We here at Crack Skull Bob Laboratories now have a new base of operations, upstairs from the spider hole we had occupied for so long. The Teeny Hadron Collider (THC), small as it is, was growing too large for the old space. Just the other day, I accidentally stepped on the THC and crumpled the aluminum foil, allowing untold numbers of hadrons to excape into the atmosphere, free to collide with anything that caught their fancy. We're lucky Norfolk is still standing. I think we're lucky. Plus, a couple of toxic chemical spills made it clear that close proximity to such putrid emissions is, generally speaking, a bad thing. I'm referring, of course, not to a clumsy experiment but to our resident cat, Bernice, a remarkably efficient feline factory for the production of noxious waste, not all of which makes its way safely to our underground storage facility deep underneath a mountain in Utah. Or Wyoming. I don't know, one of those states sparsely populated with highly irritable people carrying guns who live in "compounds" with several wives and teeming hordes of barefoot children, all carrying guns too. Why are they always so angry? They live in God's Country, for God's sake. Maybe they're fretting about being smote. There must be a lot of smiting out there, God being the capricious, irascible old gent that He is. So that's the story of my move upstairs. I feel like a vampire whose coffin some tiresome do-gooder has pried open. The sunlight! Shriekkk!