Historical Punctuation

By Albert Danforth, Roving Historian

In a recent public address, President Bush proclaimed, “I like to tell people when the final history is written on Iraq*, it will look like just a comma…” Considering the over 2700 US military and untold thousands of Iraqi civilian deaths, infrastructural devastation, and fomenting and/or cementing of anti-Western sentiment in the greater Middle East, many people could label such an encapsulization as flippant, insensitive, callous, detached, or fucking retarded. I, however, wish to grant Mr. Bush Presidential privilege to define his war as he sees fit. Using the Bush benchmark, I will herein redefine some of history’s more important wars as punctuation marks in an attempt to confirm or dismiss his assessment.

*By “Iraq” of course, he meant the current conflict in Iraq as supported by surrounding context of the address. Said context not provided herein due to its balking, halted clumsiness – I prefer not to provide conclusive evidence that the stewardship of our nation has been entrusted to a redneck dullard when avoidable.

French Revolution- Grass-roots overthrow of the institution of royalty and class structure within France. Sent shockwaves throughout Europe, causing the universal citizenry to quit the concept of the Divine Right of Monarchs, forcing Europe’s royal houses to share power with the people in order to prevent similar overthrows. Called the domination of entire peoples by a ruling elite into moral question, thus effectively ending colonization and empire building among civilized nations. Thus, the French Revolution would qualify as a period – perhaps an exclamation mark – had they not turned the entire country over to one single short angry putz immediately afterward. Since its effect was to slow-then-redirect the development of the human condition, the French revolution looks like a semi-colon.

Russian Revolution – Ruling family that listens too much to a smelly insane horndog who won’t freakin’ die no matter how many times people tried to kill him is overthrown by a popular rebellion led by a confused intellectual who read Marx all funny. Bolshevism ensues and quickly evolves into a surreal, bleak police state with collective farming. Since Russia’s neighbors are somehow poorer and more backwards-assed than they are, their soviet system is “shared” throughout Eastern Europe, setting up a seventy-year-long us-against-them turd-slinging contest with the West that proved jack squat. The Russian Revolution looks like a question mark.

Korean War – America invades foreign nation on made-up premises. America is perceived internationally as a wrong-headed bully. Thousands of soldiers and untold numbers of indigenous civilians die. America takes a few years to realize its goals are impossible and leaves, so nothing really changes, just halts for a little bit. The Korean War looks like a comma.

Vietnam War - America invades foreign nation on made-up premises. America is perceived internationally as a wrong-headed bully. Thousands of soldiers and untold numbers of indigenous civilians die. America takes a few years to realize its goals are impossible and leaves, so nothing really changes, just halts for a little bit. The Vietnam War looks like a comma.

Iraq War - America invades foreign nation on made-up premises. America is perceived internationally as a wrong-headed bully. Thousands of soldiers and untold numbers of indigenous civilians die. America takes a few years to realize its goals are impossible… hey, it looks like Dubya got one right!

Ask FratRat Mike: “Do You Think She’s Pretty?”

Dear Uncle Scooter,

You’re asking an old guy about young studs? What kind of dumbass idea is that? Young Stud FratRat Mike at your service, Sweet Thing! My service isn’t free like the Fossil’s - but trust me, you’ll like the price. *All* the ladies like my “price”, Baby!

Last night at the restaurant, I noticed my boyfriend looking at another girl as she walked by. I asked him if he thought she was pretty and he said Yes. Should I worry that he might be cheating on me?...

Sweet Jesus – for his sake I hope so! If I take out a chick and she says anything like that, my wood shrimps like the Wicked Witch of the West in a Jacuzzi. Christ! I thought you liked dating *straight* guys! Straight guys look at hot babes - done. Get the fuck over yourself.

You’re both sitting, so Ya’ Boy is looking right at your face. I don’t care how pretty your face is - a pretty face will lose the eyeball battle to a sweet-walking ass or a great jiggling rack every damned time on a straight man. Eyes don’t care about “commitment” – looking is all the sex they get.

… and whenever I look at a cute guy, he never asks me anything like that. Doesn’t he care about our relationship?
Love, Sheri

Oh, trust me, I will “Love Sheri,” but we’ll get to that later.

Relationship? What the hell are you talking about? I’m 22, so I know my shit – and I’ll lay it down for you right here. Ya' Boy ain’t about a “relationship” – at least by your definition. If he’s the same age as you, the last thing he wants is some insecure life-draining harpy keeping him away from the bangin’ parties with his bro’s and trading Jaeger bombs with the dancers at titty bars so he can play pink-lace kissyface with some self-absorbed wannabe princess every damned night, coming home to face his bro's blueballin' like Papa Smurf in a porno nine times out of ten. The “relationship” thing ain’t gonna happen with this dude – or any dude whose hand you hold, lips you kiss, or dong you swallow until you stop dotting your I’s with those little fuckin’ hearts. Grow up and you’ve got a chance – either that or put out.

Audi!

Ask Uncle Scooter: “Do You Think She’s Pretty?”

By Old Scooter Lowry, Everybody’s Uncle

Uncle Scooter,

Last night at the restaurant, I noticed my boyfriend looking at another girl as she walked by. I asked him if he thought she was pretty and he said Yes. Should I worry that he might be cheating on me?...

Based simply on that exchange, no. Believe it or not, guys tend to answer their ladies’ questions as asked to them as honestly as possible – especially if they’re distracted by something shiny. Think of men like dogs – playful, energetic, mostly loyal but won’t turn down a free head pat from a stranger, and trainable but still thick enough to eat cat shit out of the litter box if not supervised. Moreover, we’re dogs who can’t lick ourselves - that adds frustration, further complicating our inherent flightiness.

The problem here is the words that came out of your mouth had very little to do with your real question. When you asked “Do you think she’s pretty?” what you apparently meant was “Are you willing to throw away our relationship any time that girl or any other who looks like her shakes her tight little ass at you and winks?” He heard and answered your simpler expressed question, either as asked or as the 2am beer-drenched guys-on-the-couch hypothetical “If you weren't seeing anyone, she were interested in you, her boyfriend wasn’t steroid-huge, insanely jealous and ten feet away, and life were like a porn film with no negative consequences such as pregnancy or VD, would you bend that chippie over the salad bar right now and work her like a curvy thong-wearing butter churn in heels?”

… and whenever I look at a cute guy, he never asks me anything like that. Doesn’t he care about our relationship?
Love, Sheri

Sheri, your boyfriend doesn’t ask that question because he’s very obviously a mentally stable man under 30 who likes girls. At that age, we don’t really care what your eyes shop for as long as that booty buys at home. After 30, however, that question may be asked legitimately by a straight guy, but only in a derisive fashion while fishing for pointers.

For example, if your 23-year-old boyfriend asks “Do you think he’s sexy?” what he probably means is “I’d jump that slab of man right here and now if coming out of the closet wouldn’t make my uptight Baptist parents disown me and/or get my ass kicked at the gym – what about you, Girlfriend?” If your 34 year-old boyfriend were to ask “Oh, you like that guy? What’s so hot about him?” however, what he’s asking is “Seriously – what is hot about him? I need grooming tips – the ol’ babe magnet doesn’t have the pull it used to.”

What it all comes down to, Sheri, your boyfriend, like most men, is much like a dog. When he’s young, he’ll chase every squirrel that darts in his path whether he wants to catch it or not. If he can survive a few years of doing so without getting hit by a plumbing truck, however, you’ll have a big, dumb, smelly, loyal comfortable companion – but you’ll still have to stop him from eating dookie every once in a while.

Just So You Know: Legally Drunk

by Library Barry, Senior Archivist

The legal standard to determine if a motorist is Driving While Intoxicated in most of the United States is a measurement of blood alcohol content (BAC) in which the alcohol content of the blood exceeds 0.08%. If a person registers above that level, it would take either one hell of a lawyer or and extended session of blowing into the policeman's trouser breathalyzer to keep him or her out of deep doo-doo.

Since there is no need to prove or point in proving the severity of one's intoxication beyond the legally established limit in court, any BAC reading above 0.08 is widely considered "legally drunk." Higher standards *have* been established, however...

DUI / DWI Classifications by BAC Level, as amended by USDOT Pub. 5.9.813b - 1993:

0.08 - Legally Drunk
0.12 - Technically Pissed
0.16 - Officially Crocked
0.20 - Statutorially Shitfaced
0.25 - Preceptually Hammered
0.30 - Blotto, By Decree

Open Letter to That Guy Who Sat Next To Me At The Airport Bar

By Ron R. Clark

I didn’t address you directly, because (a) I’d hate to look like I’m calling you out, and (b) I don’t remember your name. In the grand scheme of things, it isn’t important – you were a financial advisor from Tampa running out the clock on a layover before your connector to Denver arrived, and I live about ten miles from this airport and was killing off a weather delay on a flight which my ride-needing buddy was on. The odds of you and I encountering again are about as infinitesimal as my running over a moonwalking penguin who happened to be carrying back-to-back Lotto-jackpot-winning tickets in his mouth – and I’d rather use my chance-in-a-lifetime longshot to loot the dead dancing penguin. That being said, the number of people who think, speak and act like you do is immeasurable - thus through your example I wish to address them in an attempt to diffuse their potential dickholery.

No, sir, I do not know that one guy who almost won Fear Factor – and jabbing your elbow into my ribs while pleading “C’mon… you know!” will not release any related recollections which may be stuck inside my thoracic cavity. I don’t watch Fear Factor – spending an hour of my life watching Red Bull-addled attention whores eat severed caribou pecker au gratin while dangling from a water tower doesn’t strike me as a sound investment of my fleeting life resources - so I know not of what or whom you speak. Thus if the pinnacle of your lifetime’s brushes with greatness is handling That Guy's brother’s 401(k) rollover, I weep for you.

If you wish to strike up a conversation with a total stranger strictly for the purpose of killing time, may I suggest other sources? There was a television in the corner of the bar featuring baseball. Odds are good that an American male enjoying a beer at a bar would have a feigning interest in baseball – at least they’re better than him caring about the interest rate on your condo lease.

Conversations tend to flow better when both parties give half a shit about the subject matter, so if you don’t know the other party from Dead Uncle Bob, try to choose a topic with potential for common interest. Common interest AND neutral ground – that’s important. Keep in mind that I don’t know you; therefore if you piss me off, I have no qualms about pummeling your logorrheic ass with such severity that you could eat nothing but pudding for a month.

I offer these simple common-sense suggestions, Sir, to increase your chances for perpetuating a tension-free layover as a service to the greater airport-bound public at large. Please take them to heart. If you find the whiskey sours impede your recollection of these helpful axioms, avoid drinking them before launching into conversation. With respect to the standard Floridian businessman’s moth-to-flame-like attraction to liquor establishments and the subsequent vampiric draining of their middle shelves however, you may want to exercise the easier-to-remember option of shutting the fuck up.

Talking Economics - Mixed Signals

By K. Russell Carlsson, Rogue Economist

I’m back. Fart joke aficionados can just scroll on by… I am not the writer you seek.

A lot of friends and colleagues have been asking me the same question recently. “Keith,” they say, “every time I get a new piece of information on the economy, it seems to say the direct opposite of the last piece of information I heard. WTF? Who do I believe?”

To them, as well as to you, I say believe them both. Most of the economic information you hear is based on an “average”, and averages are more frequently and easily massaged and molded than an old sumo wrestler’s back fat. Brace yourself – boring-ass definitions ahead.

The two most common methods to state averages are the mean and the median. The best way to differentiate between the two is to take a list of numbers and arrange them from lowest to highest. Now, if I were getting paid by the column-inch, I’d give you a gloriously long example for visual clarity, but since I’m not I’ll have to rely on you to follow my verbal descriptions (and log Reason #188 To Give My Sorry-Assed, Weasel-Breathed, Mosquito-Dicked Agent A Righteous Kick In The Scrotum.) The median is the item right in the middle of that list of numbers you made, and the mean is the result of adding all your listed figures together, then dividing my the number of items in your list.

Those are your definitions. Now a verbal example. Oh boy – definitions AND a word problem? I bet your nipples are perkier than Rachel Ray after an espresso enema!

Let’s say there is a tire plant with 100 employees and an owner. In 2004, each of the employees received $25,000 and the owner pulled down $1 million. The salary in the middle of your list as described above (the median) is $25,000, while the mean is almost $35,000 (the total $3.5 mil payroll divided by 101 salaries.) The now-millionaire owner addresses the employees in January 2005 and says the company isn’t making enough money, so he’s going to cut all their salaries to $20,000 for 2005, all the while secretly giving himself a raise to $2 million. In that case, the company’s 2005 median salary would decrease to $20,000 but its mean salary increases to nearly $40,000.

My tire plant scenario is a very simplistic and exaggerated mirror to what is happening in today’s economy – overall national wealth is increasing, but settling more and more at the top, while leaving the middle and lower classes to divvy up an ever-shrinking pile of scraps – yet depending on one’s perspective or definition of “average”, all is either going straight to Hell or it's titties and beer. Mean salaries are rising, median salaries are falling, everybody is looking at the same set of numbers and nobody is lying. Thus when my friends and colleagues ask “Keith, who do I believe?” I truthfully reply “everyone and no one...” at which point they usually flip me off and stick me with the bar tab.

However, when my friends and colleagues ask “Who should I believe, K. Russell?” my response is an enthusiastic “Pfister von Punchenstein, meet my friend’s associate - Mr. Aiken Johnson!”

Live from the Bimbolympic Pentathlon

By Lars Eisenberg and Espen Jockovitch

Welcome to beautiful downtown Los Angeles for complete coverage of the signature event of the 2006 Bimbolympics, the Pentathlon. I am your host, Lars Eisenberg, and I will do the play-by play while my partner Espen Jockovitch will cover the color commentary.

Holla ballah ballooo, Lars!

What the fuck was that, Espen?

Still working on the catchphrase, Bergie…

And you plenty of work to go, Jocko… just like these Entertainment A-Listers have a long night ahead of them. It looks like they’re ready to get started, so let’s go to the action!

BERATING

Before these ladies get into the grueling physical competition, they get to warm up by verbally sparring with bouncers and admittance staff of all the hot LA nightclubs.

It’s like Bitch Calisthenics, eh Lars?

Indeed, but this event counts greatly in the final standings – and to what should be nobody’s surprise Tara Reid is building up a huge lead in the Berating event.

Her “Don’t You Know Who The Fuck I Am” verbal assault is like the Randy Johnson fastball of the late 90’s, Lars – you know it’s coming, you know it’ll make you look stupid, but you also know you can’t do anything but take it.

Yikes! Reid won this competition running away. In a distant second is J.Lo, who I didn’t even know was in this year’s event.

She’s not, Lars, but not every golfer plans to play in the US Open, either. Most are just in it for the love of the game, and that’s how Ms. Lopez feels about putting the hired help in its place.

BOOZE

Now that all our Bimbolympians in the club, the real competition begins. For the next two hours, our competitors will be drinking and dancing both against the clock and against each other.

Man… I hope they dance against each other… Lindsay Lohan and Jessica Simpson grinding them fine hineys all over each other…hominahominahomina

I meant in competiton, Espen. Why don’t you ice down by telling the audience all the elements of this event?

[cough] You got it, Bergie! The Booze competition will test our starlets’ skills in all elements of bar and nightclub athleticism. The compulsory Pint Chug is a timed event, which will determine the order of the shots competition – figuratively and literally, as the winner names the first three drinks. From there, our glamour gals will hit the dance floor, coming back to the bar at the end of every song to down another drink for the next two hours.

And they’re off!

Holy shit, Spears, did they even fill your mug? That was drained WAY too quickly!

The judges confirm it was a full pint, so Spears calls the shots and she calls Jagermeister.

Britney’s Gulf Coast roots are showing – she’s looking to put her underweight competition away as quickly as possible by ordering everybody to down three shots of The Devil’s Sack Sweat.

The shots are down, and now it’s off to the dance floor.

Spears and Simpson should dominate this competiton, Lars. Getting fucked up and dancing is these girls’ bread and butter.

I’m pretty sure they’re sober in the videos and interviews, Espen… these women are just phenomenally stupid.

Wow. Better yet. At least they don’t have to sing tonight!

Amen, Brother Jockovitch, especially with Paris Hilton in the house. Although Lohan and Reid drank like the professionals they are, the Florida Floozies completely owned the dance floor with Spears and Simpson taking first and second in the Booze competition, but Tara Reid maintains her overall lead.

After that much hardcore drinking and dancing, I’d be shuttling my ass over to Denny’s to get the feedbag on… but no such luck for these ladies.

They’re professionally trained partathletes, Jocko. No Moon Over MyHammy for these elites – it’s time for the third event…

COKE

And off the powder room they go.

Literally, as in each toilet stall the seat is covered in a ten-gram mound of high-grade cocaine.

This event will require speed, skill and composure as our competitors must chop down their mound into ten one-gram lines, snort them, wipe the extra powder off their faces and stop gnashing their teeth like retarded hamsters all in the amount of time it takes the average person to use the restroom.

Looks like our last event is taking it’s toll. Simpson looks a little green…oh, boy… TIMBER!

Jessica Simpson has passed out, which shakes up the leaderboard quite a bit. You have to complete all five events to win, and Simpson just doesn’t have the goods tonight.

Pretty typical of those Florida girls, Lars – going hard early, then flaming out before the real fun begins. Spears looks a bit wobbly, too. Maybe Uncle Charlie can put some starch back in her arch.

I have no clue what that meant, Espen… but Whoa! Hold on! Lindsay Lohan plowed throw that mountain of blow and emerges from the restroom looking better than ever!

It’s usually in these middle events that Lohan hits her stride, but tonight she’s in top form.

Hilton finished second and Tara Reid emerges third. What happened in there – especially with Britney Spears?

Well, Lars, Reid decided to snort up Jessica Simpson’s share of coke as well as her own which is why she fell behind. Britney is so pissed and off her game that when she saw powder, she started looking for diapers. She’ll be in the crapper screaming “Sean! Where are you?” until she passes out in about ten minutes.

Sounds like Britney is out of the running, so we have three competitors left going into Event four:

WANTON SEX

This is the event for which everybody has been waiting…

Damn right, Eiser!

Put your dick away, Jockovitch – you aren’t playing. In the interest of decorum, this event will not be described, but it will be filmed for the sake of official scoring.

They’re officially scoring, all right. Hell, Yeah! Go Paris! Go Paris!

Espen, I’m telling you if you don’t get your hands out of your junk drawer, I’ll make you listen to Hilton’s CD twenty times in a row. And no more lame sex-puns! Tell the people what our competitors will be doing to maximize points, you sorry spankhound.

[Ahem – ZIP!] Thank you, Lars. Scoring in the Wanton Sex competition is based of the number and variety of partners these ladies work over in the next hour. Creativity will be considered, as will kink.

And it’s going true to form so far. Lohan heads straight for the ‘80’s action heroes, Hilton makes a beeline for the pampered heir section of the club, and Tara Reid is…

Showing her ass to the DJ, Lars. This is a new strategy for her, and I can’t see how it could be a winning one.

Indeed. This DJ is a professional – he is dedicated to keeping the club’s flow on. Perhaps Reid figures that this fact will increase the DJ’s point factor.

Well, that and he’s famously gay. Tara Reid won’t be winning this Pentathlon, Lars.

She had a promising start, but made a series of bad decisions and simply won’t be going anywhere any time soon.

I thought we were supposed to talk about the Pentathlon, not her career!

Anyway, the Wanton Sex event is over, so it’s off to the limos in order to prepare for our final event:

DENIAL

And here our competitors commune with their image consultant and hand the baton off to their spokespeople.

It looks like Lohan’s people will be the first out of the gate, Lars. They’ve had a lot of practice in this field recently, so I expect some real fireworks from her crew.

Oh, no. I can’t believe what I’m hearing, Espen…

Exhaustion and stress from a busy schedule? Who the hell does that little whore think she’s kidding? We’ve got the whole thing on tape! Unbelieveable. Lohan really does love the ‘80’s. Not only does she lust after its film heroes, she borrows its stars excuses for getting tossed into detox. This is classic Mariah Carey / Whitney Houston old school denial.

And nobody bought it then, either. Let’s see what Hilton’s got…

Yes! An unbelievable display of hubris, self-delusion and out-and-out bullshit! She said she’s only had sex with two people in her life – we’ve got her on film with at least three!

Indeed! Combine her steady, consistently professional performance with the shot glass and snorting straw with the way she handles people…

And their gonads…

both at the rope line and in the grotto, Paris Hilton is indeed a champion Bimbolympic Pentathlete. She has earned the gold here tonight. Lohan’s spirit and energy was an asset early in the competition, but inexperience in the ways of spin is eventually what did her in. Youth can be a blessing or a curse when you play in the Big Leagues – perhaps Lindsay’s will eventually develop the quality endgame that makes the champion partier.

Whoa! Did you hear that? Hilton just said she’s taking a year away from dating! Lars, she’s just running up the score on Lohan with this crock.

From Los Angeles, I’m Lars Eisenberg…

And I’m Espen Jockovitch…

Wishing you good night and good times.

Walla balla holla, Dawgs!

That sucked too. Just stop it, Jocks.

Hands Where I Can See Them, Chumley!

By The Letter X

What does an alphabetic character have to do to get some love around here? I have got to be the most used and most versatile letter in the entire Western alphabet, yet when it comes to naming literary or film characters in my "honor", my namesakes are always sinister, freakish, evil, or Vin Diesel. Honestly, I don't think I can do much more for you guys without breaking a leg - which would make me look like that pussy Y, so it just ain't gonna happen.

Even when I'm not being used in words, I'm busting my limbs for the greater good. Do you ever see C marking the spot or F standing for danger? Hell no. That's me, X, making life safer and easier for all you people - and the only person who appreciates it enough to write a song for me is Sherlock Hemlock... a freakin' muppet.

On those too rare occasions in which I actually get normal spelling work, I'm played like the utility infielder of letters. I get paired me up with E in a prefix, put me at the end of a root word in front of a suffix - or if it's French, I just get tacked on the end like an afterthought and never pronounced so much as used as some gay-ass glottal device to make your vowels sound even more nasally pretentious. Every once in a great while I get to lead off and get pronounced. I appreciate those opportunities, but...

How the hell am I pronounced? D has a distinct sound. R has a distinct sound. X? Who friggin' knows. I'm usually a 'ks' sound, but often play as a 'ch' or 'sh' or 'ksh' or 'z' or 's'... and that is just in English. The Spanish call me "sth", the Mexicans "kh", the Chinese "zch", and I already talked about those French ingrates. I don't mean to complain, but it would be nice to have a distinct sound so I know which glove to bring to the lingual ballpark on game day.

And acronyms and symbols involving your buddy X? What? I can think of three: Markings on a flour bag, markings on generic hard liquor containers, and hardcore porno. Flour I'm cool with - it's useful, practical, generally wholesome and held in high regard by all of non-Atkins-dieting society. It's good work and I thank you greatly for it - I just wish I could be associated with it as much as I am with booze and porn. Check it: "WWW" puts you on the Information Superhighway, "XXX" puts you on The Road To Heavington. "AAA" helps a flat tire get jacked up, "XXX" helps a fat frycook jack off. Not the best of company to be associated with, eh?

Whew! I feel much better -I'm glad I got that off my sticks. Now I'll get back to work for you crossing out typos and kicking O's wussy round ass in Tic Tac Toe - all I ask is that you remember me more often while you're sober and have your underpants up.

Thanx!

We’ve bin Laden With Excess Inventory! Everything Must Go!

By Dooger Reynolds – X-Treem Marketer

OK, Marketing Mad Dogs… we all know what next Monday is. Even though it’s the fifth anniversary of the worst day in our nation’s recent history, we can’t get too sentimental. Keeping 9/11 holy would be yielding the day to the terrorists – time to sack up! We’ve got to take September 11th back for Americans in the American Way – by whoring it out to ludicrous sales events!

Come on, Dawgs, this is an easy one. Work the steps with me! Price everything in some form of 9.11. Tag everything for sale using the colors of the Terror Alert System. Set unopened boxes of a hot new product in the aisles and send out stockboys wearing beards and turbans and screaming in Arabic to hack them open with utility knives. Come on, Dudes - if I can get an entire generation of twentysomethings to pay two bucks for a half-can of some bullshit herbal concoction that tastes like a diabetic elk’s piss because they think it’s a healthy and natural alternative to coffee, I can sell this.

We’ll need catchy slogans – verbal hooks that will tie the historic events to historic savings. Lines like “Fly your own 767 of savings into the Twin Towers of high prices and poor customer service!” How about “Our prices are so low that our accountants will want to jump out 86th story windows!”

Who just groaned? Oh, grow a pair, Jenkins - America needs her marketing heroes to step up in 2006 like her shopping heroes did in 2001. Who’s with me? Franklin – you down? The time to heal is now – and healing begins with selling shit! Phillips - no? Well, screw you pussies! I’m taking full credit for this one. When Bush awards the Medal of Freedom for this campaign, I’ll be the only Mad Dawg standing on the podium… so guess who’ll be pissing on all your dainty little heads!

The Fluffy Chronicles – Kitten Days

By Fluffy

Day 1: More of those not-cat-looking creatures came by today – like the ones that give Mommy food and water, but different. They seemed to point at me and smile a lot, and when I cocked my head to try to hear them, the long-haired one cooed even more. The short-haired one smiled a bit, but seemed more interested in the long-haired creature than me.

Day 18: The non-cats came back carrying a funny little box with holes and a handle. Foodbearing Non-cat picked me up and put me in the box, which the other two non-cats carried back into their own box. Their box moves. During the entire trip in the moving box, the long-haired non-cat cooed and spoke in an unintelligible tongue while holding my box. She tried to pet me a little bit, but every time I rubbed against her finger she squealed and gibbered something to the effect of “Ooooooiznee zoGyooot!” I figured she was in pain, but she kept sticking her finger in there. Not too smart, these non-cats...

Day 19: Apparently, these new non-cats are my own private foodbearers. Not too bad. I have a huge couch to curl up on, a private food dish, a private water bowl, and a private rock garden to drop my dookies in – much better than the old farm where I had to share mom-titties with six squealing siblings. The only squealing that goes on now is from the long-haired non-cat… but she feeds me, so I’ll take that trade-off.

Day 88: These non-cats are pretty all right! They feed me, they pet me and they keep my rock garden pretty clean. When the long-hair has her friends over, they can’t keep their hands off me. When the short-hair has his friends over they give me treats like beef jerky and beer. Non-cats rule!

Day 206: The non-cats came with that funny box again. Well, it worked out for me pretty well last time, so I was all about it. Their moving box stopped at some strange building full of many animals – all in one room. There were other cats who told me the two-legged non-cats are called “humans” and not to be trusted. (Yeah, right – mine are awesome!) The four-legged non-cats are called “dogs”, and they eat poop, hump human legs, and are to be hated by all cats everywhere. Sure, whatever, you paranoid furballs.

Day 207: Hey! What the… WHERE ARE MY BALLS? Those other cats were right! Fucking humans – I trust them as far as I can throw them. From now on, Fluffy rules the house – what Fluffy says goes. Go ahead - smirk away, Short-hair. You still have your balls... for now!

Today In Sports

By Espen Jockovitch

Notre Dame! Notre Dame! What an incredible college football powerhouse! The Irish displayed their awe-inspiring never-say-die excellence in execution once again by sacking up and gritting out a two-score comeback with only 35 minutes left in the game against a highly-unheralded and unranked Georgia Tech team last night, ultimately winning 14-10. Boo-YAHH Green and Gold! Can I get a witness?

Is it possible to rank a team higher that #1, because these studs deserve it. They played Georgia Tech – a team with uniforms similarly hued to theirs – that had to be confusing! It was a night game, proving that as long as their opponent isn’t very good, the Domers can win anywhere at any time! Brady Quinn for Heismann! Brady Quinn for Heismann! Testify!

In other football news, Terrell Owens took a shit this afternoon at 3:17pm. In a clear overture of reconciliation and team unity, he did not wipe his ass with a non-TO-centric page of the Cowboys playbook this time. We checked.

Baseball’s pennant races are all in a jumble, as the Boston Red Sox stumbled through August losing 20 games. Sox brass and baseball experts alike are at a loss to explain how the BoSox could lose 20 games in a month in which they only played the Yankees five times. Our assessment – Yanks / Sox games count as much as four non-Yanks / Sox games – as they damned well should. Yanks and Sox... Holla!

The Sox collapse bears the question: Who will the Yanks play in the playoffs if the Sox aren’t there? Will Major League Baseball allow minor league squads like Anaheim and Chicago play for the pennant now? That would be a travesty and an insult to all baseball purists everywhere.

In other sports: Tigertigertigertigertiger WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOds. Maria Sharapova is hot, so she can’t be a good tennis player. Kobe Shaq LeBron and Melo.

That is all the sports news anybody should care about, and I disagree with the washed-up jock / bitter wanna-be jock sportswriter to my immediate right. Peace out.