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

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

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?

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

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...

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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"

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"

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

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

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

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

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...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.