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On the infertile Southern Shore of the Pinguid Bay, gas percolates from marshlands and glides toward the Towns of Pretty and Plain. If you’re unfortunate enough to be yawning while sitting on the pink bench outside Selma’s Cafe–and that’s the way many of us spend our afternoons, yawning and sipping coffee–your lungs will fill with a rush of sulfurous bay stench. Locals refer to this as: the Pinguid Demons.

The Demons will send you into a fit of coughing so ragged you’ll pee in your pants and release a bit of your own gas, and you won’t stop until blood trickles from your nose onto your khakis. Or so goes the lore.

I don’t much believe in demon-lore, but I do suspect that our foul air explains why even the most gifted of local writers, myself included, take longer than expected to craft even a simple sentence. Hard to keep your mind on “the stuff you’re trying to keep your mind on” when you can’t breathe. I’ve been saying it for decades, and now you know why.

The staff of The Daily Goose, our dedicated writers and editors and administrators, spend as much time as possible with mouths shut and respirators at hand. I look forward to introducing them to you, individually, once we get into a regular production grind. And I sincerely hope you’ll introduce yourself to them—either when you see them on the pink bench outside of Selma’s, or right here via email.


When you share with friends, please don’t forget the “the” in our name. Without the “the,” we’re a goose of a different feather. (Genevieve, our new part-time prooof reader, authored that feathery part.)