So Long, Stud...

by Knorr the Interpreter

I've only been throwing this thing against the kitchen wall for six months, but I'm already burying a contributor. Barbaro got put down this morning after his doctors, trainers, and owners determined that he would never see another pain-free day.

For some reason, I'm really broken up over this. I really liked Barbaro - his spirit, his drive, his honesty - qualities you just don't see in elite professional athletes these days. That and I had Jonathan Ray Keller in the IbK Dead Pool...

Here I will republish Barbaro's piece from August 11. Next time you flick a fly away, think of him, will you? Thanks.

So Long And Thanks For All The Oats

By Barbaro, 2006 Kentucky Derby Winner

Hey, Humans! I wanted to make sure I could thank you one more time for all your support before… well… you know. My doctors are more somber these days, so I can’t ignore the worst possibilities. If I beat this, however, my future career as Mega-Star Stud is a lock, so I’m fighting like hell to get better. Were you to know the long-term reward would be getting paid fat coin to nail hot fillies left and right for the rest of your natural life, you’d try to ignore the short-term pain, too!

Thank you all so much for all the cards and letters and notes of hope and support – I feel like the luckiest horse in the world… except for the hoof thing, of course. I wish I could tell you I’ve read them all, but the truth is that I can’t read. (It is my secret shame, but one more common than we professional athletes would like to admit.) My handlers *do* read all of them to me, however, and their voices are always cheery and positive. I truly appreciate all these warm sentiments from the human community - in those times where I’m too medicated to conjure up my smoking studding fantasies, mail call is the ray of sunlight breaking up my cloudy days.

I just wanted to let you know how much I appreciate your well-wishing. With good luck and hard work, maybe I’ll get a chance to meet some of you on my stud farm and thank you in person… between my regularly scheduled, million-dollar three-ways with a leggy bay and apple-bottomed Appaloosa. Homina homina homina…

Talking Economics – Gas Boycotts

By K. Russell Carlsson, Rogue Economist

The other day at the pub, I casually mentioned to the guys that I stopped at Citgo to get gas on the way in. Some hair-triggered thickneck from outside our conversation overheard me and jumped in to recite FoxNews McPatriot Diatribe #238B regarding my choice of refueling stations. Explanation follows:

Citgo is a nationwide chain of franchised gas stations owned by the state of Venezuela. Venezuela’s President Hugo Chavez is a virulent Castro-style socialist with strong and outspoken anti-Bush Administration sentiments. Barkley von Buzzcut unartfully reminded me that patronizing Citgo lines the pockets of a socialist America-hater, thus a True Patriot ™ boycotts Citgo - amid his hyperventilating and saliva-string projectiles. Herein I will elucidate on my response to him.

Gasoline boycotts of any type are patently futile, be they economic or political. A popular internet petition arbitrarily selects a day for True Patriots™ to avoid refueling their vehicles in order to “send a message to” oil companies, gasoline refiners, oil cartels, what have you. Within the message itself, they suggest you fill you tank the day before or the day after the selected D-Day so you can still get along while “crippling their economies for a day”.

Yeah… that’ll *really* kill them, Scooter. Shifting a company’s cash flow from one day to another without altering overall revenue does nothing, especially in an industry well-versed in the ebb-and-flow of a volatile marketplace. You might hurt the gas station franchisee’s perishables sales for a day, such as coffee, milk and donuts – franchisees who are in nearly all cases hard-working American entrepreneurs more at the mercy of the oil market than you – but the oil producers, refineries and/or companies you’re targeting flat won’t give a rat’s ass.

As for Patriot McTalkingpoint’s argument however – choosing which petroleum producing nations to support or boycott through gas station choice – the answer is even simpler: Fuck that. Let us look at the nations who produce and export the most crude oil to the United States, what?

#1 – Saudi Arabia
#2 – Iran
#3 – United Arab Emirates
#4 – Venezuela

Aren’t those first three just warm-and-snuggly fuzzy bunnybears you can’t help but hug? Hmmm… what other lists do those three nations head up? Three lists that come to my mind immediately are Human Rights Violations, Least Politically Free, and Home Nations of 9/11 Attackers. Until Venezuela cancels all elections, tortures dissenters and knocks down an American landmark, I shall consider our True Patriot’s™ argument a holistic push at best.

Fact: The most patriotic thing anybody can do with respect to energy consumption is take steps toward American energy independence by reducing crude oil consumption. Period. Utilizing ethanol/E85 and biodiesel are great goals for which to strive, but impractical for the bulk of us in the short run. If you can afford to buy new hybrid cars, my hat is off to you for doing so. I, however, don’t get paid worth a shit for this column (guard your junk, Agent Weasel – the KeithBoot has an appointment with your little Johnny Jr.!), so the best I can do is maximize fuel economy with the car I have. I get about 33 mpg with Citgo and right around 30 mpg with all other brands, so fueling up at Citgo is how I’m doing my part.* Get out of my shorts, Rambonehead!

That’s the long version of what I said to Surly O’Catchphrase at the pub. I believe the actual quote was “Mind your own business, Assmunch!” as I punched him in the dick. What? - he called me K. Russell... you know the rules.

(*All cars are different. I’m not saying Citgo is the best for everybody… not without a fat endorsement check, that is. Pay up, Hugo – free enterprise isn’t free!)

The Life of Rollie – Blind Date

By Rollie Oscarton

Ever since Lynne left me, I’ve been spending most of my time on the couch, either reliving better days - such as my week-plus-long hospital stay for hernia surgery during the Anaethesia Drought of 1998 – or pondering deeper esoteric quandaries such as “What peckerless suit-monkey at ESPN programming decided that four guys from eight different countries speaking 23 languages (none of which are English) sitting around a table playing fuckin’ dominoes makes for heart-stopping spectator sports excitement?” Well, my buddy Jacko decided it was time for me to bust the rut and go do something with my life. He was right – the couch, my dog Rufus, and my house robe all had that same “last Saturday’s Schlitz-and-Chili-Cheese-Frito-fart” bouquet – but Jesus do I wish he’d have come up with a better plan.

“Rollie,” he says, “I know this gal down at the plant who’s just looking for a guy to spend time with.” He yaddayaddayaddas on with all the “good personality, loves a joke” hollabolla bullshit which translates to “hideous cow-hag who gives Mary Kay nightmares”, but I listen and agree to meet her. Jacko is my pal, and you do these things for pals… and besides, he probably bribed her, and Rollie Oscarton never wastes his buddies’ money.

So I go to Steph’s Pub about twenty minutes early to brace myself with a whiskey. Well, she was punctual – I’ll give her that – but the compliments end right there. She called me out from the door with a screech that could shatter diamonds. I turned in the general direction of the howler-monkey siren-sound and saw a lumpy lavender-and-teal planetoid with clown-red hair and radioactive lipstick to match. She waved daintily (if a triple-dicking-horny she-hippo could be dainty), then advanced toward by barstool, leaving patrons gasping and fleeing in her lumbering wake. Immediately, I turned to Benny the Tender and said “Jacko did this.” He nodded and said “Get her out of here in five minutes, and I’ll let you come back in three days.” Considering the fact that getting choking-on-somebody-else’s-puke fall-down drunk only gets you a two-day ban here, I had to act.

Forcing the best smile I could muster under the conditions, I suggested we get in my car and so somewhere “nice”. Woof. The SS Brunhilde clearly operated on the French perfume-over-your-crotch-funk hygiene system. Her stench pummeled my senses so mercilessly that I instantly teared up like a gay man at a Julia Roberts Film Fest. Somehow I managed to get through the evening, and left Bozette The Elephantitis-of-the-Ass Clown on uninsulted yet uninterested terms - what can I say… it’s a gift. After fighting off the urge to pinch off a steamy pile on Jacko’s front steps, I went home, showered twice and sniffed Rufus’s asshole for five minutes straight to get Her stench out of my schnozz.

I love my buddy Jacko, but he screwed the pooch so hard on that one that he should buy that poor dog breakfast. I can laugh at my nightmares now – they are but the “Xtro” to the “Alien” of my dating reality. Oh, to Hell with it – it’s just another fuckin’ day in the life of Rollie.

OH! SH! IT!

by Knorr The Interpreter

Congratulations, Gators. The better team won tonight.

...and Michigan still sucks.

And So It Begins…

By Bill Hannibaugh

Well my friends, Democrats took over the House and Senate this past Thursday. Nancy “The San Francisco Teat” Pelosi was awarded the Speaker’s ivory gavel, which she immediately used as a mobile stage mic for her rickety-boned, plastic-faced rendition of “Sisters Are Doing It For Themselves.” Are you happy now America? This is what your reckless impulse-voting bought.

Other than some feel-good fluffy-kittens-and-rainbows ethics rules changes, you know what else happened in the new Democrat Congress this week? Nothing. Not a damned thing. Get used to that refrain, my friends. Considering the Democrat track record over the last twelve years, Nothingness is the house specialty of those spineless milquetoasts.

Between the Republican Revolution of 1994 and the Democrat Revulsion of 2006, Congress grew increasingly corrupt and self-absorbed. The People’s Business moved farther and farther off the back burner while getting re-elected, restructuring the Constitution to ensure permanent one-party rule and cashing in on one’s position of power became Congressional Job One. Republicans brazenly impeached a President for a blowjob, used 9/11 as a cudgel on civil rights and shoved a war based on lies and personal revenge down the throats of the electorate – and that was just during the working hours, People! – and all the Democrats did was stand around and meekly applaud for fear of being branded as unpatriotic.

That’s right, citizens. Those pants-wetting ineffectual political tampon Democrats just stood around and pleasured themselves with the perks of elected office while the Republicans bent Lady Liberty over the coffee table and porked her squealing, pleading, mercy-begging-for bones for years on end – and now they hold the keys to the kingdom. Unconscionable, if you ask me.

The Democrats have done absolutely nothing to deserve the honor of the majority, yet here you have it. “Oh, Bill,” you may gurgle through that titload of Mommy’s milk still sloshing in your mewling gobs, “but the only other option would be giving power back to the rapist Republicans!” You’re damned right it is, Junior! Republicans get stuff done, and deep down you know like it that way, Bitch! You saw how Lady Liberty was dressed – she was asking for it. Her mouth might have said no, but that sultry, swishing booty cried out “Give it to me, Hammer! I need that Dick, Cheney!”

At no time, however, did any part of Lady Liberty indicate a desire for a pasty flaccid coastal blue-state bukkake chorus – and that’s what the voting public gave her in November. I hope you’re all happy with yourselves. Personally, I don’t know how you can sleep at night.