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Disclaimer
There is a relatively good chance that this magazine, when eaten with corn (though not baby corns), will cause digestive irritation and/or
dizziness up to and including sensations of spinning really really fast then attempting to make yourself by grabbing on to a tree which turns out to be a rather dour-faced person standing just to the... ehm... left or right of a tree.
The past 200 issues at http://www.sanemagazine.com/. Some three billion as Quiet Insanity Newsletter and a mostly unnamed magazine sort of thing residing at a combination of Iberia and Sitcomian servers somewhere in the wilds of upstate New York. Shortly thereafter deemed Sane Magazine. Which has reached that 200 number we'd just mentioned not two sentences before. Wow, let me tell you, they've been something. Like something wild. Something extraordinary.
You'd think we would have found something better to do in all this time.
Well, we've tried, to be honest, but everytime we want to turn out the lights someone comes along and asks us not to (this is an extremely loose use of the word "asks" in that the people "asking" might never know they'd asked, and, indeed, had they known they were "asking" us to keep going might have further clarified their perceived question). Or something, you know how it goes. Like you leave the house, you shut the door just to the point where the lock might catch and forever leave you from the house if, say, it happens you've forgotten your keys on the kitchen table. So you open the door again while patting down your pockets (jacket, trousers, back pocket, as you'd been caught out that time down at the beach when you put the car keys, for some reason, in your back pocket, though you'd never before thought to keep your keys in your back pocket and have no idea whatsoever what possessed you to do so then, as you tell your possibly exasperated and a not a little bit concerned passengers, starting the car up and hoping it's dark enough that they don't catch your face glowing red off the rearview mirror) and go to look on the kitchen table, and, failing to find the keys, which you've just located in your front right pocket, where you normally put the keys, you look in the bedroom, and lift up the duvet cover which has slipped from where you threw it up earlier in your rather hands-off approach to making the bed, which is when it dawns on you you've your keys in your hand now, and look back down at the floor to make sure there isn't anything else down there you might be forgetting if you pop out the door, like a sock, or some sort of piece of clothing, probably underclothes of some sort or another, a book, with the cover turned up, which isn't a nice way to treat books, as you were always told, and you should probably bend down to fetch the book out and smooth down the cover and perhaps put it back up on the shelf where it belongs, but you're reminded that you should have been gone by now, so you rise, go back out to the kitchen table, give it an aimless once over again, find a set of keys, the set of keys you'd put in the basket on the table when you realised you weren't entirely sure what they went to, though surely it was something around the house, maybe the windows, though they didn't seem to have locks on them, but that was your best guess, especially as it was you weren't technically in the house any longer, having left four minutes prior, this time being spent back inside not counting as you'd already left and time spent looking for things you may have left behind falls into a special temporal bucket of reserved time, which doesn't, in fact, count towards actual time but are handled by special relational time handlers that suck in such time spent and recycle it on some gigantic time loom where the inconsequential time bucket's contents is turned into Weetabix. And then you leave the house again, this time shutting the door, albeit reluctantly, and there's a certain panic in your mind as you walk down the corridor or down the steps, thinking you may have left the keys inside while you were in looking for them the last time, and you pat yourself down until people begin looking at you strangely and you actually notice them looking at you that way, and so you force yourself to walk normally, which, of course, means you walk nothing like you normally would.
Happy 200th, you auld Sane Magazine, you.
Q.I. PRODUCTIONS:
Was founded in 1993 by a pair of hermits and a mad hamster and none of this was intended, honest.
There are various rumours and myths about it's eventual demise.
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Yer Weekly Horoscopes. Legalese.