Could we trouble you for a small favor? If you don't mind, would you take just the tiniest peek outside and let us know if the world has ended? Thank you.
 
We hasten to assure those who remain that while we are ordinarily quite capable of ascertaining the planet's condition on our own, present circumstances preclude our doing so. At the height of the anthrax scare of recent memory, rashly acting upon the advice of homeland security experts, we immediately duct taped our windows and doors with plastic sheets. Unfortunately the only material on hand was a box of leaf bags ("NEW, STRONGER, 3 mils thick!"), which, though it admirably served the immediate purpose, left us literally in the dark, and at a serious hermetic disadvantage regarding events transpiring in the real world--a condition in no way alleviated by our dependence on FOX news.
 
You will of course wish to know the origins of our concern, and we tell you immediately and frankly that it is to do with the state of Massachusetts, or more accurately the state of the state of Massachusetts, or more accurately still what must now be considered a state of gay abandon.
 
As those of you who may pay particular attention to these sorts of things will know, last year, the Supreme Judicial Court of the Bay State brought the institution of the American family to its knees with its decision to affirm the principle of gender-free marriage. Since most decent citizens immediately fell victim to apoplectic swoons, the court decided to stay it's ruling until the affected victims were restored to some semblance of their former ruddy heterosexual well being.
 
The coup de grace (as opposed to the four-door model) was delivered this Monday when deluded magistrates and heinous clergy initiated a wave of same sex unions.
 
These acts did not take place without fervent opposition from public officials who delivered condemnations from the lofty heights of their stacked bibles. Like a spider securing her web against the storm, Massachusetts Governor Mitt Romney frantically employed one stratagem after another in a desperate and poignant attempt to mitigate the inevitable onslaught of reality. In the most recent of these of these the Governor reanimated a 1913 statute hatched in the halcyon days of Jim Crow, that prohibited marriage between interracial couples from states that forbade such calamities.
 
Next, in a thrilling Tinker-to-Evers-to-Chance maneuver that awakened memories of the glory days of Chicago's Richard J. Daley--or perhaps Boss Tweed--the Governor extended the antique ordinance to cover same sex marriages. And then in a bureaucratic triple Axel that left us all breathless, immediately reinterpreted the laws of the other 49 states to conclude that, au fond, each of them prohibited such unions--even if they weren't aware they had done so. Thus no non-resident same-sex couples could be wed in the state. Although curiously, hetero couples appear free to motor on in for their espousals whenever they please.
 
Artistry; you can't beat it.
 
Still, there is among some the nagging fear that subsequent judicial review may be undertaken by appellate justices who can read and have at least one year of law school to their credit, in which case the Governor's scheme is a goner.
 
By Monday afternoon, enterprising libertines had cozened sleeping judges into approving waivers of the three-day nuptial waiting period and were getting themselves hitched faster than you could say "Cotton Mather." On FOX, Bill O'Reilly heroically strove to ascertain the dimensions of the disaster, but was prevented from doing so by what he reported to be the sudden infestation of salamanders in the streets and leather-winged succubae flying overhead.
 
In retrospect we now realize this state of affairs was heralded by something that occurred this February at Chez W. It has to do with Feeny, so you know it's not a happy story.
 
Our resident bane of existence had been commissioned to bake a wedding cake for San Francisco friends. There was a great deal of general interest in this project because several of us hoped to learn her culinary technique, It seems the historic hag numbered pastry chef among the hundreds of jobs she appears to have held in her first thousand years.
 
We returned to the kitchen as she was putting the finishing touches on her creation--a shimmering three level fantasy masterpiece with butter cream frosting. So rapt were we that it took us a few minutes to realize that the silly old spinster had slipped up on the decorations. Placed atop the cake were not one but two grooms! Well, of course we all had a lot of fun at her expense until she told us it was not a mistake.
 
"Their names are "Peter and Paul," she said, "Delightfully biblical, don't you think?"
 
No, we told her, we didn't see one damn thing biblical about it--unless she meant Leviticus. We solemnly urged her to consider the effects of her actions: single-handedly destroying the American way of life, making a mockery of the Denial of Marriage Act--or whatever the hell it's called--in short doing the work of the Anti-Bush.
 
One of the interns not yet wise in the ways of the wicked world tearfully implored the old gargoyle to cease and desist. "Don't you care at all about defending marriage?" she said.
 
Feeny flashed the young staffer one of her 100-watt smiles before returning to her labors. "Why, of course, dear," she said, smoothing a golden rosette. "That's what I'm doing."