by Frank Lesser
You’re probably thinking he sounds too good to be true. Let me assure you that this applicant does exist, and that I have the excretory samples from the past ten years to prove it. (See enclosed.)
I know more about this abominable snowman than any living cryptozoologist. My mentor Baxter Leatheringstone had several more years of research under his belt, but that was before Tulpa accidentally ate his head. To be fair to Tulpa, the fur hat Baxter was wearing looked a lot like a langur monkey, which abominable snowmen consider a delicacy.
Although he excels at his current occupation, Tulpa is tired of being a snowman. The job market in the Himalayas has been dismal ever since the yurt bubble burst, and if he sticks around Tibet, he’s never going to achieve his dream of becoming an abominable snowmanaging-editor.
Tulpa can be gruff at first, and not just when you’ve intruded on his mating grounds. But underneath his blood-matted-fur exterior is a teddy bear. Of course, underneath that teddy bear is a regular bear that can crush a human skull like a snowball, as he did to my Sherpa guide Lobsang. I suggest you stop at the teddy bear layer.
Tulpa is a frighteningly quick learner, and during his several months of captivity, he proved himself to be quite engaged in his tasks, especially the time he surprised us by escaping from his cage and picking off the entire expedition party one by one until only I remained, huddled behind the frozen corpse of my backup Sherpa.
That charming anecdote just reminded me of another example of Tulpa’s attention to detail: He noticed I was alive because of the water vapor condensing from my terrified breath! And people skills? He could have thrown me down an icy chasm, but instead he accepted me as part of his family—although this was both a blessing and a curse, as abominable snowfathers often devour their abominable snowchildren.
To be completely honest, my adoption by Tulpa may have had less to do with his compassion than with my rendition of an old Tibetan throat-sung lullaby. I suggest members of your editorial staff start practicing their Tibetan throat-singing immediately. It takes years to get right, and it’s the only thing that will calm an enraged snowman. (The good news is that if you’re already proficient in Tuvan throat-singing, you should be able to master the Tibetan variation in a matter of months.)
But enough about my hobbies! The sooner I finish this letter, the sooner Tulpa gets the job, and the sooner we can move somewhere less snow-peaked. I told him that New York is a melting pot of races and ethnicities, and he seems excited to experience it firsthand. That said, if I had to identify a weakness of Tulpa’s, it would probably be his grasp of metaphor. To be even more direct: If Tulpa asks you to get into a cauldron with a Lithuanian, you should politely decline.
Ah, I can tell from that ear-splitting roar that Tulpa has finished hunting this evening’s dinner. Time to get started on condolence letters to the relatives of Summit Team Svensgard.
Sincerely,
Professor Edmund Bonnebury
P.S. Tulpa is also proficient in Microsoft Excel.
His Fangs Just Aren’t That into You
Dear Julie,
It’s always rough trying to explain a breakup. Feelings can get hurt, and so can carotid arteries, and more often than not someone ends up with a staked-through heart. But I want to try to explain why things didn’t work out, because you seemed so upset last night when I told you I wanted to suck other people.
When you asked for a reason, I’ll admit that turning into a bat and flying away was taking the easy way out. But I want you to know that it’s not your fault I wasn’t ready to commit to making you my immortal bride. It took me a while to figure this out, but I still have feelings for my ex–immortal bride, Sveva. I guess sometimes you don’t realize what you have until it’s staked, beheaded, and burnt to ashes by frightened villagers.
But even though I no longer want you to be my undead consort, I hope we can still be friends.
Your new friend (?),
Count Radu
P.S. That girl you saw me hanging out with on Sunday was just a snack.
Radu,
Thanks ever so much for your concern. I wasn’t going to write you back, but then I felt strangely compelled to. I guess it’s tough after being hypnotized by someone for so long to just turn it off.
I’ll admit, at first I thought I did something wrong. Did you think I wasn’t interested because I hung those garlands of garlic around my windows? I was just playing hard-to-get.
I should have seen it coming, considering your feedings had been growing less frequent. Although to be honest I barely noticed, as they never lasted that long to begin with. I know, I know—you said you were on a diet, but I don’t know if I believe it. Unless you weeping after each lackluster feeding was part of some ancient Transylvanian exercise routine?
I’m lashing out. It’s just I can’t help but wonder whether you had the same endearing nicknames for your ex, like “Lunch” and “Supper.”
Maybe I just liked you too much. There I was, a senior in high school, flattered that an older man had taken an interest in me. And it was easy for me to worship you: You were so sophisticated and cultured, plus you had those Magyar handservants worshipping you.
Anyway, I appreciate your honesty, but I don’t know if we can be friends. I feel like you used me, and not just for sustenance.
Julie
Julie,
I may be an undead fiend, but I’m not an undead jerk. I’ve had centuries to reflect on past relationships, and I’ve learned that no matter how painful it is, honesty is always the best policy. The second-best policy is impalement.
So I must tell you that I wasn’t completely honest about Sveva in my last e-mail. She wasn’t just my immortal bride; she was also a brown tube-nosed bat.
This is the first time I’ve told anyone this, but I’m not attracted to beautiful young girls. I am sexually attracted to bats. It’s not an easy thing to admit: Everywhere in our society there are only depictions of vampires preying on beautiful young humans, and it’s only acceptable for vampires to turn into bats. But once we’re in bat form, we’re just supposed to ignore our natural urges?
Sure, the relationship with Sveva wasn’t always easy. Probably the toughest part was teaching her how to turn into a human. But it was worth it. Bats are so much simpler. If you call them with sonar, they call you right back—no games.
Also, to be completely honest, Sveva wasn’t staked, beheaded, and burnt by angry villagers; she flew into a bug-zapper. I don’t want to talk too much about the details, but I blame myself, as we’d been out late partying.
I’m sorry, Julie. I’ve been fighting these feelings for centuries. But it feels good to finally tell this to someone. I really do want to be friends someday, but I realize you may need a couple of decades to process what I just told you. Also, I may have left one of my capes at your place. Would it be at all possible to get that back?
Your friend,
R.
Radu,
Wow, thanks for explaining everything to me in that last e-mail. I forwarded it to everyone at school, and they also thought it explained a lot.
Anyway, I’d love to be friends, but I don’t know how much free time I’ll have now that I’m going steady with this werewolf in my algebra class. And as for your cape, sorry, I left it out in the sun this morning by accident and it caught fire.
I hope there are no hard feelings, but this is what you get for dating a high-schooler.
XOXO,
Julie
The Mummy’s Curse: Cankles
Those screaming villagers in Cairo were right: I’m a hideous monster. I really let myself go over the past three thousand years, and now I’m paying for it because bikini season is right around the corner.
At least I’m covered by rags so I don’t have to see myself—although I have to say, vertical wrappings would have been much more slimming. Honestly, sometimes I think the priests want us to hate our desiccated bodies.
I’ll be up front: This whole mummy thing started a
s a last-ditch effort to lose weight. It was either that or stop eating fried ibis, and I’m sorry, but an ancient Egyptian only has so many pleasures in life and those crocodile-flavored Slim-Fast shakes are disgusting. But here’s what the priests don’t tell you about mummification: Sure, it’ll cut down your weight, but you’ve still got to deal with cellulite. Nothing gets rid of that stuff.
You’d think literally being nothing but skin and bones would help me feel good about myself, but there’s a much higher standard of thinness for mummies. Every ounce counts when Anubis is weighing your heart against the feather of Ma’at to determine if you’re worthy of the afterlife or if you’re a disgusting cow.
If I were just some commoner who got lost in a sandstorm and wound up naturally mummified, there’d be less pressure. At least I wouldn’t need to keep up on all the latest fashion trends. One season it’s linen, the next it’s gauze. I just hope they don’t bring back the mini-shroud. Not a pretty sight, considering I’ve got bony knees.
But fashion is the least of my problems. Centuries ago, I went to a charity auction—they were selling Hebrew slaves to raise money for ailing firstborns—and the next day the gossip papyruses printed the most vicious things about my weight: “Falcon River Serpent Eye River Hippo.” Ever since, I haven’t had a single bite of the mummified falcons that my servants entombed me with to sustain me in the afterlife. Okay, I gnawed on a few of them, but I didn’t eat the wrappings. Oh, who am I kidding? The wrappings are the best part.
I disgust myself.
You know how sometimes you see a funerary sculpture of a pharaoh after he’s had a baby crocodile gastric bypass, and you think, “Wow, what a mistake”? That’s what I’m thinking right now. And believe me, it’s not easy thinking that when during the mummification process your brain was removed through your nostrils with a hook.
The worst thing is, I’ve got that stupid grinning portrait carved on the lid of my sarcophagus to constantly remind me how I used to look. I may not have been a great beauty back during the Eighteenth Dynasty, but at least I had skin that could bend. Nowadays, I’ve got to apply at least two coats of saddle soap before I can bear to even think about leaving the pyramid. And why bother? The lighting in most clubs these days is so dreadful, I look old enough to be from the Eighth Dynasty.
What really gets me is how everyone goes on and on about how well-preserved Queen Nefertiti is. Well, just between me, you, and Ammut the Devourer of Souls—Nefertiti had some work done during the Napoleonic era. It’s easy to look supple when half your face is actually ox skin.
Still, I try to stay positive. On the bright side, at least now my face has excellent bone structure. And I think I could finally be happy with myself, completely happy, if I could just do something about this ghastly nose.
That’s why I’m here, Dr. Perlin. I didn’t have an appointment, but your receptionist was very accommodating after I explained my situation to her using poisonous asps.
I found the perfect nose on an American tourist visiting the Temple of Luxor, but she wouldn’t stand still long enough for me to take a picture, and her screams were starting to draw unwanted attention, so I brought you her actual nose.
What do you think, Doctor? I can do any day between now and eternity, except Saturdays. That’s when I get my hair colored.
How to Find the Genie of Your Dreams
(and Keep Him Coming Back for More)
Whenever I’m out diamond-shopping with my genie, strangers come up to me and say, “You guys seem so happy together. How do you do it?” Well, when Shalazam is out of earshot, I tell them that freeing a magical being from a lamp is easy. Making things last is hard work.
A lot of genies think humans are only interested in one thing: wishes. Prove him wrong. When your genie offers you three wishes, shrug and tell him, “No thanks, I’m cool right now.” He’ll be puzzled . . . and intrigued.
A few days later, casually ask your genie for the name of his favorite band. Then, after another week or so, tell your genie that you’d finally like your first wish: two front-row tickets to that band’s next show. He’ll be impressed you remember the little things.
Don’t use up all your wishes on the first night. By the time you get to “third wish,” you’ll want your genie to hang around because he wants to, not because the ancient laws of his race are forcing him to.
Shalazam has been my genie for almost five years, and we’ve never lost the magic. My secret: Sometimes I let him think that he’s the master. Every once in a while, tell your genie how all-powerful he’s been looking. And tell him that you love how his earrings match his lamp handle, even (especially!) if they don’t.
Accept the fact that genies rarely update their style. I once made the mistake of telling Shalazam that the “fez look” went out of fashion with the Ottoman Empire, and he turned me into a camel. Today we laugh about it, but at the time I wanted to spit in his face.
Speaking of common mistakes, don’t ever call your genie “Mr. Clean,” even as a joke. Only they can call themselves that.
Go the extra mile. Anyone can rub a genie’s lamp, but a thoughtful master will buff and polish it. Incidentally, it’s the twenty-first century. See if your genie wouldn’t mind switching from a lamp to a compact fluorescent bulb.
Don’t hang around his place all the time. While it might be exciting for you to be shrunk down to the size of a pea and transported through a lamp spout, that’s his daily commute.
Show your genie a good time. Since he’s a spirit born of smokeless fire, you don’t have to worry about a restaurant’s smoking ban, but keep in mind that societal mores have changed in the past thousand years. Most of today’s finedining establishments require patrons to wear T-shirts beneath their gold-fringed vests.
If you think things with your genie could work out long-term, get him a green card. It’ll save you a lot of trouble when you travel. After all, he’s a strange man with a Middle Eastern accent and no papers who’s wearing a vest, and you can’t check his shoes for explosives because his legs end in smoky wisps.
Shalazam is currently applying for citizenship, although he’s had trouble holding down a job for more than a month or two. You’d think someone who caters to his master’s every whim would have an easy time in the service industry, but when customers tip poorly he tends to summon sandstorms.
Too many people keep trying to make things work with a bad genie, no matter how many times their wishes have gone tragically or ironically awry. “I’m sure he just misheard me again,” they think to themselves. “It’s so tough to hear anything over that twelve-inch pianist.” If things with your genie do come to an end, remember that there are plenty of wish granting fish in the sea. Don’t make the mistake of rushing to find a new genie, thinking you can use your first wish to get your old one back. No one likes hearing how good a former genie was at granting wishes.
Household objects might make you think of an old genie. A throw rug might remind you of the time the two of you took a magic carpet ride to the moon. Or a platinum hookah filled with diamonds might remind you of the time you wished for a platinum hookah filled with diamonds. Fortunately, Shalazam helped me deal with these issues when he incinerated my mansion after I called him Mr. Clean.
Are things with Shalazam perfect? Of course not. He says I take his wishes for granted, and I don’t like that he always insists on splitting the check. And of course there was the time I told him I wanted to conjure other genies, and he blotted out the sun and made me watch everyone I love shrivel away and then reversed time and undid it and then redid it, over and over until I changed my mind.
Still, the most important thing I’ve learned is that you should never use a wish to change your genie. He has to want to change on his own.
The Best Tears of Your Life
Dear Diary,
School starts tomorrow, and I can’t sleep. Mostly because my parents are making me cry outside old Miss Weathersby’s house all night, since she’s going to slip in the sho
wer tomorrow morning and break her neck. My life is soooooo boring! Mom says this is a normal part of every banshee’s adolescence, but she’s just jealous that instead of being a hideous old hag like her, I’m a hideous young hag.
Cindi snubbed me in the hallway just because in math class I accidentally mentioned that her dog was going to die over the weekend. High school girls can be so cruel. I swear it wasn’t my fault; she asked if I was sitting all by myself weeping because I finally realized what a loser I was, and I said no, it was because Tummy was going to get hit by a Buick and there was nothing she could do to stop it. The way Cindi wept was so cool—maybe if I cried like that I’d be more popular!
Once again, Brendan totally didn’t notice me, or my plaintive wails alerting him to his impending demise. You’d think he’d at least hear me wailing during his football practice when I washed an apparition of his blood-soaked uniform in the water fountain as a chilling premonition for his teammates. Honestly, sometimes I wish I was the one who was going to be dead within a fortnight.
My parents were out of town this weekend (funeral), so I threw a house party, but just like last year, no one came. I don’t get it—it’s not like someone dies at every one of my parties. Sometimes they die on the way. Maybe it was a turnoff to make the theme “A Preemptive Wake for Brendan,” but I was just trying to get a jump on the week.