Sorry, CP, after many years devoted to black magic, I broke my wand, and vowed never to go back into that realm where the speaking of words makes the deed happen. It was way too much trouble. White magic is much calmer, and much less interesting, like white bread, probably a lot like Naples, Florida. Nevertheless, by all the powers invested in me by the English language, the Moon Men of Donald Rumsfeld's imaginings, and my ki withdrawn up to the 7th chakra (7th chakra, all out for Linens and Men's Furnishings) according to the method laid down by Mahatma Gandhi as he laid down by a couple of nubile young teenagers, edited and modified slightly to fit on your TV screen, and not forgetting the quasi-basketball Guinivere of the feverish imaginings of the Waylon Heron (whose leather undergarments are certainly now the worse for wear), I, invoking all the hints that Paul McCartney was dead, and the B sides of Arthur Alexander records, hereby (ad altare Dei), and with Alice Maforethought, my postnubile assistant and acolyte (as opposed to my AcoHeavy, about which you don't want to know) in attendance, call down upon your mother-in-law (may even her hyphens have hyphens) imprecations, maledictions, and a dose of those automatic FAX sending thingummies that tie up your answering machine. (more to come)