A visit from the Pope to your homeland is always frightening, and is bound to cause some level of anxiety in all but the most stouthearted of us, but the sense of terror that travels in the papal wake need not take control of your life. Always remember that while he may be a member of the undead, reviled for traveling in shadow to feed off of the precious life-force of the living, his true dark power lies in his ability to cloud your mind with fear, suppressing your ability to take action and wriggle out from under his horrifying, suffocating grasp. This being said, there are ways to fortify your spirit against this oppressive presence. Follow these simple, Jose-tested, common-sense rules, and you should find yourself sleeping more soundly over this trying week:

1. Remember, the Pope cannot enter your home unless you INVITE HIM IN. Seems simple, but don’t forget: it’s important to make sure your entire family has been trained in denying the Pope entry. Even if only ONE person living in your dwelling invites the pope inside through any door, window, or ANY other opening, then the Pope is allowed free entry in and out for eternity. Talk to roommates and visitors as well.

2. Fashion a garlic necklace. The Pope HATES this. Infuse garlic with olive oil and spray it on your outdoor plants and walkways. It helps keep him at a distance, therefore diminishing the chances you’ll need to enact Rule #1. You can also soak in a garlic bath, but this is usually deemed a trifle excessive. The necklace seems to work just fine, and keeps you getting laid.

3. Keep a mirror within handy reach. If you are confused as to whether or not you are dealing with the actual Pope, hold it in front of him. If you can see his reflection, you’re cool. He’s not the real Pope. However, dealing with an impostor can be just as dangerous, as it could be a way of distracting you while the real Pope is sneaking up behind on tip-toe, preparing to pounce; get yourself to a safe place immediately. If you can’t see his reflection in the mirror, well…honestly, if you let him get that close, you’re a goner anyway. If you’ve properly handled Rule #2 it should never come to this.

4. While it’s true that the Pope cannot stand the sun, this is generally dealt with by keeping the old coot constantly lathered in a thick coating of aluminum-based sun block. You will also notice that his handlers keep the “man” dressed in heavy white cloaks and hats at all times. This reflects the sun’s rays harmlessly back into the atmosphere. So with these considerations, it’s crucial to not rely on sunlight to save you.

5. The whole crucifix thing is an utter myth spread by the mealy minions in the Vatican. They WANT you to use it, for the cross is actually a source of much strength for the Pope, and if you produce it while defending yourself or while fleeing, your ass is grass.

6. Wear a priest collar. Not a costume collar, but an authentic clerical collar from your local priest uniform store. They are heavily reinforced, and have been specifically designed to protect the devoted from the Pope’s bottomless hunger.

That’s the short list. Print it out and stick it to the fridge, loyal readers. It’s going to be a long week. Jose out.

I bumped into our favorite asshole, Steve Jobs, on the streets of Manhattan the other day, and to be honest with you, loyal readers, I kept my head down. No, I’m not one hundred percent proud of my cowardice, but I’m also known around the Retardo offices for not being anyone’s fool. I know Jobs, and I know he’ll go to any length necessary to protect the precious image of himself as “the guru to the creative promise in us all” that he has so carefully manufactured over the years—or so I assumed…

I thought I had slunk well past the Mussolini of Mac, and had raised my head to proceed quickly to my destination (never mind where, ever-meddlesome reader), when I felt a hand, icy cold, land suddenly upon my shoulder. Startled, I spun to face my assailant—all the while distinctly aware of the air growing close and still around me, of sound suddenly muffled from my ears, of the light in the sky abruptly becoming too bright, as if overexposed, washing out the city landscape—it was Steve. Jobs. He had spotted my face in the crowd despite my spineless attempt to dodge him, and now he was going to kill me in front of the whole world…and there was nothing I could do. And he would probably get away with it, too! The goddamned world had always let this fucking shit head get away with anything he ever wanted, and now he was going to tear my head from my shoulders and suck the…

But surprisingly, no.

I won’t lie to you, friends. We argued. So much that we decided to take it off the streets and back to my artfully decorated cubical at Jose Headquarters, so as to not draw any more attention to his neatly trimmed beard (it looks just as nice in person!). Turns out that his people keep close tabs on this site, and bring to him the truth we’ve told, and he is pretty fucking pissed about it.

We talked all through the long night, and though we agreed on nothing, we did reach an easy rapport with each other, as generals often do while their respective soldiers’ slug it out in the bloody valleys below. We drank wine, we listened to Manford Mann, and soon I had him relaxed enough—and myself confident enough—to ask the question I pose to every visitor of my office.

He beamed, and immediately said yes, then disrobed so I could draw his portrait. The results are above and to the left, people. Click on it to view the full version. I found him to be a surprisingly soft and vulnerable subject. Tell me what you think. It’s wonderful, isn’t it?

Rarely do we here in the editorial bunkers of Jose el Retardo beat a dead horse, but in the case of Stephen the Demon Dubner, we are making an exception. So today, we are mining the customer reviews of Amazon.com in search of people’s real feelings about this behemoth of American literature.

It’s no surprise to find that a lot of people aren’t at all interested in the blather contained betwixt the pages of Freakonomics (I refer to the crappy book, not the stupid site that I’m not even going to include a link to). Says cavywrangler of California:

This is the most over-hyped book I can remember reading…[it tries] to make some point that is beaten to death…snore.

Goosecat of Portland, OR, in his review titled Correlation doesn’t mean causation, reports:

I was expecting this book to be completely different. It has nothing to do with economics at all…many of these correlations could lead to dangerous misinterpretation…simply not all that interesting.

Theodore O’Neill of New York, NY laments:

If you wish to remain illiterate about statistics, but gain trivial information for your next cocktail party, go ahead and buy the book.

George Mitchell of Oakland, CA bemoans:

I’m baffled at how this book is a bestseller. I’m embarrassed my boss gave it to me.

M.L. Coffina of Brooklyn, NY cries aghast:

I find the inclusion of the NY Times Magazine quotes that begin each chapter with praise for the author to be both annoying and pretentious.

But the most enlightening review comes from a customer ironically named CoolerHeads, who, in the review entitled Hype-onomics, sputters incredulously:

this has got to be the most self-congratulatory book ever. It’s about a brilliant “noetic butterfly” (really, that’s the smooch the author gives the economist) who shocks the establlishment, and the brilliant journalist who gains his trust and respect, and then the brilliant journalist quotes his own brilliant articles about the brilliant economist and calls that a book. It’s a little insulting how we’re supposed to be blown away by these mavericks.

What is there to be learned by all of this? Nothing, really—except that books about economics can be dull, and, in the wrong hands (hint hint, DOUCHE DUBNER), devilishly dangerous.

PS, dear readers, do you like my portrait of this fool? Click it to enlarge and see all the watery/vinegary details. Do you have a drawing you’ve made of the Demon Stephen Dubner? Click here and send it in!