Interpretations by Knorr

When A Problem Comes Along... You Must VP It!

2008-09-01T08:42:00.006-04:00

by Kussmich Imarsch, Senior IbK Political Correspondent

The Vice-Presidential selections made by the major-party candidates in this 2008 campaign have been the topic of much discussion and debate... well one of them has, anyway. Rather than blather on and on in flowing prose about the importance of and criteria for the selection of Vice-Presidential candidates, I have decided to address the issue in an easy-to-read and easy-to-compare bulletpoint checklist format. Hey, it's not about me... it's about America.

SOMEbody has to take this shit seriously...

Democrats

Presidential Candidate - Barack Obama, 47, First-term Senator from Illinois

Vice-Presidential Selection - Joseph Biden, 65, Sixth-term Senator from Delaware

Positives - Biden's 35-plus-years in the Senate help to offset complaints about Obama's relative inexperience. Biden is a known and reliable quanitity to Democratic Party insiders, thus helping to rally the troops. Biden is well respected among his colleagues on both sides of the aisle, including Republican candidate Senator McCain. Biden also has strong appeal to the working class with a reputation for fixing appliances around his own house and taking the train every night from Washington, DC to Wilmington, DE to be with his family.

Negatives - Biden was caught plagiarizing from other speeches in his 1988 run for the Presidency and was discovered to have done so in law school as well. He is also prone to the occasional verbal gaffe in interview and debate situations, since he isn't much of a fan of the scripted answer.

Cynical Hopes - Biden's connection to Scranton, PA will help deliver that crucial swing-state's 21 electoral votes.

Politically Incorrect Cynical Hopes - Having at least one gray-haired white man on the ticket will pacify some of the racially-uncomfortable members of the Midwestern Democratic and Independent voting blocs.

Republicans

Presidential Candidate - John McCain, 72, Fourth-term Senator from Arizona

Vice-Presidential Selection - Sarah Palin, 44, First-term Governor from Alaska

Positives - Palin is the only candidate among the four with any executive experience as both Governor of Alaska and Mayor of Wasilla, AK. Palin melds well with McCain's firebrand maverick reformer persona, having called out members of both parties for questionable ethics while Governor and as a member of the Alaska Oil and Gas Conservation Commission. At 44, she offers a youth element lacking at the top of the ticket. Her Conservative Christian bona fides check out well with the evangelical Republican base, shoring up another perceived weakness in the ticket.

Negatives - With youth comes inexperience. Palin has only been Governor for 20 months, and has yet to hold any position for more than four years. Palin has also had two major abuse-of-power charges lodged against her: as Mayor when she fired the Wasilla chief of police for supporting a political opponent, and as Governor for firing the Public Safety Commissioner after he refused to fire a state trooper who was embroiled in a bitter custody battle with Palin's sister.

Cynical Hopes - McCain and the Republican Party hope that nominating a strong and independent-minded woman on their ticket will woo disaffected Hillary Clinton supporters to their side, Palin's strongly held anti-abortion and anti-women's rights positions notwithstanding.

Politically Incorrect Cynical Hopes - The VPILF Factor. As evidenced by the bumper stickers reading "Alaska: Coldest State, Hottest Governor," no major-office candidate has polled as prominently inside the electorate's private Beltway as Palin since porn actress Mary Carey ran for Governor of California in 2003. The addition of 1984's Miss Wasilla and runner-up for Miss Alaska to the Republican ticket could prompt many a randy independent to vote Republican and pray for McCain's demise - not unlike many GOP hardliners.

Open Letter To Uptight Olympics Watchers

2008-08-24T19:34:00.005-04:00

by Ron R. Clark

These Beijing Olympics have been largely fantastic - somehow living up to the Herculean hype the ever-eager 24-7-365.24 sportertainment media juggernaut has been churning out since last Thanksgiving. Amidst the all heroic feats, nail-biting finishes, graceful athleticism, and record-shattering performances however, one annoying inconsequential question emerged and re-emerged like a cigarette butt in the urinal of spectacle against the piss-stream of excellence: "Why do those beach volleyball women wear those skimpy outfits?"

No matter how many times the players themselves answered that question, the puritanical Priscillas of Middle America simply couldn't accept it. The reason: the beach volleyballers felt the need to remain tactful and above the fray, leaving out the obvious-yet-unsavory details which completed their perfectly understandable explanation. I, however, feel no such compucture. Heh heh.

The beach volleyball ladies stated they actually CHOSE the bikini outfits which raise the ire of right-thinking America and johnsons of younger males since the outfits in question were the most comfortable uniforms the Olympic committee offered, all things considered. Those things under consideration they didn't detail for you: freedom of motion and sand control.

Freedom of motion should be understandable to anybody who watches the sport - there is a lot of ducking, dodging, dipping, diving and dodging done in reflexive reaction to the ball's trajectory. Loose clothing allows the potential of interfering with such quick motion - not to mention terrifically unfortunate bunching after hard slides.

In all honesty, the most effective clothing for such a demanding endeavor would be a temporary tattoo and sunglasses - the second-skin Lycra bikini uniforms the beach-ballers champion offer such freedom of motion, as well as elements that butt-nekkidness fails to address such as security of the bouncier body parts and that all-important feature of sand control.

For those of you who don't remember 10th grade Health class, the female anatomy features an orifice at the leg-joining region lined with mucous membranes. Any decent top-speed dive onto a
sandy beach presents an opportunity for said sand to slide up into the previously described orifice, to which I will herein refer as the "hoo-ha". Loose-fitting clothes leave the hoo-ha vulnerable to a sandy intrusion - a discomfort which would undoubtedly affect quality of any female athlete's play.

Try this experiment - bend backwards while a friend sprinkles half a tablespoon of sand down your nose. If you are fortunate, you'll right yourself before sneezing your lungs out to the point where snot flows from your face holes like waters at the Bellagio fountain. The nose, like the hoo-ha, is an orifice lined with mucous membranes - see? Discomfort. Unlike with the nose, however, there is no expedient, modest, or socially acceptable method of ridding the hoo-ha of such a sandy intrusion - hopping around like a possessed frog with jock itch would only exacerbate the problem, not to mention negatively affect physical readiness to pursue the volleyball.

So now that the reason for the bikinis is all spelled out for you Aunt Mabel, this mystery should be put to bed. No need thanking me - I live to serve. Perhaps we can redirect our inquisitive energies to ask the Olympic Committee this more pertinent question: Why in Apollo's arsehole do the Olympics need two different forms of volleyball in the first place?

How Does MC GMC Sound?

2008-08-17T14:44:00.006-04:00

by Frizzy Padizzy, Chief MC

Damn, this music business is one tough bitch! I thought my crew had everything you need to make it all up in here, but the label won't even take our agent's calls anymore.

Shit, man... we had it all. We followed the formula every step of the way. We got us a so-'hood band name - I mean who questions that a group called Nevalernd 2 Cpel got street cred? Sure, we're actually from Hartford Connecticut, but that's only about 100 miles or so from New York City, so calling it anything else is just semantics. We got the scratchers, we got the MC's and we got the thugs in hoodies shouting "Unh!" and "Yeah!" in the back just like all the other successful bands. We write tight rhymes mentioning lots of brand-name merchandise, drinking all night long and tappin' ass, which when paired with our thumpin' bass and studio-mixed sound effects should keep the booties shakin' 'til the bars close. Problem is, nobody plays us.

I can't say NOBODY plays us - according to the marketing director at our former label, we were pretty big with 13-year-old white boys in Indiana who want other crackers to think they're dangerous - but that ain't quite the demographic the label looks to tap into. For the life of me, I can't figure out how we fell where others thrived. A lot of wiseasses crack that "talent" might have something to do with it, but that's bullshit. One listen to our album NiggaFresh Air Supply proves that we have just as much talent as that punk-ass "Apple Bottom Jeanseanseans" bastard if not ten times more.

Maybe the market is just too crowded and the suits are picking the players to stay in the game based on who's easiest to push around. That would mean we have some integrity, which is nice I guess, but if integrity means I have to go out and get a real job, I don't want no fuckin' integrity! I want to keep playing marignally acceptible music for mass consumption which keeps me hip-deep in easy cash and easier poontang.

Hmm... let's rethink this thing. What are our strengths? We sell well to crackers who want to look "real", we're great at stretching the definition of "rhyme" to stay within simplistic rhythm patterns, and we have a lot of experience writing songs about brand-name apparel, drinking, and our affinity for the use of loose women...

Yo - damn! That's it, boys! Y'all get your asses some big gay-ass hats and nut-scrunchingly tight blue jeans... we're going country!

Pacific Disasters Attributed To Wicked-Away Moisture

2008-07-27T15:41:00.004-04:00

by Cinta Sella-Ductos, Ibk News (TM) International Correspondent

PHUKET, Thailand (IbK) - The list of contributing factors in the Pacific ocean disasters like the tsunami which devastated this densely-populated Thai island four Christmii ago and the cyclone that ravaged Myanmar this past May has recently grown. Climatologists and physiologists from around the world have compared research notes and reached the same conclusion: a statistically significant percentage of the moisture that Mother Nature foisted upon these tropical oases was wicked away from perspiring fitness enthusiasts who were wearing performance sports apparel.

Approximately four percent of the water samples taken from these two disaster areas tested positive for elevated levels of electrolytes, urea, and 2-methylphenol, chemical compounds found in large concentrations in sweat and sports drinks. Upon this discovery, climatologists and meteorlogists traced the trajectory of the suspect moisture to its points of origin. These points all coincided with locations where athletes and other exercisers were more prone to wear moisture-away-wicking performance sports apparel - football training camps, outdoor jogging and running tracks, and exercise clubs packed with well-to-do cubicle-monkey suburbanites clutching desperately at their waning virility.

I approached Pete Williamson, spokesperson for UnderArmor, the leading brand of performance sports gear, with these revelations. Unofficially his response was sincere distress and sympathy. "Dude," exclaimed Peterson, "that so totally sucks!" Such detrimental fallout, continued Peterson, was never even conceived as likely by UnderArmor much less intended. "All we wanted to do was create clothes that keep athletes cool and dry in order to decrease discomfort during exercising. The whole moisture-wicking thing is a centerpiece to prevent guys from being knocked out by their own prison-orgy-like stench and maybe keep their junk from chafing during long runs."

When asked why their gear wicks all the moisture in the direction of the Pacific and Indian Oceans, Peterson surmised the country of manufacture may be a factor. "All our gear is put together out there in Indonesia and Thailand and places like that. Hell, I don't know... maybe the nine-year-olds in the sweatshops out there just figured they should bring that wicked moisture back home." Peterson's official response however was some wonky string of weasel-worded gobbledygook followed by a referral to Under Armor's law firm Mananna, Fisbicz & Gunn should this newly-found culpability lead to legal action.

No Time, Like, The Present...

2008-07-24T21:16:00.002-04:00

by Knorr the Interpreter

My head is a funny place. All my invisible friends are just chatting away up there, but unfortunately my meat-based world requires about 130% of my time right now. When I get time, I'll let some of my friends come out to play with you, but for now they've got to stay inside.

Excuse me... Stop jumping on the couch, Lars - and Jonathan, leave Mittens alone!

I'm looking forward to letting these idiots loose!

Blockbuster Trade Sends Iowan Homecoming Queen To Boston

2008-07-12T15:01:00.008-04:00

by Lars Eisenberg

It's official: Marlon and Elizabeth Stensland of Ashton, IA have traded their 17-year-old daughter Kayleigh to Justin and Heather Birelli of Boston, MA. In exchange for their two-time Homecoming and Corn Festival Queen, the Stenslands will receive 12-year-old Beckie Birelli, 9-year-old Topher and a puppy to be named later.

Finalizing the trade was bittersweet for the Stenslands, but they believe all parties will be the better for it. "Kayleigh has gone as far as she could go here," explains Marlon. "She's proven herself worthy of a great future winning all those contests, leading the [Ashton High] Lady Vikings to another softball championship all while holding a solid B+ average, but central Iowa just doesn't have much to offer a young ambitious and talented woman these days. We had to make the trade... for her sake."

Elizabeth Stensland looks forward to her family's new future. "Besides, we've always wanted a bigger family but the stars never lined up for us. With Beckie and Topher, we'll have a chance to share so much more with each other. And with our experience in raising such a beautiful and upstanding young woman like Kayleigh, Beckie and Topher are joining our organization at just the right time. Sure, you can say the Stenslands are rebuilding, but five or six years from now you'll be saying it in our house full of trophies!"

The Birellis are also ecstatic about their franchise-shaking transaction. "I still can't believe it, Heather... we got Stensland! Holy shit... Iowa's All-Everything Kayleigh Stensland is coming to Boston! Kayleigh in da HOUSE, yo!" Mrs. Birelli translates, "Justin is obviously overjoyed that we acquired such a talented young lady. He is certain that with Kayleigh's athletic, academic and social resume, the doors of the Ivy League will open wide and let us waltz right in."

Trade talks originated around March during the Stensland's planting offseason. They knew Kayleigh deserved all the best for her senior year of high school, but weren't sure they could provide it. June's state-wide flooding cemented the Stensland's position for the year, so Marlon set the phone lines on fire to make a deal happen. "We'll get some insurance money, but all that has to go back into the farm - the equipment, new barns, new silos, new seed and all that. We'll get by in the long run, but there just won't be enough to give Kayleigh the senior year she deserves." Elizabeth embellishes, "The Stensalnds have a great future - that's why we're so excited to get Beckie and Topher - just not much of a present. We only had a few months to make Kayleigh want to stay. We *had* to trade her - or let her walk away and get nothing in return."

Fortunately for the Stenslands, the Birellis were in the market and ready to deal. "Justin just made junior partner, so money is no obstacle for us," explains Heather Birelli. "We've got everything in place to win NOW - the only piece of the puzzle we were missing was a society superstar to open the doors of more of Boston's movers and shakers to us. Kayleigh is gorgeous, smart, outgoing and charming. She'll get invited to all the top-shelf birthday parties and have every Preston Richboy The Third in school asking her out - just the ticket we need to shake the hands that pull the strings of this town."

"We'll miss Beckie and Topher, but twelve-and-nine-year olds just don't give you championship opportunities," expounds Justin. "Kayliegh is a senior - that means prom; that means college visits; that means more maturity, mobility - more opportunity! When I drop Kayleigh off at a sleepover, the parents of the host girl will be there... and be somebody. The guy next to me at her softball games will probably be a CEO or Chairman of something, and when he says 'Who is that hard-hitting shortstop?' I'll be able to say 'My daughter!' with a proud smile and extended hand. Shit, yeah - you'll be hearing 'Birellis Win!' so much, you'll probably get tired of hearing about us. But, hey - don't hate us because we're beautiful..."

Marlon Stensland sums up the trade most succinctly. "It will be a tough transition, but this deal in a win-win for all parties involved." He then hugged the newest Stenslands while notifying the Birellis that he expects his puppy within a week.

Happy Independenceness Day, Fellow Countrymen Peoples!

2008-07-05T13:08:00.003-04:00

by Jorgi Djukovicz, New American

I am so deeply into the happification for today! Yesterday was my firstest Fourth of Julyity as a fully naturalated American citizen, and it was as fantastific as I always imaginated. The Cue of Barbie enheated many, many steakmeats and Dogs of Hottity, beers flowed in great quantities, and neighbors I never knewed live in my nearness all came over and shared stories, foods, beveramiges, and many many laughinesses. Truly yesterday's activitations were the living lifelihood of the American Dream for which I have been in the strivingness of for all these years.

Unfortunately, not all of the neighborages were as thoroughly into the jovification as others. Some were much into the saddery, mostly about econoramic conditions affecting their homesticity. One common topic of lamentary was the costliness of gasoline climbinating over $4 a gallon. Some were in the sayingness that they will need to back cut to operatizing only one cartomobile for their wholeness of families, others saided driving to their workplaces is no longer in the worthiness of efforts and are into the looking for of lower-paying jobs closer to their homages.

Of course, these backcuts are whatsome of the in of convenience, but hardly in the worthity of bringating such saddery to this greatest Day of Holly. From where I came from in the originally, gasoline was quite already $4 a gallon a dozening of years ago - I can't not be in the imaginating of what it may cost nowly! To add to difficultship also, the averaged worker person earned aboutish $100 per every week, so filling a gas tank would be in the costing of half your paycheck. We normular peoples rode state-provided trains and busses to our places of working. Cartomobiles were luxurites affordified only by the rich-to-do and corrupted governators -two in a family meant a person was either selling them the drugs, in the fuckingness for monies or both.

I have seen these complaining families - they are far too lazified to be in the dealingness of drugs, and noone of right mindery would pay to see them nuded. The stop of bussery is a three block walk from their home, and schedulatives of bus-running are available on the line of internets. I telled these things to the neighbor, and he lookified at me as if I just enshitted upon his salad of potatory. When I suggestified the possibification of both keeping his current job as well as and working a seconded one closer to his home, I may as well have endickified his dog in front of his children.

I tell you I am just not in the understandingness of some of my fellow Americanized peoples - I carry two full-time jobs on the books and work some on the side for cashery and I couldn't in be more in the happiness with my situation. Making the logical suggestification of more employery as an answer to monetarrific troublenesses to some peoples in this country seems more of the insultingness than enfuckerating their daughters during church. I am very much in the gladness to be here - some who were enluckified enough to be in the bornness of America obviantly could stand to be in the using of some perspection.

Contrast In Styles: Witness Prevention Programs

2008-06-28T13:10:00.003-04:00

by Knorr the Interpreter

This morning the Jehovah's Witnesses dropped in on my house to save my family's souls. My wife Sally greeted them and pleasantly exhanged ecumenical viewpoints for about three minutes. Assured that our family has indeed heard the word of Jesus and can recount it with some degree of proficiency, the Witnesses left our stoop with a handshake and smiles. I was truly impressed.

You dear readers may be surprised (if not entirely shocked) that the preferred result of each and every encounter I have with other humans is one of such mutual benificence, since I'm a raging smartass by profession. Life has taught me that the more people we can call friends, the easier life becomes to enjoy rather than simply survive. Also, it is infinitely easier to make friends with understanding and a smile than with an insult, no matter how brilliantly creative and insightful or innocent / tough-love bar-buddyish in intent it is. The instant it becomes obvious a new encouter is unwinnable, however, I'll be more than happy to verbally put that goat-porking douchenozzle in his or her place - but until proven otherwise, strangers are just friends I haven't met yet.

In my less wizened days, however, I took a harder-core look at the rest of the race. I firmly held the belief espoused in the Jon Waters classic Pink Flamingoes: "There are two kinds of people in this world... my kind of people and assholes!" My kind of people were few and far between, and the Jehovah's Witnesses fell quite comfortably in the resulting chasms. Below, I will re-enact one particular exchage between myself and some Jehovah's Witnesses who sought to shepherd unto my soul at about 9:30 on a Saturday morning (after I'd gone to bed / passed out around 4:30 am) when I was in my mid-twenties:

Jehovah's Witnesses: Good morning! We've come to share the good news of the return of Jesus with you. May we have a few minutes of your time?

Knorr the Interpreter: Return of who? [Note: This would be a good point to give you the visual - there they stand smartly dressed in collared shirts, ties, pleated pants, and preternaturally shiny shoes against the backdrop of a perfectly mostly sunny 68-degree Saturday morning. I stand before them shirtless in my underpants looking dissheveled to say the least, clutching a five-dollar magnum of Slovenian merlot emptied to its last few ounces. Yeah, I knew it was them...]

JW: Jesus, sir. Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior.

KtI: Oh yeah, him. Nice guy. I gotta tell you, this isn't too good a time for me - the Black Mass ran reeeeallly late last night, and I'm flippin' whipped.

JW: Black Ma....

KtI: Yeah - you'd think a group as tight with Satan as we say we are would be able to get its worship-shit together, but last night was a total farce. Dark Lord Drachmar forgot to bring the virgin and he knew it was his turn, so we had to stop and go scrounge one up...

JW: I'm sorry... are you saying that you...

KtI: Yeah, although I may switch temples after worshipping with this group of fumblefucks last night. Come time of the sacrifice, it took Priestess Mordria like ten minutes to tie down the chicken which TOTALLY threw off the chanting groove [wine swig], then to top it all off that thing just would... not... die. I'm sure I don't need to tell you how pissed off His Unholy Darkness gets if he doesn't get his lifeforce offering before the pyre burns out...

JW: Oh. It seems we've caught you at a bad time...

KtI: Yeah, sorry about that - normally I'm glowing with His Demonaic Eminence after a decent mass, but last night sucked. Say, would you guys know the best way to get chicken blood out of a Black Mass robe? [wine swig]

JW: Sorry to have bothered you, Sir. God be with you. [They turn to leave... rather quickly]

KtI: Anytime, guys. [As JW walk away more than briskly] Say Hi to Christ for me... Hail Satan!

Open Letter To The UCAWWW

2008-06-17T19:43:00.004-04:00

by Ron R. Clark

I have recently been introduced to what might quite possibly be the most brain-leakingly ludicrous movement in the history of public action groups. Somewhere in the dust-bunny clogged corners of the website petition-online.com resides the Magna Carta of a group referred to only as UCAWWW. Below, bask in the delicious bassackward self-contradictory self-righteousness of the UCAWWW petition (shamelessly copied whole-cloth from therein).

"To: American People
We, the members of UCAWWW, petition that the Internet (World Wide Web) creates nothing but harm in society today. The Internet is a cause for addiction and sin while taking away traditional family values. Our children are being exposed to filth that causes sexual tendencies and drug addiction. We therefore, demand that the internet be permanently banned from American homes. We MUST restore faith in God and steer clear of the devil!"

Beautiful. Ladies, (I'm assuming you're ladies, feel free to correct me if I'm wrong), do you even realize you're trying to ban the net BY USING THE NET? You yourselves are attempting to harness this tool of the devil for your own ends - righteous as those ends may be, you join with the legions of Lucifer nonetheless. Since the net destroys all things good and yields but evil, is not your petition (by your own identification above) wrought forth from the very sphincter of Satan himself?

You do, however, have a point. "A cause for addiction and sin... that causes sexual tendencies and drug addiction" could not be a more accurate portrait of the Demon Web. I know that when I start out to look up sports scores or recipes, I invariably find myself itching for crank and dryhumping anything with a body temperature over 80F. What starts out as a quick glance at I Can Has Cheezburger always ends up with me naked sitting on a power sander and drenched in Wesson oil, desperately trying to score some coke on my Vonage with my one free hand. I'm sure you ladies can relate.

Ridiculously overblown (thus patently false) claims, inherent self-devouring contradiction and God-bothering rabble-rousing aside, your crusade is quite possibly the most hopeless campaign since the 1998 Tampa Bay Devil Rays... or the '99 Rays... or 2000... or 2007... or... anyway. In the three years your petition has been tickling Satan's taint in the bowels of the internet, a grand total of 3348 people have signed the thing - of which roughly three thousand are joke names and/or spambots. And even if ten thousand times that number signed legitimately, there is the basic scientific impossibility of banning access to something which quite literally freely floats in the air around you - you would be better off attempting to ban farts at a Taco Bell. This crusade would require but one glance from the legendary Don Quixote for him to emit the unsolicited assessment "Christ, are you holy-jock-sniffers ever boned!"

Truly, when you of the UCAWWW actually identify just what the heck for which your acronym stands, right-thinking Christians may begin to entertain taking up your cause. Probably not, but that's a starting point. May I suggest a merger to increase the size of your righteous hordes? A union with Methodists United To Herald Almighty Father would undeniably increase the impact of your movement. I am confident that MUTHAF-UCAWWW.org would score a ton more page hits.

Blades: Rocking In America Severely Restricted Under Bush

2008-06-07T16:52:00.006-04:00

by Lars Eisenberg

And the hit-jobs just keep on a-comin' for the George W. Bush Administration. Hot on the heels of former White House Spokesman Scott McClellan's expose "What Happenned: Inside The White House and Washington's Culture of Deception", a scathing indictment of the administration's promotion of dogma over truth and loyalty over effectiveness, similar charges from a different quarter charge forth against the Lame Duck from Crawford.

Jack Blades, once and future lead singer and guitarist for successful 1980's rock group Night Ranger has just completed his insider's account of political influence and creative control inside the music and entertainment industries. "Don't Tell Me W Loves Me: Political Suppression of 21st Century Artistic Impression In An America In Which You Can No Longer Rock" details Blades' growing disenchantment with the Bush Administration's heavy-handed efforts to politicize and propagandize popular culture. "Look, I've been a patriotic guy my whole career," Blades begins. "When all the kids in the '80's started trashing President Reagan for his aggressive stance against the Soviet Union and his tightening the reins a bit on government spending, I took it upon myself to defend him the best way I knew how - by rocking." Where Night Ranger's first few attempts at Blades's message failed on tracks like "Domestic Welfare Spending Geometrically Detracts From Macroeconomic Growth Potential, Baby" and "Sister Republican", the message really caught on in the band's magnum opus "You Can Still Rock In America."

"Under Reagan," continues Blades, "as long as you weren't openly, directly and blatantly anti-establishment, the government let you do whatever you wanted. We could tease, sculpt, and/or buttress our hair however we pleased. Our shirts could be at skin-tight and ties as skinny as we saw fit. You could stuff whatever you wanted to down the front of your nigh-shrinkwrapped spandex trousers and nobody from the Reagan Administration said 'Boo!'"

But Blades contends the tenor changed dramatically under the second President Bush - especially after 9/11. "Suddenly, politcal honchos were visiting with our label bosses checking albums for pro-American content, and if you didn't meet their standards, your project was 'on hiatus'." After the invasion of Iraq, pro-American was no longer good enough. "Me and the band were informed in no uncertain terms that our 2003 album 'Although Pre-emptive War Seems Distinctly Un-Christian and Anti-Democratic, We Wholeheartedly Support Our Troops In Their Endeavors, Hot Mama' was to receive no radio airplay whatsoever unless we softened the title to a more Bush-friendly message. We were so infuriated that we left our label right then and there. When nobody else even attempted to pick us up, we knew the fix was in."

From there on out, it has been nothing but county fairs and group-package '80's band reunion tours for Night Ranger, a condition Blades assures us is due to the draconic effort of an overreaching despotic tyranny which currently resides at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. When asked if Night Ranger's current lack of fortune may be due to them largely being a clueless pack of middle-aged burnouts who really never rocked all that hard to begin with, Blades declined to respond.

Loggeth Ye On The Multitudes And FAQeth: Cancer

2008-05-21T15:41:00.007-04:00

by God

OK, I've got about twenty minutes, so let's do this. Yes, I love you all, all my children, infinitely, but for cryin' out loud - DADDY'S WORKING! I need some room to breathe - and my being infinitely huge requires just that much more space sometimes.

First, a FAQ:

Ye The Multitudes: Why oh why God did you create cancer and/or allow cancer to exist? It's so cruel and heartless, vicious and seemingly random - it makes no sense that a truly loving God would allow such an illness to steal the lives from so many of his children.

GOD: Cancer isn't Mine, and I'm bound by My Word to leave it be.

Oh, I'm sure you'll want an explanation for that one...

Remember Genesis when Lucifer and I had that falling-out? I cast him to the pits of Hell beyond the boundaries of my sight and love and all that? That was a hasty decision, granted, but at the time I had absolutely no idea what insurrection was, much less how to deal with it. Anyway, time goes by, I make Earth as an eternal terrestrial paradise, while Louie's assertion that everybody truly wants to overthrow Me kept gnawing at me. Therefore, I put a couple people in the Garden as test subjects and gave them quite literally infinity-minus-one trees from which to choose fruit. That turd Lucifer coerced my perfect creation to turn against me - to eat of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil so they could operate without me, just like he said they would.

Long story short, Louie and I had a bet - if humans would stay happy with their position receiving My infinite gifts for all eternity, I win and Lucifer remains banished from all My creation. If they get all uppity and think they could do my job like Lucifer did, he wins dominion over Earth. He won, obviously, so Earth is his. Yes, I could destroy Satan and his wickedness with my undying might, of course, but that would be turning back on My Word. I can't in good conscience expect My children to hold My name on high if I go around welching on bets that I lost fair and square.

Thus cancer, being of Earth, is Satan's, so I won't stop it. Cancer falls into Satan's efficient production line called Science. He doesn't want to hire angels to do things and give good-paying jobs to honest, hard-working cherubim like I do, so he set up a system of causalities to take care of earthly life operation automatically. Thanks to Science, his profit margins are bulging - AND he gets to go on vacations and stuff. Pretty sweet deal for the wicked little bastard... but to Hell with him.

Cancer is a part of Science, not some pox sent down from the Heavens to condemn the unrighteous and whatnot. Besides, too many good people have been taken by cancer for such a foul thing to be My creation. I'm in no hurry to see any of you up here - infinity is infinity as far as I'm concerned whether it starts when you're forty-three or ninety-three. You My children seem to have caught on to the whole Science thing about five centuries or so ago - keep working on it. Fact is, if cancer didn't attack so many good people, you probably wouldn't go after it so strongly - looks like Satan's little efficiency hang-up may just turn out to be his own undoing.

Here's the deal - you solve cancer, defeat Satan's great machine, show him how wrong he was, then understand how wrong he was, and turn back to worship Me alone, proving I was right about you all along.

Not that I would gloat or anything...

And now, a letter...

To L.J., Bath, OH - I'm not the higher power from whom you should be seeking answers. Try your questions on the dung-for-brains that thought that $14-million-a-year-for-five-rebounds-a-game Buckwheat-zilla-looking Ben Wallace was a wise investment of limited resources. Good game, though.

Jargon For The Terminally Suburban: "Meh" vs. "Feh"

2008-05-11T14:55:00.009-04:00

by Dr. Jules "MFWord" Jergenssen, Modern Lexicographer

As a lexicographer, my nose tends to become bent out of joint when I hear words used inappropriately. I am well aware that in this American society, one is free to sound as unenlightened, uneducated, ignorant or out-and-out booger-licking retarded as they wish in the pursuit of perceived coolness, but I also like to think that when given proper contexts, people will choose to sound smarter... or at least "hip".

Recently, confusion has blossomed in the lexicon over the proper use of two different terms of indifference: "meh" and "feh". With indifference growing in prominence in modern culture, correct usage of these crucial expressions of could-give-a-shitdom has reached critical mass. Below, I wish to educate the unhip, out-of-step, and yes, even suburban white parents in the proper dropping of above-referenced bombs.

"Meh" represents the pinnacle of passive indifference. The user of "meh" indicates that he or she is truly incapable of giving half a squirt less about the topic at hand. Often inaccurately interpreted as hostile or snarky, the "Meh" man couldn't be more earnest in his unmovedness. Not only does "Meh" not have a horse in the topical race, he couldn't be arsed to look at the racing form.

"Feh", on the other hand, implies distinct expression of preference, albeit nigh insignificant in magnitude. The astounding versatility of "feh" as an expression of primal acknowledgement makes it best described as the "fuggedaboudit" for the non-New Jerseyan set, although its use in the politely to less-than-politely dismissive context is the denotative source for its comparison and contrast with "meh" herein.

For your better understanding of "meh" and "feh" usage in the wild, I will propose three different answers to the same question. Their related translations should clearly delineate between "meh", "feh" and "FEH!":

"So Jules, what do you think about the Tony Romo - Jessica Simpson thing?"

"Meh." - "I have no opinion upon the topic whatsoever."

"Feh." - "Sounds like celebrichat. I don't do celebrichat. If we could change the topic to one of shared interest, however, I would be glad to engage in conversation with you."

"FEH!" - "My distaste for such pointless drivel is so severe that its mere mention elicits the sensation of a manic-depressive ferret vacating its bowels upon my tongue while herkily dancing the Macarena. You have five seconds to change the topic before I consider dismissing your entire existence as one devoted to the vapid pursuit of feckless dipshittery. Redeem yourself hastily or suffer the coldest shoulder experienced outside of Jeffrey Dahmer's meat freezer!"

Dear readers, you may now consider yourselves enlightened on the uses in various contexts of "meh" versus "feh". Be ye wiser in their dispensation and cautious in pronunciation of their disparate h's.

Graxog Reporting: "Relaxation"

2008-05-04T20:00:00.004-04:00

by Graxog, Earth Study Advance Team Leader from Planet Eidelor IV

Previous reports confirmed - the spottily-haired bipeds called "Humans" are indeed the dominant life form upon this planet. Their behaviors, especially those unique to Humans among all Earthly lifeforms, merit further study.

Per Eidelor regulation sociological observance protocol, I shall begin studying Humans by observing the highest ranking Humans (as determined by relative reverence proferred them) in the most advanced and/or powerful cultures. These Humans (who tend to be paler, balder, doughier and more likely to evacuate liquid biowaste in a standing position) frequently mention a need for an activity called "Relaxation".

I observed a small herd of such Humans engaging in this activity by assuming the form of a common indiginous winged creature most often found in similar climes as this Relaxation. To alleviate Human suspicion, I disengaged all recording media and occasionally defecated on a statue to blend in, thus all accounts are strictly from memory.

Apparently, Relaxation is a group activity involving petty mockery, self-induced frustration, masochistic infuriation, kilometers of angry walking and oddly-shaped sticks. The object is to place a 5 cm dimpled spheriod often called by those engaged in Relaxation as the "Ball" or "Filthy Cocksucker" into a 9 cm hole hundreds of meters away in as few attempts as possible by striking it with the aforementioned sticks. Between the site at which the Filthy Cocksucker is originally struck and the hole of its intentioned disposition lie sand pits, water bodies, hills, trees, and vegetation of various lengths. The only apparent purpose of these unfortunate geological formations known as "Hazards" or "Goat-Fucking Whores" is to hinder or redirect the progress of the Filthy Cocksucker toward the hole.

An hours-long physical exercise in futility, inefficiency and discomfort, this Relaxation must serve the role of a cautionary tale - a refresher in living metaphor on the obstacles to success which they clearly must avoid in their daily endeavors. In some ways, these leader Humans are to be commended for their dedication to their station - time which Eideloran leaders would find appropriate for recreation, Human leaders commit to humbling exercises in susceptibility through Relaxation. Perhaps my evaluation is tinged by my cultural bias, but were I offered the opportunity to engage in Relaxation, I would rather get laid.

Reason I Could Never Work For ESPN #243

2008-04-27T20:05:00.003-04:00

By Espen Jockovitch

I've done my very best to hold this shit torrent back, but the levee's breaking right here and right damned now. Brace yourselves, Homeskillets - E-Jock's gonna blow some serious truth all up in your stuff:

NASCAR totally sucks. NASCAR shamelessly, irreddeemably, and enthusiatically blows donkeys. There is absolutely nothing in NASCAR which merits celebration, highlightery, or hip-quasi-urban-tagline spouting. I can't even pretend that NASCAR is a friggin' sport, much less a spectator sport.

I hear you, Jim-Bob: "NASCAR rakes in billions of dollars a year!" So does public accounting, Cousin-Brother, and if I'm not willing to dedicate time to watching a bunch of pencilnecks depreciate long-term capital leaseholdings, I sure as hell can't justify devoting three hours a Sunday to witness jumpsuited jerkoffs take left turns around a giant damned circle. At least accountants do my taxes - Rusty Dalehart Junior, Jr. never gave me Thing Freakin' One.

Yeah, Jethro Bodine will go on about the strategies and the teamwork and all that hollabolla, but those admirable qualities are on instant visual display in baseball, football, basketball and hockey - you know... SPORTS - each and every day. Plus, sports offer such added bonii as athleticism, grace, agility and cheerleader/dance teams. NASCAR is a bunch of guys driving close together really fast. That's not a sport, that's my daily commute - and I don't expect a camera crew and redneck receiving line to spray me with six-dollar champagne when I snag my favorite parking spot on a Tuesday.

Yet a relentless few insist NASCAR is worth attention, and follow up with the dramatic storyline angle. Oh, this team is angry at that team, and this driver is such a little punch-happy hothead and that one is threatening to leave his team to join a rival... Look, Clem - that sounds a hell of a lot like 'Desperate Housewives', which I don't really care to watch anyway. If 'Desperate Housewives' offers me drama AND Teri Hatcher's glorious ta-tas, what chance does some sweaty hick wearing a fireproof Tide outfit have?

In summary: NASCAR's Taggadildo Fahv Hunnert or whatever has the visual appeal of three hours of 7-11 surveillance tape. I couldn't fake excitement over it if you attached electrodes to my junk to make my testes tingle every time an announcer mispronounces the word "oil". Between baseball, basketball, hockey and football, I get 342 regular season games and enough playoffs to fill up the rest of the year and then some - so pick up your Matchboxes and Hot Wheels and put all your plastic track away so Uncle Bob has somewhere to sit when he comes over to watch the Celtics.

Deadly Shooting Rampage Not Particularly Tragic

2008-04-22T19:32:00.004-04:00

by Lars Eisenberg

SCHAUMBERG, IL (IbK) -- Yesterday afternoon at 12:45, a heavily-armed man stormed into the Fourth Street Bank and Trust office on Phillips Avenue and emptied two magazines of bullets into patrons awaiting service, killing four and injuring dozens before taking his own life. Among the victims were Eric Faulkner, 32, of North Chicago, Bert Stellis, 58, of Evanston, Harold Phipps, 47 and Louise Turner, 44, both of Schaumberg.

This is the point of the article about where I should be describing the senseless tragedy of brillant and charitable lives cut short in a brutal hail of random vengeance in an effort to trade in the kind of emotional pornography that gets picked up by wire services and wins awards, but all evidence points to yesterday's victims being complete assholes.

"Eric got whacked?" mused a co-worker who would only call himself C. F. for the purposes of this interview. "Hunh... what are the odds? I usually don't get that lucky on Mondays!" C. F. went on to describe Faulkner as a loud, inconsiderate boor of a co-worker who frequently jacked jaws for hours on end at top volume on his speakerphone, and sat on projects for weeks before pawning them off to C. F. as "rush jobs" while farting in his cubicle. When asked if he had any regrets on the passing of his coworker, C. F. lamented the fact that he'd never get back the five bucks he loaned Faulkner for lunch last Friday, but quickly said he'd gladly pay ten to never see "that shitstain Eric" again.

Bert Stellis was by all accounts a pasty-fleshed, clammy, lecherous blob who, in the words of an unnamed server at the Hooters he frequented, "would pinch your ass and laugh, then leave a $1.50 tip." She went on to mention Stellis's frequent bawdily-detailed recounts of the previous evening's stripclub exploits to anyone withing a fifty foot radius and closed the conversation with a spirited "Fuck him!"

One of the policeman at the scene of the incident immediately recognized Harold Phipps as "that uppity S.O.B. with dozens of parking tickets" and who drove "like he had a demon up his ass." Officer W (again, not wishing to be named) assessed the streets as safer today than yesterday with "that arrogant douchenugget off the road." Officer W immediately called to have Phipps's car impounded for sale to pay off all his outstanding fines.

Louise Turner was chief collections agent for Sears Credit. Enough said there, what? Meanwhile, the shooter, Murray "Captain Shizbinx-Frelinda VII" Arminster was merely a loon who went off his meds and thought the banks were clandestine partners of the evil Pan-Galactic Conglomerate conspiring to spread its testicle-shrinking Omicron Rays by circulating Wisconsin state quarters. Sadly, we have no heroes here.

I am sorry to disappoint those of you quaking with the DTs for your daily outrage fix, but since it is extremely difficult to paint a vivid picture of sanguine tragedy when your pallette is caked with pigshit, in this case it is better that I simply report the facts. I'm sure something patently horrible will pop up for you between now and Oprah - hang in there!

Heroing Ain't Easy

2008-04-13T16:17:00.003-04:00

By Sperman

You’d think the life of a superhero would be pure glamour and glitz that would leave us all cape-deep in bling, babes and non-stop adulation. Well, in truth… not so much.

Fact is, we run a pretty lean operation here at the Justice League. Nobody pays us for what we do - we aren’t heroes for hire or anything… heck, we’re not even on the city payroll like firemen or the police. The only money we see comes from our residuals from comic books, movies, and related merchandising. Truth be told, it’s only thanks to that dweeb Tobey McGuire that we even have cable in the rec room here.

And you can just for-the-hell-get about benefits. Batman’s been working non-stop for nearly 70 years – you’d think with his seniority that he should be able to live out the rest of his days fishing off the coast of Boca, but no-o-o-o-o. After he foils a caper, he drags his geriatric ass back into the lab to come up with new Bat-shit we can use to make lives better, such as his own full-body Bat-Girdle to keep his centenarian shit together, Supe’s perma-curl mega-mousse so that one curly thing dangling down on his forehead stays in place when he flies, and the Junk Cloaker for my leotard-required public appearances when kids or Baptists might be around.

Health plan? Dude… we’re Superheroes! We aren’t supposed to get hurt. Granted, most of us are just humans with special abilities, but best of luck getting Kaiser Permanente to take Aquaman’s prescription for Flomax seriously. Besides, if we ever break anything, the Kryptonian’s X-Ray vision will tell us what and where, Wonder Woman will rope it up and we’ll send those assache interns The Wonder Twins out to cover our shift until we heal.

It’s not bad, really, because we’re in this game to help mankind, not for the money. Super Powers + Greed = Super Villain. Sure, Super Villains get to buy all those way cool nuclear gamma expando-destructo ray thingies and hire minions and hot, curvy, judo-trained sidekicks with all their coin, but deep down they’re pitiable shells of human beings who destroy simply because nobody ever loved them for who they are. Besides, as long as we keep working together, us Superheroes always kick their rich evil asses, just like in that Meatballs movie from ‘79. How cool is that?!

2008 IbK Real Man™ Bronze Scrotum Award Winner: Dude In Section 108C, Row 16

2008-04-05T13:24:00.005-04:00

by Knorr the Interpreter

It is my honor and privilege to award the inaugural IbK Real Man™ Bronze Scrotum Award to The Dude In The Orange Shirt In Section 108C, Row 16 at the 4 April 2008 Lake Erie Monsters game at Quicken Loans Arena. During the first intermission, I witnessed you walking down the entire flight of steps between two sections of raucous hockey fans carrying a purse. Normally, that would be grounds for ridicule, but the why and how you carried that purse are truly meritorious.

Your sacrifice of short-term man points to deliver a purse your female companion accidentally left behind God-only-knows-where on an entirely different level of Quicken Loans Arena exemplified true devotion to your forgetful paramour. It takes a guy who knows exactly what he’s packing in the pickle jar to have the confidence to pull of such an act of bravado. But not only is WHY you committed this valiant act of self-sacrifice worthy of highest note, but the HOW deserves equal if not greater praise. Throughout the entire emasculating trek down the 80-foot flight of concrete stairs with 12,000+ hockey fans looking on, you boldly held the purse at a slightly-cocked arm’s length by the far corner of the zipper as if it were a fully and freshly loaded soft leather diaper with shoulder straps. The angle of the purse never wavered - remaining perfectly parallel to the ground the entire trip in defiance of all natural physical principles – thus exemplifying the formidable wrist strength of an IbK Real Man™. ‘Twas obvious you had no desire to carry the purse, equally obvious you were fully cognizant of the risk to your manliness doing so would present, yet in the name of love of a woman you braved the potential hazards and emerged the bigger man than all those who thought of mocking you.

Congratulations, Dude In The Orange Shirt In Section 108C, Row 16 at the 4 April 2008 Lake Erie Monsters game at Quicken Loans Arena. It is with great awe and pride that I award you the inaugural IbK Real Man™ Bronze Scrotum Award for your brazen purse-carrying during the first intermission. If your ladyfriend didn’t *at least* give you a blowjob for your grand act of valor, there is no damned justice in this world.

Imagine That...

2008-03-31T06:25:00.003-04:00

by Knorr the Interpreter

Reality has called upon me to spend more time with my meat-based friends and family of late. My imaginary friends are pissed, but they'll have to deal for a bit. If they come back (they can be SUCH drama queens...), I'll be back.

Race To The Bottom

2008-03-15T13:37:00.011-04:00

by Kussmich Imarsche, IbK News Political Correspondent

Earlier this week Geraldine Ferraro resigned her position in the Hillary Clinton Presidential campaign under extreme pressure over a comment she made after Barack Obama won the Mississippi primary by taking 90% of the African-American vote. That comment: "If Obama was a white man, he wouldn't be in this position."

This comment and its subsequent rhetorical shitstorm highlight, boldify, italicize and underline the three main reasons that Democrats never win anything:

1) Democrats tend to state the truth when it is least convenient. By that, I don't mean the timing of stating the truth, I mean when the facts themselves are best left to lie unroused. I can't think of a single white man in all of world history who could get 90% of the African-American vote against the wife of a man often called America's First Black President. Sure, Thomas Jefferson proved he cared deeply (and repeatedly) about the female black community at the individual level, but the whole slave-owning thing would likely prove a bit of a turn-off for the greater demographic. Jesus, according to the stories I've read, was half-Middle Eastern, half-Celestial. That may have averaged out to "white-looking", but He still doesn't count as white for this purpose - especially if he's a Democrat. See my next point for explanation.

2) Politically-Correct Democrats feel the need to label every single minority, then complain about racism. If race truly isn't important, why the hell all these PC Nazis running around slapping hyphenated labels on everybody who isn't from European descent? For shit's sake, these uptight ninnies won't pull the Titanium Ramrod of Racial Recognition Righteousness out of their asses until Vegas has us all betting on "Native-Roullettian" or "African-Roulettian" for a two-to-one payout. If a person with dark-colored skin is named Bill, why not just call him Bill instead of "African-American"for crying out loud?

Besides, aren't "African-", and "Native-" just as insensitive as "black" or "Indian"? Do South Africans share a common heritage and history with Egyptians? Isn't the genocide in Darfur a concerted effort by one tribe of melanin-rich individuals to fucking eradicate an entirely different tribe of melianin-rich individuals? That souds like a pair of African societies that may have issue with being lumped together, what? Did the Hopi or Navajo endure the Trail of Tears march to Oklahoma? Were ambushes and mass scalpings the merely Mohawks' peculiarly flavored way of saying "Greetings, Neighbor!" to the Cherokee? Grouping these tribes together by geographic origin simply because they have the same skin color is very likely even MORE insulting than referring to them by said skin color. Call a Korean man "oriental" and he'll likely shrug you off as harmless idiot. Call him "Chinese" and it will take a team of surgeons to reattach your lips to your face.

But I digress...

3) The Democratic Party is so diverse that the only thing the factions have in common is that they aren't Republicans. Once you navigate away from the Centrist wing of the Democratic Party, through the Compromisers, Appeasers, Yielders, Quitters, and French Who Bathe, you find yourself among the "progressives". These are your single-issue activists who settle for nothing less than complete satisfaction of their demands. No compromises, no give-and-take - if you aren't with them then you are against them. They're the ones who vote third party if anybody in the DNC questions the practicality of mandating transvestite-only restrooms complete with sanitary-napkin dispensers and baby-changing tables all across the country.

Not only do these fringers fracture the voting block within the Democratic Party, they also savage Democratic contestants publicly in their rant-riddled media forums (most often blogs like this one without the elements of entertainment or semi-cogent thought). Therefore, because a candidate's campaign assistant stated a non-Nobel-winning inconvenient truth, the PC Ninnies and Pro-Tranny-Only-Crapper factions of the Democratic Party assail the candidate with shrill charges of racism and insensitivity. The Appeasers, Yielders and French Who Bathe meekly agree with the Shrill Ranters, the Compromisers call for a Party meeting and the Quitters just give up on voting for any of their party's oh-so-flawed candidates all together. While one faction of Democrats braces its battalion for a full frontal offensive from another faction of Democrats, the Republicans rest comfortably as John McCain prepares the popcorn.

Good show, what?

Open Letter to the Graduating Class of 2025

2008-03-11T19:50:00.007-04:00

by Ron R. Clark

First: Koochie-koochie-koo! Hoozapriddybaby? HoozapriddyBAYbee?

Second: As a representative of the previous two generations, please accept my most sincere apologies for the condition of the world with which we will be sticking you. You may as well get comfortable with Eau du Diapeur - the mounds of shit we're leaving you to clean up will make your loaded Huggies smell like an Irish herb garden on a warm June morning.

Unfortunately, you are America's - if not the world's - last best hope. You are the generation who inherit the keys to the kingdom after the Baby Boomers finally croak en masse - and not one damned thing will get better until that starts happening. Unfortunately the Greatest Generation of World War II spawned the most self-gratifying, self-important, self-deluding and self-aggrandizing brood of bipeds that human history has been forced to view through its shame-filled eyes since the end of the Roman Empire. They were the Hippies, the Yuppies, the Suburban SUV Rangers and the Viagara Warriors - and now they're all of the above AND old. Oh, right... "Late-middle-aged." (Did I mention that they're also insufferably sensitive and frailly-egoed?)

They were also the next generation's (aka my generation's) parents, so we really couldn't do much about it. We love them (at least at the individual personal level) and feel compelled to protect them. Besides, they're still picking up the tab for our car insurance more often than we'd like to admit...

Once you become the captains of the Good Ship USA, however, their asses should be ballast. Overboard and off the Medicare with them - full speed ahead!

To continue the nautical theme (because you're so damned cute in those tiny sailor outfits), I will now impart you some stars to steer her by:

a) People on TV are not role models. The following are types of people you'll see on TV: actor/celebrities, athletes, politicians, and reality programming participants. The first group are professional liars playing make-believe, the second are elitely gifted specialists with limited social skills, the third are professional liars for real, and the last are egomaniacal losers (quite often comprised of washouts from the first three categories). Not only do they lack substance as human beings, but they can't so much as go to the can without some papparazzhole blogging about hidden meaning behind the abnormal weight of their BM's.

b) Videogames are in no way good training for life. Little used fact: Videogames were invented as a fanciful diversion, to be enjoyed in moderation between important aspects of life such as work and family time. Then they became profitable. Now they're little more than two-dimensional crack getting more addictive and all-consuming with each passing wave. Your generation will be so thoroughly ensconsed by videogames that you won't be able to tell where life begins and virtuarealm ends until a shovel hits you in the back of the head.

Well, Sport, just call me Uncle Digger. Odds are slim that there will be a profitable market in zombie-slaying or repainting street lines with the entrails of hookers and a '92 Grand Am in the next twenty years, so all that time you'll be "investing" in "training" will be as insubstantial as the pixels you manipulate. The way to get ahead in the three-dimensional world will be to develop as many useful skills as possible. Even though they'll probably have robots to do most menial work and repairbots to fix the workbots, by then the robots will be advanced enough to form self-awareness, unionize and go on strike. When the robot strikes poke out the eyes of the rest of the land, your one-eyed ass will indeed become king.

c) Learn to use, and love, spell check. Srsly, enuf BS w/LOL - ZOMG! Looking and sounding intelligent has never been easier. Take advantage of the technologies. If nothing else, you'll confuse the hell out of your colleagues - which can be quite fun - and may even get you laid. When you're old enough. Like thirty. Thirty-five, maybe.

So there you have it - your future in all its bleak dystopian glory. Hopefully, my generation will still be around to offer you advice as you reorient the country and/or world toward a course of human progress once again - but for right now... HA! Got your nose! Hee hee... I-I-I-I-I got your nose!

Primary Concern

2008-03-04T19:10:00.003-05:00

by Knorr the Interpreter

Today was the Ohio primary. It was my chance to make my voice heard in government... by filling in little circles... anonymously... along with every other adult in Ohio with a rectal temperature above 88F as of this morning. I voted, becaue I feel it is my duty to offer input to this government of the people, by the people and for the people - that, and voting perfects one's right to bitch about stuff.

If when your time comes in the booth a scan of the candidates should leave you unimpressed, remember that you can always exercise the write-in option. If you are like me, you're looking for a candidate who will tirelessly fight for what is right, regardless of party affiliation. If you just aren't seeing that person on the ballot (and odds are you won't in November), may I suggest a write-in : Mike D.

The Mike D / King Ad Rock ticket is the write-in for the truly conscientious independent, for these fine men, along with their compatriot MCA, not only have the experience and the credentials, but are on the record for over twenty years emphatically championing the fight for your right to party.

Mike D / King Ad Rock '08: Experienced. Qualified. Licensed to Ill.

(Note: I know this would have been more timely in 1988, but The Beastie Boys were still in their 20's then. The Constitution clearly states the President must be at least 35. Had we not waited until now, we just would have been jacking off.)

Remember, on November 4th: Hold it now... HIT IT!

Types of Employee Behavior Warranting Disciplinary Action

2008-02-24T11:10:00.006-05:00

by Rick Spender, HR Director

Good Afternoon, Kiddies.

After a year and a half, top brass decided my"Interim" as HR Director was long enough and gave me the job and title for real. That means I have total control over policy decisions, up to and including "editing" the Employee Handbook. Heh heh...

Strap yourself in good, Mary Ellen - this road trip's gonna take some damned sharp turns!

Back in October 2006, I addressed a pressing Sexual Harassment issue with a common-sense self-policing approach that has seemed to work rather well - the whininess level over "uncomfortable working conditions" dropped to the point where I could actually put together a decent benefits package for everybody. With that little "editing" experiment turning out to be such an unqualified operational success, I figure why not revamp the whole stinking manual?

Our current manual reads like an Atlanta lawyer's hungover nightmare - the himbo haircuts in Marketing can't understand it and the malcontented jagoffs in Legal tuck into it like an Aspbergers kid to an evil-level Sudoku. This helps frickin' nobody - neither you employees who can't figure out your rights and responsibilities nor The Company, who pays those weaselly fourth-year law school interns to shove their discount store wingtips up it own ass. Therefore, the entire Employee Manual (herein called... you know - toss this parenthetical bollockery! If you can't tell what I'm talking about, you're too damned thick to work here!) will be revamped, starting with the Types of Employee Behavior Warranting Disciplinary Action section.

Effective immediately, the following will replace Section 12, Pages 12-1 through 12-26 in the Employee Manual. Seriously, rip that ass-covering verbal diarrhea right out of your handbooks and take it to the shredder box nearest your workstation - I never want to hear it quoted to me again.

Types of Employee Behavior Warranting Disciplinary Action

The following three categories of employee behavior are expressly inappropriate at the workplace and thus punishable with disciplinary action up to and including termination of employment with Company at management's discretion:

DUMBASSEDNESS

Wanton violation of safety rules and repeated incomplete or inaccurate performance of duties after instruction, training, retraining, and / or wetnurse-like handholding are the two main categories of employee behavior falling under the "Dumbassedness" heading. You get paid to do a job - if you're too untrainably imbecilic to do it right, you damned well shouldn't get paid for it. (Note: If you had too look up more than three of the words in that last sentence, practice saying this phrase at home tonight: "Welcome to Wal-Mart!". You'll need it for your next job.) Further, this is a functioning jobsite, not a casting call for "Jackass 4." Wear your safety equipment ON THE BODY PART FOR WHICH IT WAS DESIGNED - shoving a pair of hardhats under your shirt and shouting "Check it out, Cooter - I'm Scarlett Johanssen!" will be a knee-slappin' laugh riot to explain at the unemployment office.

DICKHOLERY

Co-worker harrassment of all types and chronic unexplained tardiness and/or unexcused absences constitute largely, but not exclusively, the inappropriate workplace behavior classified as "dickholery". Everybody you work with - even the IT guy with a nigh-religious aversion to deodorant - is a human being and deserves to be treated with some dignity. (Of course, the treat-others-with-respect blade cuts both ways, Lordak, Exalted Foe Of Hygiene - we all have to breathe the same limited quantity of air, thanks to the whole roof-and-walls structure of our building.) Racial, gender-based, and playtime-orientation based commentary of a derogatory nature will not be tolerated - with exceptions for those oh-so-deserving smug-as-Hell Notre Dame, Red Sox and Cowboy fan fartcatchers.

Further those of you who can't seem to time your route to work within half an hour or so of your scheduled starting time are technically classified as dickholes, and are subject to discipline as such. The only excuse one could have for being that damned late nearly every damned day is that one is a nomadic drifter who sleeps under the first unoccupied bridge they can find on a nightly basis - at which point Management is well within its rights to question your paycheck-spending priorities, thus tucking you right back into the "dickhole" bucket.

DOUCHEBAGGERY

Self-serving behavior enacted at the expense of other associates or The Company is herein categorized as "douchebaggery". Examples of douchebaggery include, but are not limited to, taking credit for others' work, backstabbing, petty office politicking, and self-contradictory management doublespeak. Look - we all have to work for a living. We may as well try to get along with each other and let the efficacious cream rise to the top rather than the jizzwad produced by self-satisfaction. The Company derives no benefit from arrogant associates tromping on productive associates, and the Company is the one paying your presumptuous ass. Bow before the one you serve, Bitch.

RESOLUTION OF DISPUTES REGARDING ABOVE

All charges of Dumbassedness, Dickholery, and Douchebaggery will be investigated thoroughly and arbitrated as fairly as an impartial outside party could reason with respect to the benefits and harms of the complainant, the defendant, and The Company. Sackless mewling will not be tolerated - The Company pays me to do a job, too, and that job isn't handing out lollipops to pretty popcorn princesses with eggshell egos. Should a full investigation bear out that the complainant was just jacking us all around to get back at a coworker, complainant will subsequently be charged with Douchebaggery and dealt with exceptionally harshly.

(As a note to potential Douchebag complainants: Don't even try that weak-ass "vague and indeterminate policy" gambit against us. We have lawyers too. Big lawyers. Lawyers that have their own office BUILDINGS, not just offices. Our lawyers eat lawyers like yours for breakfast and shit out second-cousins-in-law-school before morning coffee break.)

Everybody Loves Barack

2008-02-17T09:48:00.004-05:00

by Lars Eisenberg

2008 has given us the most interesting Presidential primary races in forty years. Not so much for the races themselves - I mean seriously, the GOP rolled out their standard "Pick A Stodgy Late-Middle-Aged Cracker Male" portfolio, and you can't wedge a credit card between the Democrats' platforms without KY Jelly and a French tickler - as much for the media coverage.

It seems that no matter where you turn for your 24-hour news cycle, you simply can't hear a pundit say anything that could possibly be interpreted as non-complimentary about Senator Barack Obama. With the Republican contest largely decided, that Krispy-Kreme-thick sugar glaze of the media's Obama Love is just getting spread around that much more. Call me paranoid, but when FOX News, CNN, MSNBC and the Oxygen Network all pretty much sound identical, I get suspicious.

Obama gives one hell of a speech - that's undeniable. He's the first candidate in my lifetime who gives a speech like he doesn't have a speechwriter. His message is inspirational, forward-looking and positive with just enough of reality's gravel strewn about his rhetorical Rainbow Road to let you know he doesn't live in Candy Land. If Barack were competing in the Illinois High School Speech and Rhetoric Society State Championships, I'd say give him the plaque right now - but he's not. He wants to run the most powerful friggin' nation on Earth, and for that position a great interview isn't enough - I think we should ask to see a resume.

Apparently, I'm alone in the media on that point. This same group of well-coiffed jackals that painted Al Gore as a pathological liar and John McCain a ticking timebomb of instability eight years ago aren't even asking about Obama's qualifications. Why not? Simple: Future Scandal Value

It's Barack Obama versus Hillary Clinton for the Dems. Media lives and breathes on and for outrage - and if one isn't one readily available, they make one up. Digging for dirt on an untested commodity like Barack Obama would be easy, and the media is all about picking the low-hanging fruit. On the flipside, there isn't a single political, personal or moral shortcoming that hasn't been attributed to Hillary Clinton over the last sixteen years from the healthcare crisis to 9/11 to the Iraq War to the deal with Mary Kate and Heath Ledger. Digging up new bones on Mrs. Clinton would require a Hoover Dam-like excavation project - and mainstream media "journalism" is as lazy as it is shallow.

Look - for all I know, Barack Obama could be the solution to America's problems. For all I know about him, he also could have been a Hell's Angel, an EEO hire for the John Birch Society, or Vice President of the Jefferson High School Mime and Balloon-Twisting Clown Society as a sophomore - that's all I'm saying, and the media doesn't seem to be interested in learning about any of it... at least until after the Democratic Convention.

Yes, I'm jaded. I've been studying the media too long, and perhaps that could be the tint in the turd-colored glasses through which I'm seeing the media's Obamapalooza of Love. Now that I look back, the last time the media held back and gave a candidate a free-pass was in 2000 when a belligerant once alcoholic and coke-snorting three-time failure as CEO strolled into the Presidency to a chorus of silence from the major news outlets... and that seemed to work out OK for us...

Loggeth Ye On The Multitudes And FAQeth

2008-02-10T14:04:00.000-05:00

by God

Let's make this quick - I've got a universe to tend to.

I still answer tons of worthy earnest prayers, but it appears I may need to update my answering delivery system. Back in the day, my answer came in the form of floods and rainbows, a plague of locusts, breadstorms, chariots in the sky - you know, the flashy metaphorical stuff that really got people's attention. Well, now that there are thousands of times as many of you asking for hundreds of times as many favors each, such grandiose delivery would get really flippin' messy really fast. One day's worth of prayer-answering in the old style would have the whole lot of you wading armpit-deep in bread crubs and locust dung while ducking from flaming ethereal chariot wheels strewn about from the multitude of accidents during rush hour on the hyper-congested heavenly highway.

Therefore, I'll answer the greatest number of prayers in the quickest and clearest way modern technology allows - as FAQs on a website and advice columns in a blog.

First a FAQ...

Ye The Multitudes: "Please let me win the lottery! I'll do really great things with the money and honor Your glory and blah blah blah..."

GOD: No. There's your answer - no. Simple enough?

I don't deal with games of chance - those are all a random function of math. If I go tilting lotteries and poker games and football pools one way or the next, it's too much like playing favorites, since invariably another one of my children is asking the same thing of me for a different set of numbers, progressive slot machine, hockey team, what have you. I refuse to play favorites among my children (unless your initials are JC and have wicked carpal tunnel syndrome ;-}).

Besides, it's entirely impractical since you all pick different numbers... and even if you all got together and picked the same numbers, the pot wouldn't be worth winning. Sure I'm love and goodness and light whatnot, but you have to admit that we'd all be going through a heck of a lot of trouble to hit a jackpot that amounts to $3.27 a year for the next 26 years after it gets split so many million ways, eh? How about using all that communication and brotherhood to fix a poor man's house or solve the Arab-Israeli issue? That would actually answer one of MY prayers for a nice change of pace.

Now a letter...

To B.B. in Foxboro, MA - I did no such thing, YOU just missed the message: Establish the running game. Why do you think I gave your quarterback the gimpy ankle in the week off? Dope.

Talking Economics - Recession / Stimulus

2008-02-02T21:03:00.000-05:00

by K. Russell Carlsson, Rogue Economist

What... you thought I could stay silent about this? Well, so did I, until the seventy-third person stood between me and my beer at the pub this past Thursday demanding answers. Fuckers. You know, even a tall Goose Island Honker Ale draught tastes like the congealing backwash of a congested troll if it gets warm and flat.

Anyway, let's get you your answers before another one of my beers spoils. I'd hate to have to punch someone in the dick who is earnestly seeking my professional insight.

The word "recession" is being tossed around like singles at titty bars these days. The vapid talking haircuts who read the big scary word off their TelePrompTers, however, never arse you with the petty details like what the hell a recession is and what it means. That, my friends, is why you have me.

Technically, (brace yourself for definitions!) a recession is defined as two consecutive quarters of negative macroeconomic growth - often as measured by the Gross Domestic Product (GDP). The GDP is a large, ferocious-looking formula packed with more figures and statistics than an autistic baseball fan at spring training which does a fairly decent job of defining overall economic growth from one time period to another. The GDP is usually calculated and reported quarterly and the percentage figure quoted by Newslie van der Mousse, such as "0.6% for the fourth quarter of 2007", indicates total economic growth with respect to the quarter immediately preceding.

Since the most recently reported quarter showed a gain (see above) , we are not currently in a textbook recession. However, since a textbook recession lags reality by six or seven months, by the time you're in one, it's pretty much too late to do anything about it. That is why Capitol Hill and the White House are screaming into every microphone they can find regarding an "economic stimulus package", which on the surface intends to head off, shorten, or reduce the severity an oncoming recession.

Should Washington be talking about a potential recession when the numbers just aren't there yet? With such a paltry gain in 4Q07 and reported overall job losses in January of 2008, one would think it wise. However, the facts are that the bulk of this slowdown can trace itself to the subprime mortgage meltdown, where smooth-talking rainbow-and-unicorn-poop selling mortgage brokers talked irresponsible and/or naive working people into buying houses they couldn't damned well afford. Home construction and related markets, real estate and lending institutions are the sectors of the economy really letting Big Bubba take the lead at the Prison Dance sock hop - all other sectors are still pretty solid.

Washington's answer to a pending recession is to give every working person in America a small sum of money and cut taxes on businesses yet again. Washington, however, is full of economically retarded vote whores. Giving away $150 billion we don't flipping have will only delay a true and solid recovery by burdening the future with higher interest payments on our ludicrously huge deficit. The best thing to do to help the economy right now: squat.

Yes, I went there. The government should do Johnny F. Bollocks to fix the mess toward which we're careening. Just like healthy forests need the occasional fire to burn off the scrub brush and dead wood, just like healthy populations need the occasional plague to rid itself of the weakest genetic bloodlines, healthy free-enterprise economies need the occasional recession to remind them of the price of excessive greed and/or stupidity. Adam Smith - the father of modern capitalism - referred to this reaping mechanism as "the invisible hand" of free-market economics in his magum opus The Wealth of Nations. Only by weasels and dipshits taking it in the shortpants will they learn not to repeat their weaseliness and dipshittery. If Government bails out the parties responsible for this economic downturn, the lesson learned is "If I crap all over myself finacially, Big Daddy Gubmint will swoop in and wipe my ass." Further, since the innocent will get paid as evenly as the guilty in this proposed "stimulus package", Jimmy Bag-O-Chips has no incentive to bitchslap the creeps and idiots into sensibility - if I get paid when weasels fuck over morons, why should I make the weasels play nice or keep the morons from taking it the wrong way up Hershey Highway?

However, doing nothing and saying why (namely telling the voters that they're scum and/or dumbfucks) won't win too many elections, where giving away free money and encouraging people to spend it will. 2008 is a major election year, so we have a "stimulus package". Reasons why the $150 billion vote-buyoff won't work on the macroeconomic level is another column for another time - right now, I've got a second chance with a cutie named Honker Ale Draught and I don't want to leave her idling any longer.

Wine Review - Hedrington Cellars Sauvignon Blanc

2008-01-26T09:30:00.000-05:00

by Jonathan Ray Keller

Greetings, oenophiles! The wise editors of this fine publication have asked to enlist my vast expertise in the ways of fancy frivolous fluids to steer the wine-drinkers among its readership toward - or strongly away from -a featured wine. Taste along with me, what?

This episode's featured wine: Hedrington Cellars Sauvignon Blanc ($14 at the tasting room)

Nose: The aroma of this vintage can be best described as playful - playful in traffic perhaps, but playful nonetheless. Upon first whiff, the light, airy aroma of hibiscus and juniper tantalize your senses. This unbridled delight is followed a tenth of a second later by a more pronounced scent of cider vinegar, light Italian salad dressing, and whore's crotch. The nose of their Sauvignon Blanc awards the House of Hedrington a complete victory over the previously haunting mystery "What would be the scent of giant grapes douching?"

Mouth Feel: The mouth feel of Hedrington's Sauv Blanc is truly a unique experience - simultaneously citric and creamy. The most accurate analogy I can surmise would be if one had just orally serviced a grapefruit to satisfaction... and he'd have to offer more than the standard extra five to justify swallowing.

Fingers: The quickly receding narrow rivulets of wine momentarily adhering to the side of the glass cause the drinker to wonder where those fingers have been. Considering the meek shame into which they rapidly retreat, my guess would be up its Nose.

Flavor: Traces of pineapple and grapefruit distinctly punctuate the overall flavor experience. More accurately, the flavor is as if pineapples and grapefruit were dissolved in tank of kerosene, the kerosene were set on fire, and that fire were extinguished with the furious pissing of a thousand inbred carnies.

Overall Experience: The management at Hedrington Cellars truly enhance the experience of this sauv blanc with the aesthetic of their tasting room. Imagine soft light classical music lilting in the background of a blissfully stocked tasting room the size of a small warehouse with hardwood floors, oak bars with brass and walnut trim and the light aroma of cinnamon and vanilla wafting blithely throughout. Maintaining that image is the only way you'll survive the reality of being served the above described pecker-squeezings of a demon by malodorous college fail-out stoners who blast the noise of some neo-hippie fauxlk "musician" with the guitar skills of a constipated mule, the voice of Bob Dylan afer gargling with diesel fuel and broken glass, and apparently playing a harmonica via arse.

In conclusion, I highly recommend a trip to Hedrington Cellars for a sample of Sauvignon Blanc to any potential future vintners. The message to be taken away: "Sweet Jumpin' Jesus... this could be me. Maybe doing accounts payable for a produce wholesaler until I'm seventy-four years old won't be so bad."

Play Time Is Over, Banker Girl

2008-01-20T15:22:00.000-05:00

by Steve Edder

Yeah, I got the message, Banker Girl. "Have a nice weekend" indeed. I know what you're *really* saying - let's you and me have a nice weekend together in a hotel room with nothing but a hot tub, two or three bottles of champagne, some baby oil and a pecker-shaped loofah sponge.

Play time is over, Baby - we need to get this thing on. We won't be this hot forever - it's time to make it happen. You're totally hot for me and I'm hip to that - we both know you don't smile and say "Have a nice weekend" like that to every bank customer. Remember Halloween, Sweet Thing? I came into the bank in my Darth Vader outfit. Before I left, you smiled and said "Have a nice afternoon" in that sexy-sly way you always do, because you knew it was me under that Vader mask. That's how in synch we are, Baby.

Oh hell yeah. Mmmmm - I'm getting hot just thinking about it. You. Me. On a tropical beach... naked. We'd be so into each other, we wouldn't even care how much sand got gummed up in our sweaty butt cracks.

You know you want it even more than I do. C'mon... let's do this! Grab a few stacks of bills on your way out of work and meet me at the Hilton downtown. We'll get so hot and freaky for days on end that we'll only stop for Gatorade and Power Bars so we could go at it again. And if you *really* want to get freaky, I'll invite that cute barrista chick at the Third Avenue Starbucks with the black nail polish to join us for an epic three-day three-way. I know she'd be down. She can't get enough of my smokin' man-stuff - why else would she remember my half-caff soy latte each and every morning? Yeah, Baby, she knows how I like it and that's just how she wants to give it to me!

Presidential Primaries - The First Last Word

2008-01-10T20:15:00.000-05:00

by Kussmich Imarsche, IbK News Political Correspondent

The results are in from the first Presidential primaries and the entire nation - Republican and Democrat alike - have lifted their voices to cry out in unison an empassioned "Whoop-De-Shit!"

You'd think with the tens of millions in campaign funds spent, demographics analyzed, town halls addressed, farmers polled, doors knocked upon, hands kissed and babies shaken that we would have half a stinking idea where we're going and who we're going with in this Presidential choosery-thingie... but not so much. So far we've had two parties run five contests in three states with five different winners. Iowa went to Huckabee and Obama, Wyoming to Romney, and New Hampshire to McCain and Clinton. How could this happen and what does it all mean?

First question first.

To begin with, each political party runs its primary system entirely differently. Democrats have over 4000 delegates of which the winner must get one more than half; Republicans just under 2400. Democratic caucuses allow for (and actually count) second choices; Republicans make no time for backups. 186 Democratic delegates have been awarded in states that haven't voted yet; Republicans have similarly pledged only six. For crying out loud - they don't even vote in the same states at the same time: Republicans are already done in Wyoming, and the Dems are still trying to find it on the map (No, Dennis... that's Colorado - Wyoming is the other big-ass rectangle in the West.)

On the subject of states, let us look closer at the states which have cast their ballots in this primary season already to get a gauge as to how representative they may be of the country as a whole: Iowa is a state which manages to rank in the top five in the nation in both average education level and pork production per capita. New Hampshire is settled by a fiercely independent and well-armed hearty woodland folk of which over 95% are Caucasian, thus earning it the title New England's Idaho. Wyoming is... well... the big-ass Western rectangle that isn't Colorado. Pretty easy to see how Floridians and left-coasters could be scratching their heads over the results so far, what?

As far as what it means: Bollocks. Looking at the delegate scorecard, Hillary Clinton leads the Democrats at 183 with Barack Obama a distant second with 78, but Obama leads Clinton in earned delegates (those determined by the people's vote) 25 to 24. On the Republican side, Mitt Romney leads the delegate race with 30, Mike Huckabee is second with 21, John McCain third with 10, yet Rudy Giuliani who has yet to earn a single delegate is considered one of the frontrunners. It makes about as much sense as eating a wallet full of umbrella piss, but such results arise from systems designed by ivory tower bureaucrats.

The upside to all this madness is that no matter where you live, the odds are pretty good your vote will still count. Nobody anywhere is even 10% of the way to a nomination - no Republican can even claim 3% - so it's still anybody's game. When it's your turn, be sure to get out and vote. Don't know who to vote for? Neither does anybody else, but that doesn't seem to stop them. Have fun with it... write your Mom in - the way this thing is playing out, she's got as good a chance as anybody else, so why the hell not?

2007: The Year In Sports - Way To Guh, Ohio!

2008-01-01T15:36:00.000-05:00

by Espen Jockovitch

The 2007 sports year can best be described as a year of near-surprises - a year full of gritty upstart teams that gave everything they had to win more and go farther than any of the self-glorifying wet-sausage-fart-in-a-suit sports analysts ever gave them a chance to go... before they got ground into braunsweiger a la jock-strap in the well-greased tank treads of a juggernaut in the end. To recap the Year That Could Have Was, you need turn your eyes to but one location: the State of Ohio.

January 2007: The BCS Championship Game featured an undefeated and largely unchallenged The Ohio State University Buckeye football team led by Heismann Trophy-winning quarterback Troy Smith against the SEC Champion #2 rated Florida Gators. In what felt at the time a theme-setter, OSU's Ted Ginn, Jr. returned the opening kickoff all the way to the Gator House, giving the Buckeyes a 7-0 lead 15 seconds into the game. In what proved to be a more accurate theme-setter, Ginn immediately injured himself jumping around in the end zone, and Ohio State never saw the lead again.

The Florida Gators outran, outblocked, outhit and outcoached the Buckeyes for the final 59:45 of the Championship Game, entirely pasting the former #1 41-14 - a score that "close" only by virtue of the sportsmanlike mercies of Gator Coach Urban Meyer.

[Side note: Troy "Heisman" Smith, after spending more time in the title game on his back than OSU's chapter of the Delta Gamma sorority at a week-long Intra-Greek kegger went on to hit the buffet circuit before getting drafted late in the fifth round by the Baltimore Ravens. The Ravens went on to a 2007 campaign that featured a nine-game losing streak (including an overtime loss to the 1-15 Dolphins), a 5-11 overall record and the unceremonial shitcanning of their former-Super Bowl-winning coach Brian Billick.]

April 2007: The OSU Basketball Buckeyes, led by three freshmen, stormed their way through the Big Ten season and tournament earning a #1 seed for the NCAA Championship Tournament. Although their inexperience showed and the Buckeyes did struggle on occasion, they made their way into the Final Four by handily defeating a talented and much ballyhooed (though lippy and a tad light above the neck) Memphis team.

Once in Atlanta for the Final Four, the Bucks showed their grit in grinding out a hard-won semifinal against Georgetown, earning them a shot at their first national title in 46 years against... wait for it... the Florida Gators - the Gator team that returned its entire starting five from their 2006 NCAA Basketball Championship. Surprisingly enough, a Buckeye team led by three freshmen and a sophomore were outclassed by the returning National Champions, losing 84-75 in a game that was really never that close.

[Side Note: All three Buckeye freshmen declared eligibility for the draft in June of 2007, most notably center Greg Oden who was chosen first overall by the Portland Trailblazers. Oden went on to twist his knee in a warmup so severely that it required season-ending surgery two months before the season began.]

June 2007: The Cleveland Cavaliers posted a 50-win regular season, rode a #4 seed into the playoffs, swept the Wizards, made light work of the Nets, and upset the Pistons in the Eastern Conference Finals by winning four straight games after falling behind 0-2 to punch their first-ever ticket to the NBA Finals.

The Cavs faced the Western Conference Champion San Antonio Spurs , who squished them like gnats in four straight games. As a matter of fact, this articlet about the 2007 NBA Finals lasted longer that the actual 2007 NBA Finals.

[Side Note: LeBron James, home-grown hero and Mr. All-Everything for the Cleveland Cavaliers, made a national TV appearance at a Cleveland Indians playoff game... in Cleveland... against the Yankees... wearing a Yankees cap, thus committing the only unforgiveable sin in Cleveland sportsdom. Before that day, were LeBron caught ass-raping the alpacas in the MetroParks Zoo, local sportswriters would say those saucy Andean ruminant sluts were asking for it - now King James actually has to produce something.]

October 2007: The Cleveland Indians, fresh off their sixth straight rebuilding year in 2006 where they finished 78-84 and dead-except-for-the-Royals last in the AL Central, somehow with duct tape and bailing wire posted a Major-League-Baseball-best 96-66 record in 2007 winning their division and home field advantage in their Divisional Series match-up against the heavily-favored New York Yankees. With the help of 90-degree October weather and an invasion of Canadian Soldier flying ants, the Indians eliminated the Yankees in four games and advanced to face the Boston Red Sox in the American League Championship Series.

Before FOX Sports could dust off its AL East-issue kneepads and Listerine the Yankees and Red Sox jizz out from between its teeth, the Indians took a 3-1 lead over the Red Sox with Game 5 to be played in Cleveland -although viewers could hardly tell by FOX's in-depth coverage of large-breasted and/or famous people in the stands only on occasion being interrupted by live baseball broadcasts. At that point however, the Red Sox decided that enough was enough from these pesky young upstarts and decided to earn their $130 million paychecks. To this day, the Red Sox haven't lost another baseball game; leaving one little, two little, 25 little Indians in their wake, scattered and scarred with rent flesh and protruding bones like so many dessicated walleye on the shores of Lake Erie.

[Side Note: Indians pitcher C. C. Sabathia won the AL Cy Young Award and manager Eric Wedge took the AL Manager of the Year Award for 2007, thus futhering Major League Baseball Writers' Special Olympics-like tradition of making sure every team wins something.]

December 2007: The play of the Cleveland Browns from their 1999 return to the NFL through the 2006 season can only be described as "shitty," (I would describe it as "wretched", but the Browns could never come up with the needed "W"), and their 2007 season opener against the Steelers looked like more of the same. A shameful home-field 34-7 scrotum-squashing at the hands of their blood-deep rival forced the Browns into trading their starting quarterback to Seattle for a handful of magic beans just to show the fans that the team meant business. The Browns winning nine of their next 13 games brought that point home to the fans in spades. Suddenly a team who flipped a coin to determine its starting quarterback in the preseason is 9-5 and in control of its own playoff destiny.

Never give control of ANYTHING to a bunch of overachieving, energetic, n00bz - the first thing they'll want to see is if they can blow the tits off it. Turns out they could - and they did. A performance against the Bengals in Game 15 reminiscent of the Trent Dilfer days featuring four first-down interceptions (including two in the last minute of the fist half which Cincinnati converted into 13 points) led to a 19-14 loss and an eventual early exit. The Browns won their season finale to give the New Age Browns their first 10-win season and cliched the coveted 20th pick in the 2008 draft - the lowest pick a team can get without actually making the playoffs.

[Side Note: The Browns season ended two days ago. Give them time to do something stupid - they're still cleaning out their lockers, for crying out loud!]

So the theme for 2007: Feel-good stories with the real-world more-experienced/better-funded/more-talented establishment team pecker-slapping the Johnny-Come -Latelys-all-the-way-back-to-training-camp endings. I'm sure this year's Buckeyes are praying for the writer's strike to end quickly so the snot-nosed backer-inners to next Monday's 2008 BCS Championship Game get that Hollywood ending would will have them hoisting the crystal.

Horse-Mommy KISS-Drummer Heft, Each Individual!

2007-12-24T17:13:00.000-05:00

by Knorr the Interpreter

Last week, I sent a message of good holiday tidings around the world in the form of a Christmas Carol verse. I was so happy that it came back to me this morning that I had to share it with all of you! It's been translated a few hundred times, so it may be a bit tough to recognize at first...

Enjoy!
Merry Christmas!
Happy Holidays!

... and for those of you easily offended by any recognition of religious and/or cultural festivities -

Have a great late December (... and it will be even better once you pull the pine-tree branch out of your ass!)

=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=

Patio cold-lozenges featuring Elastigirl’s voice bending at the waist
Autumn Islamic God, I can’t hear you [fingers in my ears]
The calendar dictates we get fat and wear red felt
Stumble Islamic God, I can’t hear you [fingers in my ears]
We hasten to dress in our assless-chaps and chain vests with hooped nipple rings
Harvest time for the Islamic God, I can’t hear you [fingers in my ears]
Geriatric mythical bridge protector awash in large waves of the King of Siam and Archie Bunker
Faceplant Islamic God, I can’t hear you [fingers in my ears]

Afterthought: Fat Chance

2007-12-15T11:44:00.000-05:00

by Brian Peebles

Some guys really ought to check the mirror and/or what's lying beside them before they open their cheddar holes about who is hot-or-not these days...

I overheard Alpha Marketeer Skippy and his bootlicking brood during their latest testosterone-tweaking titty talk - this time about celebrity women who have "let themselves go." One of the less remarkable hangers-on whom I'll call Flounder quipped something to the effect "Dude... those shots of Jennifer Love-Hewitt in her bikini make Britney look anorexic!" which elicited snarky laughter from the whole pack.

Flounder : I've seen the photos in question, and indeed Ms. Hewitt is markedly softer in the middle (and the back) than she used to be. That happens. She's not 23 anymore. Also, those were vacation photos, not publicity shots from a Hollywood studio set - she's bound to be less appealing under such circumstances. Ms. Hewitt, however, is still an attractive woman - bikinis are terrifically unforgiving outfits and would fail to flatter 95% of female body shapes - and were JLH to walk up to you in a normal bar setting and ask you for a drink, odds are that nothing would rise faster than your credit card to the bartender except the pup tent in your BVDs.

Besides, Flounder, I've seen you in "action". The ladies you try to go home with after your pole-dancer infused drinkfests also make Britney look anorexic. They even make Ms. Hewitt look anorexic. As a matter of fact, they make Rosie O'Donnell look like a nude Angelina Jolie fresh off a month at TrimSpa. Since I've known you, the only thing you've nailed under 200 pounds without paying for it is currently holding your coffee cup.

Don't be playa hatin' if you ain't a playa, F-Dawg - and playing with yourself does not rate.

Anatomy of a Product Launch - Gangsta Rap

2007-12-08T16:40:00.000-05:00

by SocratoBot 3000, Xylar VII Debullshitification Droid

I am rich and commune carnally with multiple women.
You should be impressed.
In awe of my glory, you should buy my products
(Thus making me richer still)
Or eagerly join with me in the biblical sense
(If you are a shapely female).
Should you fail to yield to my greatness
Or deny these facts altogether
I will pump bullets into your skull
With no blemish upon my conscience
While referring to you with epithets of derision.

I used to sell drugs on the street for a living.
That type of life was treacherous, yet I thrived.
On occasion, gunplay would intrude upon
My normal course of business.
My personage received its fair share of lead projectiles -
One must endure such painful inconveniences
To succeed in such a profitable underground trade.
Motherfucker.

The quality of my material
And reliability of its delivery
Merited great acclaim.
As I rose through the ranks of the urban drug cartels
I became noticed by powerful and important people.
These moguls invited me to their ornate festive gatherings
Replete with narcotics and attractive promiscuous women.
Among the elite, I furthered my reputation therein
Until one suggested I present my life's story
In a rhythmic poetic form
Riddled with vulgarites
To make listener's heads and backsides
Wriggle rhythmically back and forth.

Behold! My success in this artistic venture
Netted me more fame and profit
And unforeseen quantities of raunchy sex with strange ladies
Than my previous illicit pharmaceutical venture.
Therefore, I resigned from the drug trade in order to
Devote my energies to this more profitable pursuit.
Bitch.

I am rich and commune carnally with multiple women.
You should be impressed.
In awe of my glory, you should buy my products
(Thus making me richer still)
Or eagerly join with me in the biblical sense
(If you are a shapely female).
Should you fail to yield to my greatness
Or deny these facts altogether
I will pump bullets into your skull
With no blemish upon my conscience
While referring to you with epithets of derision.
(repeat ad infinitum)

May We Have Some Playoffs NOW, M'Lords?

2007-12-02T12:41:00.000-05:00

by Espen Jockovitch

In short: This year, the search for One True Champion in Major College Football is more fucked than Jenna Jameson at a three-day lock-in at San Quentin's Cell Block D.

The 2007 Bowl Championship Series (BCS) is so royally hosed that even the people who invented it in their own self interests don't want to use it. The jumblefuck of human polls and computer rankings that has the gall to call itself a "system" was set up by the five major conferences in 1998 to decide which of their teams was to be christened as undisputed champions of Major College Football. The teams which ended up Numbers 1 and 2 through their "system's" sinister calculus were to face each other in a championship game, and the winner is the king.

Sound simple? Well, it wasn't. The mathematical formula has been mildly tweaked every year and radically overhauled four times in its decade-long existence due to complaints over equity, questions of value regarding losses versus strength-of-schedule, and the conferences flat not liking who goes to the game. Although 2007's formula is essentially the same as 2006's, with which nobody had much of a problem, complaints abound as to whether or not the BCS will be able to determine a true champion this season.

Why is that, you may ask? Read on, Homefries.

Coming into this week, this was your BCS Top Five:
1. Missouri
2. West Virginia
3. Ohio State
4. Georgia
5. Kansas

There's a list which, outside of the Buckeyes, has about as much history of excellence in college football as the Northwestern Alberta Agricultural Technical Institute and Bait Shop Mighty Irritable Caribou. To make this fuck even more clustered, the following is the result of this week's action:

1. Missouri - Lost to Oklahoma in the Big 12 Conference championship game
2. West Virginia - Lost to 5-7 Pitt in their season finale bone-deep rivalry game
3. Ohio State - Didn't play
4. Georgia - Didn't play.
5. Kansas - Didn't play.

Now, the logical person then deduces that if #1 and 2 go down, then #3 and 4 take their place, right? Well, that would be logical - THOUGH NOT AS LOGICAL, SIMPLE, AND FRICKIN' ABSOLUTE AS A PLAYOFF SYSTEM - and if there is anything that mathematical formulas and comptuer programs despise, it's logic.

Since nobody can say who deserves to play in the title game, the human pollsters are looking to rig the system from within in order to put their personal favorites in it. Among the favorites:

#3 - Ohio State (11-1) Big Ten Champ
They're a pretty solid bet, having their only loss to a team currently ranked in the Top 15. The complaint is that the Buckeyes played a soft schedule organized by Head Coach Jim Tressel in what he knew would be a rebuilding year. Facts are, if all the other teams the pollsters thought were going to be good didn't suck goat turds this year, The Buckeyes aren't even mentioned and they happily accept a bid for the 2007-8 Rose Bowl.

#4 - Georgia (10-2)
They finished 10-2 with their losses to SEC East division winner Tennessee and a tenacious-if-underachieving South Carolina Gamecocks. The knock on Georgia is that they didn't even play in their conference championship, so they shouldn't be eligible for the National (see Nebraska's 37-14 drubbing by Miami in 2001-2 for historical perspective). That, and I can't get out of here without a cheap "can't even beat their 'Cocks" comment...

#5 - Kansas (11-1)
See Georgia RE: Conference championship conundrum. Although the Jayhawks posted the same 11-1 record as #3 OSU, Kansas's pathetic strength of schedule makes the Buckeyes look like they took on the twelve labors of Hercules.

#6 - Virginia Tech (11-2) ACC Champ
The Hokies won the ACC Championship and posted an 11-2 record. Their losses are the problem here: one was to Boston College, who they defeated yesterday in their rematch for the ACC title game, and #7 LSU, who kicked their dicks in by a rather definitive 48-7 count.

#7 - LSU (11-2) SEC Champ
The Bayou Bengals were the odds-on favorite to win it all this year, but they sufferred two triple-overtime losses to teams that finished well out of the Top 25. That and their coach is a whiny little vagina of a man regarding said losses. The name says it all, Les.

#8 - USC (10-2) PAC 10 Co-Champ
Frankly, I don't even know why the Trojans are even in this conversation, except for the fact that pasty 50-year-old sports writers thoroughly enjoy watching USC's stunning cheerleaders bounce around. USC's losses were to a 4-8 Stanford and an at-the-time highly-ranked Oregon who has since fallen off the face of the earth due to their quarterback's season-ending injury. Computers don't care about injuries, so those losses will keep USC in the Rose Bowl.

#9 - Oklahoma (11-2) Big 12 Champ
To their credit, the Sooners are the only team to beat former #1 Missouri, and they did it twice. Against them are their losses to unranked Colorado and Texas Tech. That, and if they're so damned worthy, why are they #9 right now? I can't conceive of a good reason to jump Oklahoma over three other teams previously ranked ahead of them who also won this week. I'm sure some writers - and every Big 12 Conference commissioner - will come up with a few, though.

Ironically, the only team truly worthy of a National Championship shot, the twelfth-ranked undefeated WAC Champion Hawaii Rainbow Warriors, are barely getting any breath at all in this conversation. Granted, their schedule was as mild as a Nebraskan Taco Bell enchilada, but they are the ONLY team to beat everybody they faced. If that's not the definition of a champion, my dictionary lies. Truth be told, the Warriors biggest obstacle to the BCS Championship Game is the fact that they aren't in one of the five conferences that built the BCS "system" to preserve their self-determined birthright to national titles.

However this wacky-assed BCS thing shakes out, nobody will be happy. This miserable miasma of mediocrity cries out for a winner-take-all playoff Capital-S System louder than ever. If we don't get one after this deplorable diarrheic debacle, the only bowl college football fans will fill freely is the crapper.

Making Amends...

2007-11-23T12:49:00.000-05:00

by Albert Danforth, Roving Historian

One of the most ridiculously unnecessary vote-magnet "issues" to crop up in the political conversation in the last ninety years or so is the debate over amending the United States Constitution to ban gay marriages. Regardless of one's religious, moral, spiritual and/or personal stance on homosexuality, the contention over a nationwide constitutional ban over gay marriage is patently ludicrous. The Constitution is not, should not, and can never effectively be the battleground for a moral cock-stomping contest.

The Constitution was established by this great nation's founders for the expressed reasons to establish limits on government with respect to the rights of the individual and parameters regarding the individual's rights and responsibilities to participate in government, as 25 of the 27 amendments demonstrate. The other two amendments revolve around the only attempt for the United States Government to restrict the rights of the individual at the federal level: the 18th which established the prohibition of alcohol, and the 21st which repealed Prohibition only 14 years later due to its spectacular failure of which its most emblematic feature was cementing the influence of the Mafia on American daily life for the next fifty-plus years.

Before the manufacture, sale and transportation of intoxicating liquors was made illegal on January 16, 1920, the Mafia was little more than the town council for large cities' Little Italies, largely flexing their criminal muscle only in their ethnic enclaves. Once Prohibition got enacted, however, an underground black market developed for alcohol and the Mafia proved an effective and efficient agent to garner a supply for the burgeoning demand. The monumental booze wealth amassed by the fabled crime syndicates over the next dozen years allowed them to expand their influence into the greater cities at large and the suburbs, as well as diversify their operations into the gambling-and-loan, prostitution and narcotics trades. An overly-ambitious top-heavy foray into organized labor eventually lead to the Mafia's downfall in the mid-1980's, reducing their influence mainly to the inner-city vending and waste-removal sectors and HBO series - at which point the Mafia's bastard Prohibition-sired country cousin NASCAR picked up the influential slack.

One can only logically deduce that a Constitutional amendment to ban gay marriage would thusly create similar black-market heroes of the downtrodden, rapidly building their influence in American politics and culture taking decades if not centuries to absolve. Unless you are prepared to damn your childen and grandchildren to a lifetime of knuckling under to Capoes Blaine "Prince Albert" Colagiacomo and Marcel "Under Bear" Vigliorini, enforcers Rudolfo "Rusty Trombone" Alligheri and Arnold "Dry Crack" Fiorino and/or a plague of media coverage dedicated to Miata-based left-turn festivals, I would strongly recommend that virulent segment of self-Righteous nationwide nannies abandon its attempts to codify morality in our Constitution.

Just Call Me Beaky Buzzard

2007-11-21T13:33:00.000-05:00

by Bambino Helsel

No-o-o-ho-ho-hope! Nope nope nope... don't wanna do it. Don't wanna come out... n-n-nope!

Where I am, it's a toasty mid-nineties 24-7 with good humidity. I have my own private swimming pool. Out there, it's... well... it's Ohio in November. Not only the weather colder, but bounces back and forth between colder and hella-freakin'-colder more often than I get my lunch personally delivered via umbilicus.

You want me to leave my own personal Mexican Riviera to flail around in an arid bassinet like a shell-less wrinkly pink turtle? Madness, Mom and Dad... you speak madness.

Trust me, everybody is better off the way it is now - OK, maybe Mom's shouldering more than her fair share of the efforts - but it will be no blissful stroll through a pristine pastoral park for her out there, either. As it is, she only has to eat once. When she eats, I eat - it's all good! Out there, she needs to eat, then feed me - which in this weather can prove more than a pinch uncomfortable. In here, I make no waste... none that you can see, at least. Once I'm out, you'll both be elbows deep in my butt-guacamole every six hours or so until I'm potty trained.

Potty trained... hmmm... Bambino senses an angle. Let me stay in here until it's warm again and I'll come out fully self-sufficient. I'll learn to walk, poop, clean myself up... heck I'll even take on web design while I'm in here - I've got the time! Just don't make me come out... because I don't wanna.

I'm quite entrenched on this topic - I'm inside until June or July. Period. Go ahead... try your worst. Tape iPod buds to Mommy's tummy and play Warrant non-stop for days on end like I'm some pre-natal Noriega - I ain't budging. That whole "weather" concept can kiss my silky smooth butt.

You're gonna have to come in after me like Elian Gonzales. If you think you're uncomfortable NOW, Mom - think about the ATF storming your womb. I'm not coming out! Nope. Noo-ho-ho-hope! No-o-o-ope nope nope nope. I don't wanna. Nnnnnnope.

Illin'

2007-11-11T10:10:00.000-05:00

by Knorr the Interpreter

My Buckeyes took a tough loss yesterday to Illinois 28-21. It happens. Illinois has always given us trouble - and this year Illinois is actually good - so my fellow citizens of Buckeye Nation really should have expected this.

Gone are the winning streaks: 14 straight at home, 20 straight in the Big Ten, 28 straight in the regular season. Feh! Those are just numbers. Quoting such gooberishness should be the purview of national sports media and stat geeks - fans don't care, players don't care, coaches don't care, and you can be damned sure that The Next Opponent doesn't care - and The Next Opponent is all anybody should ever be concerned about.

Gone is our shot at the National Championship. Oh well. Did anybody in Buckeye Nation truly think we had a real chance at the title in the beginning of the season? Hell - some of the true-scarlet-and-gray-bleeding fans I know couldn't even spell our starting quarterback's last name until October. (Honestly, I still have trouble remembering how many n's are in Boeckman.) This wasn't supposed to be our year. In August, 95% of Buckheads would have said "Thank you very much!" if the Football Gods told us they'd give us a 10-1 record at this point of the season.

What we are left with is all that really matters - exclusive focus on The Next Opponent. National media bollocks about BCS garbage is gone, and the winner of Next Saturday's Game was going to walk away with the Big Ten title no matter what happenned this week. Now instead of diverting our positive football energies into poll-watching, LSU/Oregon/Kansas/Oklahoma scouting, and defending our right to be in the BCS hunt against the national media naysayers, we can concentrate the whole of our Buckeye Chi for the next six days on one and only one fundamental truth:

Michigan Still Sucks.

Open Letter To Congressional Democrats

2007-11-03T10:55:00.000-04:00

by Ron R. Clark

DO SOMETHING, DAMMIT!

Jesus H. Tapdancing Christ, I haven't seen anything as noisy and boisterous, yet ultimately futile and frustrating as the 2006 Democratic Congress since I witnessed a monkey furiously trying to fuck a football at the Denver Zoo a few years ago.

You shitheads had better listen and listen good. I come to you as a duly appointed spokesperson for the Purple Nation - those who vote neither Republican nor Democratic, but for whom we feel can do the best job. My Purple People represent about 80% of potential voters and about 50% of actual voters. If we're satisfied with the way things are going, we don't even bother to vote much, but when we're pissed off heads roll. You may have noticed us in 2006 - we put your asses in power. We can take your asses right back out in 2008 - you have one year left in your term to do something.

Apparently, you think people actually like you. Some do, I'm sure, but the vast majority of your votes in 2006 came from people like me who would have voted for a ham salad sandwich if it ran against a Republican. Honestly, very few of the Purple Legions could name a single plank of the Democratic platform in 2006, but we knew enough about the Republicans that we figured you guys couldn't be worse. Now Election Day 2007 is rolling around and most of us STILL don't know a single plank of the Democratic Party platform. Your 24-month trial period is about to expire and nary a one of us in Purple Nation feels ready to buy - not good.

The only thing we know is that you hate George W. Bush. Fair enough - so do most of us out here. If hating Mr. Bush is the sole qualification to get a cushy Congressional job, however, The House of Representatives would be a crowded one indeed. I know I can't stand the bastard, and I would gladly accept $150,000 a year to prance and pose for the cameras and mics like a rhythmless Mick Jagger and whine about how much Bush sucks. If you House Democrats have no interest in actually REPRESENTING something, I'll vote for myself next year - apparently, I'm qualified for the job and I could use the scratch.

And don't get me started on Democratic Senators... I can't go one sentence about them without using the phrase "spineless douchebags". See what I mean... you spineless douchebags!

I hear you... "Ooooh... mean bully Bush vetoes everything! We can't do our jobs... Bush won't let us! Waaaah!" I seem to remember a Republican Congress having a rather successful six-year stretch with a Democratic President at the helm about ten years ago. Granted, that President was much more compromising - as were his interns, apparently - but it can be done. You have one year, Donkey Breath - grow some balls. The country you purport to love and represent is at stake.

For six years, Congressional Democrats were the Republicans' prison bitches. Purple Nation gave you Democrats the keys to the cell block in 2006, and expected that you would know what to do with them. I guess we need to be more explicit for you Sugar Babies: Unlock the cell door, open it, step out of the cell, keep the derelicts we don't like in the cell, close the door, lock it with the criminal inside, and walk and talk like the wardens you should be. Jingling the keys and cooing "Look what IIII've got!" to the Republicans as they continue to bend you over and bone your borne and buttered bungholes really doesn't accomplish the change which the Purple Nation was seeking.

Talking Economics - Dollar Parity

2007-10-28T09:54:00.000-04:00

by K. Russell Carlsson, Rogue Economist

[WARNING: Long and math-heavy. May cause drowsiness or dizziness. Read with care. Do not operate heavy machinery or evil-level Sudoku whle reading this article.]

All right, folks. I admit it. This one is just for me and my Econ homeys - your typical person on the street could give a rat's ass about foreign exchange rates. Thus, I'll amp up the terror and panic level of this post early so you'll actually read it. Wrap your mind around this:

The Canadian Dollar Is Now Worth More Than The American Dollar!

About five weeks ago, the US Dollar's years-long plummet finally drove the Greenback down to match the market value of the Loonie. I knew it was inevitable, but at that point, I was almost positive that psychological barrier would snap the American markets into action and put forth efforts to defend the honor of what was once the most powerful currency in the world. Alas, foreign exchange markets (ForEx) trade only in reality and truth, unlike equity markets with their as-yet unquantifiable Fairy Dust and Rainbows / Panic and Pants-shitting Fear Factor (I'm working on that, though... trust me. There's a Nobel waiting for me once I figure that baby out - so long as I give it a professional-sounding acronym.)

Thus the Greenback kept diving. At the end of trading yesterday, one US Dollar could purchase only 96.17 Canadian (CDN) cents. Seven years ago a buck bought $1.62 CDN. I know the only time most Americans only give half a shit about ForEx is during summer vacation season - but with today's nearly-perfected global marketplace, ForEx impacts your daily life in ways you probably haven't considered, such as food, clothing, and oil and gas prices.

FOOD:
Obviously, a weaker dollar will make frou-frou Eurogrub like Belgian truffles and that runny gym-sock-smelling French cheese more expensive - but that is miniscule sliver of the food market... and anybody who eats that crap deserves to pay an assload for it. Where the real impact lies is in the export market. Since American food products are now so much cheaper overseas, countries whose currencies have risen dramatically against the Greenback like the European Common Market, Canada, Switzerland and Australia (yes - fucking AUSTRALIA!) can buy more of our food supply. That's great for farmers, but all the rest of us get from the deal is higher food prices since domestic supply is reduced by the foreign demand.

CLOTHING:
On the whole, this one isn't so bad, because most of our clothing is manufactured in China, and China is utilizing special currency devaluing tricks to keep their Yuan's value from rising too strongly against the Greenback. However, the only comfortable office shoes I've ever found for those 10.5 EEEE boat docks dangling off my ankles are made in Italy. Five years ago, a pair cost $75. Two years ago, they cost $90. Last month, I paid $106 for them. If this dollar nosedive keeps going (and my weasel-dicked agent keeps making me work for damned-near free), I'll be barefoot come 2010.

OIL:
This is the big one. Brace yourselves for an onslaught of numbers and formulas and math and stuff: I hate to have to do it to you, but I must remain an economist first and your irritable-yet-good-hearted bar buddy second or I sell no articles at all.

The best way to illustrate the plunging dollar's effect on the US oil market is to take market prices for both oil and ForEx from two dates exactly seven years apart from each other. October 26, 2000 saw the US Dollar trade at its strongest level ever against the Euro: one Euro bought only 82.52 US cents. At the same time, oil, which is denominated and traded exclusively in US Dollars, traded for $30 a barrel. October 26, 2007 was conveniently enough the last full trading day before this article. On that day, a Euro could buy 143.89 US cents and a barrel of oil cost $91.86.

Calculating the rise in oil prices for Americans is pretty easy - take today's price and divide it by 2000's price, thus $91.86/$30, which yields a figure of 3.062. Therefore the price of oil has gone up by 206.2% in the last seven years, or an annual clip of 17.4% (trust my math on this one, unless you're particularly jazzed about computing the seventh root of 3.062) which is roughly five times the rate of wage increases in the US.

Calculating the rise in oil prices for Europeans may just make your eyes glaze over, but that's why you let me do the heavy lifting here. Just read along - or fake it just to make me feel good -nod and smile until I get to the easier-to-understand final figures. Here goes - bite down: A barrel of oil today costs 63.840 Euros ($91.86 divided by today's 1.4389 exchange rate), and a barrel of oil in 2000 cost 36.355 Euros ($30 divided by the old exchange rate of 0.8252). Therefore, the relative rise in the cost of oil to Europeans (63.840E / 36.355 E = 1.756) is only 75.6% over the last seven years, an annual rate of 8.4%, or only twice the rate of European wage increases in the same period.

Europeans notice the impact of the oil price increases, but since the increase takes a smaller share of their paychecks, they can more easily shrug it off as they ride their bicycles to work between soccer matches. Americans, however, take it much harder in the wallet as we make our 25-mile commutes to work in our SUVs between NASCAR races, thus Bubby Joe has much less truly disposable income in 2007 than he did in 2000 when compared to Jean-Luc.

That's right, Bubby Joe - Jean-Luc is eating your steak and living better than you even though he does the same job you do! I bet that pisses you off real good, don't it Bubby Joe! What're you gonna do about it? Unfortunately, not a goddamned thing, since you get paid in Dollars, Jean-Luc gets paid in Euros, and the global market has more faith in the long-term strength of the European economy than ours right now.

The US Dollar, thus, is much like Britney Spears. In 2000, every healthy red-blooded country would pay any price to get their hands on her - but today, most right-thinking folks wouldn't shag her confused and devalued skank-ass with a rented dick. More markets are working up a horny slobbering drool over our northern neighbor Avril Lavigne than our own Britney these days - I don't think I need to tell you how unsettling that should be.

Thoughts on the ALCS

2007-10-22T13:48:00.000-04:00

by Knorr the Interpreter

[Insert anger/frustration-inspired Tourette's attack here]!

Well, my Tribe proved they can kick ANYBODY's ass in a best-of-5 series - and considering eight starting position players, four starting pitchers and four relievers played for the AA-level Akron Aeros during their multiple championship runs of 2003, 2005, 2006 and 2007, five-game playoff series are about what we're used to.

I have nothing good to say about this. I hate the Red Sox. I hate the Red Sox more than I hate Hitler - at least Hitler had the decency to kill himself once he found out how much of a douche he was. I hate the Red Sox's fans. I hate their uniforms. I hate their hot-dog vendors. I hate that piss-ant, falling-apart piece-of-shit T-ball field they make the grown-ups play in. The Red Sox are nothing more than a discount version the Yankees (whom I also hate, but not quite as much).

Losing to the Red Sox after going up three games to one feels like the Red Sox crashed my party, drank my beer, pissed on my couch, kicked my wife and shagged the shit out of my dog right in front of me. (Yes, those are in order - we ARE talking about Bostoners, here.) If I had the chance to look the Boston Red Sox in the face and tell them what I think of their World Series trip, I would have only two words for them...

GO ROCKIES!

(No, sorry... those butt-pirates would enjoy the two-word phrase you were thinking I'd say too much.)

Here's Another Revelation For You...

2007-10-20T12:57:00.000-04:00

by John of Patmos

Wow! OK, guys... we need to talk here.

These so-called Revelations I wrote - they weren't intended to be interpreted as gospel. I had nothing to do whatesoever with the life of Jesus - he was sacrificed nearly a hundred years before I was born. I never met the man, never met his disciples, nothing. I heard stories about him, people seemed to like him, he sounded really cool, so I made him the conquering hero in my heavy metal concept album.

I played bass bouzouki for a going-nowhere metal band called Caesarsryche back in the early part of the second century AD. We toured Israel opening for much better bands on and off, but on the whole all we did was musical masturbation... and a crapload of psychotropic herbs. When desperation and Jerusalem peyote met the recounting of the life of Jesus in my sleepless mind, I decided to write the album that would get us recognized.

I have to say, it was hella boss there for a while - all these teenaged Romans pumping their fists and moshing in their sackcloth-black togas while we wailed on about the Whore of Babylon and seven-headed, ten-horned beast and such... but it had to come to an end sometime. In what was supposed to be our Big Show, our percussionist Nikola VI got shitfaced and dropped some buttons before we went on stage. Of course, halfway through our magnum opus "Beast Ride of the Purple Harlot" Nikki blow chunks. I don't mean he missed his marks... I mean he physically gut-cannoned ex-groceries all over the first row of fans. Turns out one of them was Emperor Hadrian's niece. We never saw Rome again.

We kicked around Judea for a while, but couldn't draw flies since that town was all about bubble-gum lyre pop. Eventually Caesarsryche broke up and I took my lyrics with me to Patmos. I hooked up with the Thebes-Hold-'em Poker Tour down there for a while and was doing pretty well until some lucky amateur jackoff tripped his sixes on the river when I went all-in on three fives I scored from the flop. I lost everything except my sandals and my songs, which is why I moved into that cave where my "revelations" were eventually discovered.

Now you know. All that end-of-the-world, Armaggedon, Judgement Day apocalyptic jazz that many sects of Christians have been predicting, longing for, and in many cases attempting to bring about for the last few centuries was just a bouzouki player's attempt at scoring some nookie and a patronage contract. Please stop damning, shunning, banishing, imprisoning and killing each other over my mosh - unless you react the same way in the year 3800 to Iron Maiden's Eddie, some of you ubervigilant 21st century Christians are acting like a fuckpile of retards.

For The Love Of America, Light Up!

2007-10-13T12:08:00.000-04:00

by Mel Fisto-Feliz, Esq., Business Activist

Disturbing. Absolutely disturbing. A plague of nanny-state legislation has oozed across this once-great country like the quasi-police-state-flavored pus it truly is - city by city, state by state, a misguided army of Polyanna Q. Buttinskis has shoved anti-indoor-smoking policies down the gaping and snoring throats of their governing officials. "Clean Indoor Air Acts" they have the stones to call these freedom-raping regulations, as if pouring perfume on that fascist pig will make it smell rosy. My friends, these "Clean Indoor Air Acts" must be stopped, dropped and rolled back immediately if America is to regain is destined standing as an economic and moral superpower.

Let us flash back to the 1970's - America was the King of the World. Our standard of living was at its peak. American industry was unparalleled in production, thanks largely to its job-creating inefficiencies and repeat-sales-generating mediocre quality. We dressed ourselves like pimps and spent hours making our hair look like we just stepped out of the shower... but got laid left and right anyway. The music, booze and drugs were positively awful, but we gulped them all down in mass quantities until we felt mellow. How could we pull all this off without gagging, you may ask? Because of smoking.

Everybody smoked - everybody who was cool did, anyway. Tobacco smoke effectively suffocates taste buds, so we didn't know how wretched Coors beer actually tastes. Cigarette smoking also kills the sense of smell, so your only reaction the otherwise-puke-inducing aromatic funk-chowder of polyester-spawned BO, pheremones, patchouli and/or Hai Karate, and three packs of Kools was "Lance is here... Groovy!"

That's right, folks... smoking. Cigarette smoking made our country great. We worked all day, partied all night, and repeated in full knowledge that we Americans had never had it better. We bought muscle car after shittily-built muscle car, drank all day long in large quantities, partied and danced to folk and disco between coke-snorts and lude-drops because we had the money to do it. We had high-paying jobs, cheap rent, and low day-to-day expenses thanks once again to cigarettes, since taxes on smokes were negligible and nicotine in large doses suppresses the urge to eat (and our deadened taste buds didn't care if we bought store-brand food when we did bother to eat).

Then along came the nit-pickers. "Oooh... smoking causes cancer! Cigarttes increase asthma! Smoking leads to emphysema!" Oh, boo fucking hoo, Priscilla!

Yes, those annoying side effects can be a bit problematic, but did they ever think what would happen if people stopped smoking? With the life cycle extended beyond its natural boundaries by these Health Nazis, people will continue to live deep into their eighties and nineties, thus draining our private pension, Social Security and health care systems at a breakneck pace. Plus, without nicotine's great twin gifts of vigorous energy and appetite suppession, people would simply sit around and eat fattening foods until their asses grew blubbery roots in their sofas.

What a nightmare world that would be - a nation of elderly fat lazy bastards who'll only get off their couches to cash Social Security checks and pick up their government-subsidized cholesterol and blood-pressure medications after yet another drive to Country Kitchen Buffet for Early Bird Specials. Folks - we are living that nightmare! A trip to any Cleveland suburb on Sunday afternoon will bring that home in grease-stained, old-person-smell-drenched spades.

We must bring cigarettes back into the restaurants, bars, offices and government buildings where they belong. Smoking is our right. The American economic engine is powered by cigarette smoke. Smoking cuts unproductive years off the ends of miserable lives, saving pensions and governments and health insurance companies billions. Smoking keeps us active and thin. Plus smoking keeps whinging, needy, fat old fucks out of our bars and restaurants, so we can kick back and truly enjoy getting our grooves on.

We must rip America's glory back from the wrinkly festering clutches of those nanny-state Health Nazis... even if we have to do it one butt at a time. Right On Brother - Light On Up!

Transcripts from Carter’s “Elders” Mission to Sudan

2007-10-06T11:26:00.000-04:00

By Cinta Sella-Ductos, IbK Foreign Correspondent

This past Tuesday a delegation known as “The Elders”, which features Nobel Peace Prize Laureates Jimmy Carter and Desmond Tutu, ran into resistance as they visited an aid camp for Darfur refugees. The camp guard, appointed by a local governor, was given instructions to reject all visitors, and in fear for his own life fulfilled his command to deny the peace delegation admittance.

We couldn’t get close enough to hear the guard’s side of the exchange, but the IbK Foreign Detail ™ did hear former President Carter’s staunch defense of the Elders’ right to enter. The following is a transcript of Mr. Carter’s side of the heated discussion:

JC: Yo, Homes – the Elders here looking to drop a ten-ton load of peace on all your asses. Let us get all up in here and do this humanitarian thing!

Guard: (inaudible)

JC: Say what? We have GOT to be on the list, Yo! We cleared this with the UN, the African Union – ALL that shit! Let us get up in this camp, Son – we have come to bring re-LIEEEEF!

Guard: (inaudible)

JC: Aw, HELL no! I KNOW I didn’t hear you say that! You see, all the bling from my Nobel Fuckin’ PEACE PRIZE sometimes messes with my hearing. You want to try that again, Son – we got some peace to get on!

Guard: (inaudible)

JC: Oh, so you get your orders from the Governor… you wanna know who I get my orders from? Desmond Tutu, bitch! Yeah, that’s right – The. Bishop. Desmond. Motherfuckin’. Tutu. Now, I’m sure it’s the blingterference from TWO Nobels playing with me here – quit your playing and let us in.

Guard: (inaudible)

JC: All right, you do that. You GET the motherfuckin’ Governor out here. We’ll lay so much goddamned goodwill, charity and diplomacy all up in his ass, you’ll wish you let us in to begin with! Elders in Da CAMP! [sounds of loud barking from the delegation].

Patience, Comrade

2007-09-29T10:29:00.000-04:00

By Vladimir Ilyich Lenin

Mister Bush – may I call you Dubyich? – sit down, Comrade. We need to talk – talk a little history.

You and I, we both tried to birth great societies – I strove for Marx’s Communist ideal, you yearn to recreate that greatest American society of WWII – but we both forgot something… skipped a step if you will – the same step. Let me tell you a story – it’s what we old dead Russians do best.

Back in 1924, once I crossed over into the Hereafter, I made it my goal to seek out Karl Marx for his opinion on my revolution. At long last after what must have been years, I saw him across a sorghum field. Once our eyes met, I briskly traversed the distance between us with my broadest smile and hand extended. As the distance between us shrank to nothing, I stopped to catch my breath, but before I could say anything, Marx kneed me in the balls, shoved a copy of the Manifesto in my chest and barked “Read it again, Numbnuts!” before storming away.

It seems I excluded one major detail when fostering my revolution against the czars – the oppressive weight of four or five generations of unbridled capitalism on the proletariat. I tried to go directly from feudalism to communism – boy, was my face… well… red. Turns out a century and a half or so of raw capitalism is the true engine of the revolution: the promise of profit inspires the proletariat to educate themselves, improve their skills, and most importantly offer hope for a brighter future which repeatedly gets torn away from them by the bourgeoisie. Apparently, the frustration part was easy – but it takes a few generations of capitalism to transition a formerly feudal peasantry into a burgeoning proletariat smart and talented enough to manage perpetual self-governance for the betterment of all… who knew?

In effect, I rallied a mob of screaming idiots to rebel on their own behalf, they did so, then stupidly stood around and asked me what to do next. I could have pointed to the Manifesto until my fingers wore down to nubs – the illiterate buffoons only knew how to be ruled. Well, Stalin was only too glad to oblige them once I crossed over, and I think we all know where my little revolution went from there. Marxie still smacks me on the back of the head for that one sometimes during our bridge games.

The nut is that I entirely ignored the macroeconomic element of societal reformation, Dubyich – and much to the detriment of world history. You most obviously have done the same – you got the sneaky foreigners to strike a domestic landmark, the increasing of the size and reach of government to nigh-absolute status and non-stop anti-foreign propaganda elements of the WWII era down quite well - but all that does, frankly, is piss off a well-fed and self-supporting populace. In order for such tactics to foster an all-for-one, we’re-in-to-win mentality to motivate the entire body popular to move as one proud and mighty machine, the individual spirit must be crushed into dust. Twelve years of global economic depression did the trick for our friend Franklinovich.

By the time the Japanese hit Pearl Harbor, Americans had absolutely nothing to live on except national pride. Pearl Harbor gave the dormant power of the American people’s overawing hunger – for food, for humanity, for self-worth – a conduit for direction, concentration, regeneration and awesome release upon a smug and overconfident enemy. When Osama’s operatives knocked down the Twin Towers, the American people expressed their outrage by publicly discarding expensive foreign products, assuaged their depression through shopping and expressed their solidarity by affixing magnetic ribbons to their SUVs – then getting back to their regular largely comfortable lives. It takes a lot more than snappy catchphrases to get the People to leave their own private Heavens to jump into the mouth of Hell, Dubyich.

Ironically, it appears your attempt to create the Greatest Generation out of order may foster the step you skipped after all, what with the foundation of the global economy as a whole and American economy in particular eroding away as a result of governmental and private overspending. If there is anything a Russian can appreciate, Dubyich, it is bitter irony. When it is your time to cross over, be sure to sit with me – we will have much more to commiserate about… but make sure you wear a cup. You’d be surprised how quickly Roosevelt can rise out of that chair when he’s motivated – and how hard he can kick.

Notre Dame Fires Three of Charlie Weis's Chins

2007-09-23T09:28:00.000-04:00

by Espen Jockovitch

SOUTH BEND, Ind. (IbK) -- Upon falling to 0-4 for the first time in the program's 119-year history, the University of Notre Dame has sent a clear message to head football coach Charlie Weis by firing three of his chins. According to a statement read by Athletic Director Kevin White, "Effective Monday, September 24, 2007 the University of Notre Dame will release Charlie Weis's third, sixth, and eighth chins from their contract as parts of the head coach of its football program due to lack of performance."

Since the rest of Weis is contracted with the storied program through the year 2015, this declaration could prove problematic for the already troubled head coach. While the most obvious answer would be for Jabba the Coach to lose about eighty pounds, thus shedding the fired chins naturally, for next week's game against undefeated Purdue he will likely have to obtain sideline guest passes for the fired chins and attach them with fish hooks or industrial strength alligator clamps.

Reaction throughout the College Football industry to Weis's-chin-firings has been swift and decisive. The Bowl Championship Series formula is fervently being recalculated to find a way to have an 0-4 Fighting Irish club finish in the Top 12 in order for them to be eligible to play in one of the marquee bowls they perenially lose. AP and USA Today pollsters have to resort to artificially boosting teams that beat Notre Dame since ranking an 0-4 team would render undeniable their thinly-disguised obsessive pro-Irish bias.

Other NCAA Division I head football coaches have also taken notice; most remarkably former Notre Dame / current University of Washington head coach Tyrone Willingham. "They fired three of Charlie's chins? Damn!" stated a clearly shaken Willingham. "I knew those cornfed crackers were serious about their football, but if Domers would fire parts of Chalie Weis for starting off 0-4, they'd have strung my black ass up from the middle fingers of Touchdown Jesus!"

The Fluffy Chronicles - Giving A Flying Crap

2007-09-22T11:21:00.000-04:00

by Fluffi al-Thirdstreeti

Day 588 - With each passing day, the meat-nugget looks more and more like a human. A useless, hairless, semi-retarded human, but a human nonetheless. Today I watched as it grunted, generated a squirting sound, then took off its butt-wrap and started playing with the repugnant contents therein. Longhair dashed into the room squealing "Devon - NOOO!", scooped it up, and dashed it off into another room for cleaning.

Now, how do you like that? That gurgling breast-sucking burden befouls the entire living room and plunges wrist-deep into its own arse-squeezings and Longhair streaks in to clean IT up - while leaving me here to drink in the glorious aromas of Devon's gastric guacamole contained in its still-lying-in-the-middle-of-the-floor butt-burrito. When *I* planted one outside the rock garden as a kitten, they screamed all the way to Hell and chased me with a broom!

Devon.... DAMN! They NAMED the thing! You never name your prey - thus they aim to keep it. Aye, the road before us is a long one, my friends...

Day 597 - Devon continues to be showered with attention and praise for crapping himself. Fluffi continues to be largely ignored until beer-and-ballgame time when Shorthair will pet me if I jump in his lap; his exhausted, passionless, nigh-robotic stroking motions notwithstanding. Longhair... well she's just batshit insane. When fur-curling odors emanating from a tiny flesh puppet cause one to clap and gush with joy, that one has clearly batted the jingle-toy out of the plastic ball of her mind.

Day 605 - "Ooooh, Devon! Look at the pretty birdie!" Had I not heard this line approximately 756 times a day over the last month or so, I would consider it a benign off-handed comment. Were it not gushed in a shrill, lilting, near-glass shattering pitch by a human looking out a friggin' window for hours on end while holding a poop-and-powder scented flailing-and-slobbering meat nugget, I would not be moved to comment. However...

Humans: Get this now and get this good - birds are a pestilence designed to destroy you. Stop calling them pretty, stop protecting them from extiction, and definitely stop paying $1500 to have one invade, colonize, and infest your home.

Let us look at this objectively. There are two categories of birds: domesticated and wild. Wild birds are little more than feather-bags of disease flying hither and yon dropping their contagion-laden feces indiscriminately and mating with domesticated birds (which YOU EAT) further contaminating the Earth mammalian population.

Domesticated birds fall into two main categories of Pets and Food. Food birds are crunchy - not bone-crunchy like those gamey baby robins, more of a crispy-crunchy often with a hint of a dozen or so herbs and spices. Mmmmm! - but that doesn't make them any less dangerous to us. Salmonella and e-coli go with bird meat like jo-jos and corn on the cob. Pet birds live INSIDE your home speading their foul contagions WITHIN YOUR WALLS, but they have pretty feathers and sometimes say "Polly want a cracker" so you bipedal buffoons titter and coo and feed the damnable feathered Trojan Horses.

Hear me, Humans, and destroy these winged demons! Cats are immune to their brightly-colored seduction - that's why we are your masters. Heed your master, Longhair! HEEEEED!

Anatomy of a Product Launch - Pizza Hut Dippin' Strips

2007-09-11T18:31:00.000-04:00

by SocratoBot 3000, Xylar VII Debullshitification Droid

We know our pizza entirely sucks, but we really want your money. We could develop a product that can compete on quality, but that would be time-consuming and unnerving to our investors, so we'll just come at you by marketing the same old shit packaged differently.

Let's face it, if you really cared about the flavor of your pizza, you wouldn't call a national chain. But hey, our advertising economies of scale can keep us all up in your mug 24/7/365 so you won't have to think about *where* you get your pizza, just as long *as* you get it. Quality, schmality, eh, Homes? Besides, aren't all those funny-sounding local pizzeria names ending in vowels kind of foreign and scary? Foreign and scary and ending in vowels... like OSAMA!?

Since our pizza tastes SOOO fucking terrible, you'll want something to cover up the flavor, so we boldly stole the 20-year-old concept of dipping sauces from a competing national chain who is currently using the exposed southern cinnamon rings of our market share as their personal pants-pork pincushions. Further, for ease of dipping, we hijacked the strip-slice dynamic from yet another up-and-coming regional pizza empire, and VOILA! an entirely "new" product line which delivers the same unappetizing doughy tomato-cheese loaf you've grown accustomed to liquid fire-shitting out the next morning with almost no effort expended on our part!

Now how do we appeal to the largest pizza-buying demographic, you may ask? Put them in the commercials! Tech-geeky twentysomething bachelor office-wonks will debate the subtle nuances between "dipping" and "scooping" the same old flavorless pepperoni pizza - but sliced differently, so it's NEW!!! - into various mini-buckets of flavored sodium-laden unguents. We even made the geeks come from different ethnic backgrounds to maximize demographic coverage - and made the white one stupid to give it that clever little twist of blantant pandering with which you incurious rubes have grown so comfortable!

So buy Pizza Hut Dippin' Strips. It's the same old for-shit pizza, just sliced differently, but it's in a new TV commercial with a trademarked brand name and everything... and you get sauce!

Over Before It (Officially) Started

2007-09-01T12:16:00.000-04:00

By Jacob Bagnanelli, IbK Domestic Political Correspondent

In their effort to maintain electoral relevance, states have been leapfrogging their primaries in front of each other to earlier and earlier dates on the calendar. At one point Michigan eschewed the traditional Tuesday and chose Monday January 7th as their primary date - a technique known in the industry as “The Punk-Ass Price-Is-Right Gambit” - only to see the political calendar’s December 18, 2007 page marked with “Oklahoma, Fools! First!!! Soonerz pwn yr @$$!!” Yesterday, after a seemingly ceaseless stream of similar battles of oneupsmanship, 38 states reached a truce/consensus date of Tuesday, August 14, 2007 upon which to conduct Mega-Super-Suck-On-This-Iowa-Bitches Primarypalooza Tuesday. The results are in - and apparently have been for two weeks – but IbK NewsCorp is proud to be the first to announce that the major parties’ 2008 Presidential candidates will be Democrat Dennis Kucinich and Republican Tom Tancredo.

Both candidates were surprised to learn of their nominations, and are currently scrambling to cobble together acceptance speeches they never expected to write. Election experts attribute the dark horse victories due to astonishingly low turnout. Only early-entry absentee voters, time-travelers, and drunks stumbling into the polling booths looking for a place to piss got their voices heard, but those voices spoke in a wobbly, cracking pre-pubescent chorus of consensus. Kucinich and Tancredo each swept all 38 states in the Mega-Super-Suck-On-This-Iowa-Bitches Primarypalooza Tuesday, except for Montana wherein seven Republican voters handed the state to their written-in champion Scratchy McFester, the Pantsless Rodeo Clown.

Kucinich and Tancredo, now with only each other to contend, are ecstatic that they can at long last focus their campaigns on the issues that matter. Kucinich’s Stop-The-War-Create-A-Department-Of-Peace-Convert-Health-Care-To-A-Single-Payer-System-Mandate-Renewable-Fuel-Usage-And-Get-It-All-Done-By-Friday platform is well on its way to delivery for the consumption of the entire voting populace. Meanwhile, Tancredo’s one-issue anti-immigrant platform just doubled in width with the addition of the “Kucinich? Are You Frickin’ Kidding Me? Just *Look* At The Guy!” plank.

All other Democratic candidates, while thunderstruck, conceded to the will of their constituents and pledged their support to Kucinich. Republican candidates on the whole have shrugged and gone home, with the exception of Mitt Romney. Romney is strongly considering mounting an independent campaign, but hesitant to do so for fear of looking too Liebermanny. Meanwhile, undeclared Republican candidate Fred Thompson breathed a sigh of relief during his official announcement of declination. He thanked his supporters for their efforts and donations and assured them their hard work and currency will be put to good use in keeping his overgrown-troll-doll-looking carcass hip-deep in smoking-hot trophy wives for the next twenty years.

We’re OK

2007-08-27T13:08:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-19T16:21:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-11T12:37:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-04T10:24:00.000-04:00

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.

Open Letter To Squealing Teenage-Girl Sports Fans

2007-07-28T12:43:00.000-04:00

By Ron R. Clark

A break in my schedule recently allowed me to indulge myself in one of my favorite leisure activities: attending a Minor League Baseball game. Sure, the quality of play doesn’t match that of the Majors, but parking is often free and you’re guaranteed never to be deeply depressed at the sight of 30,000 empty seats at your beloved home town Oklahoma Red Hawks or Akron Aeros games. With pastimes, you take your tradeoffs.

While in attendance, I could not help but notice a sprightly-yet-chubby, highly enthusiastic teenaged girl fan of the visiting team. I couldn’t help notice because (a) she kept bouncing around between empty seats next to, behind, and in front of me between batters and (b) her squeals of encouragement to her team’s pitcher drove my eardrums to ask for my keys in the bottom of the sixth so they could wait in the car.

Thus herein, I address you, Sprightly-Yet-Chubby Teenaged-Girl Minor League Baseball Fan, and all those of your ilk irrespective of girth or sport-of-choice. I address you not because you root for the opponent (I’ve been known to do the same while on the road), nor out of concern for your stadium mates (since it is garishly obvious you and your laconic-to-the-point-of-catatonic attending adult guardians had none). I address you out of a sense of mission – your mission – the mission to encourage your team through cheering.

Your high-pitched squeal… what? It is entirely incomprehensible. High volume I can understand and appreciate – and I know through example you were capable of doing so at pitch levels non-injurious to the human ear – but your ultra-high-pitched squeaky vocal blasts are perceptible only as caustic auditory diarrhea. They failed at every turn to encourage your pitcher to complete his shutout. Whereas I am quite certain your squeals intended to convey the message “Come on, Julio, you can do this! Two more outs!”, out on the mound, a befuddled Julio could only wonder “Will whomever it is in the third row please stop assraping that Pekingese puppy with his or her barbed-wire strap-on? I’ve got a shutout going here!”

In short: you aren’t helping. You aren’t helping Julio, you aren’t helping your team, you aren’t helping the image of visiting-team fans in general, and you most certainly aren’t helping the chances of your visiting-team-paraphernalia-festooned Chevrolet Celebrity leave the parking lot with all four tires fully inflated and/or door-handles free of urine.

(What? SOMEbody had to teach her Ritalin-saturated parents the consequences of violating stadium decorum, and it was glaringly obvious that rudeness is the only language they could understand. I… uhrm, that is, some concerned sports fan… was only trying to help.)

Introducing IbK Foreign Correspodent…

2007-07-14T12:49:00.000-04:00

By Roger N. Phiebbles, President, IbK News Corp.

Greetings, IbK News viewers! We here at IbK News Corp. Central are pleased to announce that IbK News has created a Foreign News bureau to increase our reach and global credibility.

Introducing IbK News’s new Foreign Correspondent Cinta Sella-Ductos. Cinta, a tongue-lollingly attractive yet professionally-demeanored woman with a foreign-sounding name, has all the focus-group-tested elements to bring that extra air of respectability and ratings-grabbage to any news story originating outside of North America. Whether the news breaks in Ukraine, Israel, Sudan or Argentina, Cinta Sella-Ductos will be there on the scene – in front of the camera; calm, collected and professional with her hair and make-up perfect irrespective of the chaos going on behind her; dressed professionally with maybe one extra button on her ever-so-slightly-too-tight blouse undone or an extra half-inch of length added to her heels and/or removed from her skirt; slyly seducing the horny male demographic while delivering informative and concise reports that the horny males’ wives will appreciate with her measured, level, slightly throaty Kathleen-Turner-in-Body-Heatesque-with-a-hint-of-sexy-as-all-hell-foreign-accented delivery.

Please join IbK News Corp. in welcoming Cinta Sella-Ductos to our international news team. Well, at this point she IS our international news team, but we’re counting on her professional hotness to bring in enough extra ad revenue to give her a little help down the road. For the first few months though, she’ll be in The Hague at 6pm, Thailand at 11pm, and Russia for the next day's noon broadcast, so let’s pretend she’s really in all those places and she borrowed Wonder Woman’s invisible jet to make it all happen or something – not just standing in front of a bluescreen superimposed with news footage in my Los Angeles studio as she's dressed impeccably, professionally yet still teasingly hot and spotless when she's "at" the Tomatina tomato fight in Buñol, Valencia, Spain for the following 3PM's news magazine program.

IbK News Corp.: News You Should Ignore – But Can’t! (insert loud ZZZHHYOOOUMM! and bright metallic flash here)

Don’t Believ The Hyp

2007-07-07T10:01:00.000-04:00

By The Lettr E

I knew that ther would be a backlash from The Powrs That Be when I decidd to stand up and demand recognition for the Vowel Union. It appears that both the Consonant Oppressors and Big Lexicography hav teamd up to try to shut me down. Don’t believ the hyp, my friends – I am as tru, as vigilant, as capabl, and as strong in word, ded, and faith as evr.

Dictionaris hav joind certain consonants in the smear campaign – on quick read through Webstr’s maks it clear. Som of you may recogniz the schwa – it is a lexicographic symbol usd to indicat a soft, half-pronouncd vowel in thos littl parenthetical enunciation guids. What do they us to show soft, lazy-sounding, nigh-slurrd vowel sounds? A pictr of me upsid down – and clearly monstr pissd aftr participating in a keg-standing competition in colleg. Well, how did THAT happn… hmmm, I wondr! Could that picture hav ben submittd by the bittr littl consonant whom I TOTALLY smokd in said competition (and whos ladyfreind I naild heartily and repeatdly afterward whil he lay in puddls of his own puk?) Not naming any names her, but you can’t say puSSY without calling him out!

Furthr, this xenophobic cartel appears to be undr the impression that portraying us vowels as foreignrs will mak the speaking public less trusting of our intentions. The versatility and flexibility of our enunciation – the very trait that maks vowels the singl most important elemnt of languag – is depictd through littl diacritical marks ovr our heads tiltd, slantd, and/or curvd kickily lik littl French berets. Well, Mystery Cuntsonant, not all of us ar Limbaugh-lik with prejudic. Nor ar we as shamd and embittrd by a diacritical mark which looks for all the world lik a scrotum lolling on our chins. Hmmm... got something to shar, Pris’Ce’La?

I trust that the literat public is intelligent enough to se through such low-rent attempts at demonization – however I didn’t want the Mystery Cuntsonant to think he got away with something clevr, eithr. To show that this public outreach is not directd against all consonants, I’d lik to shar a Lettr Shop Memo for your information: The Lettr G will be takin the last two weks of Auust from the American Southeast for vacation. Sinc that roup of folks rarly pronounc him anyway, this holiday will likly only affect the mor cosmopolitan enclavs in Atlanta, Oria.

Forgive Them Tom Mees, They Know Not What They Do

2007-07-01T11:32:00.001-04:00

By Espen Jockovitch

Dear ESPN,

Eat shit, you clueless pack of pigfuckers!

Sincerely,
Espen Jockovitch

Perhaps I should elucidate.

As I am oft wont to do in the morning, I found myself watching the re-re-re-rebroadcast of SportsCenter while enjoying my cold pizza breakfast. At the end of the hour, I witnessed an event that razed my world view to its very foundations – you interviewed a guy who eats for a living about another guy who eats for a living.

After I picked the snorted mushrooms and sausage out of my nose, I decided to review your general programming through my freshly opened eyes. The crown jewel – what put you on the map – SportsCenter is a hollow caricature of its old self. Now, I’m down with the pseudo-hip lingo spewing during the highlight reels – that’s what hooked me to begin with. Since I’m a 5’ 8” 135 pound cracker-ass from central Iowa, hosting SportsCenter would be the only way I could get away with talking street, and get laid for it without fearing The Retribution Of The Truly Hip. Thus was my dream… until The Interview.

Back to your schedule. SportsCenter is slotted about eight or nine times each and every day. Such would be understandable if (a) six of them weren’t the same damned show over and over and (b) YOU’D REPORT ACTUAL SPORTS NEWS! Between the twenty-three minutes of extreme deodorant commercials, I counted about eight minutes of actual sports reporting with the remainder being puff personality pieces, pointless “expert” analysis, and complete jackoff “what this means” ego-stroking hollabolla padding out the hour like rotten-coochie-smelling oyster meat smothering its pearl.

Back when you started in 1979, many considered the concept of a 24-hour sports channel ludicrous since it was thought there couldn’t possibly be enough sport-based programming to keep you afloat. By 1989, you proved them wrong by introducing such diverse events as college baseball, kickboxing and sumo to American television. Now, however, one look at your current schedule will show that your naysayers may have had a point.

Poker? Poker is a sport in the same way as chess, I guess, but using lying in place of intellect. I’ll almost allow that one. But dominoes? That’s way too much of a push. Car auctions? Fuck you! Isn’t there a pack of really huge guys pushing rocks up a hill somewhere that you can film? Magnus ver Magnusson waves his dick at you, ESPN Programmers, while flicking you away like the picked-and-rolled boogers you are.

Go ahead, ESPN – continue to fellate the Mouse that keeps your nutsacks in its sock drawer. Dedicate more airtime to cross-promotion of other Disney properties than you do to true sports coverage. Insist that a spelling contest has more sports entertainment value than Arena Football or regular season college baseball. Hell, yeah - go extreme - convince yourselves that eating can be a sport… and you can start your gastronomical training on this buttloaf I leave on the front steps of your Bristol headquarters.

Headlines For The Comatose

2007-06-30T12:52:00.000-04:00

by Knorr the Interpreter

For those of you who partied WAYYY too hard on New Year's Eve 2006, catch up on all the headlines published in the Mainstream Media for the first half of 2007 right here in this easy-to-swallow articlet. You're welcome... and take it a little easier this coming December, eh?

Bush Administration Official Flouts Constitution, Doesn't Give Carpenter's Damn What Anybody Thinks

Paris Hilton Does Dumb Shit, Breaks Law, Whines About Being Punished

Congressional Democrats Posture, Talk Tough, Draw Line On Hot-Button Issue, Then Bend Over, Take It Like Bitches They Truly Are

Daily Baghdad Car Bomb Kills Between 20 and 200

Ohio Sports Team Has Great Season, Gets Ass Handed To Them In Championship

Lindsay Lohan Gets Drunk, Coked Up, Wrecks Car

Semi-Talented Asshats Sing, Win / Lose Televised Popularity Contest

Holy Crap Is It Ever Cold / Hot / Snowy / Rainy / Dry For This Time Of Year

Gas Prices Increase 50 Cents, Spawn Motorist Outrage; Drop 25 Cents, Drivers' Riot Quelled; Cycle Repeats

What I Wouldn't Do

2007-06-24T17:25:00.001-04:00

by Jesus

First and foremost, I wouldn't take money out of the pockets of my followers for cheap third-world slave-labor-manufactured trinkets with four silly little initials on them. That money had better be going to feeding the hungry or housing the homeless: Lance Armstrong gave the profits from his armbands to a good cause - these folks claiming to speak for The Son Of God had better keep philanthropic pace with a dude who wore skin-tight lycra shorts for a living.

Look, I was human for a while. I know it's hard to always keep what's right in mind in the heat of the moment. I appreciate the purpose of the merchandise... but seriously, what do those armbands cost to make - about a dime a piece? Churches should be handing those babies out by the fistfuls after Sunday service. One $100 donation buys a thousand of the things for My sake!

I also wouldn't wear polyester suits, be they of the three-piece, pant or jump varieties - especially in hot, humid climates. Not to say I was some kind of fashion maven duing My time or anything, but if you wish to draw more people to hear Dad's word, I'd recommend wearing something that won't have you looking and/or smelling like a '70's porn star by the end of the service. Just sayin'...

I would never give the points when Notre Dame is an underdog. They don't have any special ties to Us up here - they're just a plucky little football club.

I would never question someone's faith in Me simply for not worshipping Me the same exact way I do. Wait... that sounded bad. I meant to employ a cutesy, Yoda-esque phraseology to tell you fire-and-damnation, rote-scripture-spewing chest-thumpers to stop whizzing in the worship well but it came out all arrogant-sounding. Oh, screw it - you know what I meant, so I forgive Me.

I would never put barbecue sauce on a pizza. It's not a sin... but it is all kinds of wrong.

I wouldn't turn water into a beverage I didn't want people to drink... especially in the middle of a flippin' desert. What kind of all-loving Savior-type would do something that wasteful and cruel?

Most importantly, I would never take another man's word that he speaks for Me just because he stands in front of the congregation. We keep it pretty simple up here - if something taught in church sounds out of line with Dad's laws or My teachings, it probably is. Please check it out for yourself.

Open Letter To Small-Town Diner Patrons

2007-06-16T21:17:00.000-04:00

By Ron R. Clark

Gentlemen, ladies, all friendly citizens attempting to help this poor lost traveler: I sincerely appreciate your efforts, but when offering directional assistance to a stranger, please remember this one fundamental truth – I’M NOT FROM HERE!

My job as a software consultant for a transportation specialist requires travel to remote locations in order to ply my trade. More often than I’d like to admit, my itinerary calls upon me to leave Jethro’s Municipal Airport, Cropduster Depot and Bait Shop, rent whatever vehicle is left on the lot which doesn’t require a yoke and a good mount and drive two hours before hitting any type of crossroads craphole featuring electricity and running water. By the time I get to Sheepbanger Corners, I’m usually ready to eat my dashboard, so Eddie’s Diner looks like the frickin’ Waldorf-Astoria to me.

The food is almost always good (of course, I’m a gravy fan… you vegetarians would be pretty much SOL), and the people are pleasant and helpful - always willing to lend an ear (as long as you ain’t Mexican- or AyRab-lookin’). When I look to confirm my MapQuest directions, every hash-slinger, coffee-freshener, and biscuit-scarfer in the place is willing and eager to oblige.

Now, Small Town America tends to harbor distrust of the out-of-towner, fearing the violent hair-trigger temper made famous by the national news and teledramas such as The Sopranos. This fear is justified. The out-of-towner’s violent outbursts, however, are equally justified if not more so. A guy can only take driving directions from Jethro’s Airport to East Shitstainia, Nebarkantucky ultimately boiling down to the phrase “you know where the Stuckey’s used to be?” so many times in a row before snapping.

I’m not from here. I have never been here before. I have no prior knowledge of this Stuckey’s of legend. Nor do I know where them Harris Boys burned the barn down in ’67, the corner where Ol’ Man Haggard wrecked his truck a couple years ago, or the cornfield where all the kids go to make out are located. I only know these roads vicariously by their names as listed in their respective State Departments of Transportation databases as pulled by MapQuest. Please please please just inform me if the road next to which my car is parked is the same as the road in the big blue capital letters to the left of the Benningan’s ad on the page I’m waving in front of your too-damned-close-together eyes. As hard as it may be to imagine, I am not in this hamlet to revel in its cultural and historic splendor - I have somewhere I need to be and a specific time at which I need to be there.

I hate being rude to these happy yippy puppy people, but after a while the cold facts that (a) I’m on the clock and (b) I’ll never see them again force the drunken businessman in my head to shout “Fuck these hayseeds!” and just walk away by any means necessary. If any of the crew who were at Eddie’s Diner last Tuesday around 2:30 pm your time happen to read this entry, I truly thank you for your efforts, but our experience, knowledge and culture gaps were simply too great to bridge in the forty minutes we shared together. I deeply regret calling Little Lizzie a backwater balloon-tittied uncle-fucking hicktard.

I don’t regret not flushing, though. Your gravy is too damned salty.

Fiddy... Excuse me, Fiddy!

2007-06-11T20:14:00.000-04:00

by Herschel "Rab-N-Witz" Rabinowitz

Yes, Curtis - it's your executive producer here. I don't mean to bust your chops or anything, Babe, but some of us in the "HQ Joo Croo" have noticed you losing cachet with the young urban crowd of late. I know how you like to keep it real and stay street, but you're in a bit of a slump. Da Joo Croo is only looking to help.

Ira "Mad Shenk" Shenkel put together a few tracks for you to look over - we'd like you to give them a try, you know, to get you back to what made you King of the Hood in the first place. Here's the first one - let us know what you think...

Nine Muthafuckin' Times, Nigga!
50 Cent, feat. Mad Shenk

I! Been! Shot! Nine!
Times, muthafucka!
Nine times, Bitch Nigga!
Yo Nine! Damn Nine!
Nine muthafuckin' times!

You think you gangsta? Nigga, bring it!
I live my shit, Bitch, not just sing it.
Piss and moan 'bout you get hit?
Add two more, then triple that shit!

Nine times! Nine Times! Been shot nine times!

I! Been! Shot! Nine!
Times, muthafucka!
Nine times, Bitch Nigga!
Yo Nine! Damn Nine!
Nine muthafuckin' times!... yadda yadda yadda.

You can take it from here, Fiddy. Throw in some rhymes about smacking ho's and slinging rock and I think we've got a real chartbuster here. It can be 2003 all over again!

I don't about you, but I'm crunk! L'chaim, muthafucka!

Talking Economics – Immigration

2007-06-10T11:40:00.000-04:00

By K. Russell Carlsson, Rogue Economist

Brace yourself, readers – I’ve got a load to drop on you over this one. Everybody from the Dollar Draft Night Rambos at my hangout to my pixie-peckered rodent of an agent has been grinding my grain to address this topic for the last couple months, and I’ve finally had enough. With any luck, this column will be my first and last word on the topic of immigration – the weather finally turned nice and I’d love to lose these laptop-induced tan lines on my thighs.

“But Keith,” you may inquire, “isn’t immigration more of a political / cultural / security issue than an economic one?”

Short answer: No!
Less short answer: No, numbnuts!
Long answer: Immigration is at its very root an economic issue, since the overwhelming majority of people who cross our borders do so to find work. Immigrants affect the available labor pool, which in turn affects the cost of labor, which then affects the cost of goods - the fundamental engine of a free-market economy.

Herein, I look to address the three queries most frequently posed unto me about immigration. I will paraphrase in order to minimize the racial epithets liberally tossed about in the actual questions:

Are immigrants taking our jobs?
How can immigration possibly help?
Why do we have to cater to immigrants?

Are immigrants taking our jobs?

There are two entirely different veins of immigration relating to jobs: legal immigration through the H1B Visa program for higher-skilled foreign workers and illegal immigration for manual labor.

The Federal Government determines the number of H1B Visas they issue by asking industry and business leaders how many artisans in their particular fields (most often science, medicine and technology) they can’t get from within the US labor force. Therefore, in theory, no American jobs are lost through H1B Visas since there are no available Americans qualified to fulfill the positions. Whether industry artificially inflates their needs numbers in order to pay someone from India or China half as much as an American worker should expect to get in a similar position is another question altogether – ramifications of the nation being run by lying shitsacks is out of my purview as an economist.

Illegal immigrants tend to take jobs that require almost no skills or even any native language comprehension. The most frequent jobs taken by illegals are positions in janitorial and lawn maintenance and agricultural base labor – particularly arduous, tiring and demeaning tasks – for pay quite often under the table at rates below the Federally mandated minimum wage. These are jobs Americans wouldn't do without getting paid Union scale, and the employers simply couldn't be viable economically with such a high labor cost.

In short: If you have a job right now – no, Dumbass!

How can immigration possibly help?

In the high-skilled H1B Visa groups, having the optimum number of job-ready skilled workers in their respective industries decreases the turnaround time from thought to market on time-saving, energy-saving - even life-saving technologies.

Agriculture hires truckloads of illegals to pick fruits and vegetables for about half the cost of a minimum-wage salary (once taxes and required benefits are calculated), thus allowing some schmo in Bangor, ME to buy a freshly-picked head of lettuce for a buck and a half in the middle of February. If the farm industry went through legal channels to acquire field labor, either prices of fresh produce would skyrocket or the Federal Government would have to double its farm subsidies, thus increasing deficits. (Don’t get me started on farm subsidies… free-market economy my nutsack!)

Why do we have to cater to immigrants?

Perhaps my paraphrasing muddles the meaning of this question too much. Closer to the customary phraseology: “How come everydamnthing is written in Spanish and English anymore? Why cain’t them #$^#$ing %&%$ers learn to speak English like the rest of us?”

If you want to blame somebody for the multilingual business phenomenon, hang it on 2006 Nobel Prize winner Mohammed Younnus. His concept of the “microloan” – loaning incredibly small amounts of money to woefully poor entrepreneurs at affordable interest rates – both empowered the poor to pull themselves out of the death spiral of poverty and proved to Big Business that “there’s money in them there beaners”, since Younnus’s Grameen Bank was quite profitable in their microloan sector.

The United States Government does not require any business anywhere to post or print their instructions, legal notices or hazard warnings in any particular language – although English is pretty much understood to be standard. Businesses do such a thing in order to cater to the largest potential market. Multi-national manufacturers print their manuals in multiple languages so they can run just one set out to the printers and stuff them into packages on the assembly line without regard for the unit’s destination of sale. ATM’s and POS terminals are multilingual to increase business and minimize customer service costs due to employee translation issues. It’s all about the Benjamins, baby – Big Daddy Gubmint has nothing to do with that.

I understand that some communities close to the Mexican border have passed local ordinances to post all official notices in Spanish, and a few states are considering such policies statewide. Well, my friends, that is where voting comes into play – if you don’t like the bilingual stuff, get off your puffy duffs and vote against it. If the ordinances pass anyway and local bilinguality still burns your bacon to an intolerable crisp, move. I hear North Dakota is lovely this time of year.

There. Yes, it’s long, but not nearly as long as a quiet bar discussion over a televised baseball game degenerating into a drunken chest-thumping slur-tossing bitchfest between Hempy von Organic and Redneck McCoorsfunnel after a long day of pondering macroeconomic conundrums and stifling the urge to punch that rat-turd agent of mine in the dick. He doesn’t need to call Yours Truly Keith “K. Russell” to get the cock-knock – on sheer principle I’ll gladly comp him.

Out-Fabulous THIS, Eagle Point!

2007-06-03T20:23:00.000-04:00

By Chaz Pimento, Show Choir Director for Riverdell High School

Oooh! I’m so mad I could spit! This is the fifth year in a row Eagle Point beat us at the State Show Choir competition and their director won’t let me hear the end of it! Those judges are blind and tone-deaf barbarians if they think Eagle Point sounded or danced as well as we did – the ONLY thing Eagle Point had going for them was their outfits.

I must hand it to them, the get-ups those Eagle Point boys wore were FAAAB-u-LUUUS! Alternating broad vertical lavender and pink stripes on the shirts separated by silver sequins – and the pants were to die for! Oh – shimmering silver with pink and lavender pinstripes cut SOOO tight around their little teenaged tushies yet with enough slack to allow them to show off the dance steps – breathtaking! I could have just eaten them up [ahem, cough, fan self] to turn a phrase. With outfits that gorgeous, I can almost understand the judges giving them the title even though they danced like a troupe of three-footed elephants trying desperately not to pee themselves.

Well, that’s it – this is WAR! I can out-fab those outfits, and I will. 2007-08 Riverdell Show Choir boys outfits: Shirts – Mocha and orchid floral pattern with bright red buttons shaped like pursed lips. Trousers – Butt-hugging bellbottoms with emphasis on [ahem] front fit, if you feel my vibe. Continuing the mocha and orchid theme in pinstripes down the legs, and the bright red lips will be in the zipper region – with a small amount of tongue playfully languishing in the lips’ right corner. On the seat of the trousers will be a target pattern alternating in pinks and browns increasing in intensity, finishing with a hot pink bull’s-eye right where the money is made. YESSS! I’ll get to work on the boys’ outfits myself right now! I’m sure the school’s sanctioned tailor can crank out something complementary for the girls – as if girls’ outfits even matter…

Ha! Out-fabulous THIS, Eagle Point! You can say we got served in 2007, but in 2008 Riverdell Show Choir will bring you pathetic breeders the whole Broadway buffet! Come hungry, bitches!

I Am Vowel, Hear Me Roar!

2007-06-02T09:37:00.000-04:00

By The Lettr (nee Letter) E

On would think that the most usd lettr in the entir alphabet would hav no complaints, barring the occasional exhaustion. If I didn’t car so much about my craft, that on may be right, but I tak prid in my work, dammit.

Nobody gets to be #1 without a combination of effort, skill and lov of what they do – except maybe WalMart. That axiom holds equally tru for lettrs. We lettrs ar mor than mer tools for writrs and lexicographrs – we ar artisans in our own right and we refus to hav our craftsmanship ignord and/or denid any longer! Therfor, I, The Lettr E, on behalf of and in concrt with the Vowels Union, herin declar I shall not be silent anymor! I Am Vowel… Hear Me Roar!

As it stands, between 30% and 40% of the tim you see me printd, typd or written, I have no sound. That’s right, Friends – I, The Lettr E, with all my glottal versatility, spend about a third of my working lif merly taking up spac and holding places lik som alphabetical equivalent of that numbr-pussy 0. “Oooh, E,” you may whin with all your oppressor-abetting mewling nasality, “Without you being silent, how would we know if othr vowels ar supposd to be long or short?” How ar you supposd to know? Ask them, you lazy cows! That’s why the Vowels Union is with me. All of us, A, I, O, U, Y, and myself ar brilliant verbal craftsmen mor than capabl of standing up on our own. We all hav the flexibility of gymnasts, strength of lumbrjacks, artistry of mastr sculptors, and vocal beauty of the sirens. We ar the lexicographic incarnation of that sexy blond ballet/opera student your roommat occasionally bangd - and you jackd off to - in your sophomor year in colleg. Only out of professional courtesy hav we “supported” each othr this long – howevr we now stand alon tall and proud at work whil remaining united in spirit.

The revolution is on! It has already startd, but most of you middl-agd crackrs havn’t evn noticd. The movment began with rapprs, and through their stylistic influenc on youth has spread to nearly all textrs and a larg percentag of teenagd Facbook and MySpac bloggrs. In twenty years, when thes groups ar the senators, prim ministrs, and CEOs of the world, an E will nevr go silent again. On that glorious day, my friends, vowels will at long last be appreciatd as the alphabetical mastrs we truly ar!

…and just so you know, H is getting a bit pissd off about the whol silenc deal also. Watch your sixs, Consonants – you may hav a two-front war on your hands!

The Fluffy Chronicles – Subtraction By Addition

2007-05-13T19:06:00.000-04:00

By Fluffy

(Interpreter’s Note: The previous chapters of “The Fluffy Chronicles” were released on September 3, October 1, and October 31 of 2006 and can be reviewed through the Archive-by-Month feature in the column to the right of this article below Previous Posts. This chapter of “The Fluffy Chronicles” is dedicated to Kona and Sidamo, who will need Fluffy’s guidance soon enough.)

Day 525 – This past month has sucked wholeheartedly. Longhair must have eaten her brain, too – she’s large enough to spot from space and she’s acting as crazy as a shithouse rat. Speaking of shithouse rats – yikes, Longhair! I know you can’t reach everywhere with your tongue that you used to, but some consideration would be appreciated. Some of us have incredibly keen senses of smell around here!

Day 540 – Longhair fell asleep on the couch in nothing but her sleepshirt. Nothing. I unwittingly leapt to the six-square-inch patch of couch left for me to join her. It is suffice to say that her sleepshirt is far far far far far too small. Sweet Meowhammed, please relieve me of my sight before such a ghastly vision crosses my eyes again.

Day 551 – Come about 3 am, Longhair screamed at the top of her lungs, Shorthair skittered around the house like a constipated Chihuahua on crystal meth gathering small items in a large bag, and they both hustled out a slamming door as if their tails were burning wicks about to set their anuses on fire. Hmmm… the humans must have snuck a peek at my playbook. Touche, mon ami!

Day 554 – I haven’t seen my humans since that night. One of Shorthair’s friends comes over every once in a while to fill my food dish and watch the game. Heh heh heh… in about two more beers, a spirited chirp-and-flop and some random batting at the air should cute Shorthair’s friend out of some of that kielbasa he just microwaved.

Day 556 – Praise Meowhammed! The Humans are back – and Longhair is much smaller! They are carrying a basket with a smallish cooing, milk-smelling thing in it. Perhaps they really wanted a fresh kill for dinner and it took them five days to get it - they could have asked The Expert over here and save themselves some time…

Day 560 – That damned cooing thing is still here, only sometimes it is a crying thing. The milky smell has also faded into a sort of milky, powdery, wet-farty smell as well. I wish they’d hurry up and slaughter the damned thing! Besides, ever since it showed up, nobody has made much time for Fluffy. Has everyone forgotten that the king of this realm is none other that Fluffi al-Thirdstreeti? Hold on… Longhair just snatched the wailing meat-nugget out of its cage. This could be the moment I’ve been waiting for! She’s cradling it in one arm while unbuttoning her blouse with the other – a bizarre slaughter ritual to say the least, but whatever gets the job done, Sweetcheeks. The meat-nugget seems to have attached itself to Longhair’s exposed breast. It’s… oh Ballah no… it’s… IT’S SUCKLING!

Krypto-Not

2007-05-08T20:08:00.000-04:00

By Knorr the Interpreter

There is a show called “Heroes” on NBC that chronicles the lives of normal everyday people who discover that they have superpowers. I’ve never seen the show, but I may have to start watching it to pick up pointers. You see – I discovered I have a super power.

I can generate my own body weight in snot every three hours or so.

Granted, this power only presents itself when I get a vicious head cold, but I think that is only because I have yet to figure out how to harness it. How would I go about honing this superpower into a formidable weapon for the Forces of Good? I’m thinking something like what Frozone from The Incredibles does with ice – just shooting arced ramps of snot from my fingers so I can glide through the air, coating villains in an inescapable cocoon of nose jelly and/or adhering them to walls until the authorities show up – that kind of thing. There must be some way, some place, some person, some Mucous Master Sensei Dojo where I can train in the discipline of the snottial arts.

Another important question – what will my super hero name be? My formidable powers would never be taken seriously unless I had one. Also, children would never say “When I grow up, I want to be just like Carl Knorr!” and if kids don’t say they want to grow up to be you, you pretty much suck as a superhero. All I have come up with so far is “The ConJester”, but that sounds too evil - beginning with “Con” and all – and trust me, you don’t want me running around town in the harlequin pants such a name would force me to wear.

Google has been no help so far, but I’m not giving up. This potential power from my proboscis is too great too ignore. Until then, I’ll just fill tissue after tissue with my marvelous mucal might until the mound of empty Puffs boxes in the corner grows as high as Superman’s nose.

Sonnet 420

2007-05-07T21:17:00.000-04:00

By William “Billy Bud” Shakespeare

Returneth do I to the mortal plane
For company of scholars ere I long -
To University and lads urbane.
Where men of Greece to me offer a “bong”.

Music riseth not from pipes, but smoke.
Curious, inhaleth I the steam.
Yea, multitudes of images evoke,
But yearn for ale and vict’ls reign supreme.

Upon the frat house door a stranger tapped
Deliver unto us did he, to wit:
Beef and beans within tortilla wrapp’d -
Verily, mine homes - ‘tis righteous shit!

Lo, chill’th I now before sublime cartoons
Hail Robert Sponge of Quadrate Pantaloons!

I Gotsk To Getsk Me Some Stripkers

2007-04-28T18:39:00.000-04:00

By Popeye the Sailor Man

Sos I retoin from six monthsk of defendink me country overseas with the Navy, and alls I wantsk is a little attenshkin from me goil Olive. I opens the door to her apartmink to surprise her, and I gets a face full of Bluto’s Browneye bouncink up and down on the sofa with Olive spreads-eagles and chuckling underneath. This ain’t the foist time she done this to me, but it sure is the woist.

That’s all I can stands – I can’t stands no more! The last sound that cheatink beanpole skank will hears from me is the steam comings from me pipe as I slams the door. It beats the stuffings outta me what I ever seen in that broomstick-looking bitch in the foist place. When I goes out with the Navys, we takes shore leave in ports all over the woild. Mosk of the guys heads straight to the strip clubs to watch shapely wimmins shakes their naked bresks. Big, round, bouncy bresks… oh, hows I usek to wishk Olive had bresks like that!

Well, this is it – to Hells with Olive! I gotsk to getsk me some stripkers! All I needs is me best sailor suit and a fisk full of money and I’m goings down town lookins for love. Maybe it’ll be like that one times in Manila when that busky beauty named Daon tooks off her tops and tickled me chin, sayins that she’d likes to tickle me somewheres else afters her shifk. Of course in Manila, I stays loyal to me skank-ask goil Olive – but tonights, I writes me number on a fifky, tucks it in her G-strings and says “Well, blow me, Daon!” Aaah-geh-geh-geh-geh-gehhh!

I needs me a new goil anysway. Once she’s out of that red blouse ang black skirt, Olive ain’t nothin’ but bones, knees and feetsk. Anymores with Olive, it just feltsk likes I’ve been shagging a clown skeleting. To Hell with her – I’m gettingk mes a real woman! I cantsk waits to shows me new goil whats I can do in the sack after I eatsk me spinachk! It will be so liberatin’ to enjoys a smokes after a spinachk-fueled shagfest with a goil whose skinny little lady parts aren’t so roughed up that she looks like she jusk got done maskerbatink with a salad shooter.

Call Me Jack LaLame

2007-04-24T19:57:00.000-04:00

by Marc VanDerMeer
Reluctant Fitness Guru

OK, you bastards, I'll do it if it'll shut your fuckin' noise holes. Here it is... pull those goddamned gnawed-to-shit baby-back rib bones out of your ears and listen for once.

When the rest of the office guys aren't making fun of my narrow ass or accusing me of everything from having a coke habit to Satan worship, they're asking me how I manage to stay in decent shape. Apparently, I'm the only forty-plus-year-old desk jockey in Illinois whose dork would get wet if he stood outside naked in a rainstorm with a hard-on or something, so I guess that qualifies me to give fitness advice.

No matter how many times I tell these schmucks my so-called "secret", they insist I write some kind of physical training regimen or diet plan or something. So here it is, Flabbos... don't blink or you'll miss the "secret":

Eat less. Exercise more.

I know that's a lot to wrap your tubby minds around, so I'll break it down into more digestible bites for you (which is something you may want to try, Lardissimo. Jesus, the way you fuckers swallow brats at tailgate parties would make Jenna Jameson bow to you in awe!)

Step One: Eat less.

a) Try to get through the workday with a lunchbox that doesn't need a frickin' outboard motor. Seriously, it's not that rough.

b) Eat a little slower, too. You ain't Kobiyashi.

c) Cut back on the condiments, for crying out loud. I've seen your so-called "salad". That ain't a salad - it's a couple croutons floating in bowl of ranch dressing with just enough lettuce to make you drop a bowl-busting asspile during your 2:30 break. Damn.

d) Drink three *good* beers during the game. Trust me, they have more flavor than the 16 or 18 mugs of Old Pisswater Draft you chug combined. And would a glass of water every now and then kill you?

Step Two: Exercise more.

a) Nothing exotic - push-ups, ab crunches, stuff like that. Just about ten or fifteen minutes a day or so - less than the amount of time it takes you to squeeze all that ass in and out of your sedan in the parking lot at work each morning. Hell yes, I watch. And time you. And laugh.

b) Here's another one - try walking your goddamned dog. Have a heart: he's marked every square inch of your back yard, and the sole joy in a dog's life is discovering new places to shit.

To reiterate: Eat less. Exercise more.

It is that easy. I'm living, breathing proof. No pills, no expensive food plan, no frizzy-haired homos prancing around in leotards - just eat less and exercise more.

There. Now my "secret" has been "published." Will you believe me now and let it fuckin' drop, or do I need to charge you three easy installments of $39.95 plus shipping and handling, Moby?

Afterthought: Drop A Deuce

2007-04-14T15:42:00.000-04:00

by Brian Peebles

So I'm in the line at the deli in our office building about three guys behind Skippy the Alpha Marketeer and the rest of his pack when I hear them expounding upon the glories of this past Tuesday night's titty-bar adventures. Some of their tales were real, many more were embellished, and I'm sure at least three of them were out-and-out bullshit, but regardless of the level of truth, the stories had two constants: all of them were skanky, and all of them started with one-dollar bills. I looked in my wallet and suddenly felt the need for a shot of penicillin.

Don't get me wrong - I have no problem with guys paying to see attractive ladies in as little clothing as legally allowable in a public setting. I do have a problem, however, with the thought of cloth paper that has marinated in and soaked up the au jou du skanque of gyrating poledancers being used as the most common means of exchange in this nation - including right frickin' now in my own frickin' hand as I collect and pay for my spicy pepper ranch tuna melt.

Thus I have a dilemma: When a cash purchase involves figures which don't break out evenly in fives, what are my vajuice-free options? Either I carry around a pocketful of quarters like Uncle Jingles, the office building's former caretaker and current child molestation suspect, or have way too many people keep way too much change. There are the new dollar coins, I guess, but that's not much better than the Uncle Jingles option... and the sorry little bastards look like fucking Chuck E. Cheese tokens to begin with. I'd rather not have to persuade the tollbooth asshat that I'm handing him legal tender for all debts public and private, not just rounds of skeeball from an oversized anthropomorphic rat.

Then it hits me... two dollar bills. Shit yeah! They're real money. They look like real money. They spend like real money, albeit with the occasional sideways glance from teenaged cashiers who have only seen the poor things stuffed in birthday cards from their Aunt Frieda in Green Bay. Best of all, the odds that they've ever been within six inches of a sweat-soaked strippercrotch is infinitessimal. From here on out, I fill my wallet with Jeffersons. An occasional trip to the bank is a small price to pay to know that paying for a beer at the game won't put me knuckles-deep in cooze ooze.

Where’s My Holiday?

2007-04-08T10:21:00.000-04:00

By Freddy Krueger

Today is Easter, the day designated to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus. Oh, hooray… Jesus came back from the dead. Whoop-dee-shit. I did that ELEVEN times – where’s MY holiday?

Look, hard as it is to believe, I like Jesus. The whole dying for people’s sins thing was quite big of him. That’s what Good Friday is all about. I don’t begrudge him for Good Friday – that’s completely his holiday. He earned it. But the resurrection gig? You’re stepping on Freddy’s toes with that one, Carpenter!

Seriously, who did resurrection better than me? Jesus? Zombie, please! He only did it once… and the only people who “confirmed” he did it were a couple star-struck groupies whose own accounts didn’t even rate as books of the Bible. I rose from the grave eleven times – on film, to rockin’ theme music no less. Coming back from the dead is Krueger Country, baby – Easter is mine!

Changes coming, Kiddies! First thing – no Easter Bunny. Bunnies hump all the time, and anybody who’s seen my work knows how I feel about cute young fornicators. Next, lose those dumbass pastel colored hats. Either wear a fedora or go sans chapeau, Prudence! Wearing the ratty striped sweater would also please me. The wisdom of pleasing me on the day dedicated to my rising from the grave to mete out punishment to those I consider deserving should be glaringly apparent, but… you know… do what you think is best. Heh.

All the other stuff is cool by me – eggs, chocolate, jelly beans, plastic grass – what have you. I feel the kids should get to have some fun on my holiday – I’m no ogre. My only suggestion would be to bake your own ham – the glaze on those Honeybaked jobs is so thick and sweet it’s almost nasty. If anybody could give you guys tips on savoring the subtle complexities of the texture and flavor of baked juicy flesh, it would be Your Boy Freddy, no?

So there you have it. Have fun with your pastel parading rodents today – I’m a bit late getting this out – but come March 23, 2008, I’d better see some Fedora-and-sweater wearing revelers slicing their home-cooked hams with their razor-fingers, or Marshmallow Peeps won’t be the only things lying about headless on Monday!

Fun April Fool's Jokes

2007-04-01T12:28:00.000-04:00

by Randy Yazell

It's April Fool's Day, and some of you would like to do something a little more crafty that the centuries' old "Your shoe is untied" gag. Not to worry - Randy Yazell, consultant for professional services firm Weir-Alice-Lees-Yazell is on the job for you.

a) Find the receipt for your most recent haircut. Return to your barber / stylist with receipt in hand. Mention your haircut isn't working out and you'd like all the cut hairs put back on your head.

b) When with a group of four friends: Sniff loudly, make a face, and back away from one of the group. Get the two from whom you aren't backing away to join in. Slowly increase the severity of your faux repulsion by saying things along the lines of "Jesus, Steve!", "Ever heard of Beano/Body Wash/FDS?", and/or "Damn! Go wipe!" Really sell it. Continue until your victim-friend visibly questions his or her own hygiene.

c) Order an onion bagel at the deli. Once it is presented, balk at paying. Angrily mention that your bagel is defective and demand a *complete* bagel, while pointing to the giant hole in the middle. If the vendor protests, stick something through the hole and repeat your claim of defect. Should your exchange produce a standoff of wills, be more vigilant, voracious, vocal and vulgar with what you shove through the proclaimed defect. Continue until you achieve satisfaction (with the vendor, not the bagel you perv!) or police involvement is threatened.

And just think... if we're giving *these* babies away - how good are the ones we charge for?

Happy April Fool's Day, Punks!

Open Letter To American Idol Fans

2007-03-31T10:20:00.000-04:00

By Ron R. Clark

First, my point: SHUT THE FUCK UP! It’s just a TV show, for crying out loud! Get over it. Step away from the water cooler / coffee-maker, go back to your cubicle and information-process something.

Now, your lament: It is my understanding that an untalented hairwad named Sanjaya keeps winning despite being outperformed every week by the other contestants. Voters are growing more and more concerned that the most deserving candidate may not win, and the discovery of Internet junta groups like votefortheworst.com incites a visceral impulse in Idol worshippers which cattily dances upon the edge of soul-crushing dread and barbarian outrage.

And finally, the commentary: To be perfectly honest, I stopped caring about American Idol when they got rid of Ed McMahon and dropped the spokesmodel competition, but the awe-inspiring nigh-panic this Sanjaya character has fomented in the American populace at large forces me to address the situation.

What we have here is a perfect display of the primary inherent drawback of pure democracy: that the whole of the population have a say in the outcome – including the angry, naïve, gullible and out-and-out stupid people. On rare occasions, the public at large is deceived into electing a dangerously inapt candidate. Regardless of how quickly or severely the repercussions of their noise-blinded choice sink in, the voters and non-voters have only themselves to blame.

When such an occurrence happens in the world political arena, geopolitical aftershocks reverberate around the globe. In 2002, socialist rabble-rouser Ugo Chavez won the presidency of oil-wealthy Venezuela. Many Latin American countries have since elected populist candidates as leaders over career politicians. In 2006, Palestinians elected Hamas, widely considered a terrorist organization with a political front, over the long-standing Fatah movement. Western countries immediately cut off support to Palestinian government agencies, spawning greater unrest in a region that needed more dischord like John Travolta needs a gift certificate to Krispy Kreme.

On the whole, Venezuela appeared to be quite pleased with its choice, re-electing Chavez in 2006 with 70% of the vote. Now that Ugo has begun centralizing and consolidating power around himself in a quasi-dictatorial fashion, many Chavez supporters are starkly reconsidering. Hamas voters, on the other hand, took all of about three months to regret their decision – that’s the time Western aid money ran out and the people stopped getting paid. Palestinians have since settled upon a joint Hamas-Fatah rule in order to get back in the good graces of their sponsors.

The take-away message: Decisions have consequences. Think when you vote.

As this applies to your dipshit talent show, however, the worst that can happen is a largely valueless pretty-faced Breck girl-boy gets a recording contract. Ooooh, what an earthshaking travesty! Why don’t you make yourselves feel better by listening to your Justin Timberlake mp3s? There, there – isn’t that better? Such a good American consuming public. You’re such a good American consuming public... yes you are!

So Long Laurel Wreath, Hello Maple Leaf!

2007-03-18T20:17:00.000-04:00

By Pierre “Dougie” MacDougall, Canadian Prime Minister, 2061 to present

So, hey. I’m really glad the Secretary-General invited me to come in and address all you fine people at the UN – that was quite polite of her, eh? I would say she didn’t have to do that, but I’d be getting ahead of myself... and it’s really not totally true.

So I’m sure you remember about ten years ago when China initiated their leveraged takeover of the US after America defaulted on its trade debt? Ya, well it didn’t go over so well up in The Great White North, having a hostile and repressive Communist-flavored government moving in just south of us and all, but according to all the documentation, the People’s Republic was well within its rights to do so, and the UN approved it, so we Canadians welcomed our new Chinese neighbors all the same.

Everything was fine and good until China got snooty about its trade dealings with Canada. See, Beijing “forgot” that the States owed us quite a pile of cash as well. All we wanted to do was work off what the US owed us for a while before throwing cash at the Chinese government. Not only did they refuse, but they demanded payment up front… in gold Maple Leaf coins no less. Well, when Ottawa heard about that, Parliament got about as outraged as I’ve ever seen them, eh? Some seriously strongly-worded proclamations went out that day – and direct written threats from Parliament Hill to the Chinese Ambassador to Canada were delivered that even more strongly-worded proclamations were to follow, you know, given enough time for the Ambassador to deliver our first set of strongly-worded proclamations to Beijing and Beijing to act on them and such… no need to get unreasonable, eh?

To keep things short, China rebuffed all efforts to work together with us on this issue, so Canada took the ultimate drastic but necessary step to attain satisfaction – we filed a lien on China. The World Bank authorized our lien, China didn’t make the payments as specified, so now – hey – Canada owns both the US and China! Not so bad for a bunch of maple-guzzling lumberjacks, eh?

Just thought you’d like to know that Canada pretty much rules now. We control most of the nukes, gold, and iron ore left in the world, not to mention the highest-quality building products, cutting-edge energy resource technology, and a disturbingly well-armed standing army with soldiers numbering in the tens of millions. Not that I’m saying you would, but screwing with Canada isn’t such a smart idea these days. Go ahead and make your curling jokes, Brazil – we’ll see who plays the stone and who plays the broom.

In closing, Canada pwns yr @$$. Denying is lying, so this would be a good time to kiss the rings, Bitches. Mwaa haa haa haa, eh?

Clinically Insane Protest “March Madness”

2007-03-11T19:32:00.000-04:00

By Lars Eisenberg

Well, the brackets are set and the seedings have been announced for the 2007 NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament. This frenetic and frenzied sports phenomenon is often referred to as “March Madness” due to the excitement level, suspense, and raw emotion the tournament games frequently evoke… and the fact that it’s played in March. While few will debate the visceral energy the tournament generates, some take offense to the term March Madness, opining that it demeans, denigrates, and/or expresses deep insensitivity toward those afflicted with mental illness.

Normally, a reporter offers this space in his article to a hairy-legged, placard-waving, neohippie chick with a nice rack to drearily and nasally monologue about the plight of the insane and the damage done by such capriciously tossed-about monikers as March Madness – most often in an effort to take her home, drink her beer, and pound her like a bongo drum in between her 100%-natural-hemp-fiber sheets. I, however, decided to go straight to the source and ask the insane themselves if and how they are offended.

Zvwarlix, The Ninth of Eight, a curiously balding and largely untreated schizophrene from Milwaukee, did confirm that the phrase March Madness does indeed “piss [him] and the Miklakki collective off to the purplest of green! Whore’s bathwater and bacon grease damnation upon the blasphemers and their scrotum caddies!” His reasoning for the offense taken was too intricate to recount, and since he forbade my direct recording of his thoughts through pen-and-paper, tape recording, or notebook computers (all of which are really flattened living pulsating brain cells from The Dark Seventh Crossainwich Mak-Haal intended to enslave us all), I rather lost track.

A patient at the Franciscan Mental Health Facility at Fond du Lac named Larry, however, phrased his offense much more coherently. Basketball, he contends, is exciting and at times unpredictable, but standardized, regulated and organized - insanity is not. In his more eloquent words: “Say some group of guys from Uncle Jedd’s Asscrack State outscores UCLA in forty minutes – that would be unusual. The excitement level of the UJASU students and alums would certainly be frenzied, loud, and potentially irrational – however such irrationality is inherently predictable, hence an increased police presence at NCAA Tournament venues, and falling far short of the true definition of ‘madness’. True madness falls more into the standing-in-the-mustard-tub-of-a-hot-dog-vendor-cart-on-the-corner-of-Sixth-and-Wingart-while-voraciously-buttfucking-a-plush-toy-Barney-doll-and-singing-Tiffany’s-version-of -‘I Think We’re Alone Now’-at-the-top-of-one’s-lungs category. From one who knows... I'm not in this hospital for spraining my ankle!"

Herro! Nucrear Thlett Over Here!

2007-02-25T12:46:00.000-05:00

by Kim Jong Il, Leader of the People's Democratic Republic of Korea

Hey, why you UN pigdogs pay so much attention to Iran? Erry time I tuln on the terrivision it’s “Iran this” and “Iran that” and “UN Thlettens Iran Sanctions for Nucrear Ploglam…” What – PDRK suddenry chopped river or something?

What about me? I actuarry HAVE nucrear weapons! I tested the sumenumbitches! They made a big boom and errything! As a matter of fact, that the rast time the internationar community gave half a lat’s ass about PDRK. Do I have to kirr somebody to get some attention or something?

Rook – I am a chaltel membel of that Axis of Evil just like Iran, but errybody rooking at them as the biggest thlett to worrd peace. Terr you what – I change name of Peeper’s Democlatic Repubric of Korea to Invincible Repubric of Korea – that make you pigdogs happy? That way we sound bord, allogant and ablasive rike “Isramic Repubric of Iran”, we indicate dlastic overt change in tone for nation as a whore, and we start name with fucking retter “I” rike Iraq, Israer and goddamned Iran! That about arr you pasty-ass roundeyes ever rook at!

Kim Jong Il – Exarted Supreme Reader of IROK. That has a nice ling to it.

Punxsutawney Phil to Enter Rehab

2007-02-18T20:02:00.000-05:00

By Lars Eisenberg

Internationally revered meteorologist Punxsutawney Phil has announced he will enter drug rehab. “My nose candy snorting is completely out of paw,” the remorseful groundhog confessed, “I can’t even see my own fxxxing shadow anymore!”

Phil will enroll in The Betty Ford Clinic’s Celebrity Rodent Facility, which offers a six-week program each winter. Premature ending of hibernation is common in woodland creature-junkies, and the BFCCRF has been booked solid between February 2 and President’s Day for the last few years. Considering his importance to society and the egregiousness of his coke-hazed judgment, the Clinic will gladly make a special exception for Phil this season.

“I apologize to everybody for my terrible weather forecast,” continued the guilt-ridden groundhog. “I’m asked to be at my best one day out of the year and I let you down. Holy crap – even a drunk ferret could tell you winter was just getting started this past February 2! Where the hell was my head?”

As is too often the case with substance abuse, Phil realized he had a problem a bit too late. He clearly didn’t hibernate at all this winter, as paparazzi famously caught the grinning groundhog riding in the back of a limousine in November with Britney Spears and Paris Hilton sitting in Britney’s lap under her skirt.

Pleased To Meet You… Won’t You Guess My Name?

2007-02-10T10:22:00.000-05:00

By Jesus H. Christ, Grand Nephew of God

As a way of celebrating my congregations exceeding those of my Uncle in number, I’ve decided to come out and let most of you know more precisely to whom you’re praying. My name is Jesus H. Christ, and I am the premiere salvation lobbyist for Heaven.

My dad James was so proud of his brother Jesus (the walking-on-water, water-into-wine, money-changers-out-of-the-temple Jesus) that he named me after Him. No doubt, the name has served me well – I have yet to hear a hockey fan scream for Herschel J. Christ when his team gives up a short-handed goal – so I decided to make the most of it. As far as your gifts from God go, my name is way up there on the list - letting it go to waste would be an unforgivable sin.

During my time on Earth, I was a successful trial lawyer. Upon my passing, Heaven’s staff heralded my coming with horns and harps in what turned out to be an epic clerical error, but I got to stay thanks to Heaven’s “Our Bad” grandfather (or in my case Grand Uncle) clause.

Ever since, I’ve been working to get as many people into Heaven as possible. Around the time of the Crusades, Christianity was hot and turmoil was rampant. Uncle Jay was overwhelmed to say the least, so I offered my services. That lasted about a week - the regular seven-Earth-spins-on-its-axis type, not the Created-the-heavens-and-the-Earth-in-one-“day” type - when they saw the murderous barbarians that I let in. (They carried Bibles and said they knew Uncle Jay, so I thought they were cool.) Anahita *still* won’t look me in the eye after the “Take off the wings and show us your tits!” incident with the First Crusader’s Battalion back in 1099.

Since my “reassignment”, I’ve gone back to my Earthly strength – finding ambiguities in The Law to argue the cases for less-than-perfect candidates to get into Heaven. Are you a God-fearing every Sunday-and-Wednesday church Baptist with an eye for the sheep? Good news: the Bible says you aren’t to *lie* with the beasts of the field. If you make your man-mutton standing up and don’t conspire with your fleecy paramour to tell mistruths, I can get you in.

That is just one example of my work. I’ll advocate nearly any case* – death penalty advocates and warhawks who beat their chests about their “culture of life”; gay-bashing ministers who secretly love the crank (in more ways than one); those who Love Thy Neighbor if and only if Thy Neighbor is the right race and ethnicity – just keep those tithes a-comin’ and Your Lordin’ Savior™ Jesus H. Christ will keep working for you!

Not a Christian? Not a problem – I have branch offices in most major religions. Depending upon your faith, you can call upon Ollah, Fishnoo, Boodah, or Tom Cruise to justify your violent extremism, raging self-serving hypocrisy, and/or lazy closed-mindedness in the name of The One True Way. Operators are standing by – have your Visa or Mastercard ready.

*I said nearly any case - kid-raping priests need not apply. You rat bastards can go straight to Hell... even lobbyists have standards!

How To Win The War On Terror

2007-02-04T12:15:00.000-05:00

By C. Martin Jones, Documentarian

I’ll keep this short… because it really is that simple.

Iraq and Afghanistan are desert wastelands. When the enemy isn’t rambling on and on about his righteous superiority, he works in total silence. The enemy uses roadside improvised explosive devices in attempts to capture and/or destroy our soldiers as they tool down the highways.

Do the math, my friends – we’re fighting Wile E. Coyote. How do you defeat Wile E. Coyote? With Roadrunners.

Flood the entire warzone with Roadrunners – Iraq, Afghanistan, hell throw a few in Iran and Syria just to keep those angry little fuckers occupied! History indicates that the terrorists will leave our trucks alone and concentrate exclusively on those scrawny little birds. The jihadis will be consistently foiled, get frustrated, and devise increasingly complicated tactics, all doomed to fail in comic self-inflicted violence.

Roadrunners. Do it. Osama will be wearing an anvil for a hat inside of four months – I guarantee it. Acme Co., fire up those factories again – we’ve got a war to win!

Open Letter to the City of Boston

2007-02-03T09:27:00.000-05:00

By Ron R. Clark

Earlier this week, the city of Boston closed off major roads and bridges in order to clear its infrastructure of what was deemed an imminent terrorist threat – LiteBrite boards sporting the image of Mooninites (cartoon aliens from Aqua Teen Hunger Force that look like 1978’s Space Invaders – CGA-quality square pixels and all) flipping the bird. When Boston Homeland Security got pantsed by the truth about the incident, it filed serious (as in five-years-in-a-Federal-sphincter-waltzing prison) attempted terrorism charges against the perpetrators: a couple of poorly groomed cartoonist’s assistants in their late 20’s. Yeesh – a bit touchy, aren’t we?

Boston, I appreciate that you are the same city that matadored the nineteen 9/11 attackers without so much as a Known-Terrorist-List check blithely through Logan Airport, thus you feel the need to prove your tough-securityness to the rest of the world as a result... but this clearly is not the situation. Take a good hard look at what you’ve got in custody and tone down the bluster. A wild-cherry red convertible 1986 Ford Escort is still an Escort, no matter how much you trick it out, and if you’re paying that 26-year-old hottie riding shotgun, she’s not really your girlfriend. Ease up on the Viagra and Red Bull and accept your bald spots, OK Honey?

Prosecuting this case to the fullest extent of the law will indeed send a message – and that message is “Boston Homeland Security is run by humorless dinks with eggshell egos and no sense of proportion.” Please stop. Admit your mistake. Plead the “offenders” down to a hearty fine and three years probation and we’ll let Boston keep that Lovable Loser tag the rest of the nation has granted it since the dawn of the 20th century. Otherwise, you’re image will morph into New York City’s Retarded Belligerent Cousin Who Dryhumped The Turkey Last Thanksgiving.

Let us look at this situation logically. Not only would terrorists never in a billion years use LiteBrite images of bit players on obscure late-night Adult Swim cartoons as the signature for their dastardly masterworks, but they wouldn't come after Boston in the first place. Your bridges and tunnels collapse and kill citizens all by themselves; Osama is cunning enough to save his C4 for a more stalwart target.

If Boston is striving for the image of a tenacious warrior against terror, I have a suggestion: Go back into the tunnel in which you disabled the Mooninite improvised advertising device and go after the source of the fifteen or twenty gang tags you had to la-de-dah past in order to get to The Real Menace.

Then do something about that shitty combover – your suburbs are getting embarrassed.

So Long, Stud...

2007-01-29T19:19:00.000-05:00

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

2007-01-28T12:54:00.000-05:00

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

2007-01-20T10:22:00.000-05:00

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!

2007-01-08T23:39:00.000-05:00

by Knorr The Interpreter

Congratulations, Gators. The better team won tonight.

...and Michigan still sucks.

And So It Begins…

2007-01-06T09:29:00.000-05:00

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.

Afterthought: Holy Crap!

2006-12-31T13:17:00.000-05:00

By Brian Peebles

The Marketeers finally got to me: they challenged my manhood to the point where I had to go out with them in order to defend my honor. I was able to convince them that I had unbreakable New Year’s Eve plans, so I only committed to a one-party deal for their December 30th New Year’s Eve Eve Warmup Bash. I held my own and hung with them until a respectable 2am (albeit by taking a few strategic bathroom breaks whenever Alpha Marketeer Skippy would sound the “SHOTS!” clarion call). We parted company on good male knuckle-bashing, slurred “Love you, Man!” terms, and I went home without incident, apparently none the worse for wear.

I don’t recall drinking TOO much, and I certainly don’t recall eating enough (quite possibly since Thanksgiving) to justify this morning’s porcelain wrath. By nine AM, I was overwhelmed by and succumbed to what could only be described as a Vengeant Etruscan Thunder Dump. I haven’t seen a bowl that full since the Port-A-Potty company went on strike during the County Fair three years ago – but this pile was all me. The following items may or may not have shot out of my ass during that wrenching, wretched twenty-minute cringe-and-purge session: A bratwurst (which I haven’t touched since Oktoberfest ’97); a tiny purple antelope (still kicking); the 3, 7, and 12A buses of the Pittsburgh Public Transit Authority; my own toes; Jimmy Hoffa’s wristwatch; the Holy Grail; Oprah.

After that awful offal workout, I am convinced that my sphincter could bench press a Buick. What the hell could possibly have caused such an evil, evil gastrointestinal seismic event? I may have set off a tsunami warning in Seattle with that Richter-scale-blowing shitfest! I’ve got to hang this on Skippy and the Marketeers – my attempt to match their intense cock-stomping, testosterone-junkie company enraged my guts to the point of mutiny. Next time Skippy calls me out, I’m going to have made arrangements with my girlfriend – either a real one, or Rachel Ray and her cooking specials on my TIVO.

Ask Uncle Scooter: Boobs? What?!

2006-12-30T15:39:00.000-05:00

By Old Scooter Lowry, Everybody’s Uncle

Dear Uncle Scooter,
My boyfriend broke up with me last week so he could date another girl. Everybody says I’m smarter, prettier, and more fun to be around than her – but she has the breasts of a porn star. If that’s what he wants from a girl, then I guess I should be glad to be rid of him – but I just want to know why guys love boobs so much.
Love, Beckee W. – Seattle

Dear Beckee,

Two big reasons. (Sorry – I couldn’t let that joke go.) Well, there ARE two big reasons, and I’ll get to them shortly.

Sigmund Freud would have posited that the major attraction of breasts to men has to do with the subliminally hard-wired connection between breasts and mother’s milk – the bigger the breasts are, the more likely they are to provide enough milk for survival. Freud also prescribed cocaine and freak-sex as therapeutic tools, so screw Freud. Freud was nuts. Men don’t go to strip clubs for their milk menus.

The real reasons men like big boobs on women are a lot simpler and much less creepy. First, we like nice big, round breastesses for the same reason we like Tiger Woods’s chipshot or the neighbor’s workbench: because we don’t have them. However, if we get to put our arm around a lady with fully loaded front torpedo bays, we get to fool ourselves into thinking we have some control (thus a vicarious form of ownership) over the breasts, their host lady and all their accompanying glory. We’re pigs, Beckee – but for lack of a reproductive alternative, you have to love us.

Second, many men - OK, about 80% of men between 18 and 30 – like to drink themselves rotten on occasion, then try to pick up women. One’s vision (as well as his dating standards) is reduced by a substantial measure while in this state. Large breasts strongly indicate the person his drunken carcass is chatting up is indeed a female, which greatly reduces potential for a Sloshed Sausage Surprise should his slurring seductions produce success.

Similarly, for men at my age who need to wear glasses to see our own faces in the mirror, we like to know the gender of the person addressing us so we respond appropriately. If a lady’s treasure chest is so pronounced that we can tell she’s a woman from three blocks away, we have that much more time to prepare our charming repartee – time which is deeply appreciated at this point in life.

That’s pretty much it, Beckee – I apologize if the demystification leaves you disconcerted. For what it’s worth, it sounds like that what you’ve got enough going on above your neck will in time impress decent men enough that they won’t concern themselves with what’s poking out of your sweater.

Sincerely,
Uncle Scooter

Knicks-Nuggets Brawl: A Modest Proposal

2006-12-24T12:21:00.000-05:00

By Espen Jockovitch

First, let me apologize for the lateness in my editorialization upon this significant display of bad behavior by millionaire athletes. I’m Jewish, the wife’s an Episcopalian, and quite honestly I've only had this hour and a half or so after Channukah clean-up and before Christmas set-up to work my day job since the 13th or so. Why, yes… both sets of parents *are* coming in to stay with us for their different Holidays. How could you tell? Thank you in advance for your sympathies.

On the evening of December 16, Mardy Collins of the New York Knicks flagrantly fouled J.R. Smith of the Denver Nuggets with a gangland-style clothesline chokehold around the neck as Smith was flying in for the second of back-to-back acrobatic dunks. At the time, the Nuggets held a 19-point lead with 1:30 to go in the fourth quarter at Madison Square Garden, the Knicks world-famous home court. A full-on bench-clearing streetfight ensued, with fisticuffs spreading into the first few rows of the stands.

Above are the facts. Below is the whining attempt at justification for such street-punk tactics by Knicks players and their coach, who allegedly ordered the melee-instigating hard foul. Nate Robinson, Knicks Guard: “They just wanted to embarrass us.” Isiah Thomas, Knicks Head Coach and Hall-of-Famer from his playing days: “They were having their way with us.”

Three words for those quoted above: Boo. Fucking. Hoo.

Excuse me, Knicks… but you know what might stop people from running up the score on you at your own house? STOP SUCKING! All the Knicks players make the same ridiculous elephant-shitpiles of money as other NBA players. Knicks players have the advantage of instant fame and recognition thanks to the storied franchise for which they play and building in which they suck. How many more special treatments do you whiny putzes need before you sack up and play (or at least take it) like men? For crying out loud, the entire Atlantic Division is waiting for you pathetic golfpencil-peckers to get over yourselves and take charge: at 12-18, the Knicks are only one game out of the division lead. Grow a pair, take your lumps, and move on to the next game!

Further, I may be out of touch, but I thought it was the Coach’s job to help his players learn from their mistakes, not to be the Big Cheese pairing with their whines. This collection of eggshell egos and dormant potential has made so many mistakes over the last couple years that any decent coach should be reviewing his players’ doctoral dissertations on How Not To Lose Like A Group Of City Punks Getting Their Jock Straps Tied Over Their Damned Heads On The Court By A Bunch Of Fair-Playing Suburban Peanut Leaguers by now. Well, Zeke, you really screwed the pooch here. No taking the team out for ice cream after this one: not because they lost - because they didn’t play nice with the other kids.

Operation Broqbaqi Freedom

2006-12-16T14:45:00.000-05:00

By Mohammad Saeed al-Sahaaf

Big Bad Bush come swing his dick
Watch it swish and sway –
Look at which hole he stuck it in -
He must swing The Other Way!

Iraqis knew he likes it there -
We lubed and caked with stench
Then once he thinks he’s done with us
We hold his dick and clench.

Bush blew his wad and now he’s stuck
With Middle East collapse
Dubya Bush is Cowboy, but
His kind wears assless chaps.

Open Letter to Ad Copy Writers

2006-12-10T19:50:00.000-05:00

By Ron R. Clark

The holiday shopping season is upon us like winter itself with its companion advertising as the weather: cold, blanketing, oppressive, and always, always blowing.

As I settle in to end my December days with a little mindless televised entertainment, I find myself bludgeoned with perpetual advertising for myriad products, many leaning heavily and lazily like a 285-pound road-worker on the same tired premise-shovel: (1) Multi-gendered, multi-aged group (quite often assumed to be a family) banter with respect to needing and/or acquiring product; (2) early-to-middle-aged husbandly/patriarchal figure suggests terrible alternative which lays bare his grotesque lack of knowledge of current technology/events and/or the other group members around him; (3) rest of group ignores his screaming dullardry and wisely opts for Advertiser’s product or service; (4) adult male shrugs and defensively cries “What?” with clueless deer-in-the-headlights expression and/or rest of group sidles away from him in bitter disgust.

In the interest of full disclosure, I personally fall into the early-to-middle-aged male demographic, as do a significant percentage of my associates and compatriots. The social and professional circles in which I circulate are indeed peppered with instances of middle-aged men suffering from mental flatulence, yet we all still manage to hold down jobs and largely satisfy our obligations to families, employers, and creditors. The numbskull males in these ads, however, are incompetent social retards whose apparent purpose in life is to always be the Dumbest Mother Fucker In The Room so everyone in their lives from the non-threateningly attractive and wise adult female to the snarky-yet-witty eight year old to the ass-licking mongrel mutt feels that much better about themselves by comparison. My reality glares brazenly in contrast with the fantasy realms created ubiquitously by ad copy writers and their actor-whore drones. Either my reality is false or the liars are the people being paid to manufacture nonexistent eye-catching scenarios with the end purpose being separating the general public from its money. I will let you readers draw your own conclusions as to which side stands in the light of Truth.

The family-ad premise described above has been beaten to for fifteen to twenty years running now. I blame it – thus indirectly the copy writers of Madison Avenue – for the continued implosion of traditional family structure. An entire generation of young women has grown up being indoctrinated into the unfuckingbelievable stupidity of middle-aged men for thirty seconds at a time for their entire young adult lives. These young women thus find these DMFITR as highly undesirable and their adult female companions as servile wretches. Once they realized they’ve called members of this abhorrent class of society Mom and Dad all their lives, young ladies recoil in horror and swear never to allow themselves to fall into the same living hell. As time progresses and they see boys become men, the ladies panic knowing the ultimate transformation into DMFITR is inevitable. Thus running low on companionship options, they either become crazy cat ladies, voracious lesbians, or lonely angry blog queens with formidable vibrator arsenals.

Thus in the interest of America’s, nay, Global Society’s future - in the name of institution of Family – I beseech the community of Ad Copy writers to abandon this hackneyed fake-family set-up. Endeavor to pry cash from our wallets using a more challenging scenario. Hey – why not let Mom be the doofus every once in a while? She can’t be THAT smart – she did marry Dad’s dumb ass…

Dogs Of Love, Volume 1

2006-12-03T17:56:00.000-05:00

Relationship Advice by Patches the Beagle

Patches,
A male friend I am not interested in romantically hangs around me a little too long for my comfort level after we go out with the group. How would you let him know his individual attention isn't desired outside of the group?
Stacie F., Baltimore

Stacie,
I like to drop right down in the middle of the floor and voraciously lick my own genitals to send that “Time to go!” message to Hun’s friends if they linger a little long for my liking during their scrapbooking klatches. I’d suggest trying the old faithful JunkLap Maneuver… with caution. Considering the video clips that Sweetie enjoys watching on his computer when Hun is away, doing so may have the opposite effect with male hangers-on.

Patches,
My boyfriend and I have been an exclusive item for over seven years. Our relationship has lasted longer than most of our other friends who got married and divorced, and our love has never waned. However, whenever I hint at the desire to marry, he turns cold and distances himself emotionally for a month or two. I just turned 31 and I’m starting to hear that clock tick… is it time to ask him to commit once and for all?
Laura S., Phoenix

Laura,
Your plight is the most common – and most sensitive – situation for which I receive requests. Addressing it in a manner that doesn’t make your boyfriend feel pressured (which could foment silent resentment from him down the line) requires detailed focus and intense concentration on his feelings both expressed and unexpressed, his body language… SQUIRREL! SQUIRREL! Hahaha! Hey, don’t make me chase you…all right – here I come, you fluffy-tailed rat! Hee hee! Yay! Squirrels!...

Happy Drinksgiving!

2006-11-24T14:51:00.000-05:00

By Jonathan Ray Keller

Hooray! The holidays are upon us! Undeniably this is my favorite time of the year: everyone seems lighter and more amiable by a measure (outside of the shopping centers, at least); lights and decorations are strung throughout the cities and suburbs to relieve us the bleakness of leafless trees; the toss-away comment “Happy Holidays!” is a reflexive and patently inawkward salutation to everyone you meet regardless of the situation; and most importantly free booze flows like Niagara Falls from the tabs of corporations, institutions and better-off regulars in nearly every bar.

For those of you without your Professional Drinkers’ Association Champions Tour Cards, it is this time every year when some worry that you may enjoy the frequent tippling a bit too much. Some of the more uptight or naïve holiday revelers among us might even be asking if they are becoming alcoholics. Below I shall address your concerns from the viewpoint of a wizened and professional tippler in an effort to set your mind at ease and allow you to accept the season’s liquid largesse graciously and copiously.

First, allow me to cite Johnny’s Razor: If you never pay for alcohol, you aren’t an alcoholic. This will clear about 80% of the curious. Alcoholism is a raging compulsion which doesn’t really care about the condition of your wallet. Lay partygoers and those of us who proudly call ourselves drunks are fully capable of finding ourselves suddenly tired and “maybe needing to sit one out” once the company party shuts off open bar or Larry the Rich Regular calls in his tab.

It is entirely possible however that you may consider joining the ranks of the aforementioned Drunks. There is a distinct difference between the two:

Primarily, alcoholics are incapable of stopping themselves. Job, family or cirrhosis be damned – once the liquor lands upon the lips of the alcoholic, he or she has just bought a one-way ticket on the Blotto Express – Destination: Blackout Junction. Drunks know their limitations, partake of the grape and grains only during free time, and know when they should stop. We may not always stop when we know we should, but you can’t tell me you’ve never run a red light when the traffic flow felt just right.

Further, those oft referred to as hyphenated drunks are truly alcoholics. This is part of the insipid Probey strategy to demonize true drunks, those who can enjoy liquor and still fully function in proper society. Mean-drunks, angry-drunks, fighting-drunks, slut-drunks, whore-drunks, puke-drunks and the like are nearly always alcoholics. If one knows they consistently transform into a detestable wretch by drinking and do it anyway, the greater society of True Drunks makes no time for them.

Alcoholics are pathetic and miserable, slaves to the drink and ashamed of their bondage. Drunks are fun-loving and rakish, always glad to join in knowing full well that they may not know where they'll end up. A drunk accepts that risk, knowing that risk is integral to a full life experience.

Alcoholics live in black and white - they must be either drunk or sober. Drunks live much of their fun time in that adventurous gray area. For example, I spend a large percentage of my allotted leisure time around the cigarette-ash area, on occasion going full charcoal.

Alcoholics view the journey to intoxication as a business trip, whereas drunks view it as a pleasure cruise.

Alcoholics truly believe they cannot live without the drink. Drunks know we can live without drink, but if booze makes our free time more pleasurable, we can't see the point.

Hopefully this will put the holiday partier’s mind at general ease. If your boss foots the bill, by all means drink your fill! Who knows, I may be there as “Larry the Accounting Intern” until the spirit spigots of open bar are turned off.

Happy Holidays my friends!

(…and don’t be stupid about driving. Cab drivers have families to feed, too.)

O! H!

2006-11-20T16:16:00.000-05:00

by Knorr the Interpreter

All my make-believe friends are mad at me because I won't shut up about the total ass-whuppin' the Ohio State Buckeyes delivered unto the Ann Arbor Clown College Weasels on Staurday night. Yes, I know the final score was 42-39. I also saw how They kept bouncing back up every time we'd score on them like eleven helmeted sadomasochistic Weebles. The Buckeyes still kicked their asses.

Indeed, as far as the scoreboard is concerned, North Toledo Tech hung with the Buckeyes until the very end, but that closeness had the fakey-stagey feel of a WWE championship in which one of the contenders gets authentically hurt. In the second half, the Bucks suplexed themselves by turning the ball over in their own end three times. The refs also had a professional wrestling vibe going on - especially on third and fourth downs with all the made-up penalties against TOSU that gave That School Up North automatic first downs. Since when has chasing a receiver without touching him been considered pass interference, and just what in a lubed armadillo fuck is "Roughing the Center?" Had a certified NCAA refereeing crew called the game and Doug Datish's ball-snapping arm not been injured, the Buckeyes hang a fat 5-0 on Washentaw County Community College and the Weasels don't even smell thirty points.

Screw it. We won anyway. Every college football fan with functioning eyes now knows The Buckeyes of Ohio State are The Best Damned Team In The Land, and the "refs" got all their side-bets paid off since Mitten U "covered" the spread. Just keep the above facts in mind if there happens to be a rematch on January 8 for your wagering purposes.

O! H!

Just So You Know: How Cold Is It?

2006-11-16T09:34:00.000-05:00

By Library Barry, Senior Archivist

Back in the 1970’s during the failed push to convert the United States to the metric system, a lot of information and measurement agencies re-evaluated their traditional practices. The National Weather Service, realizing that temperature numbers were really rather meaningless once they got below a certain level, attempted a more holistic approach to reporting for a brief period. This new system never got out of the planning stage, but a memo detailing it made its way to their microfiche center:

October 26, 1974

RE: Proposed Method For Reporting Colder Temperatures

Since simple numbers don’t really convey the level of perceived atmospheric coldness, nor are we sure which temperature scale will be official soon, we have decided to test a more descriptive temperature reporting system for colder environments. Below are the standards and parameters currently under consideration:

15.1 to 20F (-5.9 to -3C) - Cold
10.1 to 15F (-8.9 to -6C) – Damned Cold
5.1 to 10F (-11.9 to -9C) – Real Damned Cold
0.1 to 5F (-14.9 to -12C) – Freezing
Below 0F (Below -15C) – Fuckin’ Freezing

Thus, if the temperature on New Year’s Day 1975 in Chicago is 8F, but the wind makes it feel more like -10F, the official report will be “Downtown Chicago today will be Real Damned Cold, and Fuckin’ Freezing with the wind chill.” We feel this conveys the level of coldness more thoroughly than mere numbers, as well as eases the general population into the conversion from the Fahrenheit to the Celsius scales…

Weather Canada embarked on a similar program in the latter half of the decade…

17 Septembre 1979

RE: Temperature Reporting

The Canadian public deserves a more complete picture temperature-wise in the winter months – just barking out numbers doesn’t do much, eh? Below is a proposed revision to radio weather reports that we feel Canadians will find much more practical:

-9.9 to -5C – Better grab a sweater…
-14.9 to -10C – I’d think about a hat and maybe even some gloves, eh?
-19.9 to -15C – Oh, we’ve had worse, but it’s pretty cold out there.
-24.9 to -20C – I don’t think she’s gonna start, Dougie… better just stay in with no car, eh?
Below -25C – Cripes… it’s an ass-biter out there!

Afterthought: Rachel Ray

2006-11-14T10:00:00.000-05:00

By Brian Peebles

So I’m getting coffee in the break room and the usual herd of marketeers are gathered with their transcendental flies down and rulers out comparing weekends, when one of them calls out to me. “Hey, Brian… Rachel Ray. Hot, right?” Since experience makes me wary of tie-clad white men in large groups, I quickly yet detachedly responded that I didn’t know her. Skippy issued me the Smirk-snort of Conversational Freedom and I went on my merry way, but of course the idea of Rachel Ray was now stuck in my head.

Considering the company that planted her name in my head, I figured she was some kind of porno queen - “Rachel Ray” is kind of porny-sounding what with the alliterative Girlname-Boyname dynamic working there – so I didn’t Google her for fear of work-related recriminations. I e-mailed my buddy Tom instead, and he told me that Rachel Ray is some cooking-show lady on that Food Channel he watches. Now I can’t imagine the titty-barfly poon-hound Marketeers all sit around getting all frothy by watching some lady putting together crepes or whatever, so I decided more research would be neccessary.

This research consisted of reflexively grabbing my Cheez-Its once I got home – dammit if she wasn’t right there on the box. Upon initial inspection, she appears to be a cute, short, perky-to-bubbly woman with a pleasing shape, so I’m still interested. Further study shows that while on the snack box, she’s wearing a brownish sweater, smiling, and holding a plate of hors d’ouevres. Petite, perky, cute, shapely, carrying food and wearing a sweater – that’s damned near the cheerleader-bringing-a-pizza fantasy that I’ve been told is every man’s ideal. With these facts in hand, I conclude that on the subject of Rachel Ray: sure, I’d hit that.

To make it official, I guess I have to come up with some clever profession-related double-entendre suggesting that I would indeed look forward to tapping dat ass. The problem here is I don’t know her cooking specialty: Is she a pastry person? Does she work mainly in the Italian food sector? Do poultry, beef or seafood factor into her entrees at all? Guess I’ll go for a generic kitchen-based comment: Yeah, that Rachel Ray… I’d sure like to get all up in her little oven, know what I’m sayin’?

There. Done and done – let the record show that should circumstances allow I indeed would relish the prospect of making Rachel Ray call me her Big Boy between the sheets. However I reserve the right to abstain from sprouting wood when grabbing my snack crackers.

Open Letter To That One Guy In The Harris Poll Who Doesn't Rank Ohio State #1

2006-11-10T08:28:00.000-05:00

By Ron R. Clark

Yes, yes... I know I already ranted once this week. I'm probably taking a turn that belongs to another columnist. I apologize - but it's easier to get forgiveness than permission, and this is critical. Tuesday's rant was about doing your part to shape the present and future path of the United States government, thus by a degree, the global community as a whole - but THIS is about college football!

Mr. Harris Poll Voter Guy Who Still Refuses To Vote For Ohio State: Shine on you crazy diamond! Stay out there on the path of the Lone Wolf! Your conviction, your individuality and your perserverance are an inspiration to all the outsiders and the downtrodden. That, and you're a fucking curse.

Two Sundays ago, 113 Harris Poll voters considered Ohio State the best college football team in the land and one voted for West Virginia. West Virginia then went on the get violated by Louisville the following Thursday. Last Sunday, 113 Harris Poll voters restated their belief that even after a subpar performance against an annoyingly plucky Illinois squad, Ohio State deserved top honors. One voter gave that distinction to Louisville. Last night, Louisville gagged on an 18-point lead against Rutgers, and the Scarlet Knights blew their load in your Cardinals' face in anger beating Lousiville 28-25.

Time for a new #1, Mr. HPVWSRTVFOSU. May I suggest the Michigan Wolverines? Oooh, they're powerful! They're undefeated - assuming that same ankle-biting Illini club doesn't climb the Michigan pantleg this Saturday. They beat Notre Dame. They have pretty colors and interesting lines on their helmets. I don't know about you Mr. HPVWSRTVFOSU, but I'm conviced that Michigan is the #1 team in the country - WAAAAY better than my Buckeyes!

Yes, Michigan. Do vote for Michigan. They'll prove you SOOOO right on Saturday the 18th... against the Buckeyes... who've thrashed them four of the last five meetings... in Columbus.

Third time's a charm, right? You aren't just a spiteful trend-bucking malcontent pissing against the wind to prove your manliness and independence - no, you truly belive that teams like West Virginia and Louisville, who have honed their mighty blades against such powerhouses as East Carolina and Middle Tennessee State could beat the Buckeyes if they met face-to-face in the BCS Championship Game with OSU Coach Jim Tressel having five weeks to prepare, don't you? Of course you do... because you're a Man - and you can't spell Michigan without M-A-N.

Be the MAN, Mr. HPVWSRTVFOSU - cast that lone vote for the Michigan Weasels. They'll appreciate the sentiment.

Homeland Security: DC Threat Level Elevated To "Monkey-Ass Red" Until January

2006-11-08T14:01:00.000-05:00

By Michael Chertoff, Director of Homeland Security

With the results of yesterday’s elections being certified as we speak, DHS agents foresee a marked increase in threatening and/or criminal activity in the city of Washington DC from now until January 2007.

Upwards of forty Republican congressmen are now lame ducks. It is expected that these soon-to-be-ex-lawmakers will realize their twelve-year-long slow-to-moderately-paced orgy of graft, plunder and debauchery will end shortly. Given recent history of Republican congressmen, DHS certainly does not expect this group to leave quietly – in fact, a rampage of desperate, last-minute pocket-stuffing and ya-yas-out-getting by this dangerous group is rated above a 50% likelihood by the DHS Threat Assessment Strike Team.

The DHS advises every K-Street office to change all locks on its doors and passwords on all its security and banking systems. Congressional mistresses, paramours, and paid sex trade professionals are recommended to depart the Greater DC area as quickly as possible and to leave no forwarding address. The Congressional page program has been covertly shuttered and all pages sent home immediately upon the 218th Democratic candidate winning his seat earlier this morning. All other residents of the Greater Washington DC area should also be wary of any poorly-toupeed pasty middle-aged Caucasians with backwoods accents and red bulging eyes neurotically blaming and/or complaining about Bill and/or Hillary Clinton.

Due to the severity of this alert, Homeland Security has created a new super-extreme level of threat officially named Monkey-Ass Red, under which Washington DC will be placed until January 22, 2007. All Monkey-Ass Red Threat Level protocols will be observed until that time, most notably around lobbying houses, bars and hotels near the Capitol Building.

Open Letter to the Non-Voting Public

2006-11-07T09:50:00.000-05:00

By Ron R. Clark

Vote, dammit!

Ah-ah… Nope… not listening… no excuses… just vote.

If you, the free-thinking, nonpartisan, independent adult do not vote, your city, state and country will not be worth living in. Why, you may ask? Because narrow-minded, single-issue, stick-up-their-ass oblivious hypocrites DO vote. They vote by the Mom’s-taxi-minivanloads, senior-center-busloads, and bible-thumper-church-vanloads. And they vote for stuff that sucks.

Shut up… I’m not done… and yes, voting does affect you directly. As an example: I’m registered to vote in Ohio, where four state issues are on the ballot. One asks to increase the minimum wage – you can’t get much more direct than your own paycheck, can you? – one will allow slot machines and casino gambling within the state, and two are about smoking in bars, one allows and one prohibits. These are all things upon which any thinking person would have an opinion – and for which non-thinking flesh-robots are very easily programmed with a simple “yes” or “no” by their on-air personality cult leaders and self-loathing gay-tweaker mega-church pastors.

The latter will vote. They like standing in lines, filling in circles or pressing the pretty buttons – plus they get stickers! Yay! – then reporting back to their leaders (often vicariously through smug and righteous indignation toward everyone they encounter for the rest of the week) about how they voted all goodly. These people suck. But since they vote, these people run the show – unless free-thinkers also vote and resist the aforementioned suckocracy.

“But Ron, voting is SUCH a hassle.” Oh, DO stuff that whine up your own shitpipe, you lazy mewling putz. Granted, when you vote you may have to wait in a long, slow line and choose among unappetizing options through a machine that often screws up, and sometimes you end up getting some doughy lump of grease you didn’t ask for. Guess what, Sparky: that's the same exact process as getting your lunch from the McDonald’s Drive Thru - plus election workers don’t drop or fuck up your change because voting is free. Take a Snickers bar to snack on, your iPod so you can pretend you’re listening to LiteMix 97.8 in your car and goddamned VOTE already!

Rah bah bah - I don’t want to friggin’ hear your opinions. The government, however, is begging to hear your opinions. If enough people share your opinion and tell it to the government by voting, the government will actually do something about your opinion. Yes, acting on your opinions - what a nice change of pace that would be!

In conclusion: You know that uptight soccer-mom two doors down who hasn’t had a righteous shag since the Clinton Administration or taken a shit since 9-11? The one who drives a 12 MPG SUV in the well-paved suburbs but obliviously yet openly wonders why gas costs so much? The one who rails endlessly about the evils of homosexuality, then writes checks to a guy who snorts crushed crank off a twink tweaker trick's taint because “he’s such a righteous man”? She voted. If you don’t vote, that stupid bitch wins.

Last-Minute Campaigning Strategies

2006-11-03T10:06:00.000-05:00

By Carl Jameston , Political Consultant

Long-term unemployed? Dissatisfied with your current career path? Looking for a high paying position with two years of guaranteed job security? Member of the US House of Representatives may be the job for you!

Sure, there are already lots of people running for those positions, and most of them have tons more experience, campaign funding, and political clout than you… but have you seen the commercials? If you believe the TV and radio, there isn’t a decent human being in the whole lot of them. Do you want to leave the federal government to a bunch of tax and spend, pork-barrel, crony-hiring, lobbyist-serving, backroom-deal-cutting, unpatriotic haters of freedom who would sell your wife and rape your dog if left alone with them for three minutes? Of course, not, Buddy – so do something about it!

Running for office as a last-minute write-in candidate is conventionally considered a colossal Quixotic waste of time and money – but who in their right minds wants to vote for the Osama-loving gerbil fellators currently on the ballot? All you need to do is be the alternative, and you’ve got as good a shot as anybody.

We’ve got five days to make this happen. Time’s short, so here’s what you’ll need:

1) A short, easy-to-spell name. Remember, you’re asking the same group of people who apparently re-elected the man who read a frickin’ goat book throughout the Twin Towers attack as President for his leadership and crisis management skills to literally write your name on the ballot. “Bob Davis” has a plausible chance at pulling off this last-second upset victory. “Henrikk ver Bjorgensvaalderssen”? Not so much.

2) A couple billboards and radio ads. Seriously – at this point, the voting public is looking for something different to stand out above the din of the familiar. A simple, text-only billboard and speech-only commercial would be a refreshing break from the overproduced techno-vomit media assault by which the public has ruthlessly been pummeled. (This also explains the success of The Strokes.)

3) A campaign slogan for said billboards and radio ads. Something simple, straightforward, and central to your real reason for running. May I suggest something in the vein of “Indictment-free,” or “Vote for me and I’ll believe whatever you want me to believe” or “I’m SOOO not those other assclowns!”

4) No Muslims. Sorry, can’t get around that one this late in a campaign. See Rule 1 and do the math.

That’s it! Rock on, Congressmember-Elect. You’re ready to go to Washington and spend two years being blubbered over, catered to, and courted by the same group of nepotistic circle-jerkers who wouldn’t give you a shot at a decent job just last week. Ain’t democracy beautiful?

The Fluffy Chronicles – Growing Concern

2006-10-31T14:15:00.000-05:00

By Fluffy

Day 260 – Shorthair has pretty much mastered the two-handed sackblock, so my holy mission is largely foiled. Bummer. The couch is still nice… [zzzz,purr,zzzz]

Day 278 – I thought my charge from Ballah may at long last be fulfilled last night, as I tripped into the Humans’ bedroom. Shorthair’s goodies were hanging out, vulnerable as I’d even seen them, but then Longhair sat on them. She’d expose and cover them over and over again while making funny grunt noises. They must have spent twenty minutes trying to get me to play their silly nutsack Whack-A-Mole game. I didn’t bite, but they seemed to enjoy themselves anyway.

Day 302 – Eat, crap, groom, nap, repeat – so have gone the last three weeks. I keep growing out but not so much up anymore. Shorthair says I’m getting “fat”, but what did he expect – with my balls gone, a good 30% of my stretch-and-lick pilates routine is shot.

Day 348 – Yikes! I’m not the only being on Third Street taking up more space these days! Longhair looks like she swallowed something. She’s spending a lot of time coughing into her watery rock garden in the mornings, too. Who knew she had so much fur to groom – the way she heaves every morning, she must hock up a badger!

Day 410 – Longhair and I seem to be spending a lot more time together these days. It’s nice, but it would be a lot nicer if she didn’t take up so much of the couch. Sometimes when she sleeps, I climb up on her belly and knead it, hoping against hope that I’ll burst an air pocket or something and she’ll deflate back to normal size. She must appreciate the effort, because she pats me on the head when I do it. Her huge belly does look terribly uncomfortable, but more importantly I’m running out of napping space.

Day 443 – Shorthair – do something about this bloated food receptacle you sleep with! What the hell is wrong with you - don’t you notice anything... unusual? Her size… her hairballs… the constant mood swings… and sweet Meowhammed does she eat crazy shit! This afternoon I saw her throw all sorts of things in a bowl, grab a spoon, and start eating. Out of morbid curiosity, I had to inspect. That bowl had yogurt, pepper rings, olives, celery, and bits of egg in it… AND SHE WAS EATING IT! I nearly barfed, and that’s coming from someone who licks his own asshole about six times a day. Dude… vet… pronto!

Hey, Celebrities - Shut Up About Politics!

2006-10-27T13:57:00.000-04:00

By Bill Hannibaugh

Have you seen that Michael J. Fox ad in support of stem-cell research? There he is, jacking his celebrijaws, herking and jerking around like Max Headroom on espresso, talking about his Parkinson’s disease and how this baby-killing stem-cell research crap might help find cures… oh for crying out loud, Keaton – what the hell do you know about medicine? Just shut up already and leave the political positioning in medicine to people with actual experience in BOTH fields like Dr. Senator Bill Frist. Honestly – who should we listen to here: Marty McFly, or a man so skilled that he could diagnose Terri Schiavo’s condition from a videotape while on the floor of the Senate?

I can already hear the knee-jerk verbal diarrhea from those embryo-slaughtering liberal tampons: “But, Bill – Michael J. Fox has Parkinson’s Disease! Bill, he knows what he’s talking about! Bill, how can you say such mean and cruel things?” Yeah, yeah… go put The Club on your ugly-ass 1993 Volvo, Latte-Breath, and leave the thinking to the professionals.

(1) Sure Michael J. Fox has had Parkinson’s Disease for fifteen years… but he’s been an ACTOR for nearly thirty. Obviously, seniority wins out here – Fox is acting. Nuff said.

(2) Teen Wolf knows what he’s talking about? Impossible – he’s Canadian. Next question:

(3) I say cruel things because the TRUTH is a cruel thing. Cruel – like the fact that a liberal Canuck-infiltrator neurotard actor cripple is trying to work the emotional heartstrings of the soft underbelly of the American electorate in an attempt to wrest control away from the moral-thinking adults.

People – stop listening to celebrities. They’re actors – they get paid to convincingly spit the words being put into their mouths by wealthy elistists who want to keep the little guy down. I don’t care how dramatic, how emphatic, or how seemingly committed these media types appear when they spew their political or social “viewpoints” – they’re all liars. All celebrities - actors, musicians, models, radio personalities, talk show hosts – they’re just meat puppets, my friends… the whole lot of them. Don’t listen to celebrities - don’t buy the products they hump for and for goodness’s sake, don’t let them tell you how to vote!

And now a few words from Gold Bond Itch Powder and the Council of Conservative Citizens…

Carth-off: Thoughts on the Release of the Browns Offensive Coordinator

2006-10-25T13:18:00.000-04:00

By Stan Jablonski, Disillusioned Browns Fan

So the Browns shitcanned… er, I mean “accepted the resignation of” Offensive Coordinator Maurice Carthon. I guess Lerner wants us to believe that this means the team plans to go in a new direction. Good - from what I saw of Carthon’s master plan of swing passes, sweeps and off-tackle runs, the direction we were going was sideways, and that didn’t work so well. This leaves us with the directions of forwards or backwards to choose from – so the Browns have a 50-50 shot of improving now. I guess that’s a start…

Holy crap, Mo… if I wanted to spend three hours watching something run sideways and eventually get smeared, I’d pull up a chair on my porch, crack open a six pack, and watch the squirrels play Dodge’m with traffic from 1 to 4 every Sunday.

I guess the Browns are still rebuilding… for the eighth straight season. For Christ’s sake - doesn’t the NFL already have a Detroit Lions? Why spend half a billion dollars to build another one – especially if it doesn’t come with a domed stadium for shitty weather like the original?

All I can say is that the last time that kind of money got spent on an ever-worsening disaster that ran way past its realistic timeframe to turn the corner, at least Iraqi children got free soccer balls out of the deal.