ONE YEAR. Today, this humble journal of literary satire turns one year old*, and to celebrate, we're spending the day Tara Reid-style: three sheets to the wind and pantsless. In our year of meager existence, we've posted something in the neighborhood of 400 pieces, and also 200-ish birthday cards. Many of these things weren't completely terrible, so we'll consider that a success. We also sold a natty T-shirt, put together a really nifty printed collection of handwritten work (which will be finally shipping next week, very late indeed), stupidly faked our own death, won two Golden Globes, and were a contributing factor to the complete mental breakdown of one our heroes. Not bad for one lap around the sun. Heartfelt gratitude must be expressed for our incredibly good-looking contributors. Seriously, Y.P.R.'s contributing writers are so hott, you'd plotzz. (We accept work based solely on head shots.) Anyway, to those who really need a daily fix of pot roast: please enjoy spelunking our archives and we'll see you tomorrow. And you can send us the greatest birthday present ever. * Yes, some of the archived material is dated days, weeks, or even months before February 26, 2003. That's the day we "hard-launched" and have chosen to celebrate. Write to Y.P.R. Write for Y.P.R. Right on, Y.P.R.