One day not so long ago, we found ourselves presented with a mystery the size of a golf ball. We took turns hitting it with The Intern’s old clubs, but we soon moved outdoors. The owner of the clubs was mumbling something about a lost game and revenge; he subsequently started randomly swinging at the rest of us. As I was used to his milder forms of abuse (it keeps one’s senses sharp, I say), I ducked and saved my teeth for the day. There was, however, method to his mad and mighty swing as it dawned on us that he was aiming for The Secretary’s maggot-ridden crotch (how the latter had preserved this colony of – frankly – disgusting white worms during his time in the slammer in fact constituted the mystery).