George Thorogood's Liver Files for Separation

LOS ANGELES- Citing irreconcilable differences, singer/songwriter George Thorogood's liver has applied for a legal separation from its host of 59 years.

Thorogood's popularity peaked in the 70's and 80's as the creator of hard drinking songs such as "One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer", and "I Drink Alone". It is hard to imagine a pool hall jukebox not stocking at least one of his blues rock hits.

Yet on Tuesday in the L.A. County courthouse, George Thorogood's liver appeared via teleconference seeking to finally end what it deems an abusive relationship.

“I've done my job faithfully,” said the liver as it read a prepared complaint, it's speech slurred and often halting. “For almost six decades, day in, day out. All George ever gave me was unending toil and ingratitude, never once considering me or my health.”

“You come into this job with a sense of purpose. Like you could change the world,” it read. “But when you see how there's no light at the end of the tunnel, how you're being taken advantage of, (there is) only so much one small liver can do”. Fighting back tears the yellowing, sickly organ concluded its statement, “sometimes I feel he's just trying to slowly poison me.”

The liver said in an earlier released written statement that it hoped to find someone more deserving and appreciative of its labors. "I'd like to find a nice quiet place where I can rest and maybe one day write my story."

Judge Lamar Quincy asked Thorogood if he had anything to add. The musician merely grunted, saying (his liver) should “quit being such a pansy and bone up." He then flipped the monitor the middle finger and the signal was disconnected.

If the request is granted, it would be the first time a major organ succeeded in having itself removed from its owner since Ron Wood's lungs successful bid to separate as soon as a viable donor was found.

2009 Proves Poor for Crop Circles

WILTSHIRE, ENGLAND- Proof of alien life or elaborate hoax? Some farmers call them otherworldly art and are thrilled to discover one of the mysterious visages gracing a hillside. Others say it is outright vandalism, no more than a waste of valuable grain by mischievous pranksters.

Whatever your belief, in the world of crop circles the southern region of England is the place to be. No other place on Earth has a higher concentration of crop circles than right here.

And it was in the county of Wiltshire last week that Mr. Jeremy Benthingham first discovered his fields had joined the ranks of the ethereally decorated. On the morning of October 30th shortly after the farmer pulled his tractor from its barn, Mr. Benthingham first saw the mysterious designs. And he was not impressed.

“If you ask me it looks like a damned joke. The fellow must have been bloody blind” he said. “Or just learning” he added with a chuckle.

In place of a soothing circular pattern or complex geometric mandala, the field had been transformed into a mishmash of drunken squiggles. “It's embarrassing” he said. For farmers of this and the neighboring counties which make up the breadbasket of England, the first crop circle is normally a badge of honor. But despite his disappointment, Mr. Benthingham is not alone in his less than stellar experience.

In June a farm 30 kilometers to the south was visited by a mysterious crop-circler that left behind a barely discernible representation of a human form. “The left arm was completely out of proportion from the body like a fiddler crab,” said one witness of the amateurish attempt. “It had no neck, sort of a stick figure with a crooked spine.” In the nearby town of Saxsbury a mangled rendering of the Solar system was said to resemble “a rather unsuccessful Etch-a-Sketch” said the landowner Jamie Spitts. Not only were the orbits wavy and badly skewed, but there were only seven planets. One of which embarrassingly intersected with the Sun. An area of crude back and forth swipes has many believing it to be an attempt to cover a mistake. “Like second grade art class.”

While some state the entire episode is a hoax on a hoax, Ken Potter of the Crop Circle Alliance disagrees. “Could it be there's a hidden meaning in the misshapen forms, and that our primitive minds can't understand them?”

Crop circle enthusiasts disagree on the reason for the recent spate of poor quality visitations. Some of the believers say the ethereal beings responsible are indeed training new artists or trying out new equipment. “Even the military has training exercises” says Potter. “Or for all we know, the circles we've seen all these years were performed by a handful of very talented beings. Perhaps the torch is being passed. And no one's born a Picasso”, said Potter. “Except Picasso I suppose.”

Whatever the reason, most agree that 2010 can only be an improvement over what many are calling the lost year of the crop circle.

Old Dildos Never Die...

They just get thrown away. Or do they? I can't imagine the things ever wear out. And even if yours starts to show some age it's not as if you'll be embarrassed if someone sees the shape it's in, because as a rule people don't see other people's dildos. Unless a moving day goes horribly awry.

This goes for male or female shaped latex goodies of course, I'm not just picking on the ladies here. Feel free to substitute the words “pocket pussy” in place of dildo if it makes you more comfortable, we're all adults here.

And it's not like most people are eager to have to buy such things more than once. Once suffering the humiliation of their first sexual aid purchase, most slink from the store with the paper bag clutched as tightly and hopefully inconspicuously as possible to the chest thinking to themselves and the heavens “Well that's over with”. It's a relief as profound as finishing a public speech or meeting the in-laws. You only hope you never meet the clerk who sold you the thing at a church/school/business function.

Would a rusted steel dildo ever be turned in for scrap? Price of iron is up. Maybe your melted-down dildo could one day end up part of a skyscraper. It would be an ironic turn of events to say the least, a phallus reborn. Or would it be polished one afternoon to restore its onetime gleam? I'll bet a fiver the web already has instructions on how to do this. Perhaps it would be disposed of with the hopes the neighbor boys didn't pick your trash. My uneducated guess is that it would be hard to be parted with, maybe hidden away like an old lover for 'lean times' before it was eventually forgotten and misplaced. Perhaps a generation later a suddenly scarred descendant would notice what that old paperweight on grandpa's tool bench really was.

You'd be surprised at some of the pathetic objects people will haul into the pawn shop hoping for a buck or two. I once saw a man happily accept three quarters for an old extension cord and a hacksaw blade. Would a similarly illiquid crack fiend actually try to cash in a used sexual device? More importantly, what would it fetch? I'm tempted to go undercover just to catch the reaction of the aged pawnkeep's face as I argue how it was barely used. Maybe if I swear it had been boiled in hot water.

The Great Payback*

Oh this is just great. I give every last one of those damn kids a candy bar, and one of them decides it would be funny to throw a rock through our glass storm door. Watch your feet, dear. Trick or treat? Oh this trick is just Hilarious!

Honey, where's the dust pan? And while you're at it, where's my baseball bat? I'll play ball with the wonderful little sprites!

Sigh...no dear I'm not going to do anything drastic. Yeah they're just kids, but dammit look at this mess! I pulled some pranks in my day, but this is over the top. Are we out of Hefty bags? What? No, Hefty bags! You know, the really thick ones. I think they're by the water heater!

Forget Snickers, next year they're getting a jawbreaker each. Those generic ones. Or Bit o' Honey, I'll bet those are cheap. No wait, trick gum! The kind that gets really hot. Oooh boy, next Halloween's gonna be FULL of tricks let me tell you!

Owww! Damned glass. Can you bring me a band-aid too, honey? I can see how that whole razor blade in the candy thing got started. No dear, I'm just joking. Jeez.

What do you mean the rock looks familiar? It's just a rock. You gave one of them a WHAT?! Holy mother of God are you kidding me? The grumpy kid with the flying ace dog and messed up ghost costume? You've been giving him one every year? Why not give him a roll of toilet paper and a can of spray paint while you're at it?

Talk to his mother? And say what? He returned the rock we gave him? A rock! Brilliant. You're the one that should be cleaning this up.

Um, have you seen the cat this morning?

* Encore edition sounds so much more dignified than "rerun", doesn't it? Then again unless you've been following this jalopy for a year now, it's new to you. Even if Letterman does reruns, I feel I need to ask your forgiveness: I've got my hands full rebuilding a small block Ford right now and figured this post might just need to become an annual ritual.

One Day I Shall Meet Bill Murray

I know, I know, the ancient Chinese warned us against pursuing our wishes. Let me start out by saying, to hell with the ancient Chinese. But I do recognize the need to be careful what you wish for, or at least be prepared if those wishes come to fruition in strange, twisted ways you hadn't envisioned. If the stars are in an ornery mood get ready for a curve ball.

It would be my rotten luck that I would finally meet Bill Murray in a men's room at some hotel bar. I step up to the urinal for some routine business and there he is taking a leak one stall over. Do I dare break the Golden Rule of the men's room, striking up a conversation with a stranger in mid-flow? As I silently cursed the Universe for putting me in such a conundrum I'm sure my mind would race for a loophole, some way of acknowledging one of my greatest heroes without being added to his mental list of autograph assholes.

In the unlikely event I ever fall into such a circumstance, I've prepared a statement. “Sorry Mr. Murray, but I'm just not going to bother you for an autograph with your cock in your hand.” I'd then give a friendly nod and walk back out to the bar like nothing had happened. I think he'd appreciate it.

That's the dream of all us fans, to meet our number one living figure and say something so clever or devastatingly cool they not only laugh, but possibly offer up a dinner invitation, or ask if you have any interest in seeing their record collection.

Since I have no idea when I will meet Bill Murray, I find myself preparing for every possible contingency. If we become trapped in the same elevator, I will say “Emergency call buttons are for pansies!”, and volunteer to be the guy that tries to climb through the ceiling hatch thingy and up the greasy cables, heedless of any damage to my clothing or person. There is no film in which this escape route has failed to work.

If we find ourselves at the same DMV getting our licenses renewed I will pipe up with “You know Bill, if you put Organ Donor on your license it makes for a great dirty pickup line.” I wrestled with the question of whether I should use his first name so soon, then came to the realization I'll have to gauge each situation accordingly.

Another challenging introduction would be accidentally backing into his Mercedes as I leave the airport parking garage at two in the morning. I'm loaded down with jet lag and sleeping pills, fumbling for the radio when BAM, a familiar looking gray-haired figure is fuming in my rear view mirror. But I am prepared. “Tag, you're it Bill!” I think that one calls for a first name basis, just to break the ice.

Of course, delivery here is crucial. I don't want to anger him further by treating the accident like my lucky day. His dream wasn't to meet me, and I probably just made him late for something. I'll make sure the man isn't hurt, then offer to buy him a steak. Or if I signed for the extra insurance on the rental, offer to let him take it for a wild ride around town, not worrying about the bodywork. Everyone wants to scrape a rental car along a Jersey barrier doing forty.

With any luck we'd end up drinking Johnny Walker on his veranda, smacking golf balls onto the roofs of his neighbors. No one minds if Bill Murray hits a golf ball onto their roof. They get a thrill when they hear one hit, knowing its source. Very few people on the planet have this power. He'd tell me stories about hazy weekends at Hunter Thompson's farm or the time he joined the Mile-High club with a Lufthansa stewardess en route to film “Stripes”. And oh the laughs we would have doing donuts in Harold Ramis' lawn.

Now I'm no stalker. Nor will I subject myself to kidnapping and tying up his pool cleaner for an opportunity to sneak onto his estate in disguise. I'll instead allow the hands of destiny to work their magic. Of course trusting in fate to introduce me to Bill Murray runs the risk of frankly, running out of time. Let's face it Bill's not getting any younger. And with his hearty passions for life's pleasures, I personally don't see him pulling off a George Burns-style longevity gig.

A friend suggested I steer my efforts into landing a bit part in the next Wes Anderson picture, of which he has starred in all but one. This plan presents another level of complexity, but one thing it has going for it is that as Mr. Anderson is my favorite director, I wouldn't feel any guilt in using him so. Time to get cracking with some acting lessons. That or bribe his casting director. Either way it's just a matter of time. I can feel the stars at work already.

What it's Like to be Dead

There's something unmanly about passing out in our culture. It's normally portrayed as the stuff of the meek or anemic, bringing to mind images of ladies in large feathered hats falling into someone's waiting arms when a mouse is spotted in the kitchen. But I'll be man enough to admit I do it all the time.

It happened when I had my tattoo. It happened one New Year's eve as my broken scapula was being set in the emergency room. It happened when I had a grout splinter pulled from beneath my fingernail. To be fair that last one would have probably made anyone's reptile brain reach for the emergency brake. It even happened to me before surgery after my IV line was inserted. The thing that pissed me off in retrospect was that they actually revived me before administering the anesthesia.

So of course if blood is being drawn, get ready to test your strength catching 210 pounds of my lifeless ass. I warn all my phlebotomists beforehand. I learned to do this after a panicked RN summoned an ambulance when the local she administered before removing a biopsy sent me into dreamland. Most shrug my warning off with a laugh and tell me I have nothing to fear. It's as if their skill has been called into question and now they need to show me just how talented their light touch can be. There is no one so prideful in their work as a phlebotomist.

I can usually even make it through the entire procedure before I feel the dizzy warmth start to creep over me. When it happened yesterday we had completely finished the draw. More than a minute had passed and 'Ms. Pearl' had labeled the sample and filled out some form. I had even complimented her accent as something that brought to mind Ms. Cleo. But once I feel that harbinger of the certain unconsciousness to come, there's nothing more you can do but tell them to get ready to test their strength. Even still they always assure me, no honey you did great, everything is fine, just take a few deep breaths. How about a cookie? I make a few jokes and then comes the nothingness. Once my body senses even the slightest drop in blood pressure, the shutdown sequence begins and there is no turning back. It's like sugar in the gas tank.

There is nothing and I mean nothing so utterly peaceful as when you're out like a light. And nothing so utterly confusing as when you're coming out of it. The first time I can remember taking an involuntary nap was in the fifth grade. We were outside for recess and I was standing against the wall. You stood against the wall of the schoolhouse and watched the other kids play if you had done something bad and had the misfortune of getting caught. That spring I seemed to spend a lot of time against the wall, though the reason is now lost to the ages. Two other kids that did the same were Mac and Alison. That afternoon Mac and Alison were having an argument about something, but for some reason I ended up getting stood between them. Probably to keep them from each other's throats. At some point Mac said something that must have really gotten the girl's goat, because the next thing I knew a melon-sized chunk of asphalt was hurtling our way. And then I found myself opening my eyes and wondering why I had been sleeping on the playground on such a lovely day. The letter of apology Alison had to write my mother was priceless. “Dear Mrs. Soyke, I'm very sorry I hit Eric in the face with a rock. I was aiming for Mac.” I hope my mother still has it.

Yogis practice all their lives to shut out external stimuli. I can do it before you can say “pass the smelling salts”. I've been through the routine so many times now you'd think it would be routine. But waking up on a hard lab floor as panicked nurses slap wet paper towels over your face can get old.

I'm tempted to conclude from my manifold pseudo-near-death experiences that there is no afterlife. I base this on the fact that when I'm out, there is nothing. No dreams, no beckoning lights with robed figures, no sound of harps or visions of myself floating through the ceiling. Just nothing. In the incident in the surgery room, the doc told me he'd never seen anything like it before, that my pressure had bottomed so low he was worried he was going to have to fetch the electric paddles. I think he just wanted to test the things.

Over the years I have become convinced that the brain is just a machine. A computer. And you can track the progress of your booting sequence as each system comes back online. Slowly, very slowly, the first system to come back online oddly enough is intuition. This probably wasn't what you were expecting, but thinking back it's a common thread. You just sense that something is wrong. Like you've forgotten something as you're leaving for vacation times ten. Or if you've ever woken up first thing in the morning and had that feeling like you're not sure if you should feel joy or dread for the day to come, that's what I'm talking about. Then you decide on dread. There's an unmistakable feeling that something is terribly wrong with this world and it's starting to make you mad, but you can't put your finger on it. I guess this is the id beginning to stir.

Next come your senses. Hearing is first, though speech recognition isn't up just yet. After the ringing begins, you'll soon be able to hear other noises that after 10 or 20 seconds you will recognize as human voices. They'll be very faint and you will wonder why you are hearing them. Eyesight comes up soon after. But now even though you can technically hear and see, you have no idea what on Earth you are hearing or seeing. Those faces hovering far, far above you are still just distant shapes that make no sense, just like their words. You can't but wonder if this what stroke victims feel. Or maybe insects. You have no idea what year it is, who you are, or why there are so many wet paper towels on you. This is when the weirdness begins.

Did they say something about someone passing out? Sucks for that guy, as you can't remember ever feeling so relaxed before. Soon comes understanding. After catching a few more words you slowly gather you're the guy everyone's talking about. A few pieces of the puzzle click into place. The urgent need to remember something important is overpowering now. And then you have it, the riddle is solved. You had a blood test today. You are now lying on the floor. You're soaked with sweat. Dammit.

Next online is speech, and the very first thing you will want to say is how perfectly fine you are. No need to worry ladies, I'm perfectly, perfectly fine. I do this for kicks sometimes. Of course other than your eyelids and vocal cords you still can't move a muscle, that doesn't come for another twenty helpless seconds or so.

I've never seen myself during or after one of these slips, but apparently you turn whiter than an Elk's Lodge in Utah. By the time they're lifting your head off the linoleum, you've already sweated more than if you had just spent the past hour on a stair master. In the Mohave. And even though the entire ordeal lasted maybe two minutes you would swear you had slept a solid two days.

When you've blacked out so many times that you begin to consider yourself a connoisseur, there comes the realization that our consciousness is quite probably just an illusion, cooked up by too many synapses and tiny squirts of dopamine. That even our most involved dreams and spiritual experiences are nothing more than an extremely confusing sequence of chemical reactions. Maybe Einstein was right and we are just finely crafted timepieces created by a watchmaker that decided on a permanent vacation once his shift was over, and we are all just ticking away until the tiniest of springs goes pop. Or maybe death is the beginning and those who have never passed that door have no idea of the kingdom to follow, etc. Either way, next time I'm giving blood laying on a couch.

'Snowed In Bunker' Founder Rescued from North Korea

BANGKOK- After a harrowing two month ordeal, The Snowed In Bunker is pleased to report that its star reporter and founder Eric Soyke was finally rescued from a North Korean prison camp earlier this week. The daring pre-dawn operation was the culmination of extensive preparation and training by none other than Roger Clinton, half brother to the former President.

Mr. Soyke is believed to have been spirited away by agents of the hermit kingdom due to a story he penned in July. Deemed to be guilty of publishing slander “insulting and demeaning” to the nation's leader Kim Jong Il, Mr. Soyke was sentenced to 13 years of hard labor.

Following weeks of intense diplomacy which would ultimately prove fruitless, the operation was given the go ahead to send in Clinton. State department officials deny reports that Mr. Clinton was considered expendable, but freely admitted Mr. Soyke was considered as such.
“Despite our concern for all US citizens and the outrageous behavior of the DPRK in carrying out his abduction” said State Department spokesman Arne Mularky, “frankly we've gone over the so-called 'reporting' being done at his website and didn't feel his return warranted a full effort on the part of this department.”

Clinton says he was first made aware of the situation at a dinner party with his sister in law, Secretary of State Hillary Clinton. Describing himself as a longtime fan of the site http://www.snowedinbunker.com/, (Roger) Clinton immediately volunteered for any potential rescue mission.

“Bill had already pretty much blew his wad with the TV chicks” said Clinton, referring to the ex-President's negotiated release of two reporters in August. “I wanted to make sure noone thought he was the only fella with any pull in our family.”

Despite the severity of the reported conditions he has been kept in since July, Mr. Soyke appeared in prime health at a news conference in Thailand. Nursing a number of hickies he refused to explain, Mr. Soyke sipped coffee as he warmed himself in a Mandarin Oriental Hotel bathrobe. Commenting on the bold action of Mr. Clinton, he told of the remarkable way in which his unlikely savior charmed border guards with a bottle of smuggled Chinese rice wine and jokes he had rehearsed in their native tongue.

“Roger was smooth at the Dandong river crossing. And who knew he was so good at Kung Fu? I owe him my life.”

Mr. Soyke grew visibly annoyed at the suggestion that he had been on sabbatical all this time, and that the entire escapade had been an elaborate hoax to cover a summer of sloth. He shortly afterward called an end to the meeting, thanking everyone involved in his repatriation. “Now if you'll excuse us gentlemen, Mr. Clinton and I have a mini bar to raid.”

Kim Jong Illin'

SEOUL- Following news that North Korea's leader Kim Jong Il has pancreatic cancer, more reports are beginning to make their way out of the hermit kingdom. Disputed eyewitness reports and hearsay describing the declining state of the “Dear Leader's” health have trickled out over the past two years, but the recent admission that the dictator indeed has cancer seems to have opened a floodgate of news.

Perhaps sensing a change in leadership being imminent, once loyal associates of Kim Jong Il have been fleeing the nation in droves, fearful they will not be included in the new power dynamic. Their stories have been startling. Though it is still impossible to verify their veracity, a number of analysts agree the tales are eerily similar to earlier reports floated by defectors and North Korea experts.

In addition to his weekly Brazilian waxing, the dictator apparently enjoys a daily enema administered by the current winner of the country's annual beauty contest. Contestants know that this along will be their only duty, yet ruthlessly vie for the title for the extra daily allotment of rice.

Another favorite ritual was bathing in the breast milk of nubile young mothers, performed ritually each morning in the presence of his ministers and close associates. Teams of “Divine milkmaids” are constantly milking the countryside dry as they search for enough donors to fill the 25 gallon tub he soaks in between breakfast and lunch. For years Kim Jong Il insisted the regiment was beneficial to his constitution, all the while swilling copious quantities of Johnny Walker Blue and eating pound after pound of imported lobster.

Anyone he felt had been disloyal or otherwise displeasing to him could face the hideous prospect of being Kim Jong Il's “chauffeur”. The victim would be forced to provide day-long piggy back rides in the nude for the diminutive leader, who would often ride wearing nothing but high heels which he would dig into the sides of his hapless “horse”, a blood red leather thong, and a riding crop which he wielded mercilessly. One victim that later escaped over the Chinese border still has vicious welts along his backside, along with fingernail marks in his shoulders from where he was clawed for hours as he jogged the streets of Pyongyang beneath his cruel jockey.

But the wild, curious ways of Kim Jong Il may be coming to an end soon. According to one former General now living in hiding in the South, the dictator has been undergoing regular chemotherapy treatments.

“He trusted me”, said the officer. “Every other Tuesday he would cry when he was told it was time for his medicine. Sometimes he would shoot at the feet of his nurses with a pistol. The Colt .45 is his favorite. But I would take his hand and tell him everything would be alright. Sometimes I would sing him show tunes to calm him. Afterward I would drive him home to his castle, dress him in his favorite pajamas and put on a DVD. Usually he chose Magnum P.I.”

Light has also been shed upon a rumored DPRK military biological facility known only as “Unit 260”. The secretive building housing the lab was first identified by satellites early last year and initial fears were that it was working on the weaponization of biological agents. But in a debriefing with the South Korean military, an oncologist turned defector reported the true purpose of the facility is to attempt to develop technology in an effort to restore the leader's beloved buffant hairstyle. Numerous citizen “volunteers” have undergone gruesome follicle experiments, often leaving their hair hideously tasteless and clown-like.

This makes sense, says a senior government official in Seoul speaking on condition of anonymity, given the recently smuggled photograph of Kim's balding, distraught figure. “Ravaged by chemotherapy treatments, diabetes, and a lifetime of poor health choices, his once proud mane has been reduced to a few scraggly hairs even Charlie Brown would be ashamed of.”

The depths of the dictator's ill health may be sinking even further than once thought. A spokesman for Italian fashion maker Gucci announced it had been approached by a shell business believed to surreptitiously acquire luxuries for the privileged ruler. Its request? Customized gold lamé adult diapers. “Though we were never told who they were for, the buyer suggested that the intended recipient was a powerful, proud man, and the use of flecks of real gold in the fabric was hoped would mitigate his humiliation.”

North Korean state media rejects rumors that the leader is incontinent, sternly warning that making such allegations its Dear Leader has been reduced to a piddling old man would be “tantamount to an act of war”.

Pop Star Miguel Johnson to Buy Neverland Ranch

LOS ANGELES- Enigmatic pop singer and rising star Miguel Johnson has announced plans to purchase the famed Neverland Ranch from its creditors for pennies on the dollar.

Johnson burst to sudden fame last year with his stellar singing voice and lithe dancing moves. His mystique was furthered by his refusal to ever show his complete face in public, instead desiring to keep his visage cloaked at all times. Johnson cited his shyness as well as a reportedly rare disease that affects the pigmentation of his skin. His live shows are a song and dance spectacle. It is now a common sight on school playgrounds to see children emulating his trademark move the “Moonhop”.

Clad in his white mask and glittering sequin garb, Johnson said it had always been his dream to live at the Ranch, "Now that the incredibly talented King of Pop is dead, and I've heard several witnesses are willing to attest to this fact in court, I've made my intentions clear to Mr. Jackson's attorneys and creditors that I wish to offer a bid to purchase the mystical and wonderful Neverland.”

Johnson dismissed critics that said his offer comes too soon on the heels of Jackson's death, saying that he was Jackson's biggest fan. “He will always be with us. In a way he's with us right here, right now” he said cryptically, gesturing around the room.

The offer also contends that all personal effects should remain in place at the ranch, including the many portraits and sketches of the late singer. “He's a beautiful person,” said Johnson. “I can't imagine taking down such works of art.”

“I want to restore Neverland to its heyday, and welcome children of all ages to visit anytime day or night. I really can't say how much I love children” gushed Johnson.

Johnson's latest album “Rad” comes on the heels of last year's smash “On the Ball”.

Bush Foundation to Clear Brush of Less Fortunate

CRAWFORD, Texas- The namesake and founder of his newly created George W. Bush Foundation held a press conference in Crawford Municipal Hall today. The news there was big, as are many things in Texas.

As has become common with many retiring commanders in chief, former president Bush is creating his own non-profit organization. He announced the thrust of his brainchild to a hall packed with reporters and celebrant townsfolk. What follows is a transcript of the weighty proceedings as he declared he would personally be overseeing the removal of excess brush from America's lower class residential properties.

Bush-
“Good morning members of the media, friends, family, fellow Crawfordites. My thanks to Sammy's Big Bite BBQ for these great spare ribs. Hope everyone enjoyed them. I'm told there's plenty more sweet tea. Be sure to have some, it's gonna be a hot one out there.

Folks, I've given a lot of thought to what I'd like to do for my retirement. You know, my spare time now that I have so much of it. America's been good to me so I want to be good to her, uh it. So I asked myself should I go the sickly route, with all your cancers and AIDS and ailments you see out there? Lots of bad stuff going around. Noble work, but a lot of folks are doing that already, and I don't know much about germs. Or maybe I'd build things for the homeless. I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty you know, but y'all already got Jimmy Carter doing that. And my Daddy likes him now.

What I'm gonna do, what my Foundation's gonna do, is say you got some ugly brush, some big old overgrown mound of bushes. Not me, he he, I mean the shrubs. We'd come out to your home, if you were the less fortunate, who might not have a chainsaw or the gas for that chainsaw, or maybe you're kind of scrawny or frail and we'd clear that brush away. Maybe you were just too busy to get around to it, don't matter.

By sprucing up the backyards of America, we think you're just gonna be more likely to go out and spend money at a local business. You'll take a gander out at the yard and see there's one less thing to worry about. Maybe then you say to your wife, 'Hey let's go out and have dinner at that new Italian restaurant where the Fashion Bug used to be'. Or maybe you'll decide to paint your house, buying paint from your local hardware store. Painting isn't much fun but it's always a great time going down to the local hardware store, isn't it? Laura has a hard time getting me out of the lawn and garden section. Maybe you'll get that new pickup you've been looking at. Or maybe you'll even decide not to have that abortion, since you now have such a beautiful yard to raise your child in. Who knows?

You ever seen a run-down backyard, one where the brush is just out of control? Or maybe some big vine is snaking along a fence and knocking the planks all off kilter? Puts you in a bad mood, don't it? Before you know it, there's a few torn bags of trash piling up by the shed and your brother's Fiero is sitting on blocks next to the swing set. I've been there. And if you're below the poverty line and in one of the towns we visit, we want to help you. Just that simple.

Maybe you left gas in the weedwacker all winter and it's kind of gummed up and hard to start? I might be able to fix that, too. Or one of my guys. I'll be doing it once in a while. I originally thought holiday weekends and such. But some of my good friends still carrying on the fight in Washington asked if I couldn't try to heal America's feelings about, well, past disappointments. What better way to show America I'm here to help than use what some have said are my best skills? It's kind of like Community Service I guess. But not like how the criminals have to do because a judge told them to. This isn't something I need to do, this is something I want to do. I want to give service to my community. That's a big difference you know, from Community Service.

This isn't some long range 'study' or wasteful Washington project you'll never know if it succeeds. We won't have to wait for history to judge if this worked. These are immediate results, easy to see and measure as progress. And I want to start delivering that progress for you now. Thank you, and may God bless America.”

GM Headquarters Stripped, Sold for Parts

DETROIT- Hundreds of fans, souvenir hunters and desperate looters descended on GM headquarters in downtown Detroit today. While their backgrounds were varied, their goal was the same: bring home a piece of history. And maybe make a few bucks.

Like the fate of so many of its automotive products over the years, the headquarters building was dismantled in record time while the remaining employees watched helplessly, some even joining in the free-for-all. One well dressed participant wishing only to be identified as 'Rick W.' showed off a marble sink he removed from an executive washroom. “Italian” he smiled, patting the fixture.

At one point in the afternoon police arrived to chase away the crowd, which quickly scurried into nearby alleys and buildings. “Once they see a building in a condition like this, they'll have it stripped clean down to the frame in no time” said Sergeant Elwood Barnes of the DPD. Sure enough once the squad cars departed, the participants emerged from the shadows and continued their labor.

First to go were logo items easily sold on the souvenir market, such as the front doors and conference room signs. Next went the office equipment, leather chairs, artwork, even coffee makers. Anything that could be carried was soon streaming out the front gate. Once the easily pilfered items were gone, the scrap hunters moved in. Many brought their own tools, and the sound of portable generators could even be heard echoing from within as they tore at the walls for copper wiring and piping. In a few short hours, entire floors were exposed as windows were torn from their casings for the valuable aluminum channels.

By nightfall even the emblematic GM building logo that for years had commanded a view from hundreds of feet above Jefferson Avenue was disassembled and spirited away by a team of what was rumored to be professionals, given the logistical difficulties involved. With thousands of experienced mechanics and engineers laid off throughout the city, such skills are readily available. The sign could likely fetch tens of thousands of dollars from collectors or museums.

Newly elected Mayor Bing said it “was a crying shame”, watching the mob tear apart what most consider the symbol of the Motor City. He then excused himself to help his assistant stuff what appeared to be a projector screen and an industrial-grade cafeteria food mixer into their city vehicle, ironically a Chevy Suburban.

Happy Towel Day

The date of May twenty-fifth as you most likely are aware, is Towel Day. This author was in fact so immersed in his own Towel Day festivities that he completely missed the deadline and ended up posting this story a day late. But this simple act of sloth in its own way pays homage to the inspiration for whom the very day was named, Douglas Adams, a notoriously tardy penman. In keeping the true spirit of this memoriam to our favorite sci-fi humorist, philanthropist, and oddly prescient technologist alive and well, the management here at the Bunker has brought it upon themselves to add this addendum to the growing compendium of towel-centric knowledge.

Everyone wants to bury their head into a soft, warm wrap after scrubbing up, even as a guest in someone else's crapper. The worst is seeing just a single used bath towel at your disposal. At least with no towels you can broach the subject with the lady or gent of the house. But seeing just that single threadbare body towel dripping on the shower rod is a no win situation. No one wants a deep dry from some dampened rag used moments earlier on the host's crotch following his pre-party schvitz. Is that short, curly hair on your freshly rinsed cheek yours? You struggle to remember old 60 Minutes studies about which germs lived on which surface and for how many minutes. Or was it days? Thus begat our concept of the ideal towel.

One end would simply read “HEAD” in boldface. The kind of boldface that says it's not kidding. The other side would naturally read “ASS” in the same cautionary font. Keeps everything nice and straight before use. Know the terms. That's something that can instill confidence in a man to scrub down more often.

But then who's our host? The type to play a cute little gag on his unwitting guests? Maybe our roommate here has been using the presumed high ground of HEAD as a bidet sponge this past week, gleefully, often brutally violating its sanctity for his own cruel laughs at your unknowing expense? The HEAD end of this towel smells funny. Sufficed to say an entirely new kind of math comes into play if your host is a member of the desired sex, and is how everyone would soon come to describe as, “towel-sniffable”. A bad SNL skit if I ever heard one.

Despite their many obvious and critical uses, quality towels remain sadly underrated in this society. I've sometimes wondered if their low priority could very well be at the heart of many of the world's problems, like our dear departed Dougie Adams preached. All due respect, naturally. Little do I want to be known as the cretin who first posthumously referred to the man as “Dougie”, like some distant aunt that always sent him a fresh set of pajamas each Yuletide. More the admiring fan who did same.

They've tried everything else to solve our ills, and look at the potholes and dictators still laughing in our faces each day. Why not blow a few billion of the mystical bailout bucks on some fresh new towels for the masses? Don't forget to weave them of some sturdy old Dixie cotton. I can feel the wave of clean faces and souls already.

RIP, Douglas N. Adams
1952-2001

Hitler Youth 2.0

I was a boy scout. My son is a cub scout. I don't know what these kids are. Technically I know who they are- Explorers, the little cops in training. You've probably heard of them, I have. But I've never known anyone involved or truly cared to. I thought they were just kids that rode in the back of cruisers to watch cops break skulls, alá McLovin. Like hall monitors with a few more summers under their big shiny black belts. A recent New York Times article on the Explorers has me thinking differently.

There's nothing wrong with becoming a policeman, I suppose we need them. It's one of those quaint notions many of us grow out of when they see the pay rate, along with firemen, soldiers, and cowboys. It's one thing to encourage a young child that says he wants to become a policeman when he grows up. It's another to issue that kid fatigues, an air rifle and toss him into a training course on counter-terrorism complete with simulated poison gas and hostages. And all before his first pimple.

Of course it makes sense they do it this way, filling out accident reports or learning to sniff out white collar crimes on a ledger just doesn't have the same addictive cachet as storming a bus to “kill” a bomb-toting tango with plastic BB guns. Get them young, give them a thrill, swell the ranks of the Man. Another generation to address the previous' failed policies on substance use, international relations and border control. But listen to me, I sound almost pinko. What proud American wouldn't want his pre-pubescent versed in the intricacies of taking down a lookout before raiding a marijuana field?

Yeah sure, terrorism and border violence and all that can be a problem. Yet one can't help but wonder if we as a society are planting the poison seeds of our own overblown fears into the most impressionable. Do any but the most paranoid and jingoistic of minds really imagine a turban-sporting “terrorist” will be a likely quarry for one of these boys as was in a recent Arizona training?

Do we really want to address these ills by turning out armies of Dwight Schrute over-achievers too young yet to even hear a dirty word at the theaters? Let these kids get laid before setting them irrevocably on the path of crew cuts and authority trips. I for one don't want to be stopped by the smug future officer who first learned to point their gun and expect total obedience from the civilian populace at the wizened age of 13. Teach liberty and empathy and sense first. Then for those still itching to save mankind one misdemeanor at a time, knock yourselves out.

The title of this article is a bit misleading. No one in the Explorers program to my knowledge is promoting the tenants of the National Socialist party. Nor are they required to undergo any oaths of omertà beyond a rote recitation of the Pledge of Allegiance. The Law and America are more subtle overseers than pledging your life to a leader on posters in every room, albeit not totally lacking in their own brand of sinister overtones.

United Russia party has its Youth Guard, Africa has long fostered the child soldier. Maybe it is in our own best interests to not fall behind in the field of brain-washed youth in support of the state. In this fair nation, humanity seems to be losing ground to the “yeah, but it's effective” crowd. Torture isn't wrong if it's “effective”. Letting the weak and destitute rely only on the strength of their bootstraps is “effective”. Mandatory sentencing laws are “effective”. Old ethical dilemmas are shrugged off as a luxury for simpler times. Of course times never become simpler, only our responses to them.

Mexico Still Boasts Millions Without Swine Flu

MEXICO CITY- Responding to reports of deep cutbacks in tourism, an industry central to Mexico's economy, this week Rodolfo Torres the Secretariat of Tourism announced a new advertising campaign. The television, print and Internet ads entice would-be visitors to experience the nation's beautiful beaches, extensive history and millions of inhabitants still currently free of swine flu.

The relative health of Mexico's populace is being touted as one of the key attractions of a visit to the nation. “The majority of the people you meet on your travels through our country will be welcoming, friendly and on the average free of debilitating fever and coughing fits” assures a soothing voice over from one of the television spots. Following a montage of fun-loving tourists enjoying beaches, pyramids and other scenic vistas, the ad ends in the new tag line “Mexico: You'll probably be fine”.

To placate the worries of over anxious travelers, newly arriving visitors will be presented a hygiene pamphlet outlining some common sense practices. “As a purely precautionary measure, visitors to some of the regions with higher than average reported cases of malady may want to soak body parts that may have come in contact with locals in a solution of bleach and hydrogen peroxide; it is also wise to ingest massive amounts of vitamin C, multivitamins, and Tamiflu. These simple steps will help assure a lowered risk of infection.”

Torres insists fears of contracting the illness are being overblown by the media. “Don't let fear of the unknown dissuade you from your travel plans. It remains much more likely you will be kidnapped.”

Call Yourself a Fan?

Pour yourself a drink and sit back on the couch. Or on the porch. Or the car, hell. Crank up your favorite band. A top two as you're probably being indecisive. Here's the lowdown. You are told by some mystical force that it's time to choose. Some sort of musical faery with a wicked grin says that never for the rest of your natural life can you listen to either of those bands again.

The TV starts pumping out an all-time favorite arena rock anthem during a commercial hawking Cadillacs? Change the channel or it will change for you. Old school rock ballad that gives you chills remembering late nights in the park as a teen? Switch off the car radio. Overhear that #1 hit that seemed to camp out near the top of the charts a whole summer? Please put on these soundproof headphones. Stones or Beatles? Debate might about to become moot for you.

OR offers this obviously warped being, you can have a finger lopped off and listen to your heart's content. Just because it's feeling generous that day, you'll be allowed to choose which digit. He knows we all choose pinky anyhow. You have to imagine the proposer of this deal possesses omnipresent enforcement skills, so no cheating. Why doesn't matter, maybe you ate the wrong apple, or crossed the wrong rickety bridge, or committed some other imagined trespass to find yourself indebted to him.

I posed this question to a friend and was surprised at the immediacy of his reply, indicating he'd soon be in the market for some new favorites. Either he had no heart and soul, or possibly I had too much.

Now the method of finger removal might have an effect on your math. I'm hard pressed to say I'd likely vote finger if it was more a surgical procedure than a “Very well mortal, place your pinky into this rusty meat grinder..” I'd still be leaning finger, but I'd be damn sure to tell this sombitch where to stick it once it was his. You don't need to be polite to vindictive magical folk. As the tales all say, they know they've already put you through the wringer.

As a reward to yourself (if reward it could be called, as you were already able to listen all you liked before this damned faery came along), you immediately dig (with your good hand) into your collection, playing all your favorites ad infinitum. Probably until you were sick of them, knowing you. Or one night you push your way backstage at their final reunion tour, babbling some teary-eyed story of why you deserve to have dinner with the band. “I dunno Mick, something about he chopped off his finger because of you. Sounds like a drug-addled freak if you ask me, I'll get him an 8x10 glossy and boot him back to General Admission.”

You get by just fine without the finger, though it makes handshakes squeamish for new acquaintances. Plus you got to use the partial disability check from the insurance to buy a thunderous new stereo for the living room. But you're reminded of your loss every time you tie your laces, or notice the pathetic floppy finger on your winter gloves. Before you know it time passes and you find you can't stand the sound of either of those damned bands any more. Somewhere your poor pinky resides as a leathery, shrunken prize on some cruel deity's mantelpiece. He dusts it every Sunday with a chuckle.

Victory at Sea

In a fitting Easter Sunday surprise, U.S. pride was reborn on the high seas off the African coast. In a world of shades and nuance, there is no wavering on this one- the good guys won.

We Yanks have had a tough run lately. Stinging difficulties in war. An economy last reported beaten and raped in a back alley by a roving band of Gucci-clad greedheads. Bad news is our norm, a growing hiss of white noise that no one can seem to find the volume knob for. So it was with a sense of warmth and joy that I was greeted by the news our boys in Navy blue scored one for the civilized world. Three pirates dead, one wishing he were, and their once captive Captain safely sipping coffee and posing for cameras on the deck of an American warship somewhere in the Indian Ocean. Such tales of bravery and righteous bloodshed are in serious want these days, I for one am going to soak this one in.

The Hollywood climax served as a perfect capstone on what proved to be a truly humiliating series of boners pulled by the hapless bandits. Strong-armed by an unarmed crew, sent scurrying into an oversized dinghy that promptly ran out of fuel, and left bobbing like the burglars from Home Alone. In a maritime blog I read about the details of the lifeboat they spent their final days in. One theory is that the captain himself may have sabotaged the vessel, rendering the fuel tank as useful as a second belly button. The facts will come out on this one as 60 Minutes gets their claws into our latest hero Captain. Sorry Captain Sully your turn is over, though we'll always love how you handled that jet in the Hudson.

While the dirty work came at the hands of Navy Seals, some credit must also be given to the President. This was a political win for the man. His first high drama albeit small-scale crisis goes off without a hitch, just as fervent wing nuts were already online dismissing the “age of Obama appeasement”. Let those who would denounce an ask questions first, shoot second approach to American diplomacy take note. The man is smart, patient and knows when the time finally comes to separate a few heads from their respective shoulders.

As far as the public record shows, he merely said to shoot if the Captain appeared in peril. But it was a moment that could very well have been Obama's Iranian-hostage rescue debacle. Fate decided he wasn't to share the same poor fortunes Jimmy Carter did in the Persian desert 30 years ago. In a brazen response, a pirate named Abdullahi Lami announced “every country will be treated the way it treats us,” warning of bad things to come for American ships in the future. It was so patronizing he may well have demanded a pre-ransom for the next ship they planned on taking. Although it will never happen, Mr. Obama would be excused for muttering a “Bring It On”.

Such hubris can only come from those not used to failed missions. The pirates' attitude that “this is war” in a perverse way almost seems to suggest safer waters for those flying the Stars and Stripes. These are not warriors, or even suicide bombers. These are businessmen. And this little business operation gone sour throws into question their entire modus operandi: that being to grab slow-moving, defenseless hulks then patiently await an almost guaranteed payday. If another American ship is taken, we will be forced to take them at their word, that they will kill the unlucky souls on board. But that of course destroys their very profitable business model. No hostages equals no payday, no fun times counting your booty on the forlorn shoals of Somalia wishing there were something more to spend it on other than the same HIV-laden harbor tarts and bails of khat. Just what Somali pirates spend all those millions on is a question that gives pause to the greatest of economic minds. The micro-climate of inflation that brews up every time a haul comes in must be hell on the local economy.

Offing a handful of punks that may well have been the pirate version of Larry, Moe, and Curly isn't a legendary accomplishment, but it was a needed one for our bruised psyche. In the new world order, big mouthed, small-time dictators mock us with impunity, well aware of the limitations modern day political correctness places on a super-power. It has become slowly, painfully clear that America or even the West cannot do everything, good intentions aside. There are some unfortunate situations where sitting back and fuming to ourselves that something ought to (but won't) be done is the only viable option. Lord knows there have been times we strayed from the narrow perch of moral high ground when we refused to do so. This is certainly not one of those times.

So as they paint three skull-and-crossbones on our bow, give three cheers for those who made the operation a success. Lets hope the next one goes even half as well.

Beer and Rowing in the Florida Bayou

It recently dawned on me that one of the few genres not dabbled into at the Bunker is that of the wonderful world of travel writing. Can't say I've published any recipes either, but I'll spare my dear readers that experiment. Last weekend I had the good fortune to enjoy a cruise on the Chaz. If you're not a local, the place is called the Chassahowitzka River. For all you spell-checkers out there, I got it right the first time. I know this place, and this river.

We go way back, to the days after high school and mischief-laden excursions deep into the heart of the Florida bayou. Back then a typical outing wouldn't have felt proper without a canoe laden with a 5 gallon jug of homemade sangria (if you can call Everclear mixed with Kool-Aid such) and enough firepower to outfit a ragtag army. These were not your sounds-of-nature brand jaunts. The backbreaking time spent rowing deep into the middle of nowhere served our purpose of getting far enough from the scorning earshot of the civilized world to raise our own special brand of hell. One that had been known to climax in the apocalyptic fireball of a propane bomb, as a dozen tanked knuckleheads danced through the flaming aftermath like mad Indians suffering the effects of too much of the white man's medicine. But that is a story for another day. And as I would now a generation later likely categorize my behavior as an environmentalist, one told under a pseudonym.

This story is about the quieter side of the Chaz, of its springs, flora and fauna.

The family and I had the infamous pop-up camper out for the weekend, giving me a chance to test out the newly refurbished A/C unit. Friday was spend setting up, cooking up a skillet full of burgers, and dodging the most common fauna: no-see-ums. The air was heavy with them, but when I biked up to the only convenience store in a many mile radius for more beer and hopefully the modern equivalent of DDT, the little fellow behind the counter offered me a squirt of baby oil from a jar he kept for himself. This didn't really keep the buggers away, but it kept them from getting through. They became hopelessly slicked in a bath of oil and wriggled around like a ducks in an tanker slick. Back at camp, from then on the game became to see how many no-see-ums our ankles could harvest.

It is said that the Indians named Chassahowitzka the “place of the hanging pumpkin”, but a glance around the dock come quitting time might suggest the translation had been fudged years back, with the proper moniker being “place of the discount six-pack”. It's a very rural venue, as a quick stop in the bar and grill a few stones throws up the road will attest. Ken Burns himself might be hard pressed to prove the South had lost, after stopping inside the smoky den, then losing his will and instead deciding he just needed to use the john.

But I'm a man of the world, and can usually slide right in with the locals with maybe a tweak of the accent here or avoiding talk of God or Washington. For those not as adept at ignoring culture shock, understand this is the Deep South, not Tampa or Disney World. We met all kinds there that at first glance fit perfect characters from the Simpsons. As to which ones I'll leave you guessing. But I never had anything but good experiences and conversations. Retirees, young families, hippies, freaks, rednecks, hunters, rowdy teens, scouts, they were all there. I did see a woman whose flapping arms were tattooed with no fewer than three swastikas, but soon got the feeling from the locals that even there she was an outlier.

On Saturday we arrived at the dock early to stake our claim on a pair of canoes, one for us and the other for the wife's parents, John and Marge, who were making their way out that day to join us. I had to laugh when I saw among the supplies in the canoe next to ours, a 20 pound propane tank. Had we boys begun a tradition so many years back? As a sober scoutmaster was climbing in to pilot the stern, I doubted such hijinks were on their menu.

An eerie sight in the melting mist across from the dock was the Vulture tree, where dozens of the huge beasts were warming themselves in the morning sun, ready for another day of carcass spotting from the warm coastal breezes.

One of the few activities shared between my trips of yore and this was a refreshing dip in the springs, which was our convoy's first stop. The natural springs make for some chilly swimming at first, but on a sunny day there is nothing more welcome. A remarkable thing about the place is the series of interconnected spring-fed caves interspersed in the limestone. You're walking along in waist deep water when BOOM, a gaping hole swallows the creek bottom beneath your feet and the clear view of soft sand and limestone disappears into an azure abyss.

The holes range in width from something that could swallow a VW Beetle down to ones you can pull yourself into with your hands clinging to both sides of the rock. If you've got a mask, a deep breath, and a bold nature you can swim them. Each pops straight down about 10 feet or so, meanders horizontal a bit, then pops right back up out another hole. When you reach the bottom, you can pull yourself along the walls and see the sun shining straight down to the target exit before you. It's common to bump your head as you instinctively want to raise it to look around. My lungs and nature weren't feeling up to that task anymore, but I blamed the lack of a mask. Still, my son and I enjoyed bobbing feet first to the bottom of the widest and worrying the missus.

John floated the idea that we should visit another spot called the Crack. I had a hard time not laughing every time I heard the name. It became a struggle against my own nature not to use it in as many double entendres as possible. The approach to the Crack led us up narrower and narrower passages as we made our way to the headwaters. It made for interesting scenery, with the channel squeezing down as narrow as a paddle's length in places. It was in a small pool that opened up midway there that I saw the only turtle of the whole day on the river. Besides the ever present vultures, we also saw ducks and other water fowl. Also a porpoise and a manatee in the main channel. I was concerned by the lack of other mainstays like turtles and gators, of which we strangely had not seen a single one sunning on such a glorious day. If I hear Chinese importers have been paying local yokels to trap every hard shell out there for their soup pots, I'll be mighty sore.

Eventually the channel became a trickle that wouldn't wet your knees, and we had to abandon our rented craft. As the others went on to finish the trek by foot, I tied down beneath an overhanging branch with a length of old cotton rope I had found tangled in a mangrove root on the way in. I followed carrying our sandwiches and a ziploc holding the camera and my son's Swiss army. Soon the waterway opened up again, revealing a hidden lagoon barely thirty feet across, centered around a large spring shaped like a deep crack across the bottom. Along one side of it a huge palm had fallen, now serving as a perfect diving board, or test of skill. On another bank was a strategically placed rope swing hung from a tree above the gaping black void.

As we were testing the swing and probing the Crack (told you I couldn't resist), a pair of locals made their way up, canoe in tow. As we became acquainted, I learned his name was Smitty. Truthfully it was Matt, but he had some story about a close relative having the same name. He took the bullet by letting the cousin have it, ever after to be known as Smitty. Personally I think he got the long end of the wishbone on that one. You never forget a name like that, and it has a ring like someone you couldn't help but get along with. Old Smitty fed me a smoke and some of the coldest beers I'd had in a long while. And some Arizona iced tea that tasted strangely like straight Bacardi. I take my hat off to the man and his wife Lisa for their hospitality. And hope I can find where they bought that tea.

Not long after their arrival we heard some hooting and hollering making way up the water. Out of the tiny channel popped a pair of teenage boys floating a cooler behind them. Close behind were their chickies, clad in what could only be described as nano-bikinis. Chants of “Spring Break 09”! The boys wore the glazed eyes of seniors recently set sail on their first voyage with Captain Morgan.

Smitty and I enjoyed talking the boys into various dangerous feats, giving each other grins as we dared the two to impress their nubile, barely clad mates. Climb higher on the tree swing! Try for a double flip this time! Ah besotted, corruptible youth.

Smitty and I made sure the boys cleaned up after themselves. I learned that he too, sought penitence from the land he once violated in his youth. And so we both carried on to enforce our eventually gained wisdom, picking up after, and maybe dissuading the next generation of hellions. Sure have a good time, but at the very least try to pick up your beer cans. I felt like a local again, at least for the day, and found myself slithering through muddy mangrove roots to collect the odd lost soda can for the trek out.

A few more folks made their way into the festive watering hole, which I began to suspect was the worst kept secret on the river, despite the unassuming backwater path to gain entry. One guy covered in piercings and crowned with a Mohawk impressed us with his trust in fate, by balancing both his packs of smokes atop a tiny rock poking just above the water's surface in the center of a pool. John tempted fate in his own fashion by walking the log, likely falling to the peer pressure of our 8 year old.

I must had done something to tick off karma myself though. When someone yelled they were going to try something likely silly on the swing, I muffed going for the camera and dropped it from its ziploc and into the drink by mistake. It was a fraction of a second, I tossed it back to shore like a fisherman wrestling a trout to the bank. But it was too late. It looked back at me, the zoom lens perpetually frozen in its extended position, like a bug-eyed stare that would never blink. I relished the thought that I'd gone the cheap route when picking out the wife's camera this Christmas.

Not five minutes later I caught a sharp hunk of root just right, and it tore into my foot like a punji stick into a tiger's ass. There was nothing to be done but call it a day by then anyhow, as I could plainly see all the places I had missed sunscreen. We made our goodbyes to all our new friends and ducked back down the creek. I noticed more tide had made its way in. As we made our way back out we passed all the others' john boats and rafts, beached in various weeded alcoves along the route. I let Marge doze in the front of my canoe as I whisked us dockside in no time with the wind at our backs.

After a quick regroup at the camper we piled into the family truckster, weary and dinner-bound. After driving us north past the ubiquitous billboards hawking cheap retirement enclaves we were soon within sight of the massive Crystal River cooling towers, so I turned us in toward the coast. The drive out to Ozello is like something out of a luxury car commercial. The fields of grass and pockets of marsh trees stretch out to the distant horizon. Pure nature as far as the eye can see torn only by a thin, snake of asphalt. The tide was ridiculously high, with the wind in some places sloshing the brine up to the curb. On a slightly stormier day, I can imagine the only means of escape is with an Evinrude.

We told our waitress about the wet state of the road on the way in, and she shrugged with the same sense of non-concern locals reserve for tourists the world over. By our description she judged she'd make it home that night without needing to call her man to fire up the air boat, that was all that mattered. Dinner was friendly, adequate and overpriced, the common province of restaurants with no competition in a 10 mile radius. On the way back we noticed the water had crept even higher, now covering the road in spots and lapping at my radials. The quaint homes I saw for sale on the way in now merely looked like the first would-be victims of a melting Greenland. I put the pedal down as we wound our way back through the splendid scenery, the last of the setting sun touching the tops of the cypresses in the distance. I had no intention on waiting for the water to climb any higher. I've had a car fished out of floodwaters once before and hadn't enjoyed it enough for a reprise.

After a quick game of cards back at the camp, it was lights out. My foot was throbbing, I could still feel the sun on my reddening legs, but the trip was a success. Fortunately the memory card survived the ordeal, you're looking at a photo of the approach to the Crack now, or were a couple pages up. And the camper? A pounding rain woke me some time past midnight but we were dry and comfy, the patter of rain on canvas like a hypnotic lullaby. At such times there is nothing better than knowing you've kept up on your maintenance. Most of its leaks had been banished and the thing now blew colder than a cheap motel. Ready for her next task this June at Bonnaroo.

Rescued Child to be Held as Evidence

Milwaukee, WI- According to the Milwaukee District Attorney’s office, an abducted child recently rescued from her captor must be held as evidence until trial.

Few in the Milwaukee area haven’t heard the saga of little Katie Ramirez, the six year old that disappeared from her Whitefish Bay home in February. Her family was overjoyed to hear of her recovery Friday. Unfortunately despite Katie’s safe recovery, the saga has not yet ended.

The investigation had initially focused on the parents of the missing girl, Matthew and Melinda Ramirez, when inconsistencies in the kidnapping story began to emerge. But all suspicions were dropped after a tip led to the rescue of Ms. Ramirez from her captor’s residence in nearby Franklin Heights, home of a laborer named Kevin LaRouge. Mr. LaRouge (33) had been hired by the family to perform odd jobs, but was dismissed after it was discovered he had a violent criminal record.

After a SWAT team found the girl tied to a bedpost, she was placed in protective custody at the Milwaukee Police station. Shortly afterward, her parents learned she would need to be kept as evidence until Mr. LaRouge’s trial.

Her outraged father decried the decision. “This is (expletive deleted) insane! What gives them the right to keep her?” he fumed to reporters.

According to prosecutors, Wisconsin law does. “To bolster the state’s case against the suspect, we are following every procedure by the book” said assistant D.A. Roger Juella. “I don’t want to let Mr. LaRouge escape justice because of a technicality.” That technicality refers to a little-known state statute dating to the 1890’s that allows for “perfons (sic) recovered from the hands of ne’er-do-wells be kept safe from harm as ward of the state and presented as an object of evidence until their tormentor(s) be remanded to a house of detention or be hereby found not to be of guilt.”

Protests from the family, the ACLU, and local residents are gaining in volume, but the Wisconsin Department of Justice insists that Ms. Ramirez is being “given the best of care and is quite comfortable”. Her family is permitted daily visits until trial begins, which the D.A.’s office insists will come as soon as possible, perhaps as early as this summer. In the meantime donations of toys, as well as letters of outrage, continue to pour into the office where Katie’s small living space is located.

In a rare statement from Katie herself, she appeared to have mixed feelings about her situation.“I miss my mommy and daddy,” she initially lamented. “But Miss Terry (her court-appointed caregiver) lets me watch Dora whenever I want, and I have lots of things to play with here. And today we get Taco's!”

LaRouge was denied bail at his arraignment Monday. He is being held in the Milwaukee County Jail awaiting trial, just 3 blocks from the protective services building where little Katie waits and does the same.

Iron Mine Sued by Gun Control Activists

Tellsville, MI-Iron ore mine owner Clay Amberthorp appeared in court on Monday to face accusations that he and his company were negligent in the shooting death of a Michigan State Police officer in 2005. The suit charges that sometime between 2000 and 2003, Amberthorp Mining of Michigan willfully sold iron ore which eventually ended up in a gun used to kill police officer Jeremy Gibbons.

Bailiffs hauled bag after bag of unrefined iron ore into the courtroom, as the plantiff’s legal team entered it as evidence. Lead attorney Anthony Ballgetti then proceeded to diagram how the ore made its way from the Michigan deposit to the chrome-plated Smith and Wesson .357 used by Jerry Stills on the night of the shooting.

"In our eyes, the people who mined the ore, those who shipped it to the refinery, the workers who smelted it, the fabricators who shaped the steel forms and the truckers who delivered the finished ingots to the gun manufacturers are just as culpable in the death of Mr. Gibbons as the person who pulled the trigger" said Angela Beck spokesperson for the Brady Center, one of the plaintiffs in the $48 million suit.

RandomObamaLie.com Celebrates its 5000th Hit

Please join me in marking this meaningless and arbitrary milestone! We've had visitors from more than 50 countries log in to our sister site to learn some entertaining lies about the leader of the Free World. Even Iran. Though I suspect it may have been Ahmadinejad's speech writers looking for talking points.

According to my stat monitoring account the 5000th hit came from Destrehan, Louisiana, just a hop, skip and a murky swim up from the Big Easy herself. As soon as I track down the lucky netizen, he/she can expect a toaster in the mail. Though they should be warned that its setting for toaster pastries is on the fritz.

Watch, Man

This is not a reviews site. Not one to idly spoon-feed fanboy sentiment to the Pepsi-swollen gullets of seekers of what's 'hip'. So I'll be brief and to the point, Watchmen kicked your momma's ass, and did so in spades.

I figured I'd not hedge on that introduction, to weed out those not interested, though they should realize that the Bunker on other weeks ranges in its weekly topics from Chinese Olympic failures, to suicidal investment strategies, to the inherent evil of unicycles. If any of that other stuff sounds promising, check back next time. Otherwise, soldier on.

Such reviews should probably be presented to the point of view of an uninitiated reader, one not yet to delve into Alan Moore's novella cum big star screen spectacular. Such newbie viewers, as well as the well-read should know one thing about Mr. Moore. While he excelled in the forming of tales and imagery both rich and brutal, he lacked in the department of palm reading. His pronouncement so many years past that his own creation was unfilmable has been proven flat wrong. Not to take anything away from his foresight, at the time the ill-fated quote was spake it was probably true, given the pulley-and-wire nature of modern filmmaking by comparison.

Today's Watchmen pays ample respect to a comic fans' loathing of deviation, despite some fairly minor absences die hards may sneer at their absence of. But to be truthful, I no longer follow the development of films until their completion. Ever since Lord of the Rings, I prefer to go in cold turkey. And even though I had already dined on a paperback version of Watchmen, it was many years ago. I had forgotten much so my sense of accuracy may be impaired at this point, but who cares?

Despite my having already been a fan from a reading way back when, the film failed as it were, to disappoint. Yes, that's a double negative for those checking my math at home. This film checks off the vital stats of any successful comic adaptation: it was (very) good, it kept true enough to the spirit of the story, and it will work for those who don't already know the story cold.

The premise of the plot, the 30,000 footer of it, is something as follows: Following the second world war a man is accidentally irradiated in some DoD experiment gone haywire, turning him into an uber-man, a living American God capable of nearly any trick that could be devised by the minds of Roddenberry or Einstein. Standard 50's comic faire if you will, but I mean that most generously as the period feels (each decade from the “Greatest Generation” up to where Reagan should have been judging by the skinny neckties gets a turn) are well done. This Dr. Manhattan is himself a major bulwark in the US defense arsenal, playing the part of nuclear deterrent and top scientific researcher, and needless to say the genesis of the film's most inspired effects. The blue, glowing Manhattan possesses the straight forward logic of Spock, alongside the tank-crushing loyalty of a trained, thinking weapon able to see the past, present and future in his own unique slurry of existence.

Around the same time, a cadre of self-appointed super heroes (sans actual super powers) implants itself within the stream of American history. These “costumes” make it their sworn duty to protect America from it's own inner rot. But the populace come to question the need for still allowing a privileged class of knuckle breakers to exist in their own world above the law. War is over, who do these do-gooders think they are? Years after such vigilantes have been voted out of favor, someone mysteriously decides to start wiping them out, with extreme prejudice. And thus your plotline.

The opening segment that follows a costume's murder features a montage of 60's and 70's era history, perverted by the temporal deviations of super heroes and chance. What follows is akin to reading an alternative history novel. You quickly catch up on everything that happened along this skewed path, from the glorious- picture an invincible hundred foot tall blue enigma winning the Vietnam war by the mere nod of his omnipotent head (think Francis Ford Coppola told to film a sci-fi battle), to the mass, ongoing acceptance of Nixon that results from such an unnatural Far East victory. Leading to not only a Watergate free second term but a dissent-strangling third and maybe more. In a world where the Viet Cong throw down their weapons and pray at the foot of the very American God that humbled them, things are bound to be a little different.

And yes as you're learning a new history, you'll be subjected to some of its violence. Ooo, yeah some of it is up there if you're not ready. But knowing what was coming helps. I didn't really have the impression it was gratuitous, this from someone who flat out refuses to subject himself to today's modern jerk-off of a film genre, the torture flick. Much of the blood and guts of this tale seems to fit in, as it unfortunately would in any challenging (brutal) history. Granted the pint of fine Canadian whisky that swam with my large Coke in the back of the AMC may have aided in my acceptance of such bloody excesses, but I digress. The social and human commentary that are offered as reward for delving into the piece outweigh any case of the “ewws” you may develop. Ironically, it is often the very “super heroes” that commit the worst of the offenses as they undertake their missions to better mankind.

One of the main characters in the tragedy, the first aforementioned target of the mysterious assassin, goes by the name of The Comedian. Here is a son of a bitch that challenges the viewer's shades of gray. A fascist would be the easiest label for such a shoot ex-girlfriends first, down jovial beers later kind of guy. But such generalizations become harder to diagnose after the flashbacks and recollections that suggest he's somewhere near the realm of a Jack Bauer that gets downright horny when cracking bones to defend his motherland. This is a Nazi you want on your side, despite how hideous that sounds for you to admit. Is this a man made cruel by a government needing to spread fear and domination to maintain its status quo, or does he use his bully pulpit as a mere excuse to rape, destroy and unleash his disgust of mankind's tragic condition? Probably both. The Comedian is everything loud and overbearing you hate, but also everything loyal and ballsy you respect. He's the kind of strutting, twisted American hero you would picture rescuing Betty Page from a band of filthy Commies, then tearing open her Esquire magazine outfit, raping her, and kicking her dog for getting in his way on the way out.

In fact the Red Menace plays a large role in the story's trajectory. Author Moore is by no means on the left or the right, though he likes to dabble with the extremes of both. Anyone having read his V for Vendetta know him as an unapologetic Anarchist. Here, though he basically satirizes facism's over-potent cure for it's ideological opposite, he allows how such excesses could spawn and flourish if given the right conditions. In one scene, as happened often in Moore's original comic screenplay, a sign from the background scenery asks a probing question of the reader (now viewer). This one takes the form of a government-sponsored billboard straight out of Nixon's Machiavellian playbook: “In your heart, you Know it's Right”. Throughout his graphic novel, signs on the street, television broadcasts, even the very graffiti all spell out an undercurrent of a society needing to be reassured of it's need for its warm, protective, if crime-ridden cloak of Facism whether it wants it or not. Particularly as it is presented as the sole promised bastion of safety against a growing and aggressive Soviet threat.

Where reality ends and Watchmen begins is sometimes a faint line, oft disguised under the obfuscating variable of human nature. In the desolate wastes of Antarctica, the final battle against the unearthed assassin probes at your psyche. Just how far would you go for the endgame goal of true world peace, even if it comes at the pre-calculated and logically accepted price of millions of deaths? This is pragmatism at a level dreamed of by even Kissinger. Would you let such a devastating conspiratorial compromise go unanswered, even unreported? These are questions you hope you're never asked. But they sure look good on film.

U.S. to Return to Glorious Unsustainability

Today's headlines bombard the reader with grim news of record-breaking deficits, shutdowns, layoffs. Once staid household names teeter on bankruptcy. The phrase "worst since the Depression" has been hammered home more relentlessly than the times tables in a Japanese prep school. It's enough to make one downright worried about the future. How long before the whole place resembles some hell-scape reminiscent of some Mad Max era bartertown you begin to wonder. Take it from me, don't.

The Treasury Department, Federal Reserve, and Congress on behalf of the wishes of the President, have been working feverishly to spur Americans back into familiar patterns of wastefulness and short-sighted goals. With so many good intentions hard at work, is there any chance we can fail to regain our superior position in every measure?

Soon our overseers will begin shoveling, nay bulldozing stimulus funds into the economy like heaping buckets of coal into the red-hot gaping maw of Davey Jone's locomotive, in hopes that American consumers can rebuild our trade deficit to a scale only dreamt of by lesser nations. Such a monumental goal will require nothing less than the determined and combined spending power of millions of image-conscious, luxury-driven citizens, fearful of obsolete personal electronics technologies or being embarrassingly trapped in vehicles more than four years of age. We shouldn't be aiming to restore mere confidence, but hubris. I believe we are up to this task.

Before this crisis, we were living beyond our means goes the chestnut: saving too little, borrowing from foreign entities to purchase foreign goods, and funneling hundreds of billions of dollars annually to hostile petro-regimes. It is my sincere belief that such God-given excesses will once again define the American way of life. Skeptics worry that such living robs of our children. My answer is simple: won't our children have children? Who are these imagined whelps too proud to carry on such a glorious tradition? Don't punish the brazen antics of Madoff, embrace them.

This same way of life will benefit workers worldwide, as they harvest, mine, sew, and toil to feed our endlessly ravenous sense of want. Such gluttonous demand for all the world's idle resources will undoubtedly be seen as a selfless act of brotherhood, with the unwashed populaces of nations from Guatemala to Vietnam grateful to play their part as the cogs in our vast machinery of More.

With the introduction of tough new regulations on Wall Street, it will be at least several months before loopholes are found and exploited for the personal gain of a few, allowing more and more Americans to again imagine themselves in a prosperous retirement one day. By propping up real estate prices, it is hoped the speculative building booms that swept across millions of acres of unimproved wilderness like locusts in 7 series sedans can return large-scale developers to their rightful place, once more immune to the pesky red tape of zoning boards and environmental worry warts.

Americans should be encouraged to double or triple their travel, to better take advantage of the higher fuel efficiencies of today's modern cars and lower fuel prices. It's a beautiful country out there, you shouldn't restrict yourself to the shortest route home. Why not circle the block a few times to see how the neighborhood's doing? No antidepressant can hold a candle to doing donuts in an empty parking lot. Or why wait for it to be empty, if you're feeling bold? As oil prices hold to their southward trajectory, the length of NASCAR races might be increased to more than eight hours. Even more exciting, a new racing league altogether could be born. Maybe 747's circling hot-air balloons filled with topless cheerleaders, or tractor trailers burning raw coal speeding across an arena of artificial ice. I get goose bumps just imagining the wrecks. This is the land of innovation.

The lower ancillary costs of energy could have other positive developments here at home. People should take advantage of cheaper food prices to stock up on extra calories, adding to their layer of insulating winter fat. If it works for the bears, it can damn sure work for any red-blooded patriot. Leading physicians suggest the associated onset of obesity-related ailments could then provide desperately needed skiing vacations for leading physicians. Not to mention the bump provided for pharmaceutical companies in search of elusive quarterly dividends.

Some parties just don't want to end. And why should they? The world miraculously keeps buying our T-bills, kindly keeping history's grandest pyramid scheme afloat. In no time we will rise like an amnesiatic phoenix, order dessert, and try to figure out what the next hot market will be in. It will take innovation and wisdom to return us to the well-worn, candy-wrapper strewn paths of old. But with some sacrifice, we can finally get back to a lifestyle requiring no sacrifice.