Since I began writing this little weekly tour of the dark underbelly of reality, I've covered a wide range of topics, from Bigfoot and art cars to chemtrails and haunted railroad tracks. It occurs to me, though, that I've never asked you, faithful readers, what you think is "weird."

So, here's what we're going to do. Click here and tell me what (or who) you think is weird. Be as funny as you like, but keep it clean. I'll reprint the best/strangest/most thought-provoking in an upcoming column.

One of my personal favorite suppliers of weirdness over the last couple of years has been those fun folks at People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA). In their never-ending quest to save the domestic animals of the world from taking their rightful places upon my barbecue grill, they've pulled some downright amazing stunts. I always enjoy the mail I get after featuring yet another of their doings, at least those letters that I can decipher. Apparently, social activism and good grammar don't necessarily go hand-in-hand.

Whether it's showing blood-and-gore slaughterhouse films to lunch crowds or crusading for better chicken farm digs, you've got to admire their dedication to the cause, if not necessarily their methods.

Recently, they've taken on a cherished holiday tradition in their quest to stamp out all speciesist practices. They want improved living conditions for the Thanksgiving turkeys "pardoned" each year by the president.

PETA wants President George W. Bush to get warmer barns and better feed for the turkeys. They claim the birds are kept housed in cold quarters, without enough food or water. The spokesman for the park that houses the turkeys disagrees. The turkeys were not available for comment.

I've got a warm spot for the turkeys. It's cozy, and there's plenty of gravy, er, liquid handy. Who wants a drumstick?

Yo Quiero Heimlich Maneuver?

Jennifer Gilbert called 911 recently when her Chihuahua, Gizmo, began staggering around the living room and coughing, struggling to breathe. The 911 operator, thinking with remarkable quickness, flipped her emergency flashcard to the instructions for dealing with a choking infant and coached Jennifer through whacking Gizmo on the back until he coughed up the obstruction.

What, you ask, was the obstruction? It appears Gizmo didn't like competition, and had been ferociously attacking a Taco Bell toy in the shape of the Chihuahua from the commercials. The nose of the toy had come off and lodged in Gizmo's airway, almost snuffing out the poor little fellow.

This reminds me of one of those "evil doll" horror movies, where the amazingly lifelike child-size doll comes to evil life and offs family members until stopped with a combination of magic spells and flamethrowers. I'm sure SciFi Channel will option the story for a movie.

I forget which comedian told the joke, but one of my favorite bits of pet-related humor concerned Chihuahuas:

Q: What's the one and only one command you can teach a Chihuahua to obey?

A: "Sit there and SHAKE!"

Death Of A 'Shop Cat'

Those of you who also read the Mystery Cam column on this site know of my affection for shop cats, so it was with great sadness this week that I learned of the passing of Mitze, beloved denizen of the McCormack courthouse building in Boston. He'd been named by his original Hungarian owners, and "inherited" by the owners of the courthouse coffee shop, who'd fed and sheltered him over the years.

Take a moment as you're out and about this weekend and during the coming week to pay your respects on Mitze's behalf to shop cats wherever you may find them, or they find you. They keep the mice out of your bookstacks and the rats out of your pet food at more stores than you might know.

Kokomo Update

From a watcher in Kokomo, Ind., comes word this week that, well, nothing's happening. The investigators are waiting until the weather warms up a bit and the precipitation lessens before they set up their equipment and start snooping. I'll keep an eye on things!

Let Freedom ... Fry?

Those of you who've read this column for any great amount of time know I've got no special love for the French, but it's always been taunting of a very playful sort. However, in light of French obstinance concerning the looming war with Iraq, some of our fellow Americans have chosen some creative ways to express their own resentments.

In Palm Beach County, Fla., a restaurant owner has dumped all his French wine into a gutter in the street. A Palm Beach County commissioner is seeking to block a French firm from landing a lucrative contract to build a sludge treatment plant. I guess that means no more wine.

By far my favorite protest, though, occurred in Beaufort, N.C., where one restaurant owner took french fries off his menu and replaced them with "freedom fries," to reflect his displeasure with France's opposition to the war.

This feuding is by no means new. While we've been allies with them in just about every major conflict in the last couple centuries, taunting across the Atlantic has become a time-honored ritual. Let's keep it at that level, though, OK?

So, how's things in your neck of the woods? Any wine floods? Alien visitations? Drop me a line and let me know!