Stuff.

RUDOLPH THE RED NOSED REINDEER
Tonight Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer is on CBS, 7:00 Central Time.

I'm not normally the sentimental type, but Rudolph and A Charlie Brown Christmas are the two occasions each year I allow myself to well up a little (not full-blown cry, mind you) at something as insipid as a television show.

It's supposed to be snowing in the Twin Cities tonight, which is perfect. What could be better than curling up with my honey with a mug of hot chocolate with Rudolph on the tube and snow falling outside?

NOT A DESPERATE HOUSEWIFE
Yesterday I blogged about the various folks I link to on my blog. Word on the street is that my pal Stacy is enjoying her blogging hiatus so much she may not be back. That would break my heart, but I understand completely.

DYSFUNCTIONAL FAMILY CIRCUS

Yesterday I wrote about how much I utterly detest The Family Circus cartoon. Here's a link (http://medmeta.dyndns.org/dfc/) to the archives of the Dysfunctional Family Circus, a now-legendary parody of the comic strip that was litigated out of existence. Thankfully there remain some folks out there courageous enough to keep it on line. Some of the punchlines are obscene, many are nonsensical, but the important thing is that there are apparently many people out there who feel as I do: that it's over for The Family Circus.

BACK WOES
Three years ago this December I had surgery on my upper back. The culprit: a herniated disk.

Now, my wife is suffering severe back pain. She had an MRI a couple days ago, and we're hoping to get word by the end of the week as to the recommended treatment. She's been through physical treatment twice and has seen a chiropractor, all to no avail. I'm torn; on one hand I hate to see my beautiful wife go under the knife, but on the other hand I know from firsthand experience the abject joy of having surgery take away the pin immediately.

Anyway, if you're the praying type, give my wife a mention. She's dreadfully uncomfortable and I hate to see her feel like this.

COLUMN

The following is this week's submission to the Stillwater Gazette. I hesitate to post it, frankly. In all honesty, I don't like how the column is going. It feels way too "safe." Anyone who truly knows me realizes that I'm a royal smart-ass. My humor is often shocking; nothing is off-limits, much to many people's chagrin. So how do I use the privilege of a weekly column in the Gazette? Writing innocuous, mildly-amusing-at-best drivel, no different than anything else published in any other small-town newspaper across the country.

It doesn't help that yesterday I received in the mail my copy of the November 22 Gazette (yes, it took the Post Office a full week to send a paper 15 miles) featuring my column about purchasing holiday cards for the company I work for. To my horror, I found that it had been edited so much that the whole point of the column was utterly lost. My wife can testify that when I read it, I nearly wept.

I've long felt that I need to just go "balls out" on something humorous and see if it works. I've long pondered creating a conservative version of The Onion, which is in my opinion the funniest thing on the Internet. As usual, however, I'm all talk.

Anyway, here's the turd of a column.

CHRISTMAS SHOPPING

This year after Thanksgiving dinner I sat in the wings and dutifully listened to relatives discuss their day-after-Thanksgiving shopping strategies. The intricacy of their plans made me think that the War on Terror could have been avoided by simply telling these folks that Osama bin Laden is out there somewhere, and he’s got eleven-dollar DVD players for the first five apprehenders. They’d have had him within 24 hours.

Day-after-Thanksgiving shopping is a science. Those who participate make dry runs, create distractions to confuse other shoppers, and basically do everything within their power, ethical or otherwise, to ensure that they’re one of the first 50 shoppers getting the best early morning deals; perhaps a 46” plasma screen television for eight dollars or a $50 laptop. Did you see the news footage of people trampling elderly folks to enter stores at dawn? That was my family, exhibiting less decorum than hurricane victims fighting over bottled water.

One family member planned to be at an electronics super-store at 5:30 a.m. to ensure he received a DVD player for eleven dollars. I asked him if he needed another DVD player. He impatiently replied “Need? It’s eleven dollars!”

My mistake.

My wife and I wouldn’t even bother Christmas shopping except that one family member had to stay true to his Catholic roots and have children. Thankfully the other siblings are less than devout or we’d be even deeper in debt. My hope is that before the rest of them are bitten by the childbearing bug, a version of the Scriptures will surface where the “Be fruitful and multiply” command has the caveat “but you can stop around four billion or so.”

Anyway, now the whole family is in competition to get the kids the coolest gifts. This is no easy feat given that their grandmother lives next door to them and is a mole. You’d think having a mole would be beneficial; she can keep tabs on the latest toys and inform the rest of the family what’s hot and what’s not. In an ideal world, anyway.

The problem is she always buys them the best toys before the rest of us have a chance. I’m sure there’s a psychological term for this. Regardless of the diagnosis, what it means is that grandma will present the kids with an X Box this Christmas while the rest of us bear gifts that would have been voted off the Island of Misfit Toys. Pacifist Army men; conjoined My-Size Barbie twins that even Gary Glitter would refuse; hardly the stuff of which happy holidays are made. Gifts that don’t so much cry “Merry Christmas” as mutter “We tried.”

I just hope and pray that no animated chimpanzee heads show up under the tree. This is the latest item available from the Sharper Image, which is a store designed for people who have done everything shy of literally create a bonfire with their money. I’ve got to hand it to them, their marketing for the chimpanzee head is sheer genius. Never do they claim the product is useful or even remotely desirable. It is what it is, a $150 mechanized chimpanzee head, no more and no less. I weep for the day when extra-terrestrial archeologists sift through the remnants of our supposed “civilization” and discover warehouses full of these monstrosities. Hopefully they’ll find the art museums first and at least know we tried to have a little culture. Please don’t let them stumble upon a Robert Mapplethorpe exhibit.

I arose at 5:00 a.m. the day after Thanksgiving, and after a quick, bleary-eyed visit to the bathroom, I went back to bed and slept ‘til 10:00, my bladder empty, my wallet full, and my conscience clear from not having wrestled a wheelchair-bound World War II veteran for the last Tickle Me Elmo. Sure, I still have to go shopping and contend with the crowds, the rudeness, and the rampant commercialism, but not ‘til later. Much later. And there’s always the Internet.

The price of a DVD player at 5:30 a.m. the day after Thanksgiving? Eleven dollars. The price of that same DVD player the next day? Twenty-five dollars. The price of not having to witness firsthand the depths to which people will sink for the pursuit of material goods? Apparently fourteen dollars. And worth every cent.

Just some random garbage.

Hi, kids. I’m crabby today.

Surprise.

I think I mentioned at one point that I’m willing myself out of depression. Since “professionals” couldn’t help, I just decided not to be depressed anymore.

I know, I know: if this were possible, psychiatry wouldn’t be a billion-dollar industry.

What I mean by “willing myself out of it” is going about my business as usual despite the fact that I might rather crawl into a hole and hide from the world. No more talk of suicide, despondency, yada yada yada. I’m simply going to shut the fuck up, as the Brides of Destruction so eloquently stated, and get on with my life.

That doesn’t mean I don’t have “down” days. If I were the “old” me, today would be a mega-depressed day. However, I’m merely sighing my way through the day and trying to focus on one task at a time. Work. Homework. Blogging. Writing. Blah blah blah.

I have to confess that giving up politics helped with the depression. Politics still fascinate me and my first click of the day is invariably The Drudge Report, but if you put a gun to my head and told me to write a political blog or eat lead, well, as Ed Norton said in Fight Club, I’d be eating a “lead salad.”

There are few links on my site, and that’s by choice. I notice a lot of bloggers link to everyone who ever said “hello” in their comments, and this is probably so no feelings get hurt. I choose my links carefully, because I feel that these links, combined with my own blog, make for a well-rounded blogging experience.

Stacy, over at Not A Desperate Housewife, approaches politics (and particularly conservatism) from a feminine point of view. She’s on hiatus and I miss her, primarily because there’s been some abortion news in the headlines lately, and no one covers the subject quite like Stacy.

Then we have Leab (whatever that means) at Erotic Teachings. Excuse me, Ironic Teachings. Erotic Teachings is a "pay site" among my faves. Anyway, what can I say about Leab except he’s prolific, intelligent, insightful and tolerant. Leab is single-handedly responsible for yours truly getting out of the political business, and I thank him.

The Exile handles politics for me. I love the Exile because his blogs are passionate, venomous when necessary, and articulate. If I ever need to vent politically, a comment or two on Exile’s site is just what the doctor ordered.

Finally there’s Outside the Box. I don’t recall how I stumbled upon her site, but what I do remember is that the first post by the author, Tu s Tin (what the hell does that even mean?) mentioned the Book of Ecclesiastes, specifically chapter one, verse two, which is my favorite Bible verse, the one I have tattooed on my arm. She meanders between philosophy, politics, and God knows what else, and I love her blog.

I’ve considered adding a Link of the Week, but thought that might seem vain on my part. I mean, it’s not as if thousands of people are flocking to my site each week, so a short-term link on my site wouldn’t exactly be the make-or-break moment in another blogger’s career. One blog I will mention, however is Wilhemina’s, because I’ve yet to figure out exactly what is going on there. All I know is that for some reason, I can’t look away, and some days it’s brilliant and other days it’s just disturbing.

Anyway, I started with depression and wound up explaining the links on my site. If I kept going, God knows where I’d wind up. I think I’ll wait ‘til tomorrow to post this week’s turd of a column from the Stillwater Gazette. In the meantime, I’ll simply close by reaffirming my abject hate for the Family Circus. This “cartoon” is a graphic illustration of why newspaper readership continues to decline. I find it terribly ironic that the headlines continually bash “big business,” the growing disparity between rich and poor, blah blah blah, yet they overlook the fact that on the comics page, Bil Keane and his horrible, unoriginal spawn continue to make millions crapping out this utter turd of a cartoon every day.

Who's News.

For newcomers to my blog, Who’s News features actual letters sent by actual readers to the Who’s News section of USA Weekend. Tremendous things are afoot in our world—avian flu, toxins released into a Chinese river, widespread wars, rapes, and murders—but what really matters to a surprising number of folks is popular culture, which in my mind is an oxymoron.

I am addicted to Fox's "Prison Break" and its handsome cast, particularly Wentworth Miller. With a name like Wentworth, he has got to go by a nickname. -Susan Fisher, Washington, PA

Oh yeah, Prison Break. The show that replaced Arrested Development—television’s funniest, most innovative, and well-written show—during the coveted Sweeps period. The time of the year when networks cater to the extra-chromosone crowd in order to garner an extra ratings point or two.

And lest anyone think I’m being overly-harsh, the following is Susan’s letter as originally written:
What's going on with Orlando Bloom and Kate Bosworth? Together or not? -Carol Schaefer, Wagener, SC

You raise an important point, Carol, and we here at Admin Worm thank you for your courage.

Iran and Israel are a powderkeg, plain and simple. As recently as a month ago, Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad said that Israel should be “wiped off the map.” Recent news reports indicate that Iran is moving full-speed ahead with plans to enrich uranium, thus giving them the potential to produce nuclear weap—

Wait a minute. You didn’t ask “What’s going on with Iran and Israel,” you asked “What’s going on with Orlando Bloom and Kate Bosworth,” didn’t you?

For that you receive this:

For what it’s worth, after Iran unleashes a torrent of nuclear weapons at Israel, not only will Orlando Bloom and Kate Bosworth “not be together,” but no one will. We’ll all be reduced to tiny, irradiated particles, and I hope and pray that none of those particles is big enough to wield a crayon or pencil and scrawl me another fucking Who’s News letter.

Is Republican Sen. John McCain actually eligible to run for the presidency? I thought he was born outside of the United States. -Tony Weber, San Mateo, CA

Think about it, Tony: the man wants to be president. Is there a greater reason for him not to be president?

Regarding the citizenship issue, here’s a still photo from McCain’s 1987 “Born in the USA” tour. You be the judge.

The photo graphically illustrates, by the way, the peculiar dermatological affliction causing McCain's head to be an entirely different color than his body. In medical circles, this is known as BloggerbadPhotoshopitis, and there is no known cure.

Did Matthew Perry, my favorite from Friends, ever get married? What is he doing now? -Betty Harrison, Battle Creek, MI

Uuuuh, boy… How do I say this? It’s always awkward when one person out of four billion doesn’t “get it,” and that person asks you to clarify.

Maybe I’d better let Matthew Perry tell you in his own words, Betty. Click this link:

http://matthewperryisgay.blogspot.com/

Everyone else, cover your ears. The “popping” sound you’re about to hear is Betty Harrison’s bubble being burst.

On Thanksgiving Day, I was thankful for the fact that we here at Admin Worm headquarters received considerably fewer Who’s News letters this week. Then I realized that’s ‘cuz it was a holiday, and there was no mail service. On Friday, our mail bins were overflowing, and I wept openly for several hours, while millions of other Americans were trampling old ladies in order to be first in line to purchase X Boxes.

Tragically, I'll see you next week for yet another Who's News.

Right-wing zealotry ahead. Proceed at your own risk.

Stream-of-consciousness crap ahead; very random and not well-proofed. It could have been much more eloquent, but I'm tired and crabby and rushed (oh my). You've been warned.

PAT ROBERTSON

It seems that whenever people want a reason to beat up on Christians, they go to the always-available Pat Robertson for a quote. His words invariably lessen his credibility as well as that of religious people everywhere. That's the theory, anyway, and it seems to work, at least to die-hard leftists eager to stamp out Christianity.

For instance, Pat Robertson recently admonished a community for voting out several school board members who wanted Intelligent Design taught alongside the theory of Evolution. Robertson dared suggest that if disaster befalls their community in the future, they need not ask God for help, because they in essence voted God out of their city.

Pretty crazy, huh?

Conversely, how many people know the following about Louis Farrakhan of the Nation of Islam?

On October 24, 1989, at the J.W. Marriott Hotel in Washington, DC., Louis Farrakhan stated that he had a vision of being abducted in 1985 by an invisible pilot in a UFO and carried up on a beam of light to a "human built planet" known as the "Mother Wheel." There the voice of Elijah Muhammad informed him that the president and the Joint Chiefs of Staff, under the direction of Gen. Colin Powell, were planning a war, which Farrakhan said he later came to realize was "a war against the black people of America, the Nation of Islam and Louis Farrakhan." "I saw a city in the sky," Farrakhan said, after which the UFO "brought me back to Earth and dropped me off near Washington; over to Tyson Corners and Fifth Street I think...to make The Announcement."

I’ve yet to see Farrakhan featured on a Sunday morning talk show or a television news segment with an introduction that mentions the above. While Pat Robertson will always be known as “that wacko who threatened a city with Godly judgment,” Louis Farrakhan will forever get a pass on once claiming that he was abducted by aliens who told him of the U.S. government’s war on black people.

Honestly, I have no opinion on Pat Robertson one way or the other. Last time I checked he was entitled to his Second Amendment rights just like everyone else, and you're willing to believe Christianity or not, your choice. I just find it interesting that when Robertson makes a statement that (like it or not) is based soundly on the scriptures he proports to believe in he is labeled a crazy person. When Louis Farrakhan, a representative of the peaceful and dignified Islamic religion makes utterly delusional claims, nary a word is mentioned and he is continually held up as a representative of the black community.

INTELLIGENT DESIGN
This week the Twin Cities’ official left-wing rag Shitty Pages featured a cover story on a local scientist who is out to discredit Intelligent Design.

This is not going to be a blog about Intelligent Design vs. Evolution vs. Creationism, by the way.

What strikes me as odd is the fact that this is a textbook example of not seeing the forest for the trees. The scientist profiled makes a great argument against a literal interpretation of Creationism, Intelligent Design, and other faith-based theories of how life got to where it is. I've read countless books and articles making a sound, scientific argument against Creationism. Nice work, guys: religion is silly, you've made your point.

What is conspicuously absent, however, is any mention of where all the something that culminated in what we see around us came from. Apparently, it’s faith-based to believe that there is a Supernatural being out there who either created life from whole cloth or at least set Evolution into motion. However, it’s the pinnacle of scientific reasoning that any type or quantity of matter “could just happen.”

Faith-based indeed.

I had a spirited conversation with a co-worker about Evolution recently. If you want to see someone proselytize with the zeal of a street preacher, get an Evolutionist started. After he waxed rabid—excuse me, eloquent—for a full five minutes, I posited the question: Where did the matter that began it all come from?

He replied, to my amazement, by impatiently shaking his head and saying “That doesn’t matter.” Then he rambled on.

Excuse me, but where all this shit came from in the first place is the crux of the matter, in my opinion. Saying that you only care what happened after matter came to be, not where the matter actually came from, seems an affront to science. According to Evolutionists, their theory can be demonstrated in the fossil record. If they’re so convinced of that, shouldn’t they now turn their attentions to where everything originated? That would change the terms of the debate.

If all this something “just happened,” as scientifically impossible as that may seem, then science should be diligently seeking proof of it. However, if all this something was generated by a being beyond the scope of science, than that being should be the subject of research, not the subsequent results of his action of creating matter. It's one thing to put a puzzle together; it's quite another for the pieces to simply materialize out of thin air.

Yet it’s completely taken for granted that everything “just is,” and mankind in his infinite wisdom has it all figured out, or soon will. Again, religion is silly. An infinite Universe filled with incredibly complex matter, however...that, my friend, makes complete sense.

“That doesn’t matter.” My God, and Evolutionists call me a sheep.

Presidential pardon.

President Bush pardoned the White House turkey today.

I'll pause to allow the obligatory Scooter Libby jokes.

(Admin Worm whistles patiently)

Just once, and I thought Bush might be the guy to do it, I'd like to have a President say "Fuck it, we're eating it this year." I'd like to see some brave president flip the bird, pardon the pun, to popularity and tradition, grab an axe and lop the head off the bird and cook that bastard up.

Maybe that's just me.

Gazette column, among other things.

This week's submission to the Stillwater Gazette can be found below. Nothing earth-shattering, just more of my Andy Rooney-esque bitching and moaning without the annoying bushy white eyebrows. The man makes millions of dollars and he can't get a freaking wax job? Please, girlfriend.

This may be the last post for a few days. My wife and I are supposed to make a Thanksgiving pilgrimage (pilgrim, get it?) to Nebraska this weekend. I say "supposed to" because her back is giving her problems, and if it doesn't shape up there's no way we're adding severe back pain to the already innumerable reasons to loathe that trip. Just imagine seven hours of Iowa countryside, your speed limited to 60, writhing from pain, knowing that your destination is...Nebraska.

Shudder.

Anyway, whatever. It's not as if any of you will be at work the rest of the week. Enjoy your holiday, enjoy the turkey and pumpkin pie. Enjoy the Macy's parade with the freakish costumes, awkward banter, and painful lip-syncing. Enjoy the football (again, shudder) and watching your in-laws nod off and drool.


GAZETTE
Every year around November 1, I start doing everything within my power to get fired. I feign Tourette’s syndrome; arrive naked but for a strategically-placed tube sock ala the Red Hot Chili Peppers; even greet clients with “Yo momma’s so fat…” jokes, but all to no avail.

Looks like I’ll be stuck sending out the company holiday cards after all. So unenvied is this task that I could probably replace the jar of Hershey’s Miniatures on my desk with a basket of human heads and still retain my job.

The first problem with company card shopping is finding a religion-neutral image and greeting that will appease our Christian, Jewish and radical Muslim clients alike. Which reminds me, I need to send a card to Abdul at Mecca Office Products thanking him for the lovely Johnsonville Explosives Sampler. The almond bark grenades were a nice touch.

Honestly, I long for the days when a person could say “Merry Christmas” without a team of lawyers from the American Civil Liberties Union descending like crows on road kill. Shouting “fire” in a crowded theater is one thing, but mentioning Jesus? That’s beyond the pale.

The next problem is finding a holiday card manufacturer that can accommodate my procrastination. One would think holiday card manufacturers would brace for a last-minute rush around, oh, say, the holidays for instance, but alas they do not. One company told me matter-of-factly that production time was running five weeks, which would put the cards in my hands on December 23.

Yeah, like I’m going to trust the post office to deliver the cards in two days. May as well just affix the cards to blind, one-winged homing pigeons and cross my fingers.

(That was for the folks who complained about my recent post office column. Just kidding. Please don’t shoot!)

I finally decided upon a card manufacturer that benefits “exceptional” people, or whatever political correctness dictates the disabled be called this week. I won’t mention the company’s name; suffice it to say they’re courageous, and more importantly they’re fast. So fast, in fact, that I couldn’t help but wonder if loopholes in labor laws allow them to work these “exceptional” people night and day, 24/7, in dimly-lit, sweltering warehouses where they drop like flies on the production line, and are carted away and replaced by an inexhaustible supply of cheap, expendable labor.

Still, they look happy enough in the pictures. “Let’s go for it,” I told the salesperson over the phone, and ignored what sounded suspiciously like a whip cracking in the background.

The card we’re sending this year features a picture of a tree. Consider that for a moment; a glade of real trees was felled in order to create holiday cards bearing the likeness of a tree. The fact that I work for an environmental consulting firm only adds to the irony.

And besides the environmental impact, there’s considerable expense involved. Between the cards, my labor, and postage we’ll spend around a thousand dollars on this venture. Now, unless advertisements for homeless shelters have lied to me all these years, a thousand bucks would provide a lot of turkey dinners for down-on-their-luck guys who all look exactly like the scary Oak Ridge Boy. But God forbid we receive the Scarlet S (Scrooge) for not participating in the annual ritual. So, in a couple weeks, I’ll mindlessly stuff 400 identical cards into 400 identical envelopes, affix 400 identical holiday stamps and 400 identical address labels, and thus let 400 clients know how unique they are.

Here’s the dirty little secret of company holiday cards: No one but receptionists see the cards you send. Routing slips are not affixed to incoming cards. No “naughty or nice” Excel spreadsheets are generated tracking who sent a card and who didn’t. Hoards of festive employees do not flock to the mailroom each day demanding to see the latest round of holiday greetings. Rather, holiday cards are stamped with a “WGRA” stamp (Who Gives a Rat’s A**) where they’re displayed for a day or so at the reception desk next to the basket of human heads. On December 26 they are unceremoniously dumped in the recycling bin, looking like the remnants of a scrapbooking bender.

So I would like to be the first to declare a cease fire in the holiday card wars. Allow this column to serve as the Stillwater Gazette’s official holiday greeting to our advertisers. We won’t be sending cards this year: This is it. Enjoy. Happy Holidays. Merry Christmas. Happy Hanukkah. Have a blessed Kwanzaa. Death to the Infidels. Insert your faith or lack thereof here.

There, I just saved the Gazette a couple grand. Now perhaps they can afford to send me to Glamour Shots for an updated mug shot. Nothing would exude professional journalist like a pink, feather boa. Maybe I’ll have them pan out so you can see the tube sock.

Who's News.

Today’s Who’s News is dedicated to Stacy, who’s been very sick this week. Just when she thought she’d heaved up everything she had in her belly, I go and write a Who’s News guaranteed to send her bile levels skyrocketing. Sorry!

To initiate Admin Worm virgins, Who’s News is comprised of actual letters sent by actual morons—excuse me, readers—to the pop culture Q & A section of USA Weekend. People took time out of their precious lives to ask these questions. Of course, I took considerably more time answering them, so who’s more f-ed up?

Idina Menzel was amazing in the Broadway musical "Wicked," for which she won a Tony award. Why is she not in the movies? -Fran Morrison, Kapolei, HI

Hi, Fran. Good question, and one that is on the mind of many Idina Menzel fans, myself included. I talked to her publicist, who told us that…

Oh, shit. Look out your window, Fran: QUICK!

You live in Hawaii, you idiot. Go outside.

My favorite male celebrity is John O'Hurley. I watched him on "Dancing With the Stars" every week. What will he do next? -Julie Mitchell, China Grove, NC

Talkin’ ‘bout China Grove, whoa-oa-oa, whoo-hoo…

Sorry, had a Doobie Brothers moment there, Julie. You must get that a lot, living in China Grove. Oh, wait…that would entail social interaction.

Anyway, you asked “What will John O’Hurley do next?” Well, the fact is you never know what he’ll do next, Julie. He’s just that unpredictable. One moment he’s got a regular gig on Seinfeld, adored by millions of people. Then he’s relegated to a role on The Mullets, which was god-awful even by sitcom standards. The Mullets lasted 2 1/2 episodes, the final one containing the much ballyhooed surprise ending where network executives sprayed the set with machine gun fire, killing all cast members except John O’Hurley, who escaped via the HVAC system. Then O’Hurley resurfaced in “Dancing with the Stars,” a show that one person—Julie Mitchell of China Grove, NC—watched.

Here’s O’Hurley in his latest role, clearly suffering from an acute case of COF (Career on Fire).

NBC correspondent Campbell Brown is such a professional. What do you know about her private side? -James Sanders, Rehoboth Beach, DE

Campbell Brown lets her hair down, as it were, by appearing weekly as the character Magenta in a local production of the Rocky Horror Picture Show. She finds the experience to be a great release after dealing with very serious subjects at her day job.

Unfortunately, her acting gig once caused her considerable embarrassment. No one will forget this infamous moment, when a late-season hurricane struck Biloxi, Mississippi and Brown was rushed to the scene immediately after that night’s production of Rocky Horror. She was able to remove the Magenta wig, but the NBC make-up team wasn’t able to get to her in time before the broadcast.

Ever the trooper, Brown laughed it off later saying “Look, if my ghoulish appearance could bring a moment of laughter to even one of the lives devastated by that storm, I’d do it all over again.” After the broadcast, Brown spent the remainder of the weekend in Biloxi applying Rocky Horror-style make-up to local children separated from their families.

What a trooper. That’s a professional, people.

I enjoyed Matt Damon in the Jason Bourne spy movies. Will he make another one anytime soon? -Tony Dowd, Mesa, AZ

Trumpet fanfare please, because you, Tony Dowd of Mesa, Arizona, are the recipient of this week’s coveted Who Gives a Rat’s Ass Award!!!

Matt Damon won’t be appearing in any movies in the near future, Tony. He and longtime friend and now life partner Ben Affleck have married in a civil ceremony, and Damon is now expecting their first child.

Well, that’s it for this week. Get better, Stacy, so that you can get the hell away from the computer and not be forced to subject yourself to the horrors that characterize popular culture. As for the rest of you, at least Stacy had an excuse. Turn off the computer. Go outside. Volunteer somewhere. Spread the word that paying even iota of attention to pop culture is a waste of precious life. If you can change but one heart, that's one less tree killed to create paper used to write these insipid letters to Who's News.

Lord almighty.

And it started out as such a wonderful day.

Actually, I resolve to keep it a good day. But I'm good and pissed off right now.

If there can be said to be a theme for this blog, it's that people get offended waaaay too easily in this country.

For instance, yesterday's St. Paul Pioneer Press printed a letter to the editor in which a female reader expressed her offense about a story on female shoe sizes. "I'm offended that you would consider a size 12 to be overly-large," the writer stated. Way to take a stand, ma'am. Perhaps this will give you the confidence you need to finally fire off that letter to USA Weekend expressing your views on Emilio Estevez's directing prospects.

I would invite this letter-writer to watch the Holocaust documentary my wife and I viewed earlier in the week. I invite her to visit the Holocaust museum in Washington D.C. and witness firsthand the enormous pile of shoes that is said to be one of the most sobering reminders of the carnage characterizing the Holocaust that exists in the world.

And I won't limit it to the Holocaust, since there actually remain some folks on this planet that believe it never occurred. As you read this, you're two clicks away from graphic images of children being sexually abused. Somewhere in your city there are rapes occurring...murders...child and spouse abuse...cruelty to animals...horrific acts of physical aggression that are truly offensive.

The fact that mere words, be they on the printed page or via the expulsion of breath and manipulation by vocal cords, can cause people to be offended...well, this offends me. I'm a far right-wing conservative nut job who calls himself a Christian every other day, and when it comes to humor, political views, or anything comprised of mere words, I say the more "offensive" the better. Excuse me, the more fucking "offensive" the better.

Comedienne Sarah Silverman has a new movie out called "Jesus is Magic" which is said to contain something to suitably offend everyone. And I can't wait to see it. I hope she lambastes Republicans, Democrats, Conservatives, Liberals...everyone.

The reason I'm bringing up the subject of offense is that it reared its ugly head again today. My Public Speaking course has a website which contains a discussion board, and countless students have used it as a forum in which to develop the “community” that the instructor insisted from Day One would be sure to develop. We were skeptical but it turned out to be true, and we’ve enjoyed every moment.

I won’t lie, many of the discussions had little to do with Public Speaking. Things got crazy, but never offensive. No obscenities were used. In fact, I’d venture to say that many of the ideas espoused there were no more “offensive” than the typical half-hour sitcom.

And by the way, they weren’t all generated by me, in case you were wondering. Hard to believe, but I’m not the only warped person in this world, and oftentimes the only thing that keeps me alive another day is the comfort of that knowledge.

This morning the message board was shut down. No reason, no pomp, no circumstance. It’s simply gone, as if it never existed.

That thumping sound you hear is George Orwell turning over in his grave.

The students also take advantage of another forum called Facebook. Of course, today’s discussions center on whether the “offensive” content of the original website was the reason for its removal. One person clearly supported the removal, claiming that it had “gotten off track.” Her comment was followed up by a response/apology from a class member whose comments on the previous board were just as “offensive” as anyone else’s. “You’re right,” he whined, “I am so sorry if I offended anyone.”

Make…me…fucking…sick.

I’m not sorry. I’m fighting the urge to be angry, and I’m sure as fuck not sorry. I really wish I could articulate exactly how I feel about this, but my capability to express it is akin to the bout of political apathy I’ve been experiencing for nigh on three months: I’ve simply reached the point where I’m resigned to (but infuriated about) the fact that I’m not going to change people’s minds. Whether it’s converting people to conservatism or convincing them that something “offensive” might actually be enlightening, instructive, or amusing, there’s no point. None. The battle lines are drawn, the blinders are on, and constructive debate has effectively been severed. Literally.

I’ll have more to say on this in the future, I’m sure. Much as I once utilized this forum to wax philosophical while I pondered life’s greatest mysteries, I foresee using it in the near future as a venue in which to try to make sense of why people are capable and willing to turn a blind eye to genuine horrors—not words, but physical actions that hurt, maim, and kill living beings—but dare claim “offense” at the writing or utterance of certain words or concepts.

Your comments are welcome. I particularly look forward to the insight of my friends Leab, Jules, Faith, and TST. Oh, and Bill too. Okay, everyone. I respect you all greatly and you’re the ones that always seem to talk me off the ledge when I’m convinced the world has gone totally insane.

Crashing and burning.

Man, I'm just stressed, tired, and crabby as hell. Nothing worth saying today. My whole body aches from weariness.

It's cold in the Twin Cities. Yeah, not exactly earth-shattering news, but the first "real" cold of the year is always a shocker. Yesterday I took a break to gas up my truck and stop at the Fed Ex box. My gas cap was frozen shut, as was the Fed Ex box.

It's a cold that drills into your bones. When you enter a building and the furnace blasts you, it only warms the surface. Your muscles and joints scream for relief, but nothing shy of a hot bath after work (or the month of June) will do the trick.

Tack onto that the fact that it's pitch dark by 5:00, and suicide hotlines across Minnesota must be lighting up like Christmas trees.

Hey...depressed Tom is back! We missed you, buddy.

You know what sucks?

Leaving home an hour early because of the weather...and arriving at your destination an hour early.

Then getting to class and having a classmate peek their head in and say "Did you know class was canceled?"

As part of my glass half full policy, however, I'll merely look at this as an opportunity to play catch up. Do some writing. Some reading. Some surfing.

It's funny, last night I seriously pondered skipping class in order to get my ducks in a row.

To paraphrase Douglas Adams, "Hey ho, funny old thing life."

Too much information.

This week's Stillwater Gazette column is below. It contains waaaay too much information, so the squeamish should surf elsewhere.

Feeling rather depressed and directionless today. My wife and I watched a half-hour documentary about the Holocaust last night. It was made in the 50's, almost ten years to the day after the liberation of the camps, and it definitely isn't the feel-good movie of the year. It's important to watch such things, though. My opinion is that this documentary, and others like it, should be required viewing for anyone who feels "White Power" is a cause worth fighting for; anyone who doubts the Holocaust occurred; any nation that feels Israel should be "wiped off the map"; and for brainwashed pawns like Prussian Blue, teenaged blonde sluts who sing bubble-gum pop about Arian supremacy.

I've been called "hateful" for my humor and for my perspective on life. Sometimes I feel ashamed because of this. Periodic wake-up calls like that documentary certainly put my supposed "hate" into perspective, and even if I am hateful at least now I have tangible proof that human beings are capable of behavior that makes them truly hateable.

After my column you'll find something I e-mailed to my pal Jules. It's the late comedian Bill Hicks' perspective on childbearing. There are too many people out there who venerate childbirth, in my humble opinion, and perspectives like Hicks' are important to hear, even if they make you angry. You've been warned.

STILLWATER GAZETTE COLUMN
I don’t know much, but this I can say for certain: Laxatives work.

It’s quite a step for someone like me to discuss this subject in a public forum. My longstanding contention has been that for any relationship to last, even one as impersonal as reader-to-writer, bathroom habits are strictly off-limits. People have asked me to the key to a successful marriage, and without fail I recommend the immediate purchase of a cat and placement of the litter box near the bathroom. That way, any offenses to the olfactory can be easily deflected with a finger wagged at the feline accompanied by a stern “Mittens! Bad girl!”

Mine is historically the Old Faithful of digestive systems. Recently, however, I adjusted my diet to include healthier foods, and to my surprise it upset my rhythm, so to speak. Unwilling to acquiesce to a medicinal quick fix, I decided to give it 24 hours, but no more. After all, the point of my new diet was to lose weight, and given that I hadn’t—you know—for quite some time, I was anxious to shed the ballast.

With no relief in sight the next morning, I took a pill. To my surprise and delight, the mission was accomplished within an hour. My wife and I then embarked on a shopping excursion in St. Paul, and given the load off my mind (and elsewhere) I was able to embark upon the adventure with a new lease on life. My wife remarked on my positive demeanor, but unwilling to divulge details on a taboo subject, I merely replied “I guess it’s because I’m extra in love with you today!”

Then “six to twelve hours” popped into my head. Now why on earth would that random thought occur to me as I shared a pumpkin spice latte’ with my sweetie on Grand Avenue? And why was I feeling a slight cramp in my side which was the equivalent of a child tugging on my shirt sleeve, asking “Are we there yet?” Then it dawned on me that the laxative package said “Usually works within six to twelve hours.”

To my horror I realized that the “success” I’d experienced earlier was simply my body restoring itself to its natural rhythm. The effects of the pill were yet to be felt, and I had a sinking feeling that something insidious was afoot and I wanted—nay, needed—to be home to experience it.

“Let’s head home,” I suggested through gritted teeth, and we did, and never was I so aware of the Twin Cities’ poorly engineered traffic system as I was on this day. Mistimed stop lights, lane closures. Each intersection provided new reasons to encourage my wife to flaunt traffic laws. “Honey, turn left on red, ignore the sign.” “Speed limits are merely a suggestion.” “Pedestrians, shmedestrians.” And so on.

Finally, mercifully, we pulled into the driveway, and to my dismay my wife began exiting the car along with me. “I thought you were going to yoga class,” I said, and she was, but wanted to come in the house “for a couple minutes” first.

What constitutes a couple minutes for my wife changes on a daily basis, and of course this day it meant well over a half hour. She rearranged the junk drawer. Filed her nails. Played with the cat (the very cat I hoped to blame for what was to transpire). Finally, I became Popeye: “That’s all I can stands, I can’t stands no more!” I locked myself in the facilities, and my vow to shield things digestive from my spouse was broken in a big way. Old Faithful became Mt. Vesuvius, and all because of a pill so tiny it would have fit on the head of a pin. It could have kept; I don’t know—a hundred, maybe a thousand—angels regular for all eternity. The havoc it wreaked on my 140-pound frame was breathtaking, in many senses of the term.

To her credit, my wife didn’t say a word. The cat didn’t get blamed. The marriage remains solid (other things aren’t quite yet) and I am wiser. Maybe the key to a successful relationship isn’t denying the things that make you human, but rather acknowledging them with a shrug of the shoulders and the reassurance that those who truly matter not only go through the same things, but know you do too. And love you despite.

Pity I had to give the cat a complex to come to this realization. Sorry, Mittens. Good girl.

BILL HICKS' PERSPECTIVE ON CHILDBEARING
But where did this veneration of childbirth come from? I missed that meeting, I'll tell ya' that. "Oh, childbirth is such a miracle. It's such a miracle." Wrong. No more a miracle than eating food and a turd coming out of your ass. You know what a miracle is? A miracle's raising a kid who doesn't talk in a fucking movie theater. There's your goddamned miracle. If it were a miracle then not every nine months any ying-yang in the world could drop a litter of these mewling fucking cabbages on the planet, and in case you have not checked the single-mom statistics lately, the miracle is spreading like fucking wildfire. Hallelujah!

Trailer parks all over America. Fillin' up with little miracles. Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!

"Look at my little miracles!"

Thunk!

"Fillin' up my trailer like a sardine can. Look at them."

Thunk!

"You know what'd be a real miracle? If I could remember your daddy's name, goddamn it."

Thunk!

"I guess I'll have to call you Trucker Junior. That's all I remember 'bout your daddy, was his fuzzy little pot belly riding on top of me, shooting his caffeine-ridden semen into my belly to produce my little waterhead miracle baby child."

Thunk!

"There's your brother: Pizza Boy Delivery Junior."

Thunk!

"There's your other brother: Exterminator Junior."

Thunk!

"There's your other brother: Will Work For Food Junior."

Explain this to me.

I'm violating all sorts of copyright laws posting the following:

That's a cartoon called "9 Chickweed Lane." The above installment is fairly indicative of what you'll see every day from this "artist." To me, it looks like the idiot is taking an Adobe Photoshop course and posts his daily progress in thousands of newspapers across the country.

As a person who dabbled in cartooning and knows the odds of being syndicated, cartoons like 9 Chickweed Lane infuriate me. It's a turd, plain and simple.

And newspapers wonder why readership declines daily.

Happy Monday!

I tried to generate a Who's News yesterday, but USA Weekend was celebrating the CMA (Country Music Awards), thus any jokes I came up with centered on either A) inbreeding or B) the fact that country music sucks ass.

So, instead I present to you what I originally intended to be this week's Stillwater Gazette column, which turned out to be more of a brief stand-up comedy routine (such as it is). This week's column has been submitted, and upon acceptance I'll post that next (probably tomorrow).

Say, if you're into offensive stand-up comedy, may I suggest checking out the late Bill Hicks' newly-released two CD set or reading up on comedienne Sarah Silverman. Makes the shit I come up with look like just what it is: shit.

COLUMN ABORTION
When is a column a column? When it's written, when it's submitted, or when it's published? This might very well be considered a late-term column abortion, removed from consideration just moments before I clicked the "send" button.

Everywhere I turn people tell me that life in America sucks. Perhaps I’m blinded by the dirty, sticky rectangle on my vehicle that is the lingering vestige of a Bush ’04 bumper sticker (courteously removed one week after the election, thank you), but I firmly stand by my contention that few people in America have any clue what constitutes a real problem.

For instance, Lindsay Lohan had a car accident recently. No one reading this cares, but we all know because it captured headlines for days. War, terrorism, and Avian Flu are certainly newsworthy, but what we really need to know is: Will we see Herbie the Love Bug II? Don’t worry, Lohan’s injuries weren’t life-threatening, and I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say “Maybe next time.” I know Lindsay’s not the brightest bulb on the tree, but let’s be honest here: Corky from Life Goes on could manage to hit a telephone pole dead-on if he really aimed. Try again, Lindsay.

Yeah, life in America is awful. It’s so awful that President Bush took time out of his schedule recently to meet with Bono, lead singer of U2, to discuss world hunger. It struck me while watching this specter that Bono could single-handedly solve world the world hunger problem by teaching people to be full of themselves. Bono is enough to make me wish that the qualifications for rock stardom included proficiency in Microsoft Outlook. That way, he could give himself a pop-up reminder every day that says “YOU’RE A SINGER. GET OVER YOURSELF.”

Things are so bad in America that gentle dentistry is apparently a huge problem. I kid you not; the latest advance in oral care is gentle dentistry. It’s nice to know that some enterprising dentist discovered that there are some post-Mengele advances in the field. “You mean we don’t have to stop at wrenching their gold fillings out? Astounding discovery.”

One dentist’s radio commercial states that he’ll fix your teeth “without put downs or insults.” What retched dentists have people been seeing? Apparently, unbeknownst to me, Don Rickles opened a dental school.

I’m a patriot, but I can understand why the rest of the world hates us. Don’t forget, America is the country that discovered obesity is a disease. Look, if you eat a piece of broccoli and gain 20 pounds, that’s a disease. If, however, you eat a bag of White Castles every night and gain 20 pounds… Well, granted public education isn’t what it used to be, and certainly critical thinking isn’t held in the esteem it once was, but even the aforementioned Corky can put two and two together.

And yet America needs nutritional information posted in McDonald’s now, just in case you were tempted to believe that eating six Big Macs was healthy because they have lettuce on them. The irony is the nutritional information was always available at McDonald’s, it just happened to be sitting in the booths. When every patron is pushing 300 pounds, that should tell you something.

Here’s a sign of the impending Apocalypse that even St. John of Patmos couldn’t have foreseen: Steven Segal is cutting a blues album. You heard right, B-movie martial arts star Steven Segal has a severe case of the blues and is thus recording an album. This is a man who has amassed a considerable fortune despite possessing the charisma of a pet rock.

America: the nation with a zero-tolerance policy on speeding, but we can’t quite get a handle on the whole child pornography thing. It’s so tough to type with my face buried in my hands.

Last Friday was Veteran’s Day. A day commemorating countless lives lost defending what this nation stands for, or used to stand for. Much as Veteran’s Day has become just another three-day weekend, so do I fear that the freedom our military defends has become the freedom to be oblivious.

And lest you think I hold myself above the fray, bear in mind I not only knew about the aforementioned trivialities, I took time to write about them. And next week I’ll be back with a similarly synapse-firing extravaganza about toothpaste caps, people talking in movie theaters, or some such indignancy.

I never claimed to be part of the solution. I just hope I’m not exacerbating the problem.

Let me get this straight...

I promised to spend a considerable portion of today, my day off, blogging?

Hahahahahahahahaha!

Have a good weekend. Who's News Sunday or Monday, which if last week is any indication, will garner zero response!

65 and sunny in the Twin Cities on November 11! I have the day off to do whatever I choose. So what's on tap?

Cleaning house.

Admin Worm, you crazy, sick, limit-pushing bastard!

Oh Lord, has it been a year already?

This is my least favorite day of the year.

It’s the anniversary of the Edmund Fitzgerald sinking. If you’re not familiar with the Edmund Fitzgerald, then you obviously haven’t lived in Minnesota for eleven years and had it shoved down your throat every fucking year.

It was interesting when I heard about it the first time. It was mildly annoying the second time. Subsequent times were a royal pain in the ass. Today it's nearly unbearable.

Yes, it was a tragedy. Yes, Gordon Lightfoot recorded an absolutely awful song about it. Now, can we let it go? Do we need to spend a 24-hour period each year reminiscing about it?

The worst part is that the anniversary of the Edmund Fitzgerald tragedy reminds me that there remain but two weeks before Rush Limbaugh starts using godawful Mannheim Steamroller bumper music on his show. Mannheim Steamroller “music” makes me want to convert to Islam, strap a bomb to my back, and wander into a concert. It’s synthesized, digitized crap that might have seemed clever had Howard Jones played it in 1985, but not any more. Let it the fuck go.

Oh God, the station I’m listening to is actually playing Gordon Lightfoot’s fucking Edmund Fitzgerald song. And this hour is devoted to the shipwreck. People are calling with their thoughts on the sinking of the Edmund Mother Fucking Fitzgerald.

Judas God, just kill me now.

Toughest job in the world.

The toughest job in the world has to be Suicide Bomber Recruiter.

Have they ever considered a new strategy; rather than suicide bombers, how about "Plant it and run like a mother fucker bombers"???

I don't say this to make light of recent events. It just bewilders me that there are people out there completely insane enough to think that taking their own lives and snuffing out the existence of hundreds of innocent people is a guaranteed path to eternal glory.

Methinks quite a different fate awaits them.

There are no words to express the utter loathing I feel for these people. What more barbaric and selfish act can occur than to commit mass murder in the name of religion and/or ideology.

My pal over at Outside the Box expressed dismay over world events, and I don't blame her. When I say that I eagerly look out my window each morning hoping for the specter of horsemen in the sky, I'm not kidding. Not because I crave the end of all things, but because I don't relish the idea of seeing things get worse.

Where am I?

Jules asked where I am today.

Kinda crabby. Really crabby, actually. I asked my boss today "Is everyone crabby?" Then I realized it's not everyone, it's just me.

Lots in the brain, not much opportunity to write the past couple of days. It's not as if everyone has read everything I posted, anyway. Five comments on Who's News? Please. What do you people want? I give you Princess fucking Diana with a Hitler moustache, and no one bats an eyelash.

I'm taking Friday off, which means all day for writing, and I intend to do a crapload.

In the meantime, I dunno...help Leab find Tim Sherno, whomever the hell Tim Sherno is. Also, do yourself a favor and read the last portion of Savage Love today. That may be the subject of Friday's hellfire and brimstone blog. Frankly, I'm a little tired of "Culture of life assfucks" (his words, not mine) being blamed for all the ills in the world.

I'm tired of the "Everybody does it" mantra. I'm tired of columns like Savage Love bashing people who are sick of mopping up after everyone else's irresponsibility. I'm tired of people like Savage pretending that there are no emotional repurcussions for wanton sexual behavior. If I'm a "Culture of life assfuck," then I deem Savage a "Culture of irreponsibility dickweed."

Savage is a wonderful illustration of why I wake every day with the fervent hope giant fucking horsemen will appear in the sky. Judas God, last week I read a story that said half of all 15 year olds have had intercourse. Well over half have had oral sex. I go to a community college with a bunch of 18 year olds, and believe you me that kids would do well to concentrate less on perfecting their fellatio techniques, and more on learning how to construct a goddamned sentence in cohesive English.

Lots to read today. Take the day off and catch up!

Please note that there is tons and tons for you to catch up on today. The first item below is this week's submission to the Stillwater Gazette, which should alienate quite a few people. After all, since life in America totally sucks ass, naturally people will fire off angry letters to the editor regarding a fucking column about Target vs. Walmart.

By the way, I received my first ever piece of "hate mail," and ironically it regarded my recent column about the Post Office. A "gentleman" wrote to ask if I was abused by a mailman as a child, and I replied that I wasn't abused by one, but I was raised by one.

I learned in the "Peanuts" comic strip that a gentle answer turneth away wrath. This guy wrote a super-nasty e-mail to my editor in which he didn't just criticize my column, but ridiculed my physical appearance. I sent a nice reply. He wrote an even nastier reply. I sent an even nicer response. He eventually revised his letter to the editor to remove the references to my appearance and apologized for writing in anger. I replied "Go fuck yourself, dickweed. If I ever see you on the streets of Stillwater, I'll fucking rip your heart out and make you eat it before you die."

No, actually I said "No problem" and that was the end of it.

Also, note that yesterday was a banner day for writing. Back by popular demand, Who's News, which this week features a portrait of Princess Diana bearing a Nazi emblem and references to Paris Hilton pooping in Gucci loafers. Something for the whole family, that's my motto.

Read away, you crazy bastards. Tonight my pal Jules and I are once again embarking on a wild and crazy adventure, which I'll write about tomorrow.

STILLWATER GAZETTE
The operative question used to be “Maryann or Ginger?” (Correct answer: Lovey) As society has grown increasingly materialistic, the question is now “Walmart or Target?” My answer is Target, hands down. I love Target. I love Target because you can say “I love Target” without being deemed a pariah. You can only say “I love Walmart” in the context of a self esteem building exercise: “I love Walmart because at least I’m not the kind of person who loves Walmart.”

Walmart is the Mystic Lake of shopping. Casino designers intentionally create environments that cause patrons to lose all sense of direction and time. Walmart does the same, and just when you’re ready to give up hope on ever finding an exit they dangle a blue smock in front of you with the promise that if you work hard, someday they might show you the door.

What they don’t tell you is that by that time, you’re so brainwashed that rather than flee for your life, you instead greet new victims with a smile and offer them carts and thus the cycle continues. Walmart is a giant Venus fly trap feeding on despondency.

Walmart uses real employees in their ads, which isn’t is a good idea. When they first started, it wasn’t so bad: Tammy, Sales Associate. Then it became Ben, son of Electronics manager, Jim. Two degrees of separation. Now they go so far down the food chain in order to find someone even vaguely photogenic it’s embarrassing: Stacy, daughter of Helen, former elementary school classmate of Joe, ex-husband of Jan, restraining holder against Al, who while seeking a public restroom accidentally stumbled upon Alice, hunchbacked forklift operator.

Keep that warehouse door shut, people.

Target is another story, however. It’s brightly lit. They have attractive, hip employees. Sometimes I don khakis and a red shirt and hang out in the Target break room on my day off. If Walmart is the casino of shopping, then Target is the trendy nightclub without the velvet rope. Everyone is cool at Target, even angry, bald nothings like yours truly. I often get so caught up in the experience that a quick trip for kitty litter ends up as a $400 bender on my Target Visa card. I’m never even sure how it happened; I just come out of a blackout with an apartment full of Michael Graves’ designs and a receipt so lengthy that if shredded and thrown from a rooftop it would serve in lieu of a ticker tape parade.

Here’s a reality show idea: Send shoppers into Target for one item. Give a million dollars to anyone who can pull it off. The prize would never, ever be awarded.

If I can be said to have a single complaint about Target, it’s that they push gift receipts like methamphetamine. Recently I bought dishwashing liquid, envelopes, and batteries and they offered me a gift receipt. I’m not planning a surprise party for MacGyver, so no gift receipt necessary, thank you.

Super Target is a bit much, though. If traditional Target stores have three of everything then Super Target has ten of everything. My wife and I shopped for an apple corer at Super Target recently but became overwhelmed by the selection and the prices; the most expensive model was eight dollars. What a great barometer for the health of a society; the number of eight dollar apple-corers sold. George Bush’s next State of the Union address should consist of him simply reading current eight-dollar apple corer statistics. “Poll numbers say life in America sucks, but y’all bought 20 million eight-dollar apple corers last year. What do you people want, anyway?”

America’s biggest problem is apparently asymmetrical apple slices. No wonder the rest of the world hates us.

As illustrated in November 2004, America is divided along red and blue lines. It’s no coincidence that Target’s logo is red and Walmart’s is blue. The battle lines have been drawn; khakis on one side, smocks on the other. Mercifully the conflict has thus far been limited to verbal slings and arrows. I hope and pray it doesn’t erupt into all-out war, given that my side’s uniform sports a big, red target.

Ode to egg nog.

It's the best time of the year. The time when egg nog wonderfully and miraculously reappears on grocery store shelves. Last week I bought a couple quarts and told the young cashier that the very definition of pathetic is when the high point of your year is the re-emergence of egg nog.

Egg nog manufacturers try to be tricky in their nutritional information. At first glance, it almost appears to be good for you. One gram of fat. Two grams of carbs. Three grams of sugar. Closer inspection reveals that each quart container supposedly hold 200 servings. That only works if you're parsing it out 10 cc's at a time through a syringe, like in E.R. "We need nog, STAT."

Putting nutritional information on egg nog is like posting it at McDonald's. We know it's bad for us, so kindly spare us the details. For six weeks each year I get to pour this wonderfully thick, sugary liquid down my gullet, and in all honesty if I were told that one out of six cartons contained a lethal dose of cyanide, I'd still risk it. It's...that...good.

I love egg nog, yes I do
Would love to drink egg nog with you
I drink egg nog every night
Can't rest 'til egg nog's in my sight

If I were dying, my last wish
Would be for egg nog, thick and rich

For egg nog I've undying thirst

Until it's gone January first

That last line wasn't terribly rythmic, but I'm an artist dammit.

Who's News!

Well, you asked for it. Seriously, you did. What in God’s name is wrong with you people? It’s back, and more pissed than ever: WHO’S NEWS, our weekly foray into the inexplicable world of popular culture. More skewering than a kabob convention. All the hatred of a Klan rally, neo-Nazi assembly, and Nation of Islam gathering rolled into a single 1,000-word bundle, with disdain expressed for all of humanity, not any particular group. We here at Admin Worm long for a day when mankind can be united; when people are not judged for the color of their skin, but rather for the fact that everyone—and we mean everyone, even us, goddammit—are wasting their fucking lives.

What is the real scoop on why Nicole Richie and Paris Hilton aren't on speaking terms anymore? -Michelle Andrews, Visalia, CA

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Note to self: It’s impossible to type with my face buried in my hands.

Good news and bad news, Michelle. First, the bad news: I am going to trash you. But the good news is you won’t have the added humiliation of receiving this week’s “Rat’s Ass Award,” which goes to a letter-writer from Florida. More on that below.

To answer your question, Nicole Richie and Paris Hilton are no longer on speaking terms because each learned of contractual guarantees for the other that put her own “superior” status in question. For instance, Paris Hilton has a contract rider which delivers to her trailer, each morning, a fresh pair of $10,000 Gucci loafers into which she deposits her morning and afternoon bowel movements, which are then encased in Plexiglas shadowboxes and shipped to various Hard Rock Cafes across the world.

Nicole, on the other hand, is contractually allowed to spend ten minutes each day pelting a group of poor children, dressed in rags and standing on a sewer grate, with diamonds, and Richie is continually delighted at the childrens' horrified faces as the precious gems plummet into the sewers below, forever irretrievable. Each starlet thinks the other’s contractual guarantees are preferable to her own, hence the incessant pissing match.

For fuck's sake, Michelle: turn off the fucking television and donate some blood or something. Hell, donate all of it. You're serving no other purpose.


How is Michael J. Fox, who has Parkinson's disease, doing lately? -Amber Mitchell, Bellingham, MA

Shaky.

Married actors Lisa Rinna and Harry Hamlin seem to have a happy family life. Do they want more children? -Gail Robinson, South Gate, CA

By asking “Do they want more children,” I assume you’re offering them your own children, Gail, which is a good thing since instead of caring for your kids, you’re instead following every goddamned move made by B-movie couple Lisa Rinna and Harry fucking Hamlin.

To answer your question, they do want more children. In fact, they looked into adoption, but discovered to their dismay that all healthy, white babies born within a 200-mile radius of L.A. are immediately shipped to Rosie O’Donnell’s house, while all eligible overseas infants are given directly to Angelina Jolie.

EXCLUSIVE.

Admin Worm staffers obtained questions culled directly from a Hollywood adoption form. See for yourself how stringent the laws are:

Are you a militant lesbian who communicates primarily by shouting, treating underlings like refuse and deemed “mentally unstable” by everyone you encounter? (If “yes,” skip directly to last question and indicate how many babies you want, specifying how many are for raising and how many are for consumption)

Are you a creepy starlet who impulsively tattooed an ex-lover’s name on your arm and even wore a vial of his blood around your neck, only to later have an affair with a married co-star, breaking up his marriage and proudly plastering your adulterous ass on every gossip magazine in the country? (If “yes,” indicate if you need a vegetarian meal on your flight to Asia to pick up your seven healthy babies)

Meanwhile, my wife and I will likely never be allowed to adopt because I looked at porn on the computer once. Aaaaah, sweet justice!

Britain's Prince Harry appears to have taken on Princess Diana's personality, while Prince William seems to be taking more after his dad. What's the consensus? -Michelle Danielson, Jacksonville, FL

Trumpet fanfare please, because Michelle Danielson of Jacksonville, Florida is the lucky recipient of this week’s “Who Gives a Rat’s Ass” award!

In answer to your question, Michelle, you’re remarkably right on the button. Prince Harry pisses away several million pounds (that’s British money) every year on fashion, jewelry, hair styling, massages, and paying off paparazzi so they don’t report his countless anonymous backseat trysts with billion-dollar playboys. Just like mom!

Harry is shown to the left in his infamous Nazi costume, which he wore in a misguided attempt at humor. His mom, however, was not joking: Princess Diana had a really, really visceral hatred for Jews, as detailed in this quote culled from the book “Diana : Her True Story in Her Own Words” by Andrew Morton:

“I have a really, really visceral hatred for Jews.”

Princess Diana, pages 24, 351, 462, Appendices A, B, C, G, and N

from "Diana : Her True Story in Her Own Words” by Andrew Morton

Prince William, on the other hand, is much more refined. He chooses to piss away millions of pounds (again, British money: keep up, Michelle) on worldwide travel, hoity-toity sports like fox hunting and water polo, and he even courts a staggeringly unattractive woman just like the old man.

What the two boys have in common is the fact that merely because of bloodline, they never have to work a day of their lives. While hard-working Brits slave away in steel mills, exposed to hazardous chemicals and unbelievable heat; while other Brits while away their time at pointless office jobs, perhaps taking a night class here and there in hopes of incrementally bettering their lives; while still other Brits breathe their last after a disappointing life relegated to lower-lower-middle-class, the Royal Family continues to have billions funneled towards them each and every year for no other reason than because they are who they are.

A note to an enterprising street vendor near Buckingham Palace: stop selling miniature Big Bens and instead stock up on pitchforks, torches, graham crackers, marshmallows, and chocolate. Because once the veil is lifted—once average Brits realize how they’ve been ass-raped for centuries upon centuries by a greedy gaggle of bluebloods—the palace will be turned into a bonfire, visible to the naked eye from all corners of the globe, which will put the Northern Lights to fucking shame.

Come to think of it, we should do that in America, too…

Aaaah, nothing like a quiet Sunday morning in the study, cats slumbering on the chaise lounge, piping hot cup of coffee in my hand, synapses overloaded with the capacity to hate and revile anything and everything remotely associated with the moral quagmire that is popular culture. In fact, popular culture is an oxymoron, which we vainly try to illustrate here each and every week in Who’s News.