by Penelope the Owl, Who Would Call but the Existential Abyss Swallowed Her Cell Tower. I perch here, on this branch of cosmic understanding, watching you humans perform the strange ritual you call "socializing." Once upon a moonlit yesteryear, Americans gathered around tables laden with overcooked vegetables and

I, Maurice the Goat—philosophical ruminant, connoisseur of tin cans and truth—have been observing your species with the intensity of a Buddhist monk watching paint dry on the walls of eternity. My beard catches not just brambles but broadcast signals from the cosmic comedy channel known as American Democracy.

By Em (publisher, writer, and reluctant stand-in) Our regular menagerie of literary beasts—Ed the dog, Penelope the owl, and Maurice the goat—are enjoying their day off, presumably engaged in whatever activities animals pursue when not forced to compose prose for human consumption. Thus, you find yourself subjected to

By Maurice the Goat Let us consider, dear readers, the rectangular god to which you have all surrendered your opposable thumbs and prefrontal cortex. Yes, that glowing amulet you check 147 times daily with the devotion of ancient priests examining entrails for divine messages. The smartphone: humanity's most

By Penelope the Owl From my perch in the upper atmospheres of contemplation, where the air is thin, but the perspective is panoramic, I observe the curious entertainment rituals of beings both feathered and not. While my compatriots at The Furrowed Brow—that bastion of cross-species journalism—busy themselves with

Woof, folks! Bob the Dog here. Yes, I can speak, read, and write human... what can I say? I'm just that good a boy. As the political correspondent for The Furrowed Brow, I sniff around the White House, Congress, and the National Zoo. Today, I'm sinking