues musician with a given name like Casey Calvary, or Preston Shumpert or Claymore Countryclub, and if I wanted instant street cred, I would seriously consider becoming Amos Blackmore. Amos Blackmore is a fine Blues name.

So why did Amos Blackmore change his name to Junior Wells?