Hobey, Warrior Feline
The occupants of the ninth floor lead tranquil lives, until an unmistakable jingling sound heralds the approach of pure evil, and the long shadow of terror falls over their happy hallway. Fuzzy Mousie strikes again! Only one cat can save them, a muscular and agile cat clad in a distinctive striped orange coat, a cat destined to banish dastardly lint and depraved shoelaces and fight the enemies of peace — a cat named Hobey, Warrior Feline. Usually airs between four and five in the morning; check local listings.

Wide World Of Building Renovations
Segments include “Rubble And You,” “Your Guide To Plaster Dust,” “How Now Brown Shower,” and “Belt Sander? I Hardly Even Know ‘Er!” And don’t miss the special reports on hot-button topics like post-plumber’s-butt traumatic stress disorder. On this week’s show, the disgruntled residents of 22J announce the winners of our “Name That Fume” contest.

When Catalogs Attack
A startling look at the uncontrolled proliferation of mail-order glossies in one woman’s apartment. Hosted by Lauren Hutton and Stephanie Seymour.

Ready, Set, Fraud!
When you work at home, you can write off just about anything. Join our gracious hostess Leona Helmsley as she nimbly evades the IRS, and try some of her tax tips for yourself — declare your pets as college-age dependents! Count small change given to panhandlers as charitable contributions! List toilet paper as an entertainment expense! Take an office-supplies deduction for gourmet coffee and cigarettes!

Diagnosis: Moron
Telemarketers call her home and ask for “Mr. Bunting.” Diagnosis: moron. Bank employees ask her to repeat her account number no fewer than six times. Diagnosis: moron. Readers send her e-mail criticizing her spelling. Diagnosis: moron.

MasterPMS Theater
When last we left our heroine, she had finished her monthly pill packet, and this week’s installment finds her swamped by a tsunami of estrogen. Whipped into a homicidal froth by a run in her last pair of black tights, she rummages through her hosiery drawer while cursing like a fishwife, only to hurl said drawer across the room after finding no suitable legwear. A visit to her office later in the day finds the area near her cubicle littered with the bitten-off heads of innocent co-workers — but whither our heroine? Following her trail through the cafeteria, where shaken food servers stare in disbelief at the charred remains of the frozen-yogurt dispenser, past cowering pedestrians on the city sidewalks (“I get between her and a hot-dog vendor, okay, and the next thing I know, I’ve got a broken nose”), and up the stairs to 9R, where our heroine sits amidst half a dozen empty pizza boxes, sobbing hysterically at a Hallmark commercial. Will our heroine still fit into her clothing tomorrow? Will her long-suffering boyfriend survive the fork wounds? Tune in to the next episode of MasterPMS Theater.

The Price Is Right
Ramen noodles. Store-brand mac-and-cheese. A peanut-butter- and-tomato sandwich. Can you guess which meal’s price comes closest to the amount of loose change I found in the couch this afternoon? If you answer correctly, you could win a bale of Ivory Soap from Price Club, or a lifetime supply of Minute Rice and Goya products!

Murray Hill, 10016
An over-caffeinated freelance writer contends with older ladies that talk too loudly, elevators that move too slowly, and obese lapdogs in cashmere sweaters that bark too frequently — and wrestles with contemporary moral dilemmas, like whether to report a rape when the self-styled gourmet deli on the corner tries to charge six dollars for a lousy turkey sandwich, and then adds fifty cents extra for one limp and pathetic slice of tomato and some elderly lettuce, not to mention pretending that they got the seven-grain bread from a Benedictine monastery or something, and she doesn’t know about the deli owners, but where she comes from, navy bean soup contains the occasional navy bean, and if they don’t do something about their ridiculous prices, they can keep their precious little sweet-potato chips and their cutesy-poo little raspberry sodas, and she will just take her business across the street to Salmonella Brothers, thank you very much.

The Edge Of Nap
It began with “resting her eyelids,” but soon Sarah had entered another world — a world without work, a world without stress, a world where the lurking specter of post-lunch lethargy had no place. Tempted by the neatly folded afghan, drawn like an iron filing to the magnet of the couch, she succumbed to sleep in the middle of the afternoon and, accompanied only by a small and equally slothful companion animal, she travelled to . . . The Edge Of Nap.

Shut Up She Wrote
. . . with a little plane, in the sky, in giant cloud letters, so that all the Type-A dumbasses who think that honking absolves them of gridlock guilt, and all the fire engines that go up Madison Avenue every twenty minutes all damn night leaning on the air horn despite the fact that no other vehicle uses Madison Avenue after the evening rush hour, and all the truck drivers that said to their machinists, “A muffler? What for?” and all the men that gun their motorcycles down Park Avenue on Sunday afternoons to show off their sub-atomic penises, and all the boneheads who can’t think of a better place than the subway to discuss their husbands’ vasectomies in beautifully rendered detail, and all the Latin lovers who hook up a PA system at eleven o’clock on a Sunday night and serenade the neighborhood with the Iglesias backlist for over an hour until someone with an even shorter fuse than mine calls the cops, and all the girls who lean out their windows and scream to each other and guffaw hysterically instead of picking up the goddamn phone like a normal person, and all the little yapping mop-dogs that stroll up to my front door and sniff around a little bit before launching into an ear-splitting volley of arf arf arf ARF ARF ARF ARF rrrrrrrrrrrrrr ARF ARF at six in the bloody morning, and all of the babies who take my mere presence in a restaurant as their cue to begin teething or come down with a nasty case of colic at that precise moment and thus launch into a veritable aria of hunh hunh hunh wuh wuh wuh WAAAAH WAAAAAAAAAH WAAAAAAAAAH, can read it clearly.

Earplugs: A Love Story
Immediately following Shut Up She Wrote.

The Klutz Files
Mysterious bruises appear on my shins and elbows. I sustain paper-cuts on my face. While attempting to fine-tune my TV reception, I feel a strange and inexplicable jolt of electricity. Only peering into the Klutz Files will explain how I managed to sprain my finger while changing a light bulb, or how a five-pound weight somehow flew out of my hand and through an open window during an otherwise uneventful aerobic workout, or why the flames that shot out of my toaster oven singed off my eyelashes but left the paint on my cupboards unharmed, or why my old coffee table collapsed under the weight of a cheese sandwich, or why my neighbors hear mysterious shouts of “well, excuse ME, but why don’t you try getting your TAIL out from under my FOOT,” or how I managed to step on my own hand while trying to pick up a nickel.

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