I used to hate pajamas. I wouldn't wear them. They were boy clothes that made me look like a boy, and since the only place I could avoid being a boy was in my dreams, where I was usually a girl, it felt doubly wrong.
Turns out all I needed was a little estrogen. Now I love my jamjams, and I'm still a girl in my dreams, but I'm also the girl in my dreams when I'm awake.
How fucking cool is that?
"Yoo bring ate dollars evry month or yoo never see ur riters again. signed, The Melon."
So he was back in town -- The Melon. That grandiose grifter with the bankroll of a Rockefeller and the brain of a toddler. And now he was trying to shake down the news game.
"I'm afraid we're no match for him, Mr. Mastodon," she sobbed. "He's rich and handsome and invents so many clever things."
"It's the clever ones who always make that one fatal mistake," I said. "Like... WALKING RIGHT INTO MY OFFICE!"
#JohnMastodon, Private Eye
in
The Case of the Missing Masthead
It was a rainy Saturday night, and I was holed up in my office with my good friend Jack Daniels. I wasn't looking for company, but it found me anyway: A blonde in a grey pencil skirt whose eyes darted nervously as she sat down.
"I'm with the Daily News, Mr. Mastodon," said the dame. "All our journalists vanished without a trace. The only clue is this note delivered by carrier pigeon."
Scrawled in blue crayon, it read:
I ripped off the cheap wig to reveal an equally cheap hairline. "The game's up, Melon!"
"That's what you think, Mastodon!" he yelled as he pulled a gun from his purse. "From now on, I'm your worst nightmare! Just watch your back, because you never know where I'll be next"
"Yes I will, I'm tracking your plane."