you needn't wait for the moveable feast to trundle through your routine; no reason to delay for the bleary prayers of matins nor the weary mumble of vespers. one lusty wink, one sidewise smirk, one involuntary twitch of the palm, producing two wrinkled dollar bills will summon the imps to your private altar, bearing ardent offerings. what do these motley emissaries from the inkwell leave in your chalice? what do my stained ambassadors of bottomless pit augur from the entrails? in the iDOL issue of imps in the inkwell you may discover: what zeus is doing in america, all that lena wants, the fearsome media medusa, some pollen from the uberpoet, why small gods need worship, too, and, just exactly who put the hole in your editrix's head.

all this and more can be pressed in your prayer book by confessing your desire for imps in the inkwell #7 to sister calamity jewelz along with a modest donation of $2.00. It's a small sacrifice for an extravagant collection of iDOL thoughts.

jewel@gleeful.com
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