To drown out the neighbor's stereo, which goes to eleven, I ordered earmuffs. Industrial-strength suckers that block out, like, murder. I use them even when it's quiet and I'm alone. Eventually someone will have to come after me with a rope.

When I say they block out murder, I mean that literally. I bought them from Midsouth Shooter Supply and am now irrevocably trapped on their mailing list. Every month I receive literature about our booming firearms industry (keyword: booming).

Try the new MTM Rifle Rest, which steadies your arm against those irritating Budweiser shakes.

The Beacon Strobe Locator marks fallen game so that you can go on killing well beyond nightfall.

Through Midsouth Shooter you can even buy semiautomatic weapons, which are important in our war against the conniving and treacherous fallow deer.

But Midsouth Shooter is here to help, offering silencers, gun racks, camouflage, night vision, artificial pheromones, Conferate flags -- everything you need to track and slay sentient creatures. (For you hunters out there, "sentient" means conscious.)

It's us against them, dammit, and though animals may have a superior sense of smell, we have science.

So come on down now to the The Southwest Shooter Supply. And when you run out of fallow dear, maybe you can turn to my neighbor.

I don't know about you, but I took hard this news about Steve Irwin, Croc Hunter. I didn't dare watch his movie, of course, but I took comfort in his defying death, snubbing his nose at the fates. He made snakes seem somehow cuddly.

When I saw his face in the paper, I thought, "That can't be right. Steve Irwin is a superhero. He's invincible."

But there it was: a humbling reminder that Nature doesn't discriminate. Cape or no cape, we are all finally part of the food chain, which, contrary to prevailing beliefs, isn't a string of fast-food restaurants.

With a sigh, I tip my safari hat to the late, great Croc Hunter, who bubbled with passion for his work and, in the end, became a part of it. Good night, old bloke. Even though the crocodiles appear to be smiling, they're really gonna miss you.

There's a local masseuse who, in addition to rubbing you down, gives psychic readings. Like it or not.

Cheryl -- or as her plaque reads, "Starbright" -- claims that messages come to her through people's energy fields. Massage ... message ... The riddle was unfolding.

Starbright and I had barely shaken hands when she started in. Turns out that in a past life my dad was enslaved by Egyptian warlords and I was his taskmaster.

That had a nice ring to it.

Not pausing for breath, Cheryl moved on to my mom, who in her past life was a nun beaten and raped by a nobleman who could not be stopped on account of his contributions to the church.

I never realized there was so much going on in my energy field. No wonder I needed a message -- I mean, massage.

Starbright stroked my back -- kinda -- as she moved from story to story. They strung together like so many blurbs in TV Guide.

"Young nurse cares for stroke victim at spooky mansion."

"Drug-addicted brothers dare to get straight."

As you may have guessed, I was royalty, a prince betrayed by my confidante who resented my power and devilish charm. And as much as I'm prone to believe that someone might slay me out of jealousy, there is something I believe even more ...

Some people are just plain nuts.

I don't doubt Starbright's sincerity. I'm sure she believes every word, just like the president. But in the 30 minutes I lay there aching for an actual, physical massage, Starbright spewed out so many stories that I wanted her to stop and flush.

Finally, happily, the massage came to an end and I was sent back to the real world, where I am not a prince or a taskmaster but just a guy with a tender back. I gave Starbright a little more than she charged, suggesting that she take a vacation somewhere quiet, preferably in the present tense.

Then I went home and whipped my father.