Celebrating Mother's Week: Contrary to popular legend, Mom can't MAKE you feel guilty. You feel guilty because you screwed up, and you know it. But Mom can play on that guilt like a frickin' virtuosic musician, can't she? She can be as brutal as Clapton on the Stratocaster, ripping off shattering solos, or as exquisitely but devastatingly subtle as Yo Yo Ma, pulling that bow across your strings. Bravo, Mom. Bra. vo.

Celebrating Mother's Week (because one day just ain't enough): Alas, despite scientists' best efforts, Mom Spit, that miracle cleaner, the most versatile known to humankind, cannot be commercialized and mass-produced, because apparently it must be applied with Mom Thumb to be completely effective.

Talk about adding insult to injury – well, insult to death, I suppose: There was an unfortunate typo on the paperwork for Osama bin Laden's delivery to jihadist paradise; he was greeted by 72 Virgils -- bunch of dudes in Confederate-emblem caps, overalls and no shirts.

You all aren't really falling for this, are you? I'm certainly not buying it until Obama can produce bin Laden's death certificate.

Tip for grads: Don't fall for this old hazing trick: You spend hours readying your first presentation, and a coworker asks the day before, "It's not in PowerPoint, is it? Boss hates that; wants us to be more creative." You spend all night reworking it and the next day, as you shift from the sock-puppet portion of your presentation to the mime portion and catch the look on boss's face, you realize you've been well and truly had.

JP II's honor has me considering my own chances of sainthood. You want miracles? I often did my own take on the loaves and fishes, with ramen noodles, cream of chicken soup and Velveeta, and I made it last a full week 'til payday. And though I've never turned water to wine, I made emergency beer runs in my day that were greeted by throngs bowing before me. Still, gotta hope they start grading sainthood on a curve.

Tip for grads: Know the signs of financial trouble in your company: Supply starts doling out paperclips one at a time; middle managers engage in whispered conversations that stop the moment you near, then they scatter like roaches; the boss's desk calendar has nothing on it two months out, except for some very disturbing doodles; and staff meetings have been moved to the 10th floor ledge. Time to update that resume.