A Christmas Play

Characters:
Interim Chairman Hannigan: runs the department with an iron fist
Assistant Professor Annie
Assistant Professor Molly
Assistant Professor Pepper
Assistant Professor Derek
Assistant Professor Oliver Twist
Sandy, a graduate student
Dean Grantbucks
Dr. Farrell, Daddy Grantbucks’ Assistant Dean

Note: Except when they are singing (in synchrony) or when they say “Yes, Chairman Hannigan” in synchrony, most of the lines for “Other Assistant Profs” or “All Assistant Profs” should be said like a crowd scene – i.e. not in synchrony, but overlapping and random, with different people speaking different lines all at once.)

Production note: Karaoke versions of all Annie songs are available on iTunes.

The Assistant Profs are sitting around working (writing, pipetting, etc.), a couple are talking quietly.

Chairman Hannigan: All right, all right, what’s going on in here? Nothing at all, eh! Every time I come in here you Assistant Professors are goofing off. Oh, how in the world did I come to be the Chair of a department with 22 Assistant Professors? That’s a ridiculous number of Assistant Professors! I should get voted babysitter of the year! Now, get to work you slackers! If you ever want to be promoted, that is. (Laughs maniacally).

All Assistant Profs: Yes, Chairman Hannigan!

Annie: Leapin’ Lizards, sometimes this place really makes me nuts.

Other Assistant Profs (quietly): Yeah. Me too. You can say that again. Sometimes this place is crazy.

Molly starts to cry.

Annie: Molly, Molly what’s the matter?

Molly: Do you ever think we’ll get a real Chairman, Annie?

Annie: I know Chairman Hannigan is the Interim Chairman, but he’s almost like a real Chairman.

Molly: But he’s so mean. Sometimes, I think about what it would be like to have a new Chairman. Or even a Chairwoman. You know, the perfect Chairperson.

All Assistant Profs: (Speaking on top of each other) What do you mean, Molly? What are you talking about? Don’t cry Molly. It’s okay Molly.

Molly: Don’t you ever think about the perfect Chairperson?

Annie: How do you mean, Molly?

Molly: (sings, a cappella, to the tune of “Maybe” )
Maybe far away
Or maybe real nearby
He may be pouring his coffee
She may be breeding a fly

Annie: (singing)
Maybe in a lab

Molly: (singing)
Or in a big med school

Annie: (singing)
She’s sitting giving out raises

Molly: (singing)
He’s cutting teaching in half

All Assistant Profs: (singing, quietly)
Betcha they’re fair
Betcha they’re wise
Bet they’re great mentors
Who give good advice —-

Betcha they’re good
Why shouldn’t they be?
But someone like that
Sure wouldn’t be free

Molly: (singing)
So maybe now it’s time –

Chairman Hannigan: Hey, hey, I thought I told you Assistant Profs to get to work. Do you all have federal grants yet? Huh? Do you any of you have a Science paper? Come on, come on, get off your butts.

All Assistant Profs: Yes Chairman Hannigan.

Oliver Twist: (approaches with a bowl held out) Please sir, I want some more.

Chairman Hannigan: I’m afraid you’ve got your stories mixed up son. I think you might want the Chemistry Department, next door.

The Assistant Profs go back to work, Chairman Hannigan walks around among them.

Chairman Hannigan: (sings, with music, to the tune of “Little Girls”)
Little Profs, Little Profs
Everywhere I turn
I can see them

Little Profs, Little Profs
Night and day
I eat, sleep and breathe them

I’m an ordinary Chairman
With duties
I scare my profs to cultivate their fear
But I’ll admit, it’s not legit
But they could use a swift kick in the rear

Little grants, little pubs,
Everything around me is little
If I wring little necks
Surely I will get an acquittal

Some Chairs are dripping with money
Some Chairs are dripping with space
Lucky me! Lucky me!
Look at what I’m dripping with

Little Profs!

Achh!!!

(He exits. The Assistant Profs continue working. Annie pokes around behind some of the furniture.)

Annie: Hey everybody, look what I found. A graduate student.

Sandy: Arf!!

Pepper: Annie!! You’re going to get us all in trouble!

Annie: No, no. Sandy is a good graduate student. Aren’t you boy?

Sandy: Arf!

Annie: You’ll do experiments exactly the way I tell you to. And you’ll clean up after yourself, and you’ll keep up with the literature too – won’t you boy?

Sandy: Arf!

Annie: See!! He’s a good student!

The other Assistant Profs approach Sandy to pet him. Chairman Hannigan enters.

Chairman Hannigan: Now what? Oh Great Gizzards, what’s a graduate student doing here? Get that thing out of here!

Sandy: Arf!!

Molly: How come we never get a graduate student?

Other Assistant Profs: Yeah! How come? We never get anything good.

Chairman Hannigan: Now, now, there are only so many students to go around. Show me the grant money and I’ll show you the students. (Goes over and gets Sandy) Come on now boy, it’s off to a more established lab with you!

Sandy: Arf!!

As Chairman Hannigan is leaving with Sandy, the Assistant Professors are talking to him and to themselves.

All Assistant Profs: It’s not fair. Annie found him. We need more grad students. We need technical support. We need more time. We need more money. We need more space. Etc.

(They sing, to music:)

All Assistant Profs: (sing)
It’s the hard-knock life for us.
It’s the hard-knock life for us.

Annie: (sings)
‘Stead of treated

All: (sing)
We get tricked

Annie: (sings)
‘Stead of students

All: (sing)
We get kicked
It’s the hard-knock life.

Got new labs to set up, so
It’s the hard-knock row we hoe

Molly: (sings)
Undergrads

All: (sing)
Instead of grads

Pepper: (sings)
Empty shelves

All: (sing)
Instead of full
It’s the hard-knock life!

Annie: (sings)
Don’t it feel like reviews are always scathing?

Molly: (sings)
Don’t it seem like nobody knows you’re right?

Derek: (sings)
Once a day, don’t you wanna throw the towel in?

Oliver and Derek: (sing)
It’s easier than puttin’ up a fight.

Pepper: (sings)
No one’s there when your glassware all needs cleaning

Derek: (sings)
No one cares if you grow, or if you shrink

Molly: (sings)
No one sees that your work is full of meaning

All: (sing)
From all the cryin’ you would think this place would sink
Ohhhh!!!
Empty cabinet life!
Rotten smelly life!
Overworking life!
No tomorrow life!

Molly: (sings)
Santa Claus we never see

Derek: (sings)
Santa Claus, what’s that?
Who’s he?

All: (sing)
No one cares for you a naught
When you’re an A Sis-tant Prof

Chairman Hannigan: (entering, shouts at them)
You’ll stay up till this dump shines like the Biology Department at Harvard!

All: (sing)
Yank the whiskers from his chin
Jab him with a safety pin
Make him drink a pint of gin
We love you Chairman Hannigan!

All: (sing)
It’s the hard-knock life for us
It’s the hard-knock life for us
No one cares for you a naught
When you’re an A Sis-tant Prof
It’s the hard-knock life
It’s the hard-knock life
It’s the hard-knock life

Dean Grantbucks and Dr. Farrell enter as the song ends.

Dean Grantbucks: Well, well, hello there, what have we here?

Chairman Hannigan: Oh, hello Dean Grantbucks. I was, um, I was just whipping these young professor’s into shape.

Daddy Carmen: (walking around)So I see, so I see.

Molly: (to Annie) Who’s that?

Annie: (to Molly) That’s Dean Grantbucks, the Dean of the College.

Dean Grantbucks: (to Annie) And who are you, young lady?

Annie: I’m Assistant Professor Annie, sir.

Dean Grantbucks: Assistant Professor Annie, huh? That’s very funny young lady.

Annie: What’s funny about it?

Dean Grantbucks: Well, I thought all Assistant Professors were boys.

Dr. Farrell whispers in Dean Grantbucks’s ear.

Dean Grantbucks: You are? You’re a Professor? We’ll that’s very interesting. Well young professors and professorettes, I’ve decided, in my capacity as the Dean, to grant you one wish for Christmas. But only one – and you’ve all got to share it.

All Assistant Profs: We know what we want! We know what we want!

Dean Grantbucks: How can you know what you want already? You haven’t even discussed it?

Annie: We want a new Chairperson!

Chairman Hannigan: Wha—- what? Well, I’m sure I don’t know what they’re talking about Dean Grantbucks. I’ve been nothing but the best Chairman in the world. But, to tell the truth, this job kind of sucks. It might be nice to get back to the lab. But I really like the extra salary. It would be hard to give that up.

All Assistant Profs: We want a new Chair! We want a Chairwoman. Replace the Chair. Get a new Chair. Time for a change.

Dean Grantbucks: Okay, okay, calm down now. Chairman Hannigan, would you mind leaving the room for a moment so I can speak openly with the Assistant Professors?

Chairman Hannigan: Fine. (he exits)

Dean Grantbucks: Now then. If I let Chairman Hannigan step down, who would we replace him with? Would we do a national search, or what?

Annie: Well, Leapin’ Lizards, How about Dr. Farrell?

Dean Grantbucks: This Dr. Farrell? (points at Dr. Farrell) My Assistant Dean? Hmm. Well, Dr. Farrell. What exactly would you do, if we made you Chair of this Department?

Dr. Farrell: Oh my. I hadn’t really thought about it, but, I guess I’d try to treat everyone with respect and dignity. I guess I’d treat them like they we’re human beings. Yes, that’s it, just as if they were real human beings.

All Assistant Profs: Yes, yes. Great choice. Dr. Farrell. Pick her, pick her. We want Farrell. Yes.

Chairman Hannigan enters in a wig. Everyone becomes quiet.

Dean Grantbucks: May we help you, Miss?

Chairman Hannigan: (speaking as a woman) I heard you were looking for a new Chairperson for the Department, and that there was a substantial salary raise involved. I’ve come to apply for the position.

Annie: (goes up to Chairman Hannigan and starts to “out” him) Hey, you’re —

Chairman Hannigan: (grabs Annie and covers her mouth) Yes – that’s right – I’m, um, I’m….. Dr. Hanna—um–Montana, yes, that’s it, and I’d like to apply for the Chairperson’s job.

Dean Grantbucks: Well, what are your qualifications for the job?

Chairman Hannigan: Here’s my CV. (He hands Dean Grantbucks a large stack of paper)

Dean Grantbucks: Well, this certainly does look impressive. Wouldn’t you say Dr. Farrell? I’m sorry Assistant Professors, but it looks like we have to pick this young woman as your Chairperson.

Annie manages to reach up and pull off Chairman Hannigan’s wig.

All Assistant Profs: It’s Dr. Hannigan!! It’s Dr. Hannigan! We want a new Chair! We want Dr. Farrell!

Dean Grantbucks: All right, all right, calm down everyone. Dr. Hannigan, you almost had us fooled there. But thanks to Annie, we now know things about you that we really didn’t want to know. Do you have anything to say for yourself?

Chairman Hannigan: Fine. I’ll step down from the Chairmanship. This job was driving me crazy anyway.

All Assistant Profs cheer.

Annie: Oh, Dr. Farrell, will you really treat us almost as if we really were human beings, and not just Assistant Professors?

Dr. Farrell: Of course I will, Annie.

Annie: ‘Cause sometimes I get so depressed, you know. It’s hard being an Assistant Professor these days, what with all the money for grants going to Iraq and Afghanistan and bailing out the economy. Some days it makes me very sad.

Dr. Farrell: I know Annie. I know. But when I was a young Assistant Professor, I had some bad days too. And do you know what I used to do?

Annie: What?

Dr. Farrell: I used to sing a song in lab. A very special song. To cheer me up. I think have a copy of it with me. (She reaches in her pocket and pulls out a piece of paper and gives it to Annie). I had it published in the Journal of Biological Kinetics. You can use it whenever you feel sad or blue, just don’t forget to reference it properly. Why don’t you go ahead and try it now?

Annie: Should I?

Dr. Farrell: Sure, Annie, sure. Sing the bloody song, I could use the citations.

Annie: (sings, with music)
I’m gonna get grants
Tomorrow
Bet your bottom dollar
That Tomorrow
There’ll be funds

And plenty of pubs
Tomorrow
All in big name journals
with color figures
there’ll be tons

When I’m stuck with a class
That’s crass
and ornery
I just stick out my chin
and grin
and say
Oh

Promotion will come
Tomorrow
So ya gotta hang on
Till tomorrow
Come what may
Promotion, and tenure
I love ya
Tomorrow
You’re only
a day
a way

All: (crowd around Annie and sing)
Promotion will come
Tomorrow
So ya gotta hang on
Till tomorrow
Come what may
Promotion, and tenure
I love ya
Tomorrow
You’re only
a day
a way

Promotion, and tenure
I love ya
Tomorrow
You’re only
a day
a way

THE END.

Virginia, will you ask again this year
Whether melting ice-caps scare his deer?
Ice-water never was so warm
As amid the mighty powers’ swarm.
But children in Russia and Timbuktu
Will get their Christmas presents, too;
And sweet lead paint will not compete
With family, good cheer, and meat;
And submerged futures and frozen hearts
Break free along with elfin workshop parts.

You can also hear the piece being performed
by Katelyn by clicking here

I’m no expert, but even I can see that from the moment you get up in the morning until the moment you nod off to sleep at night, science plays a huge part in your daily life.

What’s the first thing that happens to you every day? You’re jolted awake by the alarm on your clock radio, right? The digital display, the jarring _buzz_…that’s science. Even if you’ve set the controls so that you’re woken up by a soothing song on the radio, how do you think that song reaches you? Through radio waves (discovered by scientists) transmitted from broadcast towers (designed by scientists). Even the DJs at the radio station are hitting all kinds of colorful buttons and knobs and levers, just like scientists are known to.

Anyway, now that you’re up, what’s for breakfast? Toast, of course. And just what do you think transforms that bland slice of bread into your delicious morning toast? Science again, this time in the guise of your harmless looking toaster.

Is it beginning to dawn on you yet? Science is everywhere. It’s inescapable.

It’s with you as you iron your pants for work, as you run the electric razor over your face, as you slip in your contacts. It wouldn’t surprise me if there’s even some complicated scientific term to describe the way water comes out of your shower head — The Cascade Effect or osmosis or something.

Now that your morning routine is over, it’s time to head off to work…but don’t assume you’re leaving science behind. No, it’s right there with you during your commute, in the form of the internal combustion engine and intermittent wipers and traffic lights that direct your every move because you, me, all of us, we’re just lowly animals compared to this omnipotent god science. And a lot of these traffic lights nowadays come equipped with spy cameras, letting them see the expression on your face as you pass by, so you’d better put on a fake smile and pretend nothing is wrong, even though everything you see around you says otherwise.

And then there’s the office itself: computers and faxes and copiers, and even the clunky old vending machine in the break room surely works on one form of mechanical principle or another. Also, hasn’t it short-changed you on occasion?

But wait. Maybe everything isn’t as bad as it seems. Your co-workers have gotten you a birthday card. Maybe for just a few minutes you can put all these disturbing thoughts out of your head. But what’s this? When you open the card, it spits a silly little tune right in your face. Even here, in the kindest and most basic of gestures…science. What can you do except put on that fake smile again and pretend nothing is wrong even as you run out of the office screaming?

But is there any relief when you get home? Don’t count on it. You have to microwave your dinner and put clothes in the washer, and even if you successfully avoid the TV and cell phone and Electronic Battleship and retreat to the safety of a simple book, a western, set back in the good old days before science was everywhere, even here the bad guys are shooting at the good guys with bullets fired from a six-shooter through the science of centrifugal force or something.

So, now that I’ve opened your eyes, you can finally understand how hopeless the situation is. What’s that, you say? You can always flee to the mountains and build a log cabin? No working technology, not even running water? You’ve done it? You’ve escaped?

Not a chance.

While you’re out chopping wood, a jet flies high overhead. It’s science, smugly looking down at you and laughing because it knows it’s smarter than you, more powerful, better looking, superior in every conceivable way. And all you can do is put on that fake smile of yours one last time and pretend that nothing is wrong and calmly throw yourself off the nearest cliff in what scientists would call Einstein’s First Law of Thermodynamics, or something.

HYPOTHESIS
Scienceful types will find über-nerdy ways to pass the time regardless of the circumstances.

MATERIALS AND METHODS:
A bunch of scientists went to a bar after a day at a conference. Many consumed unspecified volumes of alcohol.

RESULTS:
The next day, one of the authors found the following on a napkin he had pocketed:

Celebrities and Artists of the Excretory System

Actors/Directors
Kidney Pollack
Sylverster Aldosterone
Nora Nephron (no relation to Zac Nephron)
Sarah Michelle Glomerular
Robert Uric
Sharon (Renal Artery) Stenosis

Musicians
Pissy Elliot
Don “Loop of” Henle
Filtrate Collins
Micturate Jagger
Renin DMC
Urethra Franklin

Authors
Bladder-mir Nabokov
Michael Creatinine
Harper Pee
ADH Lawrence

DISCUSSION:
Even after a day replete with talks and poster presentations and the subsequent consumption of alcohol-based beverages, scientists chose to recreate by attempting to meld pop culture with arcane terminology associated with a specific physiological process.

CONCLUSION:
Scientists are dorks. Big ones.

(In reference to this paper)
- – -
In a recent issue of Biological Psychology, Ratnakar, et al., sent shock waves through the scientific community when they concluded that “family caregivers of advanced cancer patients undergo anxiety and depression associated with stress.”

Making yet another daring leap, the intrepid authors suggested that “these changes might have health implications, warranting appropriate stress management counseling for them.” Their novel conclusions, which could never have been obviously anticipated, will undoubtedly turn the field on its side. It appears the textbooks need revision, or do they?

Conventional wisdom tells us that caregivers of advanced cancer patients often undergo bouts of intermittent lock-jaw, foaming at the mouth, erections lasting longer than 48 hours, a heightened sense of smell, and an overall disposition of “feel[ing] good” as “[they] knew that [they] would now.” A classic vignette in “Hematology and Oncology Pearls” recommends that physicians get a “twofer” by preventively treating caregivers with Haldol at 20 micrograms/liter during palliative care decision-making to reduce the likelihood of both “intractable hiccups” and “acute psychotic euphoria.” Moreover, “Pearls” strongly encourages the use of charades, if not LOLCATS, to describe hospice care.

Prior to Ratnakar, et al., there was but a single controlling study on the subject of caregivers of advanced cancer patients. That famous familial study asked 3000 new patients and their caregivers to complete a twelve page self-administered questionnaire on their emotional state. The study revealed that 86.7% of first-degree relatives felt “a little blue” but also insisted that it was “no biggie.” Likewise, 92.3% of all second-degree relatives felt that providing care for an advanced cancer patient “ain’t no thing but a chicken wing” and ranked their shock over their loved one’s prognosis slightly below the top-24 cut of Josiah Leming on American Idol. The prevalence of anxiety was again extremely low with 89.1% of first-degree relatives reporting that they would not let their loved one’s cancer “ruin their sexy.” Most notably, caregivers of all degrees experienced an increased desire to quote the movie “Anchorman” and run through clinic halls declaring themselves “Frank the Tank.”

Depressed? Caregivers of advanced cancer patients? How now?

Thanks to this publication, we now know that these caregivers experience a phenomenon known as “stress” and this “stress” often leads to “psychological changes” including anxiety and depression. But where do we go from here? If caregivers experience anxiety and depression, as the authors contend, then perhaps they may indeed require stress management counseling rather than simply “tell[ing] them you’ve got ‘a thing’ and get[ting] the hell out of there,” as Harrison’s currently advises.

While certainly detractors exist, one advantage these authors possess is a lack of competing financial interests. Indeed, the authors completed the research for this study thanks in part to a prestigious MacArthur “Genius Prize” Grant. The award cited their previous landmark paper: “A Little Knowledge Goes a Long Way.”

Or as Dave S. (creator of this great idea) might say, can we call it BFAC2008?

Anyway, for those of you who have an annual tradition of putting together a gingerbread house, why not do it this year with a sustainability twist?

That’s right! our sister site’s own “Bake for a Change” is a contest where you, as the submission details say, apply sustainable building design practices to a gingerbread house.

Anyway, those details in full are presented here, and you can see last year’s entries by checking through this Flickr group. If you do check the flickr page out (and this highly recommended since it’s really cool), then you’ll note that we’re happy to see all sorts of entries, from the fun to the fancy. Seriously, winning really isn’t the point – it’s more about creative (and in this case, edible) ways to think about sustainable practices.

Mind you, as you can see from our last year’s winner (above), things can get pretty elaborate. Anyway, game on! Sounds like this year, we may even have some architecture schools on board, as well as some sustainability related highschool and university classes.

Weird Tales magazine is a horror, science fiction, and fantasy periodical established in 1923 that became famous for publishing such literary geniuses as H.P. Lovecraft of Cthulhu Mythos fame and Robert E. Howard of Conan the Barbarian fame. The glory days of Weird Tales occurred back in the 20s and 30s and after that time the magazine has been sold and purchased by different companies, but none of the various reincarnations of Weird Tales ever truly lived up to the magazine’s initial years. But even in the wonderful early days, when they were printing stories regularly by Lovecraft and Howard, Weird Tales miraculously never had a circulation above 50,000 readers(!), while other pulp magazines had circulations of around 300,000 subscribers.

Whenever I think of Weird Tales magazine, I recall my father telling me old Conan the Barbarian stories that he read back in the early 60s, which I assume were first published in Weird Tales. I loved the Conan stories my father would recount but I was disappointed that he didn’t have any of the original books; and it struck me as bizarre that I couldn’t simply go out and purchase Robert E. Howard’s books and read them myself. Only later were Howard’s original Conan tales collected together and republished. But after finally reading them, I realized my father had remembered the stories differently than the originals, yet I liked his versions a little better.

Weird Tales also reminds me of the enigmatic and reclusive writer, H.P. Lovecraft, who adored macabre fiction throughout the ages and collected every copy of Weird Tales since the magazine’s birth. At one point, Lovecraft was actually offered the lead editor position at Weird Tales by publisher J.C. Henneberger, the man who set up the magazine, but Lovecraft turned it down, not wanting to relocate to Chicago. Farnsworth Wright, a journalist, accepted the position in Lovecraft’s place and became the most famous editor associated with Weird Tales. But Wright showed signs of being a literary incompetent and a subnormal when he rejected excellent stories by Lovecraft and Howard that later went on to become classics in the field of fantastical literature, such as “The Shadow over Innsmouth,” by Lovecraft and “The Frost Giant’s Daughter” by Howard. In fact, toward the end of H.P. Lovecraft’s career, Wright rejected his work so frequently that Lovecraft actually STOPPED WRITING FICTION ENTIRELY, convinced that he had no talent and was a literary failure. So tragic, what a waste. Wouldn’t it be incredible to actually hold and read one of the original issues of Weird Tales from the 20s or 30s that featured one of Lovecraft’s tales? I’ll have to look on Ebay soon for some past issues.

During the course of my writing career I have sent about ten or twelve fiction submissions to Weird Tales magazine, but none were ever accepted. Recently however I had a new idea. I would send Weird Tales one of my infamous ‘concrete primes,’ hoping they would print it along with my byline. A concrete prime is a mathematical entity I invented that involves prime numbers – integers with no divisors other than themselves and one – along with a visual component to the layout of the number; i.e. the digits are arranged in such a way that a word or phrase is “pictured” in the decimal expansion (see an example in my letter below).

Now why would I want to send Weird Tales a concrete prime? Isn’t that too weird even for Weird Tales? Nope. They print stories with a science fiction tinge all the time, I’m sure. And math is a large part of science. Also I wanted to send them a prime because I’m a prime hunter. I like to find large primes with interesting or strange properties. The primes I “build” to spell out certain words are the ones I call examples of “concrete math” because they remind me of concrete poetry (see the letter below for a definition). And because my concrete primes are sufficiently weird and also have a macabre element, I thought Weird Tales might like the chance to print one, or at least send me an interesting response. They probably won’t publish my prime, but it was still fun to try. Here is the letter I sent to the Weird Tales offices via snail mail:

Dear Editor of Weird Tales Magazine:

Please find below a prime number that spells out WEIRD TALES in its digits. I would be honored if you would print this prime in any section of your magazine with a byline stating, “Found by Jason Earls, author of Red Zen, Cocoon of Terror, and How to Become a Guitar Player from Hell.” Thanks for your consideration.

More info on the concrete prime above: Its full decimal expansion contains 2366 digits and it was found with the freely available program, WinPFGW. Classes of numbers that possess a certain visual component when the digits are arranged in a specific way is a concept closely related (in my opinion) to “concrete poetry” (poems in which the typographical arrangement of symbols or words plays a direct role in conveying the “meaning” of a poem); hence, I have dubbed numbers like the WEIRD TALES prime above, “concrete mathematics.” But I have also thought of simply calling them, “WEIRDematics.”

Regards,
Jason Earls

Surely you can see how ‘WEIRD TALES’ is spelled out in the bolded digits above? Cool, isn’t it. I hope Weird Tales prints it on the cover of their next issue with some wicked visual effects surrounding it. To tell you the truth, finding the Weird Tales prime above was not easy. At one point, my computer actually overheated and began to smoke. Then, like some numerical phantom of perversion, like a monstrous apparition from Hell almost unnamable in its atrocity, the Weird Tales prime number popped up on my computer screen and I stared at it with my body paralyzed with terror. The digits seemed to resemble clotted gray froth boiling in a wizard’s cauldron, or scales on the back of a glistening Extraterrestrial-God from the 24th dimension. Wait, I’m only kidding. I tried to get a little Lovecraftian influence in the text there. I am waiting now for Weird Tales response. Perhaps their editors are partial to mathematics. I know Lovecraft was interested in science and probably mathematics during his lifetime. Surely some of the editors will be able to appreciate math since we’re living in such a computer oriented age. And this prime is definitely weird. But on the other hand, perhaps primes are too nerdy even for Weird Tales. We’ll just have to wait and see. So far I have examined a couple of recent issues of Weird Tales and my prime has not appeared there yet. But maybe by the time you read this article they will have printed it on one of the covers. I hope so. I think I’ll do a Cthulhu prime next. Or one that spells out Conan in the digits. Yeah. Anyway, I’ll keep you posted on what happens.