TIME TO GO

—written by geoffrey m. miller
© 1997 Miller Creative Services. All rights reserved

When Geoffrey Miller submitted this item, the first part of the first sentence of the post below caught my eye: Once upon a time, there was a theoretical physicist…Those who know me from another life know my now-pastoral spouse was a physics professor when I married him. I often asked myself why I married a physics person. Perhaps geof’s post will help you understand why I ask that question! Carolyn

Once upon a time, there was a theoretical physicist who was gazing through the eyepiece of a Super Magnatron X-2000 microscope at the surface of a piece of paper. At such high magnification, the fibers of the paper looked like a tangle of gigantic carpet rolls. Those near the top were spattered with thick blue slime, where someone had put a dot of ink over an “i”.

“What does it all mean?” the physicist wondered.

At that moment, his wife snatched

LIGHTNING STRIKES

—by geoffrey m. miller © 2000 Miller Creative Services. All rights reserved mcsot0187 (Used with permission)

Standing in line gives me time to think. Today, I was thinking about probability– specifically, the probability that my quart of cherry-vanilla ice cream would melt before the lady in front of me finished her transaction.

She was ancient and oddly-dressed: flat, white sandals with purple socks, blue corduroy slacks, and a reddish floral print blouse under a dark green sweater. She wore a curly brown wig and held an unfiltered cigarette in her hand,

AND NOW, THE FORECAST

—written by geoffrey m. miller

I need your help to settle an argument I’m having with my girlfriend. A postcard containing the words, “GEOFF IS RIGHT.” will do nicely. Thanks. I’m assuming that by now, all the guys are busy looking for pens, and the women are still reading this, waiting to hear my girlfriend’s side of the story. I’ll try to be objective,

CARMA by geoffrey m. miller

—by geoffrey m. miller © 1997 Miller Creative Services. All rights reserved “How much would it be without the hubcaps and body moldings?” I asked my formerly friendly automobile salesman. His eyes got wide. He slumped over. His forehead hit the desk with a thud. “Look… It wouldn’t matter.” he sighed without looking up. “We’ve already eliminated every option. Moldings aren’t optional. Neither are hubcaps… or wheels… or the transmission. This is as cheap as it gets, Mr. Miller. Take it or leave it.” I have never owned a car that had less than 100,000 miles on it.