We’re OK

By Knorr the Interpreter

To all our friends from around the globe who may be worried about the low level of my postings of late, nothing is wrong. We’re just extremely busy with friends and family – we’re still upright and our house is still in one undrenched piece.

Ohio isn’t a particularly newsworthy state, but of late it’s been occupying the national headlines for its nigh-Biblical weather disasters. NPR gave the Utah coal mine a rest last week by dryhumping the troubles in Findlay, Ohio as its emotional-pornography news leader. Findlay got nailed by an unholy storm that could only be described by Midwesterners as “Noahic in scale”, or by Floridians as “a pretty rough Tuesday”. Nine inches of rain fell in an hour, knocking out all services and flooding the streets three or four feet deep. Flooding of such proportions hasn’t happened in Findlay – or any of northern Ohio for that matter – in over a century.

Those of you unfamiliar with Ohio weather patterns (which I would think would be everybody who doesn’t actually LIVE in Ohio) may think that Findlay’s troubles would similarly affect Akron, since both cities are in Northern Ohio and pretty much a direct east-west line from each other, thus rationally have some concern for the operations and operators at IbK Central. Such concern is appreciated, but let me assure you that we are all fine. Please direct any concern you may have to the residents of Findlay, which I like to call Ohio’s New Venice. Fact is that Ohio really doesn't have anything that can be considered a weather "pattern", unless you consider the tie-dyed T-shirt created by an LSD-ravaged Dr. Rorschach a "pattern." Findlay is a good 130 miles west of Akron, and for reasons only the Weather Gods know, the horrendous front that brought all the devastation pretty much set up camp in Findlay and tailgated for about twelve hours. By the time it rolled into Akron, it was still loud, boisterous and spewing plenty of fluids (we got about three inches of rain), but it wasn’t nearly the obnoxious drunken tempest that it was back in the western parking lot.

Later in the week, Ohio also got tagged by a lovely little series of tornadoes, but all of those as they are wont to do hit in the more trailer-park intensive areas in the south-central sections of the state. Akron was again spared the wrath of headline-scoring meteorological horror.

I can only come up with two reasons why our little slice of Buckeye Country continues to dodge evil weather salvos. The first is that even the Weather Gods know better than to defile the birthplace of The Chosen One. All who reside in Outer LeBronistan shall remain protected and secured from the sufferings of the External Forces so long as His Jamesty holds court and crown!

The other, more likely reason: Nothing, and I mean NOTHING worth noting ever happens in Akron. Considering the fact that Sudanese refugees are currently saying prayers for the people of Findlay, Ohio, that is by all means intended as a selling point – not a complaint.

Thanks again, guys. You're welcome to visit us any time - Akron will still be here.

I’m Looking for a Few Good Starlets-In-Waiting

By Louise Lee, Agent to the Hot Young Stars

Say, Alpha Parents – do you have a pretty and talented daughter who simply won’t be satisfied with her show biz career peaking out as Princess of the Cass County Iowa Pork Festival? More importantly, do you even give a shit what that little prima donna “wants” and think it’s about time that those looks and talents you have meticulously preened and nurtured over the last decade and a half should be lining your pockets for a change? Give me a call, Babes – we can make this happen.

Let’s face facts – you deserve to be paid for all your troubles and my current stable of starlet-sluts is getting stale. Together, we have the skills and materials to solve all of our problems. It’s a no-brainer… but there are some preps you need to put in place before we can pull the trigger on this deal.

Diet and exercise are critical for young girls at this formative stage in their lives – and that goes double if she wants to work for me. Start your daughters off right. Make sure you plow your pretty little girls with as much mainstream-megafarm milk and meat products as her daily caloric allotment will allow. None of that organic rBGH-free hippy-drippy free range shit – bovine growth hormones are what make your little girl’s chest buds bloom into the bra-busting sweater roses that turn Hollywood’s collective head. Sad fact is - unless your daughter can sing the teats off a boar-sow or make me forget Streep, I probably can't use her unless a midget can keep dry in a rainstorm under her full, firm and fleshy front porch by the time she’s fourteen.

Assuming she’s got the aforementioned qualifications, there are some ongoing guidelines that all parties concerned need to be made aware of before anybody signs anything binding:

Diet – A healthy forbidden-fruit / jailbait sex-kitten appearance and the physical stamina for 10-14 hour workdays are equally important – at least until the studio is locked into a multi-picture deal with us that would take one of their best hired-gun Lawyerdinis to free themselves from. I recommend roughly 800 to 1200 calories per day with plenty of protein for maintaining hair sheen and muscle tone. At the very least, we'll keep your daughter’s after-midnight caloric intake from the Cocktail food group under 70% of total.

Cocaine / Crack / Crystal Meth – None, please. Hard drugs wear out your ability to lie effectively and what is acting if not convincingly living a lie one role at a time? Seriously, if you’re concerned about your figure, put down the snot straw and do some fucking ab crunches, Lindsay! Don’t try to tell me that the best workout plan comes in baggies, Sweetcheeks – I’ve seen pictures of Eddie Van Halen.

Public Appearances – Recent events dictate that an approachable-but-not-accessible tack is the wisest PR course of action. Dancing and drinking for a few hours at one hot club or another once or twice a week = good. Rubbing Big Clete’s patty melt all over your exposed hoo-haa during an impromptu coke-fueled truck-stop table dance at 4am on a Tuesday = bad.

These guidelines should keep all of us happy and healthy at both the personal and financial levels – at least until your daughter hits 25 or so and the horny-male demographic loses interest in her and devotes his groin-gremlin-grappling dollars to my next project. Thanks, Babes!

Oh, that reminds me… Tara – stop calling. You’re dead to me, you played-out skankosaur. Kisses!

My Thirteenth Labor – The Contest Of Selig

By Hercules of Thebes

Baseball Commissioner Bud Selig mewled to the national sports media regarding following Barry Bonds in his epic quest for Home Run #756 stated he (Selig) was “making a Herculean effort.” Ha ha ha, Lord Selig – I mock your puny claims! The magnitude of my labors are rather well documented. Indeed, it is more than my pride that would claim that compared to my efforts, this sniveling about the “suffering” you have endured during your sports junket depict you as less of an epic hero than a seeping taint-sweat stain in the tunic of an ale-whore.

To wit: The following tale is an epically-told narrative of your efforts. Given the test of time - say around 2500 years or so - any recounting of any one of my twelve labors will clearly be the more heroic tale barring a civilization of toga-bedewing emo milksops somehow retaining the exclusive ability to spawn.

At the outset, Lord Selig braved the harrowing Milwaukee commute from the McMansion he called his home to Miller Park. For three long days and nights he braved the afflictions of his personalized luxury box in order to perform the task laid before him, but to no avail. Haggard but unbowed, Selig boarded his league-sponsored private jet eight days later as his burden would demand and fly to Los Angeles in order to fulfill this damnable charge.

Again for three days and nights did our hero endure his labors: enjoying sport in his appointed loge suite at night, while happening across the unending sea of legendarily gorgeous women which inhabit the land of Los Angeles. The task yet undone, a harrowed Selig again boarded his corporate-sponsored airliner for the arduous 30-minute flight to the site of his next test: San Diego.

San Diego, like Los Angeles, presented our Selig nigh-unendurable hindrances - free baseball at night, the sight of scantily-clad beauties gamboling about a world-class metropolis during the day – yet all for naught. As he feared, Lord Selig’s execrable errands were to take him to the very lair of his tormentor – the cay-riddled region of San Francisco.

Selig’s first night in San Francisco echoed Los Angeles and San Diego – luxury jets, limousine rides to exclusive stadium suites, constant service and pampering with all expenses paid – yet our Selig found the inner strength to persevere until the ultimate quest. On Tuesday August 7, 2007 AD, the task of witnessing another man accomplish greatness was at long last completed. With the physical countenance of the accidental arse-borne love child of Mick Jagger and Dr. Stephen Hawking, Lord Selig rose, hands in pockets, to acknowledge the historical moment, then resumed his seat - slumped with fatigue, yet blithe with vicarious accomplishment.

Hail Selig! Shall your efforts remain in the lore of the great heroes for all times!

(Did I say "heroes"? My apolgies... I meant "whining self-indulgent man-vaginas".)

Revised Memo To Our Children

By Dr. Julius Arnstuhl, Ph.D., Psychology (Retired)

Let’s get to the point quickly – this prescience of this topic has built to a critical mass over the last few years – any delay in its correction could have catastrophic results for the future of the human race.

Throughout my career I was a strong advocate of positive reinforcement for children. I still believe children will develop into healthier and more well-rounded adults through encouragement of individuality than forced conformity – however there are limits to theories, and mine has hit its limit. Modification is required… immediately.

Before another child deceives him or herself into believing that he or she can make a comfortable living deep into their respective seventies or eighties by blogging about their dickhead Physics teachers and selling magical items on Runescape, we need to establish some boundaries to our “Just Be You” mantra. Suggestions below:

You are a special person. There is nobody else like you, and that should be celebrated. You know what else should be celebrated? Thanksgiving. It gets one glorious weekend a year – the other 360-odd days of the year we do productive things. Now let go of your Wii and finish your goddamned homework.

You are a unique individual - unique and beautiful like a snowflake. Also like snowflakes, when a few million of you gather on my sidewalk through Myspace and Facebook you become less of a beautiful individual and more of a dead-weight pain in the ass. Last winter I shoveled my walk. This spring I bought a snowblower. You flakes keep this lying-around-and-posing shit up and we’ll go full flamethrower.

Please implement the new building modalities with your children as quickly as possible. Thank you. Back to my retirement now.