Author Archives: Kurt Luchs

God Responds to Sarah Palin’s Remarks

By: Justin Warner

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GOD: Damn. I guess this’ll teach Me to go on vacation: I open my email and there are three hundred trillion new messages. About half of them were YouTube links to Sarah Palin invoking My name, so let me go through them point by point:

PALIN: “Pray for our military men and women who are striving to do what is right. Also for this country, that our leaders, our national leaders, are sending them out on a task that is from God.”

GOD: Well, since you asked, let me set the record straight: I have never advocated for the invasion and occupation of Iraq. What I have advocated for, if anyone would freaking listen, is the invasion and occupation of Mauritius.

I know what you’re thinking: Mauritius? Wasn’t he Julius Caesar’s page boy or something? If only. As it happens, Mauritius is a pathetic excuse for a sovereign nation located on an island 560 miles east of Madagascar. An island which I created for only one reason: as a safe home for the dodo, the coolest bird EVER.

But what happened? Well, in the 17th century, a bunch of drunk Dutch sailors decided they hadn’t ruined enough pristine, uninhabited paradises, so they and their mangy domesticated animals took it over and guess what? A century later, no more dodos! Thanks a lot, dickweeds. Now the island’s human population is a toxic stew of French, British, Indian, African, Chinese, and who knows what else, and they haven’t done a single thing worth a damn since. Oh yeah, and a couple of their old postage stamps are worth like, half a bajillion dollars, so I guess that’s their excuse for sitting around all day swigging rum from paper bags and banging out cacophonous, seizure-inducing drum rhythms. Jerks.

Sure, I could wipe them all out with a tsunami or a plague. But frankly, that’s a little deus ex machina for My tastes. Nope, there’s nothing quite as satisfying as watching an inferior culture get a first class ass-whuppin’ courtesy of its fellow man. And I personally cannot wait a minute longer. But moving on…

PALIN: “I think God’s will has to be done in unifying people and companies to get that [$30 billion natural gas] pipeline built. So pray for that.”

GOD: Again, I don’t know what God she was listening to, but I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about that natural gas pipeline. My will, which I clearly spelled out on Governor Palin’s English muffin on the morning of June 14, 2007, is to open up oil exploration rights in the Chukchi Sea. There’s some serious bling to be made there, and if there’s a spill, it’ll mostly kill whales and polar bears, which are both overrated in My opinion. If I could only think of a way for an oil spill in Alaska to wash up on the shores of Mauritius, we’d hit the jackpot.

PALIN: “All of this doesn’t do any good if the people of Alaska’s heart isn’t right with God.”

GOD: Like that’s ever going to happen. Right now, only about 38 percent of Alaskan people’s hearts are right with Me, which is slightly below the national average (thanks in no small part to the Smythe family of Valdez). Still, it’s a damn sight better than Mauritius, where the percentage is zero.

FROM PALIN’S CHURCH BULLETIN: ”You’ll be encouraged by the power of God’s love and His desire to transform the lives of those impacted by homosexuality.”

GOD: See, this is what pisses Me off about these evangelical churches: They spend so much time worrying about who’s hopping in bed with whom, and NONE whatsoever bombing certain East African island nations back to the Stone Age. Oh wait, they’re already in the Stone Age.

While we’re on the subject, did you know that “Mauritius” was the name of a critically acclaimed Broadway play last season? As if those smug twits didn’t have enough to swell their heads. I’ll tell you, nothing makes My blood boil like watching a bunch of Upper West Side yuppies nattering away over cappuccinos about the interplay of gender and violence in a play named after a piece-of-crap nation of cretins.

But seriously, I’m actually big advocate of gay rights, and oh, hell with it: FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, SOMEBODY TAKE THE HINT AND INVADE MAURITIUS! It won’t be that hard! Even Lesotho could take these punks and they’re starving to death. All right, fine: Whoever leads the invasion gets his or her choice of 72 virgins, lifetime immunity from cancer, or a bump to the front of the line for a new Prius.

Want something else? Seriously, make me an offer. Those guys have it coming.

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Particularly Overt Classified Ads

By: Pete Reynolds

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MediocriCo, Inc. — Marketing Associate. Get started down the Long Road to the Middle! Looking for young, spirited, optimistic go-getters who are open to having their souls crushed by a lifetime of overwhelming monotony and trite, career-stunting office politics. Useless bachelor’s degree preferred. Ability to begrudgingly, but consistently, obey orders a plus. Willingness to wear ties with short-sleeve dress shirts also a plus.

Testostero Supply Co. — Secretary. Auto parts supply company seeking submissive but perky secretary that knows her way around a hard drive (ohhh!). Ideal candidate must be willing to wear tight clothing and retrieve dropped items. Experience dancing to ZZ Top albums a plus. Past abusive relationship with father and/or currently incarcerated ex-boyfriend also a plus. Associate’s degree or lower preferred. Unfamiliarity with Anita Hill and Gloria Steinem a necessity. Signing bonus available to candidates who lost their virginity in a van with an airbrushed beach scene on the side. We are looking to immediately fill this opening — if you know what we mean. HAYYYYY-OOOOO! Free gym membership included.

FirstBank — Securities Broker. FirstBank, one of the country’s oldest and most prestigious banking institutions, is currently seeking to add as many as ten motivated, sadistic jerk-offs to its hallowed ranks. The ideal candidate will tip poorly and wear blue shirts with white collars. FirstBank prides itself on hiring employees who pretend to own a boat, wear excessive hair gel, and swing an imaginary baseball bat while talking on a headset. Priority for interviews will go to those candidates who have a penchant for self-aggrandizement and cocaine, and an ability to be from New Jersey.

Factory 72 — Laborer. Wal-Mart supplier located in tropical, malarial locale seeks energetic youngsters with tireless, supple fingers. Previous experience embroidering American flag and/or bald eagle onto sweatshirts for sale to Uncle Dales and Aunt Brendas throughout America’s girthier regions a plus. Candidates requiring more than intermittent bursts of mat-based slumber on dank factory floors need not apply. Wages probable. Benefits include thrice-daily snacks of mealworms and rain water (subject to seasonal drought).

US Army — Volunteers. Do you love adventure? Awesomeness?? EXTREME awesomeness??? If you answered “Totally, bro!” to any of these questions, you might just have what it takes to join the world’s most ass-kicking organization — the US Army! Be immediately deployed to waterless beaches half a world away where you’ll spend your time off-roading in ATVs, learning how to play the electric guitar, and snowboarding! Earn college credit toward a degree…in Awesomeness Studies! Though you will become an Army of One, employer would like to hire several thousand Armies of One, so impressionable friends are welcome. Must be 18 years old to apply. Will consider extra-rad 17-year olds who can keep a secret!

Larry “Lead Pipe” Stinson — Victim. Do you carry excessive amounts of cash? Are you masochistic and weak? If so, this job is for you! I am looking for someone who is willing to go the extra mile — specifically, the extra mile to the 121st Street ATM, around 2:45 AM, Thursday, June 20th, for your guaranteed interview. Ideal candidate enjoys walking alone and has a pathological fear of cops. Amnesia and/or blindness a plus.

Ron Masterson — Emergency Room Surgeon. Construction worker badly injured in a freak backhoe accident urgently seeking to hire a physician of some type, preferably one trained in emergency responses and life-saving surgeries, to stop the bleeding. Must be able to start immediately, as I am quickly losing consciousness. Ownership of medical tools and whatnot a plus. Double life as member of the clergy also a plus. Priority given to those physicians who are members of the MedHealth Insurance Preferred Network.

Columbia Gazette — Classifieds Coordinator. Mid-Atlantic, small town newspaper seeks to replace Classifieds Coordinator. Candidate must be willing to stifle own dreams of journalistic achievement and overlook unrelenting grammatical idiocy from the general public. Ability to refrain from sleeping with the Managing Editor’s wife, even though it feels so right, is, apparently, required. Knack for recognizing cruel irony of being asked to write an ad seeking one’s own replacement recommended.

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Quimby’s Revenge: Diary Excerpts From the Ill-fated Tilverton Arctic Expedition, Circa 1904

By: Dan McArdle

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28th July 1904

Firstly let me state unequivocally that the tuxedos were Quimby’s idea. I found the use of formal wear to acclimatize any penguins to our presence patently ridiculous. Secondly I remain steadfast in my conviction that there are no penguins in the Arctic; alas my protests go unheeded. And now the ever-trustworthy Borghetti has informed us that Quimby surreptitiously traded away our fur mitts and overcoats for a croquet set and forty cases of “Coca-Cola,” a sickly sweet libation from America. We must now lash the dog sleds to the deck to accommodate it in the hold. The elixir has wondrous medicinal properties, he says; the croquet set will build camaraderie and esprit de corps among the men. I must confess that I am doubtful…

3rd September 1904

We are undone! The premature onset of the winter freeze has left our redoubtable ship, the HMS Obdurate, encased in yards-thick ice! And now the cola bottles have frozen, and begun exploding en masse; we must waste precious fuel to warm them. To make matters worse, we have had to fight off several waves of polar bears, inexplicably drawn to the tincture. They have made short work of our sled dogs, and have breached the Obdurate’s very hull to get at the stuff. Once the giant beasts have procured a bottle, they either force it upon their whimpering cubs, or guzzle the contents whilst sliding drunkenly about the icy slopes…

15th October 1904

While we now have three polar bear furs to supplement our meager tuxedos, we spent valuable bullets during the siege. Combined with Quimby’s ill-conceived bottle shooting tourney, we find ourselves desperately short of ammunition…

29th November 1904

As our supplies dwindle and the temperature drops, the croquet matches have grown more contentious. Ever-watchful Borghetti has apprised us of bad blood between The Swede and the churlish Kugelfresser. Apparently the Austro-Hungarian took great offense to a particularly brutal “sending out” by the big Scandinavian, and rather unsportingly hurled the Swede’s ball well out onto the pack. Only expert mallet-work from the ever-resourceful Borghetti kept them from coming to blows. We have been forced to organize search parties to retrieve the balls, which have become precious to the surly crew; scores must be settled, and manly croqueting honor regained…

1st December 1904

After a sup of malamute hoosh and the last of the jerky called pemmican, ever-observant Borghetti spoke of difficulties between the young Yank Johnson and the loutish Quimby. The silver-tongued cur has convinced the naïve lad that a narwhal tusk they came upon whilst fetching the croquet balls is in fact the fabled horn of a “snow unicorn.” The crew jeered the boy heartily when he relayed his discovery, but he stubbornly keeps the tusk close at hand…

13th January 1905

Lost Johnson last night. After the penguin/tuxedo travesty, the exploding elixir bottles, the enraged polar bear siege, the bitter croquet rows, and the narwhal/unicorn controversy, I had felt our luck must surely turn for the better. Ever-vigilant Borghetti informed us of the tragedy over a luncheon of rat-pemmican and heated bottles of the accursed cola. Johnson was a simple farmboy, true, but even Quimby didn’t expect the yokel to believe another cock-and-bull story, that one could tip a sleeping walrus as easily as the dairy cows back home. The strapping Yank will be sorely missed…

9th March 1905

The flesh tastes of succulent peppered venison, he said. The blubber veritably melts in one’s mouth. Well little did the rogue Quimby realize that this is how he himself would taste to our desperate icebound crew, not the narwhals he has enflamed against us with his off-key arias, bawdy limericks and incessant whistling. The once-stalwart Borghetti giggled with unseemly delight during our dread repast, and danced a macabre jig, brandishing both his bloodied mallet and Johnson’s unicorn horn. The Swede offered a bitter toast to our huddled band of tuxedoed survivors, raising the last of the despised green bottles in mock salute to the hated Quimby. He will not be missed…

23rd May 1905

Huzzah! We are saved! The now-demented Borghetti has informed us — between fits of maniacal giggling — of a ship’s masts on the horizon, and several figures advancing across the pack in our direction. We ate our paltry breakfast of Quimby-pemmican and icicles in eager anticipation. Having espied them myself, I must say their shocking appearance gives me pause. Their sleds are drawn by dozens of ravenous poodles; they are armed with stringless badminton racquets; and they are clad in filthy, matted bear suits. And perhaps most disconcerting of all, their leader bears an uncanny family resemblance to the late Quimby…

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Solutions

By: John Jasper Owens

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A Bull in a China Shop: Most people try to move the bull. That’s the hard way. Have one person hold the bull’s tether closely and feed the animal from an oat bag while the other person boxes and removes the china from the shop. Relocate stock to new location. Remember to leave “We Have Moved!” sign in window.

A Wet Hen: The mistake most people make is trying to dry the hen off with a towel, which moves it immediately from mad to furious. Hens prefer to dry in natural sunlight, so try heat lamps and a blow dryer, with some Yanni in the background and soft lighting (candlelight is good, but go unscented).

Nervous as a Long-Tailed Cat in a Room Full of Rockers: Jump up on one of the rocking chairs, tuck your tail, and go to sleep. You’re a cat, for god’s sake.

Off Like a Prom Dress: What the hell is going on here? I thought we raised you better than that, missy. Put your dress back on and march yourself out to the car. You are so grounded.

A One-legged Man: Get a stool if you plan to have any sort of hope in this contest. It’s all about the ass kicking, which you can’t do if you need your only foot planted in order to remain vertical. You can’t kick asses from the ground — not effectively. So get a rhythm going — hop on stool, kick ass in front of you, slide off stool, move stool to next available ass. Do that and you might have a shot at this thing.

A Chicken With its Head Cut Off: It’s her own fault for getting so upset over a little water.

Sweating Like a Whore in Church: You won’t be so nervous if you just stop, take a breath, and break down why you’re nervous. You’re obviously not a pious woman, or you wouldn’t be living the whore lifestyle. So you don’t fear His wrath. It’s probably the societal disapproval that’s got you jittery — but whores, by definition, require partners, and I bet a few of them are here, so look them right in the eye and dare them to say something. Don’t worry about how you’re dressed, all the kids dress that way nowadays — it’s whore chic. You do have to worry about a confrontation with a woman whose husband you’ve slept with. The conservative surroundings and perceived support she receives from a place that reinforces her belief system may embolden her to shout, “Jezebel!” and slap you a good one right across your overly rouged cheek. Come to think of it, you should probably just leave.

Dumb as a Sack Full of Doorknobs: Stupidity is not a curable condition, unlike ignorance, which is simply a lack of education. The stupidity of inanimate objects, being absolute, is particularly insurmountable. This one cannot be solved.

Both Hands and a Flashlight: Put down the flashlight. Even in the dark, you don’t need it. People believe just because they’ve been given a flashlight, they have to use it, which is just the kind of thinking that earned you this reputation.

Bleeding Like a Stuck Pig: Among mammals, pigs actually suffer from poor circulation. A pig spouting blood in any notable quantity has almost certainly been stuck in the Anterior or Posterior Vena Cava. Luckily, even arterial ruptures, caught early, are easy enough to staunch. Cover the stuck area with a towel and apply steady pressure. The primary concern here is actually infection. A pigsty is a nasty, nasty place. Remove pig to a more sterile environment as soon as possible, apply anti-microbial ointment to wound area and begin a precautionary round of antibiotics.

Not Playing with a Full Deck: How is that possible? I just opened that deck. Give it here. Well, well, well. It seems that in the short time this deck has been unsealed, an ace has gone missing. How odd. We’ll just have to open another deck. I’ve got my eye on you people. I don’t know, Roger, did it seem like I was looking at you when I said that? Shut up and deal.

All She Wrote: Well, seven books is a lot for anybody. I’m sure she’ll write another one after a suitable break, maybe even another Harry. In the meantime, have you tried the Philip Pullman books? Go read those.

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Dear Future Matt

By: Brian Trapp

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Friday

Dear Future Matt,

How are you? Wow. I can’t believe it’s been a whole year since Youth Group Retreat, when Rev. Mark asked you to write a journal to yourself one year in the future. If you don’t remember, Youth Group Retreat was amazing. Rev. Mark planned a lot of fun activities, like Bible Jeopardy, Prayer Circle, Team-Building and Scavenger Hunt. They all ruled. Everyone was really nice, especially Josh and Tim, even though they play football. What am I saying? You guys are probably best friends by now. Nice job.

I’d also like to congratulate you on the one year anniversary with new girlfriend, Leslie Springer. It’s weird how you met at Youth Group Retreat and how she was really hot and popular and you were more big-boned and intellectual but still, you two totally fell in love. You guys are probably reading this together, laughing about how everything is so awesome. Which reminds me: As you are most likely a wonderful lover and this letter is kinda long, go ahead and take a sex break. Glad everything is so awesome.

Your Self,

Matt

* * * * * * *

Saturday

Dear Future Matt,

How are you? Man, it’s a good thing you, Tim and Josh are such good friends now. You might want to jokingly remind them about how, one year ago, they wouldn’t let you join their Team-Building team. But it was probably some sort of secret test, to see if you would be all like “whatever,” which you were.

You also did awesome at being “whatever” when Tim let you fall during an impromptu trust fall and then high-fived Josh. Perhaps you somehow knew that in the space of a year, you would lose 50 pounds, have that growth spurt and take his place as football quarterback. And now when you let a water bottle trust-fall onto the ground, you trust he’ll pick it up.

You may not remember this, but you smoked fools in Bible Jeopardy. Rev. Mark was really impressed but no one else gave you props, not even your future lover Leslie Springer (a current embarrassing fact for her, I’m sure). But when Rev. Mark broke out the guitar and asked if anyone knew how to play, Josh played pitch-perfect J. Mayer and you heard Leslie Springer say, “OMG. He’s so cute.” That’s ironic now, because Leslie Springer is yours (YOURS) and remains faithful even when you’re busy touring with your platinum-selling emo band. It’s so cool how she understands, but I’m sure your first hit, “Hey There, Leslie Springer” didn’t hurt (and also, sex breaks). Glad everything is so awesome.

Your Self,

Matt

* * * * * * *

Sunday

Dear Future Matt,

How are you? You are probably laughing right now, remembering the one year anniversary of the most ironic day of your life.

If you remember, at morning prayer circle, you just happened to be holding hands with Jessica Bramford, who was right next to Leslie Springer, and told Leslie Springer that you had sweaty palms and also smelled. It’s cool that you have no hard feelings. Besides, she probably apologized sometime before she died of that aggressive leukemia. No worries.

It’s also ironic that one year ago, your future best friend Tim decided to ransack your Star Wars sleeping bag in the middle of the night and give you pink belly in front of the entire Youth Group Retreat. And when you were not, I repeat, not crying on the floor, Rev. Mark told you to stop embarrassing yourself. I’m sure this is all ironic now because as everyone found out, Tim is secretly gay with Rev. Mark and they give each other pink belly every night. Who saw that coming? Answer: you did. But it’s cool you’re all “whatever” about it and are still friends. Nice job.

It’s also ironic that during scavenger hunt, you found the following: a green bench, a basketball, Tony’s Pizzeria, a blue dumpster, Josh and Leslie Springer making-out and a giant tire.

I’m sure this is such a minor bump in the road that you probably don’t even remember, but you kind of lost it and called Leslie Springer a “whore.” And then she said, “I wouldn’t date you if you were the last guy on earth” which, at the time, really seemed like a road block to your future happiness.

But who would have guessed that every guy on earth (including f-ing Josh) would be made infertile by that freak testicle virus? Everyone, that is, except you. Nice job. So, for the future of humanity, you two better take another sex break. Glad everything is so awesome.

Your Self,

Matt

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How to Argue With Your 12-Year-Old

By: Michael Kaplan

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“I’m not going to guitar lesson.”

Why argue at all? Because pre-adolescence is a candy-colored swirl of hormone spurts and murderous scowls and, from time to time, we must open the door to our jolly friend, reality. Plus, it’s not like you’re winning any arguments with your wife these days.

Potential gambits crowd the mind. Fine, you owe your teacher sixty dollars…That’s it, I’m unplugging cable…If you practiced a little more, you wouldn’t be afraid to go. All of these have their pitfalls, chiefly the onslaught of premature tears that lure your better half to throw her weight, tag-team style, behind the opposition. Best to take a more conservative tack.

“You’re going.”

“Why? Why do I have to?”

A simple test. You had this discussion last month. Do you remember the excellent answer you gave? Unlikely. Rather than dither and give your daughter any sense of momentum, slap the ball right back. When in doubt, change the ground beneath her feet.

“Because it’s your job. We all have jobs in this family.”

“I don’t want this job.”

You are no longer talking about guitar lessons but metaphorical employment. Don’t get overconfident.

“We all do jobs we don’t want. I don’t want to cook your dinner, but I’m going to when we come back.”

“Fine. I’ll eat at McDonald’s.”

She has changed the ground beneath your feet. Show no fear.

“No, McDonald’s is crap and eating crap is not going to solve anything unless they have a special on McMusic Lessons.”

“You’re so mean.”

“I’m not trying to be mean.”

“You let Jason skip soccer all the time!”

This is a classic ruse, known as the sororital split. By introducing at least one sibling, your daughter has increased the odds in her favor. There is now a 30% chance you will take the bait and argue the merits of Jason, allowing a different child to go on trial. Carefully choose your response at this fork. The obvious “This is not about Jason, this is about you!” will automatically trigger the martyred rejoinder, “That’s right, you never think he does ANYTHING wrong.” To keep your child off-balance, allow a little poetic license.

“Jason almost died this morning.”

“How?”

“Ask him when you get back from guitar.”

Admittedly, a bald-faced lie. But you’ve painstakingly built a foundation of logic and irony and, well, a creative parent is a healthy parent. (If personal integrity remains a priority, skip to the next step.)

“Why do we have to go TODAY? It’s such a bad time for me.”

It is important to remember that you and you alone are the repository of your child’s words and deeds and thus the sole curator of glaring contradictions that will come in handy right about now.

“We already moved this lesson so you could go to Aubrey’s party.”

“Why is that my fault?”

Here we have a celebrated dialectic stratagem known as the Mazzini offense (so named for Ellen Mazzini who, at the age of nine, wrangled shrimp cocktail and chocolate milk for dinner six nights in a row through a series of cunning, accusatory tantrums that left her parents guilt-stricken for decades). This tactic draws you into a position of de facto tyranny and presupposes your own desperate need to defend your political record. An excellent time to adopt the Far-Eastern method of parenting and turn your daughter’s force against her.

“Why do you act like it’s your fault?”

“Ha ha ha.”

This, of course, is the infamous Ha ha ha. Press on.

“Look, you chose guitar. You were the one who said you wanted to switch from piano to guitar, that you thought that would be a better instrument for you.”

“Yeah, I KNOW.”

Notice the use of the PtON, or Preteen Omniscient Narrator: the haughty tone that asserts there is nothing on God’s green earth that’s going to catch her unawares or weaken her resolve. The good news: this is often the last gasp before surrender.

“Well now that you’ve made that commitment I need to help you keep it. And honor it. Otherwise it’s meaningless — and we are not meaningless people.” [Warning: Once your child is fourteen this is a disastrous path to take.]

“Fine. You have to give me five dollars.”

A naked act of desperation. Your daughter needs something to claim as a partial victory. Choose your terms carefully.

“You can have five dollars if you NEED five dollars for something RIGHT NOW. You don’t get five dollars for going to a lesson you’re supposed to go to anyway. Otherwise you can give me five dollars for driving you there.”

“Then I’ll hitchhike.”

“And you’ll be grounded for the rest of the year. Which will certainly give you time to practice.”

“MOMMMMMM! Dad’s being mean!!!”

Game. Set. Match. At this point, I’m afraid you’re on your own.

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You’re A Coyote!

By: Tyler Smith

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All right, kids — it gives me great pleasure as your head coach to welcome you to what I feel will be the best team in all of West Union Little League…The Coyotes!

First off, don’t give me any grief, Coyotes. I’m doing a service to the community — “community service” as some would have me call it — and though I wasn’t anticipating having to put in 15 hours a week coaching this squad, I also didn’t anticipate that my little card game in the garage would get me indicted for “keeping a gambling place.” Again.

Now, as someone who has played a little ball (Go Panthers ’85!) I’m a little more qualified than you all to make the kind of cutthroat managerial decisions necessary to keep the Coyotes at the top of the standings. But, if you’re unhappy with your position, please let me or my extremely violent third base coach and garage bartender, “Bloodstain,” know and we’ll consider all requests. That said, here’s our lineup, by position:

First Base — Hugh Green

You know it. I know it. Everybody knows it: you’re the fat kid. And that’s okay! That’s why we’ve got first base. You’re a commanding presence both at the plate and on the diamond and if you play your cards right, someday you might come in handy as “muscle” in my garage, as you’ve demonstrated time and time again that uncanny fat-kid temper that usually translates into ultra-violence. And no, you can’t play pitcher. Oh, jeez — I can feel you getting all huffy and red. Play it cool, cheeseburger — we can’t always get what we want.

Second Base — Chris O’Hollarhan

You know, during infield drills during tryouts, I took Bloodstain aside and told him, “This kid Chris throws like a chick.” Are you angry now? Do you want to channel that anger against our insensitive opponents? Wait. I must have missed something. You are a chick. Welcome to the Coyotes then, sweetie. Let me ask you something: Can you feel gayness at this age? These kinds of things fascinate me, the whole nature/nurture discussion. Also, if you think you’re going to pitch, you’ve got another think coming.

Shortstop — Blake Kyser

Blake, I’m taking a risk here. You have absolutely no athletic ability and I’m convinced that you’re at least mildly retarded. But work with me. Are you familiar with the term “sword of Damocles?” Anyway, your old man just happens to be the league president as well as my parole officer. So needless to say, I’m in a tight spot. Shortstop is an absolutely crucial position and I have faith that through your practiced regimen of drooling and biting, you’ll be of absolutely no use to the Coyotes. So, let’s call this a fragile armistice. Oh, and if you thought I’d let you go anywhere near the pitcher’s mound, you’re out of your diseased mind.

Third Base — Joey LaRocca

Joey, you have a face like a train wreck but an undeniably smokin’ Mom. What gives? Is Dad out of the picture? You seem like the kind of menace who’ll probably snap and shoot up an Applebee’s later in life — and I like that kind of intensity — just try to keep your sociopathologies under wraps for now. But I have to ask — how are you with a knife? We get some shady characters in my garage and Bloodstain can’t take ’em all. Anyway, what’s your Mom’s name again…Sheena? And no, you can’t pitch. Please don’t kill me later in life when you crack up.

Outfield — Kevin Cummings, Hunter Rushing, Lonny von Winkle

If your parents weren’t making you do this, you’d be up to your butt in Magic the Gathering or whatever losers like you three are into. Just arrange yourselves out there so you don’t look like dicks and maybe bring a book. And no pitching.

Catcher — Owen Wiener

Owen, I know people and I can tell that you can take a fair amount of abuse. This may have something to do with the fact that you are covered in oozing carbuncles and sundry other bruises, carbuncles and scabs. What’s that thing where you can’t feel pain? Congenital analgia! (I just Googled.) Tell me you have that, kid. If not, you’re in for some hard times behind the plate. So be prepared. And don’t touch anything — you’re like a walking goiter. Pitch? Bitch, please.

Pitcher — Enrique

Bienvenidos a América! Please see Bloodstain for appropriate residency and other official documents. We’re all really excited to have you as our Coyote ace! A few quick things: I should have clarified that when I asked you to shave, I meant the moustache, too. Sorry — rules are rules. Also, try to avoid pulling up to the Little League field in the Trans Am Bloodstain “found” for you — this tends to raise eyebrows and we’re trying to keep what’s known here as a “low profile.” Finally, and this goes to the core of what it means to be a Coyote — hit the first batter in the face. This establishes you as “owning the plate” while letting my guys in Vegas know that the fix is in.

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My Baseball Scouting Reports

By: Ralph Gamelli

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Age 8

Prospect has effortlessly made the transition from wiffle ball to tennis ball. Unfortunately, he refuses to give up the plastic bat he’s had since age four and which he still affectionately refers to as “Mr. Bluey.” His backyard fielding and hitting are coming along nicely, but at this point it’s his control of the ball that stands out, particularly when his little brother runs to first base and the prospect pretends that hitting the runner in the head is an accident instead of payback for a stolen Pop Tart.

Age 10

Prospect and his companions have moved their game to a small field down the street, the use of real bats and baseballs having led to an unfortunate incident involving prospect’s kitchen window and many weeks of lost allowance. His talent continues to develop, and he leads his fellow players in home runs, doubles and coolness of headfirst slides. Hopefully, this is due to superior athletic skill and not the fact that he tends to play with kids who are at least a year or two younger than him.

Age 11

Prospect has signed up for Little League, where his batting average and power numbers have taken a sharp dip due to his obvious fear of getting hit by the ball (which is not pitched in the slow, underhand manner to which he’s grown accustomed). Can only be viewed as a setback.

Age 11

Prospect has quit Little League halfway through the season and is back playing with the younger neighborhood kids. Batting average soars.

Age 12

Vowing that he will one day play in the big leagues, prospect has committed himself to a daily training program of video game baseball, which he has quickly come to prefer to the real thing. If physical skills ever approach video game skills, we have a potential superstar on our hands.

Age 13

In an attempt to get prospect away from the TV, prospect’s parents have given him a pitch-back net, and he can be seen playing catch with himself for entire afternoons. While such devotion will be beneficial in a future major leaguer, he’s currently gaining a reputation as the creepily obsessed baseball kid, and fewer neighbors ask him to mow their lawns.

Age 14

After what must be a million throws, the pitch-back net has at last broken. Worried parents clearly elated.

Age 16

Prospect went 3-for-3 in his gym class softball game, prompting a member of the baseball team to casually mention that he should try out for this year’s team. Hard to tell if he was being serious. (Prospect’s three hits were all bloop singles, making sarcasm a distinct possibility.) In any case, prospect seemed happy with himself, even if he didn’t actually try out for the team, preferring to watch reruns of Knight Rider instead.

Age 21

Prospect spotted at a neighborhood batting cage in a misguided attempt to impress his date. Even though the mechanism allows no potential for error, unfailingly delivering each 60-mph pitch over the plate, prospect is still noticeably afraid of getting hit. Continued scouting not recommended. Zero probability of him ever reaching the bigs, and only slightly better chance of him reaching first base metaphorically.

Age 35

Update: under pressure from work friends, this long-forgotten prospect has joined a softball league, where the pitches are slow and underhand again. He’s quickly developed into the seventh-best player on his team. If he continues at this rate, chances are good he could become a player of note in the softball league, or at least a player of note on his own team.

Age 35

Prospect has been kicked off his team for hitting an opponent in the head as that player ran to first. Victim apparently took a can of beer from prospect’s team bench and prospect felt retaliation was needed. He now spends much of his free time on a strip of grass behind his apartment building, playing with a vintage pitch-back net purchased from eBay. He’s gaining a reputation as the creepily-obsessed baseball guy from 3A, and fewer neighbors talk to him on the elevator.

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A Potential Investor Speaks Up After Kurt Russell’s Character Finishes His “Wonders of the World” Miniature Golf Course Proposal in the Movie Overboard

By: Greg Boose

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Mr. Proffitt, if you don’t mind, I would like to stop you right there and interject. Now, to begin, and I believe I speak for all of us here tonight sitting around this very long picnic-like table in this drafty back room, we’d like to thank you and your colleague for your time this evening. I never thought I would set foot in a restaurant named something like Crabs ‘R’ Us, a place with sawdust on the floor and no mirror in the Men’s room, but I also never thought that my partner, Mr. Robinson down there at the end, would stretch the truth to get me to leave my family up in Portland this morning for a pestilent hell-hole like Elk Cove. There are firsts for everything, I suppose. And Mr. Robinson, you sir, are in for quite the car ride home.

But I’ve sat back quietly and listened to your proposal; I’ve watched you down Coors Light after Coors Light after, well, Coors Light while your meaty colleague Mr. Pratt here continually spilled his beer on my Ralph Lauren shirtsleeves, and I’ve carefully examined your wife’s charming sketches on the flimsy and beer-soaked paper that have made their way down to me. By the way, Mr. Proffitt, I would suggest that you procure some foam board or some nice Japanese paper the next time you decide to give a presentation that includes concept specs.

My answer, unfortunately, is no. I will not be investing in your “Wonders of the World” miniature golf course for the following reasons:

First, I must point out that these sketches don’t really give me an idea of what your miniature golf course will look like. Take this one, for example. This is just a poorly drawn pyramid and some palm trees. I know what a pyramid looks like; I was in both Giza and Saqqara just this last October. You simply could have just said the word “pyramid” and I’d be able to conjure up a pretty good image. Where does the ball go in, Mr. Proffitt? This drawing, like many of the others, doesn’t show the architecture of the actual golf course. I don’t see any greens, holes, or families of four smiling with putters sticking out of their hands. No aerial view. No real color supplements in these. Gibberish and gobbledygook, honestly. I will say, though, that the drawing of the Statue of Liberty holding a golf ball instead of the torch is very cute. Please tell your wife I said so. By the way, when did you get married? Mr. Robinson said you were a bachelor carpenter.

Second, are you going to tell me that the folks of Elk Cove know what the St. Basil’s Cathedral is? Or The Parthenon, even? I know you want to, as you say, “Bring some of the outer world into Elk Cove,” but I’ve had a chance to see the town, and frankly I might have decided upon a brewery or mustache theme. Or perhaps you could have picked some more well-known monuments for the community – some value-added resources based on your demographic – and maybe recreate Babe the Blue Ox or the largest ball of dirt.

And finally, I should tell you that I don’t make a habit of going into business with persons who wear jeans, checkered flannel shirts and knitted, square-ended ties to an investment meeting. Look around; everyone else besides your partner, who now has a napkin sticking out of his sweat-soaked collar, is wearing a suit and a starched shirt. With real ties, Mr. Proffitt. Made of silk. I know it’s not my place, but maybe you can ask that new wife of yours go shopping for you. This is all just something to keep in mind for the next time you decide to pitch this idea to a table of outside investors. And you might also want to think about getting yourself a haircut, Mr. Proffitt. You’re asking me for money, not for a bowling match.

Now, I overheard you ask that gentleman if he’s ever been nervous in his life, and I would assume that he has. He’s sitting next to a rambling mountain man who wants to build a miniature golf course without a plan that captures a decent profit margin, after all. Plus, he’s stuck in some tiny Oregon town whose claim to fame at the moment is that a strange woman has recently been found bobbing in the harbor with amnesia.

I think I’ve said enough on this subject, Mr. Proffitt. I trust that you will be picking up the bill for these small crab claws that were dropped on my plate and for the delicious tap water? Thank you very much.

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Mariposa Barbie Welcomes Fair Trade Doll To Fairytopia

By: John Frank

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MARIPOSA BARBIE: Hi! You’re new! You came from Hannah’s aunt Jane who runs the food co-op! What’s your name?! I’m Mariposa Barbie and this is Hannah’s room! I call it Fairytopia!

FAIR TRADE DOLL: I don’t have a name. I am a Fair Trade Doll, handcrafted by members of Kutch Mahila Vikas Sanghathan, a collective of over 4,000 rural women living in the western Indian state of Gujarat, for whom the proceeds from my sale have provided 25 cups of food.

MARIPOSA BARBIE: Yummy! I’m made by Mattel and helped boost Q2 profits 15% globally! Did you know that through Global Barbie(TM) you can view my website in several different foreign languages?

FAIR TRADE DOLL: Gujarati?

MARIPOSA BARBIE: No, but did you know that MARIPOSA is Spanish for BUTTERFLY? It appeals to the emerging Latino market segment in the U.S. as well as non-Hispanic children ages 6-12 who’ve outgrown Dora the Explorer!

FAIR TRADE DOLL: I had noticed that you are wearing butterfly wings. They are very colorful.

MARIPOSA BARBIE: I like what you are wearing, too! Your smock looks very comfortable! But you should keep away from Hannah’s brother Gavin so he doesn’t put it on SpongeBob! You two have kind of the same shape! Say, you look strong! Would you like to help me rescue the Queen of Flutterfield? Have you noticed that my hair is partially pink?

FAIR TRADE DOLL: Who? Yes.

MARIPOSA BARBIE: With the help of my friends Willa(TM), Rayna(TM) and Rayla(TM) I am going to rescue The Queen of Flutterfield(TM) from the Skeezites and marry Prince Carlos, who appeals to both Hispanic and non-Hispanic boys for whom Go! Diego Go! informs a pre-verbal reflex in their buying patterns! Hey, why aren’t you looking at me, Fair Trade Doll?! Have you noticed that my fairy-skirt is very short and pretty and that the space between my legs by my crotch is big enough to accommodate an average-sized adult male pinky-finger?!

FAIR TRADE DOLL: My practical cotton pants offer full range of motion and reflect the manner of dress of the women who made me.

MARIPOSA BARBIE: Great! I can put both of my legs behind my head! I always say that The Most Important Thing You Can Be Is Yourself(TM)! It’s my slogan! Be yourself! And SMILE! Your mouth is straight across! Let me take your hair out of the strange ball on the back of your head! You don’t have fingers so let me help you!

FAIR TRADE DOLL: No thank you. Please, I wear my hair this way so I can work, and the red sindoor powder along the part in my hair identifies me as a married woman.

MARIPOSA BARBIE: It will just take a second! With Barbie Total Hair(TM) Color It!(TM) tools, we’ll make you pretty!

FAIR TRADE DOLL: Please, leave me alone.

MARIPOSA BARBIE: Oh, look! Here comes Zinzie(TM) and the Flutterpixies to sprinkle glitter on us!

FAIR TRADE DOLL: I think I have to go.

MARIPOSA BARBIE: Wait! Don’t go, Fair Trade Doll! Zinzie(TM) is a prankster but she’s so sweet and will take us to the Merbabies(TM)!

FAIR TRADE DOLL: I don’t know what you are talking about. Goodbye.

MARIPOSA BARBIE: No! Fair Trade Doll! Don’t go into Cooper’s dog bed! It may look like a nice place to you, but it’s not! It’s really not! Look out Fair Trade Doll! Here comes Cooper! Oh my! Cooper! Come back with Fair Trade Doll!! She looks like your Flip-Flop Yankers Piggie, but she’s not!! You thought that about Language Littles Chinese Ling and African Waldorf Doll and then spit them both out in the back yard, remember?!! Fair Trade Doll! It was so nice to meet you! Good luck!!!

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