rap-art lovers of New York have had their chicken salad shat upon this week with the news that their beloved The Gates of Central Park, a conceptual-art project by French artists Christo and Jeanne-Claude consisting of 7,500 orange gates strewn throughout the famous park, may be in jeopardy. A lawsuit filed by Microsoft headcheese Bill Gates over copyright issues would have the famous art-things torn down from their current location in the park, then re-erected on Gates’ front lawn.

The enigmatic uberdork Gates first attempted to purchase the art installation earlier this month, after seeing it on USA Today and screaming “I want those things!� to the various electronic henchmen whirring about his family’s high-tech Medina, Washington home. But despite being the world’s richest man, and crying like a little girl during the negotiations, Gates was unable to sway the money-hating French.

At first, Gates reacted to the snub by ordering Microsoft engineers to build a replica of The Gates on his lawn. Unfortunately, several of the gates crashed during construction, killing three itinerant laborers. Gates then turned to his current lawsuit, which he hopes to win in the name of the nameless Mexicans killed in that frustrating tragedy.

Surprising all and completely wrecking the commune betting pool, the rismurfulously wealthy Gates granted this reporter access to his heavily fortified Redmond home, which is rumored to hover five inches above the ground at all times to cut down on worm noise, for an exclusive interview.

“Art should be enjoyed by all,� explained Gates from deep within his lair, perched atop the earth’s crust. “And I hardly ever get a chance to go to New York.�

Gates also gave this lucky reporter a tour of this cutting edge techno-hovel, which is completely computer automated with voice activated controls for temperature, ambient music, and air ionification. In addition, the entire house goes apeshit when you say the day’s secret word: “Ziggy Stardust.�

The home is also ringed by a miniature monorail system which delivers food and other essentials to the hard-working frabjillionaire. Looking like a cross between the mechanical rabbit at a dog racing track and the trolley in Mr. Rogers’ house, Gates explained how the monorail system works while he reprogrammed the house’s secret word, due to this reporter’s inability to construct a sentence that didn’t include “Ziggy Stardust� and the resultant epileptic fit suffered by Gates’ dog, Bytes.

The installation of The Gates on the Gates’ front lawn would replace a small placard currently located near the home’s main entrance, which reads “The Gates.�

“It’ll be a bit more high-concept, for sure,� explained Gates, turning a dial to remedy a smell that this reporter certainly didn’t deal. “And I always hated that damned placard.�

The thrust of Gates’ lawsuit lies on The Gates’ visual similarity to the heavily-copyrighted Windows logo, which is some kind of weird little flag thing made of plastic-colored nacho chips. This week’s opening arguments also touched upon the obvious plagiarism involved when the French artists named their epic art installation after the computing pioneer. Gates, whose name is a registered trademark in 397 countries worldwide, has thus far been unsuccessful in applying the same protection in several English-speaking nations, including the United States, where the word also means “a thing to keep in the dog.�

This case is thought to be a slam dunk, however, since Gates has already promised to help the judge install a wireless network router on his Windows PC, a task thought to be otherwise impossible.

When faced with similar challenges to the Gates brand in the past, the Microsoft founder has often struck back with his wallet, including his 1999 purchase of Rodin’s massive portal sculpture The Gates of Hell from the Musée Rodin in Paris. The Gates of Hell currently serve as a thoroughfare between Gates’ home office and bedroom.

No stranger to appropriating popular art for his own uses, Gates drew criticism in 1999 for using the 1977 David Bowie classic “Heroes� to promote some kind of Windows bullshit in a television commercial. Though some were equally critical of Bowie for selling out, most were understanding when it was revealed that the Microsoft honcho had persuaded Bowie by offering to rid his PC of the nefarious Michelangelo virus.

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Editor's Note: Sampson L. Hartwig may be gone and presumed dead, his stuff long since passed around to the staff members who have gone through his desk, but the prolific Hartwig had oodles and oodles of remembrances we were never desperate enough to run. Until now. Enjoy!

I remember my first trip to the hospital. It was the birth of my sister, Stephanie, and I was only a little tyke. Me and my brother Goose were both five. Actually, Goose was three years older than me, but always wanted everything I had, so my dad made us both five. Come to think of it, Goose never did get those years back.

The hospital was a big, scary place for a little kid. Everything was white and sterile, people moved around gigantic electric equipment since back then everything was tubes and hand-cranks—thermometers took up whole rooms. And then there were the doctors, big old scary guys walking around with masks on their faces like bank robbers. As a kid I thought it was so nobody knew, even the nurses, who left the sponge in the guy after they sewed him up. Kind of like when they shoot a guy, there's four riflemen with one bullets. Though I guess you could bring your own bullets from home to make sure, no one's stopping you.

All I knew was Mom came in with a bellyache and a big fat stomach. I thought it was because Dad punched her there all the time, but he said he just did that so the baby would come out with good reflexes. You may scoff now, with your modern sensibilities, but back then it was common, the government even told you to do it. I remember a big poster of Teddy Roosevelt in our school telling us to "Punch one for the hun!" Man, that slogan rhymed.

The doctor tried to tell me exactly what was happening. Mom and Dad had decided to have a baby together, and they laid down in a bed, and nine months later came along a baby, which would be a little boy or girl. He said "the stork" was just a myth, and that baby's come out because of complicated biology.

Well, obviously, Goose and I beat the hell out of him, held him down, and threatened to cut out his tongue with a broken bottle if he started telling people such lies. Our Mom and Dad never laid down in a bed together in their lives. That was something foreigners did maybe, but not Mom and Dad.

Come to think of it, I never did really figure out how Mom got the baby out. You'd think I'd have picked that up over the years by now. I always just assumed it ripped its way out of the front of her stomach and that's why Mom never wore a two-piece bathing suit.

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Nothing's more depressing than gearing up for the Christmas season, getting all jolly and stuff, and getting one of these letters from the little kids who are oh-so innocent: "Santa, can you please bring gifts to all the poor kids this year?"

Ah, Christ. Like I needed that bring-down.

Look, once and for all, I cannot help the poor kids. It's not because I'm some big fat asshole, lord knows. My hands are tied on the matter. Sorry. Life's hard, learn to cope.

Once Thanksgiving is over I got my helpers showing up in droves telling me what kids want, and every one says, "By the way, getting a lot of flak on the whole 'poor kids' thing. Can you do something about that this year?" I kick them out of the office and don't tell them anything else, because it's none of their business. I'm the head elf. They don't need to know the murky depths of the business.

But just for the record, without naming names, let's just say it's very difficult to run a high-overhead operation like this and cutting costs wherever possible is a must. I got the elves and reindeer out selling band candy and magazine subscriptions all year around just to afford the toys in the first place, then I have to work out tax bracket nonsense with each individual government. That's a lot of work.

Not that these guys aren't jolly in their own way, I'm not pointing the finger at them. They've got their own problems. You don't have a major influx of toys every year on the same night and not have big tax issues to deal with, I understand the mechanics of it. So for centuries I've been working out deals on the side to keep operating at whatever cost, and it just turns out the poor kids get screwed in the deal. Sorry, shit ain't fair.

It's not just getting lists and making the toys, folks. There's red tape, always red tape. I've worked out a deal in most countries where a certain percentage of every family's individual income qualifies for toy delivery. As you can imagine, it's a pretty dismal story for the poor kids. It's not my fault you live in a trailer and dad cleans up roadkill for a living. I never said forget the contraceptives, baby, I know when to pull out. The fact is people don't put the thought into having kids they should, and who gets screwed? You kids, that's the fact. Tell your dad he should have been studying for the SATs instead of rocking out to Cinderella.

So the rich kids get richer and the poor kids get squat. Those capitalist countries love it. And the communist countries, now that it's like three or four, I can't even work out a deal with those knobs. They always demand I do something about sanctions and I keep telling them, I don't touch sanctions, not my business. I'm all about the toys. They say when I can do something about improving trade relations they'll let me deliver toys, but hard luck until then. And don't even get me started on Israel—they've been stonewalling me for years.

It's shit. I know it's shit. But sometimes you work with the cards you're dealt. My philosophy is, if I can get 40% of the kids out there presents, it's better than 0%. I'm working on the rest, believe me, I've got lobbyists and everything. Next time you see a diminutive fellow in Washington, you know he's working overtime to bring toys to the poor kids of the world. One of these days, children. One of these days.

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