I just returned from a road trip to the lovely city of Milwaukee. And all I could think of was:

Record Book: Springfield is now the fattest city in the U.S.
Homer: Woo hoo! In your face, Milwaukee!

Lovely place, though. We celebrated a cousin’s graduation with brunch at Mader’s, a German restaurant downtown. Good food.

But to the dilemma at hand: what to do about my continued unhappiness with the world. I think I have come up with a solution. I had a few different options, many involving different states and identities and states of identities, but they seemed rather needless and time-consuming.

So I figured the best solution is to join a cult.

But not any cult. One of those cults where you rake weeds all day or something and give all your money to the leader. That way I would no longer have to think for myself. And my only worry would be the happiness of the supreme leader. Or whatever they call themselves.

The main problem is how to find a cult leader who doesn’t have a pediliction for Kool Aid and murder (Jim Jones, I’m looking in your general direction). But, I mean, how do you figure that out before it’s too late? By the time the little Dixie cups are going around, you’re pretty much screwed.

I think the safest way would be to find someone just obsesssed with money. No religion or prophetic visions of doom to muck anything up. But even that’s dicey, as they could suddenly go wackier and decide they actually were God or something.

So I figure the safest thing would be to just start my own cult. That way I can decide who to put in charge. No megalomaniacs need apply.

Which totally rules me out. Hell. Maybe it could be some sort of puppet rule.

Literally. Like a sock puppet or something.

I think I’ll name it Harry.

In other news: repudiated is such a great word. It just is.