Editors' Note: We have been knocking down literary and journalistic barriers for four generations. True, they were generations of short-lived mice, but they were generations all the same. We thought that we would invite our most fearless correspondent, Ass Firefox (check out his other work: "Ass Firefox Investigates: Steroids;" "Spammer's Journal") to turn his keen eye on us, the publishers of TRF (not to worry, writers--Firefox loves you and decided against investigating you). You'll recall that Firefox never does research--he simply thinks about his subject (the "investigation") and writes about whatever he wants to write about (the "reporting").

Let me start with a memory from second grade. I had a brown paper bag of candy just after Halloween. Reggie candybars. Smarties. Caramel cubes well-wrapped in cellophane. William Riebling made fun of me, as he often did, for being small; he called me a "shrimp." I swung the candy bag at him. It ripped open as it hit his rippling pectorals. The candy sprayed around the room. A free-for-all ensued, with 7-year-olds on hands and knees scraping together piles of good-for-them sugar and chocolate. I wet my pants, cried, and ran outside the building. I calmed down a few minutes later. I tried to go back in the building. The door was locked. It was at that moment that I made the decision that would drive me for the next thirty years; I would never again put my candy in such a weak bag.

With this in mind, I spent a small part of my morning today thinking about, on a superficial level, M.C. Vaseline (Playboy interview.htm) and Martis Furthington (indefenseofmartis1.htm), the co-founders of TRF. I did not go back and read any of their writing. Nor did I speak with them. I simply thought about what I bet they're like.

I imagine that M.C. Vaseline is a rodeo clown. Don't ask me why--I can't explain it. I bet he drives a van with no windows. I bet that he makes racist jokes when among friends of the same race, which is Native American. By the way, what is Vaseline? Isn't it made from petroleum?

As for Martis Furthington, he is obviously French, with a surname like "Furthington." I mean, it doesn't get more French than that, except for names like "Smith" and "Chang." He might as well call himself "Martis Frenchington." You can tell he has that haughty air about him, as if he knows his way around Paris and you don't and he's not going to help you figure it out because you might get to the bakery first and buy the last loaf of stale "bread." And he needs that "bread" for his wife, who is sitting in bed, smoking cigarettes and reading a four hundred page nonsense-collection by Derrida.

I would never go to France. But I would go to New York City, because I really like feeling like I'm at the center of the action. And, for an investigative reporter such as myself, New York is home to plenty of action. I bet there's an aquarium there, and a football team and a river. And, really, what else do you need? Ok, you need food. But New York has that, too, I bet. And, with an aquarium and food, next to the river, with football, you are ok, at least for the weekend. Also, New York probably has an airport, so you could get out of there quick if you needed to.

I feel that we are now deep inside this story, don't you? This is the part of investigative reporting that I love; getting so into a subject that you lose yourself. You, the investigator, know the story better than anyone. You've learned about it through your own hard work. No one did it for you, except your assistant, who did the actual reporting. And you're going to tell the world about it and, if you do it right, the world will be better than it was before you started the project.

In conclusion, I enjoy myself.