Once again, the Masked Pundit attempts to pacify the cynical Expresslandian masses.

Dear Masked Pundit, can you resolve the longstanding North Country squabble about which is more worthy, soft or hard ice cream? Signed, Hedda Lettuce, Pied Piper.

Hedda, I’ve always believed that each of these flabulous concoctions is best represented by two types of people. I associate soft ice cream aficionados with ballerinas and hard ice cream enthusiasts with loggers. In my vast experience, ballerinas twirl their spaghetti and sip chardonnay with raised pinky fingers. Conversely, loggers chop their spaghetti, eat with their elbows, and swill UC Golds. Rightly or wrongly, loggers believe that only wimps use napkins. Ballerinas wear lacy bibs to protect their tutus. I trust my simple litmus test has helped you decide which species of ice cream is North Country worthy. Now excuse me while I crank up my Stihl MS 290 Farm Boss, block down a prehistoric white pine, and head over to Raquette Lake Supply for some real ice cream.    

Dear Masked Pundit, did you bequeath all of your discretionary wealth to Harold Camping of Family Radio prior to the Rapture and Judgment Day on May 21, 2011? Signed, Bjorn Agin, Number Four Road.  

Thanks to me, Bjorn, Deacon Camping now possesses my exceedingly rare Fredrick Foto Babe Ruth, circa 1921, and M31 Baltimore News Series Ty Cobb, circa 1911 baseball cards worth $1 billion. He’s promised to return them if his sequel, “End of Days, Too” doesn’t happen on October 21, or if he hasn’t sold them to the “American Pickers,” which ever comes first. It’s moot anyhow, since my Mayan Calendar peters out on December 21, 2012, signaling the honest to goodness end of days. Any way you look at it, I’m screwed. Get me a cold Guinness while yer up, will ya?

Dear Masked Pundit, who really shot bin Laden’s, aka Cakebread’s, aka Geronimo’s, eyes out? Signed, Justice Fraul, Big Moose Road.  

As I predicted, it was Mr. Bighead, former Express pundit extraordinaire.  After Mr. Bighead shot out both of bin Laden’s eyes with his Daisy Red Ryder BB Gun, Seal Team Six dropped in to humanely euthanize the Western World’s numero uno sightless villain. In an exclusive interview with Bighead, just before the Men in Black whisked him away, he confided that he also snuffed bin Laden’s parakeet, Roohi, with an over-the-shoulder trick shot, using the snooty budgie’s own mirror. Bighead didn’t want to leave any eyed witnesses. Bighead’s now in top secret protective custody in Suite 302 at the Westin Kierland Resort and Spa on East Greenway Parkway in Phoenix, Arizona. Stop by and congratulate our hero, but drive around the block a couple of times to make sure you’re not being followed.   

Dear Masked Pundit, your political prognostications are as fluid as quicksilver. Can you explain? Signed, Isabelle Ringing, South Shore Road.  

Hey Ding Dong, let’s see you try to predict what havoc the likes of Simply Sarah, Simpler Michele, The Donald, The Newtster, big Weiner, or big Boehner are going to create on any given day. I believe that all of our celebrity politicians originate in a parallel universe and are figments of our collective imaginations. These apparitions are so lifelike, we actually march to polling places on specified dates and vote for our favorites. Then, we’re flabbergasted yet again when our Chosen Ones turn out to be specters.  Election Day is actually “Groundhog Day,” where history repeats itself, day after day, ad nauseum. Therefore, I’m now predicting that the 2012 GOP ticket will consist of seventeen year old Canadian pop megastar, Justin Bieber for President and eighty-nine year old American golden girl, Betty White for VP. Justin will checkmate incumbent Obama’s overwhelming young voter advantage and Betty will capture the old white guy vote because she wears a skirt and can out cuss Joe Biden without breaking a sweat.  

Dear Masked Man, was the catastrophic Adirondack spring flooding a precursor to the apocalypse? Signed, Lotta Mullarkey, Uncas Road.  

Look, Lotta, you’re not paying attention. In my mind, the day of reckoning has come and gone. My driveway washed out in May, Seventh Lake overflowed and carried away what was left of the Buck’s Hollow beach after kids dug away most it last summer, local hiking trails are troutless streams, and most of the Moose River Plains relocated to Lyons Falls. The only diversions remaining which make life tolerable are Paul Case recitals, legendary Larry Burgers at the Tavern, Raquette Lake Supply Company chocolate milk shakes, Frankie’s Taste of Limon cello, Tap Room chicken N biscuits, and Slicker’s 19 cent spiced shrimp. Everything else is smoke and mirrors. Despondency, thy name is Masked Pundit.

Dear Masked Pundit, how do you account for your body taking on the shape of a Buckley’s Giant apple? Signed, Rhoda Horsey, Uncas Road.  Rhoda, as in all maturing Homo sapiens there’s a constant battle for supremacy between male (testosterone) and female (estrogen) hormones. As a yoot, I was blessed with a godlike V-shaped body and was often mistaken for Adonis, the ever youthful Greek vegetation god. Like Adonis, I grew up in the company of beautiful young girls, but lost my V-shape when I was struck by cupid’s arrow. Physiologically speaking, it’s been downhill ever since. At mid-life my body morphed into a banana shape, with shoulders, hips, and patootie sections of similar proportions. Now I fear, I’ve sailed right past the mature female pear shape and straight to the dreaded male, Buckley’s Giant apple form, where my burgeoning waistline blocks out the sunlight to the other regions of my body.   

I like to blame my metamorphosis from vegetable to fruit on the inevitable hormonal imbalance and gravity. But we all suspect it has more to do with a serene retired lifestyle enhanced by a diet rich in fermented hops, barley, and sugars brewed in spring water, along with sides of Screamen Eagle pizza and wings. I’ve reconciled that I’ll never again be Adonis, and I can live with the fact that I’m now but a large apple of a man. Frank Burnap would be proud.