Dear Readers,* a glance in the mirror this morning reveals that my nose looks just like a potato! A whole, boiled potato! Don’t tell me that I’m getting older and these things happen — besides being known for my brilliant writing and my exquisite taste in clothing and dining, I have always been known for my lean, aristocratic nose. It must be reduced to at least the semblance of a french fry immediately, whatever the cost!

And don’t give me any nonsense about elective surgery being unavailable, either because no such thing exists in Dry Creek Gulch or whatever this half-horse town is called, or because I must “shelter in place” in the alternate universe — in a motel which cannot be considered a shelter, and can barely be called a place! I demand assistance immediately! Others can wait! I, Basel Vasselschnauzer, have needs!

Also, will someone please send two dozen fresh oysters on ice and three bottles of champagne? I will accept any quality — the situation is that desperate . . . Halycon Sage, are you laughing? And what is that sound, as of tiny mice giggling? I will not have Nanobots in here! Yours, in extremis, Basel Vasselschnauzer

*Of my superlative column which is featured in the New York Post-Times and elsewhere

1. In the pathetic appeal above, I almost wrote “this quarter-horse town,” but that would imply that racing was available here. Hah! While rumor has it that the Apocalypse Zombie’s mule, the horse No-Name Stupid, and a couple of other local quadrupeds once rounded an improvised track two or three times, that can hardly be called a race, and in any case, it is over.

2. Note bene: The footnote above, combined with my misspeak in referring to my paper asĀ  “the Post-Times” when it is actually “the Times-Enquirer,” underlines my desperate physical and psychological condition! (Get it? Post time? Horse racing? Ah, now you have it!) Would someone please at least bring over a pack of cards? Or a game of Scrabble?