It was a rainy, dreary Saturday, and Miss Mabel was still reeling from the April snow storm we'd witnessed a week before. In order to put the traumatic memory out of her mind, she decided to make a trip to Wal Mart. I, of course, wasn't all that traumatized and opted to stay home and watch TV.

One can only imagine my shock when I tuned in to CNN and saw Citizen Jim carrying a giant sign during what appeared to be a one-man protest rally. When a news reporter approached him, he grinned right at the camera like a goon and said, "Hi, Mama!"

Just then there was a knock on the door. I ran to answer it, not wanting to miss a second of Jim's TV appearance. I don't know why, but I was shocked to see Jim standing on our front stoop holding the same sign he'd been carrying around on the news segment I was watching. He knocked me out of the way and took his place two feet from the television.

"I'm glad you're watching this," he said, pointing to the screen. "I was so scared I'd have to come up here and kill you if you said you hadn't seen it."

"What's this all about?"

"SHUT UP and listen and maybe you'll find out," he shouted, hitting me over the head with his sign while never taking his eyes off CNN. Two seconds later, a commercial break began. Before I could run away from him, Citizen Jim's arm flew out and grabbed me by the collar. "Don't you run away from me—you're gonna go outside and protest while I take a break!"

"I'm not going outside while it's raining, and I'm especially not going to help you protest only-God-knows-what-now," I said. I took the sign from him in order to get a good look at what was written on it. Even as messy as Citizen Jim's handwriting is, I could read the message, which made no sense. Aloud, I read, "STOP OPERA'S BID TO TAKE OVER THE WORLD?"

"Listen, don't act like you have no idea why I'm up in arms," he said. "You're the one who got me started on this thing in the first place, you and your talk show hostess friend in Chicago."

"I don't get it," I told Jim.

He rolled his eyes. "Obviously, if you're advertising Oprah's latest soul-numbing conglomerate on your Chicken Sheets web site, you've got nothing but love for her," he said, adding at the top of his lungs, "BUT YOU SHOULDN'T!"

"I'm confused," I said.

"Tell me something I don't know," he said.

"Like what? You know everything!" I told him.

"Uh huh. Right. Like tell me how you got suckered into advertising Oprah's new software company on your web site! I mean, the whole world thinks Bill Gates is so greedy and evil," Jim said. "But what about Oprah? I mean, you'd think with a hit talk show, two magazines, that stupid book club, discovering Dr. Phil, starting a production company and owning a whole friggin' television NETWORK, she'd be satisfied with the billions she already has and let someone else make a little coin with new software products. And then to name the damned thing after herself! She's worse than Senator Byrd with that shit, which is probably why you're supporting her!"

"But—"

"Look, she's entertaining, or else she wouldn't be so damned famous. And I was man enough to cry during her performance in The Color Purple," Jim admitted. "But this web browser crap is just TOO MUCH! She has to be stopped!"

Suddenly, it all made sense. "You're talking about Opera, aren't you?" I asked.

"No, I'm talking about OPRAH! And this bitchcake madness has got nothing to do with The Barber of Seville or Madam Butterfly, I can tell you that," Jim said.

I put my arm around his waist and gave him a squeeze. "Remember that time a lady called the bookstore and said she wanted a book that was published by BATMAN books, when she really meant BANTAM books?"

Jim snorted at the memory. "Yeah, but that sure's hell wasn't Oprah. That was old Mrs. Kubiechek," he said. "I never could convince her Bantam was the name of the publisher. Boy, that was a long time ago. I bet she's dead, now."

I scratched my head. "Anyway. You've mistaken the word Opera® for Oprah®. Opera® is a software company that makes a browser a lot of people are nutty about right now. I'm part of their affiliate program."

"I oughta PUNCH YOU!" Jim yelled, making a fist. "You were trying to trick me all along, weren't you? And now I've been made a laughingstock on the national news! Oh, the SHAME of it!"

He began tearing up his protest sign, weeping and trying to kick me the whole time.

"Precious lamb, I wasn't trying to trick you. Honestly," I said. "I'm sorry you'd even think so."

"Yeah, well, sorry isn't going to pay the court costs when Oprah sues me!" he sobbed. "Leave it to me to use a proper name that's trademarked on my protest sign!"

"O-P-R-A-H can't sue you for protesting O-P-E-R-A," I said. "If you hadn't torn up your sign, you'd see that. If I have to, I'll testify under oath that there was no malevolence at work, only anger borne of misguided concern, a disconnect from reality and complete stupidity."

"Oh, Stimpy! You're such a good friend!" Jim said, punching my arm and smiling. "I wish we could go on Oprah and talk about our friendship so that bored housewives all over America would cry their eyes out and call up all their long lost pals before they have to go pick up the kids from soccer practice."

Just then, the segment featuring Jim toting his protest sign was repeated on CNN. I turned off the set. "I just hope Opera doesn't decide to sue you for this," I said.

Jim shook his head. "Ah, screw it! Let's go get a steak!"