You've probably been wondering what happened to our sea monkeys—Rick, Ghostface Krilla, Mr. Belvedere, and the rest of the gang. What happened is they grew up to be ugly and straight, just like 90 percent of Americans. It turns out they enjoy boobs, processed foods, and swimming in their own filth.

The gays in our office couldn't deal. There were whispered discussions of flushing them, but we collectively decided that life is too precious to flush, so they continue to sit on a shunned corner of Christopher's desk, backstroking in their own filth like tiny shrimp in tutus.

On Monday, I happened to walk by Christopher's desk and idly wonder aloud, "I wonder if Dan will bitch about the weather today."

And then I saw this:

And a few minutes later, he did.

Find out what happened next, after the jump!

And then, this morning, Dominic and I were discussing the tunnel—while henna-ing our forearms with tire treads to celebrate Walk, Bike, Ride—and he said, "I wish there was a definitive answer to whether or not the tunnel project will accrue cost overruns."

And then we both saw this:

The first time I brushed off as a coincidence but this I can't ignore. Clearly, we have hatched a troupe of tiny, psychic sea monkeys on our hands. Unlike one psychic octopus, we have at least a dozen of them! And their penmanship's superb! They appear to be bored with swimming in their own filth and staring at boobs; they are ready to predict the future.

This is a powerful gift. It shouldn't be wasted.

Now, a sea monkey's lifespan is 45 days or so—and we've wasted a good 40 days ignoring them. If you've got any questions—questions about life, love, politics—that need pressing answers, submit them in the comments and we'll see what Ghostface Krilla and his brother/cousins have to reveal about the future.