Published Monthly



From the Editor (February 2006)
by the Reanimated, Zombified Corpse of William Wordsworth

Hi, there. I’m your old friend, the reanimated, zombified corpse of William Wordsworth. Michael is in South Africa right now handling a “little situation” with the “slave labor” at one of AntiMuse’s diamond mines, so I’m filling in this month. I’m also taking the opportunity to raid the liquor cabinet, so please excuse me if I slur my words and flirt with your daughters, though I'm sure you're accustomed to this from Michael.

I’m supposed to mention that this is the beginning of AntiMuse’s third year. I’m guessing this is the third anniversary, but my math skills have deteriorated since my death. I hope you understand. Of course, it could be like the new millenium, where everyone thought it started in 2000 but it really started in 2001 because there was no Year 0. How confusing.

I suggested to Michael that AntiMuse needed a dirty limerick section. Although he scoffed at the idea--“scoff,” he said—I still think it is a good idea. Just think of all the words that rhyme with Nantucket. It would be good, ribald fun. Does anyone even use the word “ribald” anymore? I guess not. I’m just an out-of-touch zombie.

On second thought, there aren’t that many words that rhyme with “Nantucket.” OK, so scratch that idea. How about a sexy sonnet contest? Yes? No? How about horny haikus?

Man, you guys are just no fun.


The zombified, reanimated corpse of William Wordsworth will eat your flesh and write beautiful verse about it.

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