Squirrels Grabbed My Nut Sack

I know how you feel.

Greg:

I went and officially cracked the seal on Hiking Season '06 yesterday with an 8-mile round trip hike up Mount Si. I've done that hike a few times before, but this is my first time doing it during tit-freezing season. Nobody told me that it was still winter up at the top. I checked the freezing levels, which were at something like 5-6k yesterday when I went up, but again - nobody told Mount Si that, and it decided that freezing levels oughtta be well below 3k. No wait - it decided that I personally should freeze every single one of my teats off, and so endeavored to help me in that regard.

Other item of note: There were squirrels. But more about that in a moment.

The first three miles of the trail were unremarkable, save for the fact it was fairly warm by February in the Northwest standards - about 56 degrees. But the last mile to the summit was nothing but hard-packed snow and ice. Were I wise enough to bring along cleats and poles, I would've been just fine. However, I am anything but wise, and therefore spent a great deal of time falling on my ass and grabbing at the branches of saplings as though I were a soul of the damned being pulled from the lake of fire. My lug soles didn't do much on the ice except to turn me into some kind of spastic Hans Brinker, with my arms violently windmilling for all of nature to see.

So I sweat buckets for the first three miles, and then froze for the last mile. Luckily I brought along my wantonly bourgeoise fashion statement of a North Face parka (fully accessorized with North Face gloves) and some ice goggles that proved to be indispensible. Nothing sucks worse than snowblindness, and the weather was perfect for it - nothing but ice below and not a cloud in the sky above.

At the summit, I picked out a spot that was in the sun but protected from the wind, and got out my bag of trail mix and a Power Bar and sat down to have a snack and drink in the glory.

Then the shakedown started.

First it was the mountain jays who started eyeballing me. I made the mistake of offering them some nuts, which they eagerly snapped up straight from the palm of my hand. Then the squirrels came around, snapping their tails and barking. So I figured what the hell, I might as well give them a little something. Well, as you know with squirrels, it's "give 'em a nut and they take the whole sack". Suddenly I heard a shriek from behind me ("Nuts are for the people, man!"), and in a trice I had squirrels caroming off my back while the jays attacked from the air. So I did the manly thing, which was to scream like a girl and wrest my nut sack from the bushy-tails' grasp, and then scamper away flailing my arms. The hike down pretty much consisted of me tobogganing down the trail on my ass to the hoots and jeers of tiny rodents.

This reminds me of a quote from the movie "The Game", starring Micheal Douglas and Sean Penn, which is: "they [bleep] you and they [bleep] you, and just when you think they're done [bleep]ing you, that's when the real [bleep]ing starts!" - which is to say that nature is all fine and good until it starts to be all natural and shit. And by "natural" I mean when squirrels start kicking my ass. Bears I can handle. Cougars, sure fine. They got books on that kind of stuff. But squirrels? They're everywhere, man! What if a bear could break into a hundred tiny bears and grab your nut sack? Think about it. It's truly frightening. And what are squirrels but tiny, tiny bears? I rest my case.

So I went down to REI and bought a six-gallon tub of squirrel repellent. Hopefully that'll take me through the rest of the season. However, if I should be taken down by a gang of squirrels in the North Woods, please tell people at my funeral that it was a gang of tiny bears instead.

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

People Are Reading Your Mail

Who am the Gregory? This basalt effigy,
recently unearthed in Mesopotamia, bears a
chilling resemblance to my brother Greg.

Greg:

It may surprise you right out of your ruffly under-drawers to learn this, but other people are reading your mail. And by "your mail" I mean this blog. And by "this blog" I mean this thing that I write on the InterWeb because I'm too goddamn cheap to continue purchasing Crane's 100% rag stationery ($1.80/sheet) and stamps (five shillings fuppence) instead of burning up 100% FREE photons that are my God-guaranteed right to consume. In other words, this blog costs me nothing, and I haven't lost a cent if you don't write back. Considering the cost effectiveness of blog vs. US Post, I'm perfectly comfortable with putting your correspondence on what amounts to flypaper for the world's eyeballs and letting the everyone know that you wear ruffly under-drawers.

Speaking of postal spies - it may interest you to hear what Christiaan van Vliet, a reader of your mail and Ween enthusiast recently relocated to beautiful Salem, OR (and who incidentally goes by the sobriquet "Glasses Bitch"), had to say:

I really can't wait for the Superbowl to be over,Thaddeus. I mean, when did you turn all ghey (sic) for the football? Sheesh. Every week I look forward to my copy of Dear Gregory for insightful and witty prose, not sports commentary. Although, you're better than George Plimpton, I gotta give you that...

Now I don't care that Sr. van Vliet (of the Zuyder Zee van Vliets) doesn't like the football or the commentary that goes with the football or the fact that I am ghey for the football. I am overjoyed that Mssr. van Vliet actually responded. Which is something that you do not do, save for using the 2-Way Telephonics Device. And I'm beginning to suspect that your story about losing both hands in a fluke accident involving an electric drafting eraser is just so much hooey. If you have a helper monkey like you say you do, then you should stop having it wax your bikini line and teach it to type instead.

So yeah, people are not just reading your mail, but are also submitting unsolicited (but not unwelcome) critiques of the content. Also of interest should be this comment from Tim:

Is Gregory a real person?

So yes, to confirm your existence, you should probably dictate a letter to your helper monkey which I will reprint right here in this space. This will prove to the world once and for all that this blog is an actual correspondence, and that I'm not just using my imaginary brother as a gimmick/motif for my rambling commentary on Buddhism, coffee, poetry, depression, and how ghey I am for the football.

Is your monkey ready? Begin!

-Thaddeus

PS: You must realize that your response may also predicate the existence of our older brother Sgt. Rock and of course our "tweener" brother John. Viz., you will no longer be able to claim that you are the dauphin, as you are so fond of doing at parties.

PPS: It should be pointed out that I am ghey for the football, but it's Teresa's fault. She made me watch the Super Bowl ecks ecks ecks vee aye aye back in ought two and I was hooked.

PPPS: Although you know that I can go on ad infinauseum about the football, there is no commentary on Super Bowl XL in this blog because it seems that every helper monkey on earth that has access to a keyboard is already doing that. I thought it'd be overkill.

P4S: Every time you respond to this blog, a Jesus gets its wings. -TRG

So Complete Was My Outrage...

Seahawks tight end #86 Jerramy Stevens plucks a pass directly
from the hand of God.

Greg:

I'm hazarding a guess that you haven't been following the hoopla (what little there is) surrounding Super Bowl XL. At least I'm pretty certain that you haven't TiVo'd everything with the word "Seahawk" in it, and then watched every single frame of it until you realized that you probably knew the players better than the team doctor by now. And then the words "obsession" and "professional help" crept into your mind. I'm guessing you haven't gone so far as all that.

So let me catch you up on this one little incident; indeed, the only incident of note that has bestirred the circus tent thus far. During press day this past Tuesday, Seahawks tight end #86 Jerramy Stevens made some remark about it being a sad day when Jerome Bettis (running back for the Steelers) went home without the Lombardi Trophy. Hijinx ensued. Steeler team psychopath-slash-loudmouth-slash-attention hound (and only incidentally outside linebacker #55) Joey Porter took a great deal of umbrage at this remark, and took it upon himself to swear hell and damnation against our Mr. Stevens. Since it was the only thing of note that had happened all week (save the fact that a hot dog had sold on eBay for $1,800), the sports press poured petrol on the whole thing, inserted a microphone into Mr. Porter, and recorded whatever rumblings his bile had to make.

Well I couldn't just sit there, could I? No no no. This was way too rich to pass up. So I crafted me a "letter" to Mr. Porter, I did, which - owing to the fact that I don't have his home address - I posted on the Seahawks fan site in the Seattle Post-Intelligencer. (More surprising still was that a fan caught and understood the reference that I made to poet Theodore Roethke in the first paragraph. Man, Seattle must be well read!) Thought you'd enjoy reading it.

So here you go. Enjoy. Go Hawks!


Dear Jughead: Mister Webster called. He wants you to
stop misusing the words "wee", "dun", "axed", "foe" and
"respeck".


Mr. Joseph Porter
Motel 6 - Room 39
1471 Opdyke Rd
Auburn Hills, MI 48326

Dear Mr. Porter:

Allow me to get straight to the point:

So complete was my outrage upon hearing your untoward remarks about our Mr. Stevens that I nearly spilled my grande soy chai latte on my careworn copy of Theodore Roethke’s Words for the Wind. Such wroth invective will not be tolerated, sir. I am compelled herewith to defend the honor of our Mr. Stevens just as you felt it fit to defend the perceived social infraction against your team-mate, Mr. Jerome “The Auto-Bus” Bettis. Consider your challenge accepted, sir. And to you I say, en garde!

Let me be the first to say that you could have done much better with your epithets. For instance, you could have called Mr. Stevens a scalawag, jackanapes, or a ne’er-do-well (in order to prick at the tender point of his past legal imbroglios). To your discredit, you did not. You may have called him a rube, mountebank, cheese-peddler; or even a louche guttersnipe, doomed to scrofulae and all the trimmings of such an insalubrious estate - were you possessed of the brain-power to do so!

Indeed, I went there. Indeed I did. How are you enjoying my company now, Mr. Porter?

I understand that you intend to have a chat with Mr. Stevens during the warmups, and also that you intend to “put him on his back”. Let me ask you, at that time will you query him sweetly and discretely on his propensity for camping, fishing, marksmanship, and other skills of the Western chevalier? Let me put this to you as gently as I can, Mr. Porter. Don’t believe everything you see at the movies. Mr. Stevens is a married man, and does not ride sidesaddle, even when coaxed into places as idyllic as most national parks. Should you broach the Subject That Dare Not Speak Its Name with Mr. Stevens, prepare to be gravely disappointed.

Again – I went there. Mmm hmmm. Indeed. Indeed I did. And I arrived. Oh yes. Mais oui.

And finally, it must be said without reservation that your kicker is fat. In fact, so corpulent are his thighs, that the thunderous din of the galling spandex caught betwixt them will lead all Detroit residents to believe that they are attending a Grandmaster Flash concert whenever he takes the field. And his kicks? They shall all go wide - not unlike his thighs!

Touché, Mr. Porter. Point? Mine.

And to you I say good day, sir.

Thaddeus Gunn
Seattle, Washington

POST SCRIPT – To the person who reads this letter to Mr. Porter: Please ad lib your delivery with much gyrating of the neck, flaring of the nostrils, widening of the eyes, and articulated finger-snapping in a “z” pattern, if at all possible. Otherwise the impact – indeed the entire tenor of the piece – will be lost. Thank you so much. -TRG

Benchin' For The Buddha

Greg:

You're not gonna believe this. Back in October, when I started working out in earnest, I could only bench 80 pounds and do 14 push-ups. Check it out: I bench pressed 225 pounds this morning. That's three reps on a ten-Mississippi count, too.

No, I do not lie. And get that disbelieving smirk off your face. I crap you not. It was me. I benched two hunnert and a quarter. That's, like, thirteen stone, five ounces, six quid and tuppence. That's fifteen pounds more than I weigh. And if you want an idea of how slow my reps were, count to 10 Mississippi up and 10 Mississippi back while pretending to bench. Yeah, like tai chi slow.

"But Thaddeus," you sputter in disbelief, "you've always been a weenie-arm of the smallest magnitude. You even got knocked out by a girl once. And not even a very big girl. Plus, you represent the most effete of all God's creatures: The Middle-Aged Man. How did someone of your extreme weinertasticity develop such Herculean strength?" Short answer: the dharma.

Okay, so, you ever seen those guys who do feats of strength for Jesus? They bust baseball bats over their necks and break bricks and blow up douchebags like party balloons and all sorts of other meathead stunts to show people how ossum it is to be Christian? Okay, so, you've gotta be pretty well aware that I'm not a Christian. Twenty or so years of being a Christian pretty much cured me of Christianity. But I was reading an article in Shambhala Sun a while back about Buddhist athletes that really fascinated me. What was particulary fascinating was an interview with Jet Li. To say that Li is an accomplished martial artist would be putting it lightly. He's been studying Wu Shu since he was eight. He's also a hardcore Buddhist. And he's kicked enough ass to fill Wisner Stadium. So when they asked him if meditating improved his martial abilities, he told them that it was 't'other way 'round. He said he became an expert martial artist so he could meditate better. I don't know if you'd call that Kicking Ass for Inner Peace, but it was an interesting idea.

So then I was thinking, hey, what if I turned my workout into a meditation? Couldn't hurt. And it'd probably save me some time, 'cuz gawd knows that what ya really wanna do is hurry that meditation stuff up and get it the hell overwith. (I told you I was a bad Buddhist!) So what I did was to slow my movements waaaay down, tai chi-style, and to focus on my breath instead of the effort of moving the weight. I also decided to not get emotionally involved with the weight any more than I get involved with my thoughts when I meditate - just observe what is happening. And guess what? Boo yah, I'm Hercules.

Granted, part of what made my arms so weak was the fact that I had loose rotator cuffs. Both of my shoulders have been dislocated a number of times during the past thirty or so years. I did a whole lotta work to get those bad boys put back together, and I'm sure that helped a lot. But still, the meditation trick - pretty cool, huh?

Now for my next feat of strength, I'm going to go bench the Internet.

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

We Are So Going To Beat The Steelers By 10 Points

Even the vaunted Mastodon offense was no match for the ancestors
of the Seahawks defense, shown here in a photograph taken during
Super Bowl 1.3 Million BC.

Greg:

Look I feel I should let you know that this letter contains more than just my ravings about football. If you slog your way through the first three-or-so paragraphs, you'll be rewarded with an intellectual treat. I promise. However, if you do not read the aforementioned ravings, the intellectual treat you so hunger for will be invisible! It will vanish from the page! Such are my HTML skills! They go beyond the paranormal!

So, that said -

Yeah, you saw right. I freaked out and made a Super Bowl prediction. My advice? I know you're not a wagering man, but you should consider putting one whole American dollar on the Seahawks to win the Super Bowl. Whether you want to take the point spread I'm putting up is up to you. Currently they're scheduled to lose the game by 3.5 points.

Which brings me to my next question: Whuh the fuh? The Steelers are a sixth seed; the Hawks are a first seed. So why are the Steelers favored over the Hawks? I asked all my friends in Tijuana and they just said yo no se. A load of help they are! So I sparked up the TiVo, assiduously reviewed both the Steelers/Broncs AFC Championship game and the Hawks/Panthers NFC Championship game back to back - play by play, even - and I can't find one single reason why the Steelers should be favored other than the bookies would really like to keep their money this time around.

I'm not going to talk smack about the Steelers 't'all because they're a really good team and I expect it will be a hard-fought battle. But the Panthers were a good team and you saw what we did to them. I mean everybody was "Steve Smith" this and "Steve Smith" that. "Oh but the Panthers have Steve Smith, and he has wheels, man, and that John Waters moustache that is the source of all his power!!" The Hawks D held Mr. Smith 33 yards, which is in football stats is about like smothering him with a pillow. So now everybody's like "Big Ben Roethlisberger" this and "Hines Ward" that, quoting all these stats.

Which brings me to my next question: Has any one of these nimrods ever heard of model breakdown? (It's a math thing. Have they ever heard of math?) Stats don't play stats in football. People play people in football. It's not like I've got a math gland larger than Kurt Goedel, but I know enough to not be so foolish as to say that the team with the higher numbers wins.

However, there are some stats that I will quote in my decision in favor of the Hawks. Every team in the playoffs that had three or more turnovers lost - except the Seahawks. Every team that got into 3rd and very long yardage more than twice (like 3rd and 25) lost - except the Seahawks. Long story short: we don't get rattled and we absorb our mistakes. I think that is more telling of who will win that simply comparing stats.

What's also interesting to me is this guy they call the Freud of Football - Dr. John F. Murray (Ph.D. Psychology, U. Florida 1996) - who uses some kinda psychological index to predict who will win. He did his dissertation on the Gators. He favors the Seahawks. By 5 to 10, no less.

AND THEN HE TOTALLY CHANGED THE SUBJECT!! Hey, did you get that email from Tom, you know, our brother? Seargent Rock? The one with that article from that one guy about how agriculture was the biggest mistake mankind ever made? This guy's down on agriculture! Talk about uber-Luddite! What's this guy's credo? "If it ain't on the vine, it's none of mine!" Usually Tom sends us stuff about how we oughtta build a bomb shelter to save ourselves from the flesh-eating Republican zombies who will take over the Earth come Thursday next - but this! This was good stuff. And by "good stuff" I mean that it reflects my personal hunter-gatherer bias. As far as I can see, all we got from agriculture (besides not having to battle one-on-one against giant rabbits to secure our dinner), was obesity, tooth decay and intraspecial aggression. (Even Konrad Lorenz agrees with me on that last one. Go here to let him bore the shit out of you with his "short" autobiography.) Man, if I had more back hair, I would be so outta these jeans and down on the railroad tracks pickin' blackberries without a care in the world...except maybe that I live in Seattle and it's ass freezing cold right now. And there are no blackberries in the winter. But you get my drift.

Okay, so my final word on the subject is this: the Steelers - who represent the post-agricultural world, obviously - will lose, but not drastically. And the Seahawks, whose very totem and symbol represents the Tlinkit hunter-gatherers of the Pacific Northwest, will prevail.

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

...And By "Very Narrowly" I Meant 20 Points

#33 Marquand Manuel prepares to ascend into heaven as two
Carolina sinners prostrate themselves before the The Lawd.
The Ubiquitous Zebraman gives an "amen".

Greg:

First of all, thank you for calling to let me know that you were watching the game. I'm concerned that you don't get enough football, and so your call was a great load off my mind.

So besides the obvious - obvious meaning the whacking we gave the Panthers on Sunday which led to the Seahawks Super Bowl berth - Seasonal Affective Disorder seems to be kicking me in the crack. This is in spite of the fact that the Seahawks are going to the Super Bowl, an event so seemingly unlikely (if you believe the press) that one would think Jesus H. Christ Himself would be appearing at halftime. (As it is, the Rolling Stones are appearing, who are only slightly younger and better known than JHC.) I tried to distract myself by scouting the tape of the Steelers/Broncos game (that I TiVo'd, wisely). But after discerning that the Hawks have not much to worry about from the Bloated Spawn of Andrew Carnegie, even that pastime lost its appeal. Yes, I said it. Even football isn't lighting a match inside the dungeon of my cranium. Damn this accursed Seattle wintersogged greyness! Everything has lost its tang, even complaining. I was even beginning to think that having my liver pecked out each day then grown anew each night to be pecked out again the following day might be a pleasant diversion.

So imagine my surprise when, just shortly after affixing a freakishly accurate homemade bakelite beak to my shnozz and baring my own midsection, I stumbled upon an Internet mystery that dispersed the clouds from the sky and rekindled my will to bitch about stuff. Here's the short version:

A guy named Tucker Darby from Newton, Iowa finds a painting of a crop circle that was left behind when a mysterious character named Benjamin Stove abandoned his family farm in 1988. It's a pretty nice piece of kitsch, he thinks, until he finds out on closer inspection that it was painted in 1915. (That places its provenance well before the 1970s, when entire fields of alien-worshipping nutters sprang up nationwide in response to the crop circle phenomena - FYI.) To help solve both mysteries, he creates a blog that details his search to find out exactly Who Is Benjamin Stove. No, I'm not going to tell you any more. Yes, you actually have to read it. Why? Because I'm lazy and depressed. All I can muster is the will to continue reading about this mystery. And even I started at the middle, so when you read it, please call me and tell me what happened at the beginning. I could do it myself, but I'm hopelessly pinned under a pile of ennui and can't get up.


Definitely not the work of Grant Wood.

Now it could be a true mystery, or it could be complete shite. If it is shite, my hat's off to this Tucker Darby fellow because it's pretty damn clever shite. I'd hate to find out that this was some ploy by Artisan Pictures to recoup the leeching they got from Blair Witch 2: Book of Shadows. I want it to be true because it involves one of the Scariest Places On Earth - Iowa - and a nutjob of the first magnitude who is either at large as we speak, exsanguinated by the Chupacabra; or standing in the shadows, ready to pounce as soon as you stop reading this and turn out the lights. Good stuff. Go read it.

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

We Are So Going To Very Narrowly Beat The Panthers

Our QB and their QB are friendly with
each other. Andre Dyson (SEA) and
Steve Smith (CAR) were college room
mates. Ken Lucas(CAR) is a former
Seahawk and still has a lot of friends on
the team. In short, both teams admire
and respect each other a great deal.
So howcome Skip Bayless, who isn't
on either team, gotta hate so much?

Greg:

We've been over this before. I know you don't give either one or two rat's asses about football. That's okay. I don't expect everyone to be as obsessed with certain things as I am. However, I would like you to set that peanut butter sandwich down just long enough to suspend the notion that you're not listening at all whilst I rave briefly.

We will beat the Panthers. Even renowned Hawk Hater Skip Bayless says we're gonna beat the Panthers. (My reply to his column is included below.) And - here's a shocker - I like the Panthers. I was all over 'em in Super Bowl XXXVIII. They're a swell buncha guys, a team that no one believed in. They're all the players the other guys passed over. I think their QB Jake Delhomme is a player any team would be lucky to have. And this ragtag buncha scrappers made it all the way to the Super Bowl, and were narrowly defeated by those media darlings, the New England Patriots. That was a skins versus button-down shirts game if ever there was one.

But that's the beauty of this Sunday's game. It's the Good Guys vs. the Good Guys. Neither team is a media darling. If you stacked up all the press that both teams got last year, it wouldn't reach, say, that rat's ass that you care so little about. And yet both of these teams are a stone's throw from the Super Bowl. It takes a lot of heroic tales to come to a crossroads like that, tales that many a douchebag journalist doesn't have the grapes to tell. Why? Not a big enough eyeball draw, hence not "important" enough. Brett Favre (who had a dismal year) cuts himself shaving, and it's headline news. Two also-ran teams scratch and claw their way to the top, and nobody notices.

Okay, so just to prove to you that I can talk about something other than football, let's make some small talk. Ummm - Well. I had a cup full of little cookies after lunch. They had nuts in them, I think. I went to the Seahawks Pro Shop and - no wait! That's football. My bad. Okay. So - yeah. How 'bout that Mozart? Two-hunnert and fitty years old this year. Dang. That guy rocks like Dokken. Ever heard that "Rock Me Amadeus" thing? Ossum.

So how's the real estate thing going in Nevada? (Do they still have real estate in Nevada? Or do they call it something else, like Arroyo Cayuse Longhorn Flintcraw Saddlecock?) Real estate - now that's mostly dirt, right? Or is it something fancier? Like dirt with cheese in it?

(By now your katana-sharp intellect has seized upon the fact that without football, most interpersonal conversation is a rather grim and sugarless affair - is it not? I believe I speak the truth.)

'Kay. So. That's about it for now. Goodnight and Go Hawks! Or if that's too gauche a phrase to pass your delicate eyes, then I say Geaux Hacques to you!

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

My reply to Skip Bayless' column:
Skip, you're still welcome in Seattle as far as I'm concerned, regardless of your opinion of our team. Seattleites welcome dissenting views. I'm a true blue Seahawks fan, I admire the Panthers, and I'm looking forward to a very good game. I have no underhanded jibe or thinly veiled putdown to insert here, either. All I can say is that I'm sorry you feel the way you do. I can't see how such vehement negativity could possibly increase anyone's enjoyment of The Greatest Sport Ever Devised By Man any more than me insulting you for your low opinion of my team would ennoble me. I love football and I support my team, win or lose. I wish you the best of luck in all your future endeavours, whether they include a trip to Seattle or not. -TRG

Poetry & Football: Together Again For The First Time

Poet Megan Grumbling:
Probably not a huge Seahawks fan.

Greg:

Look, I know that you've had it up to here (he said, indicating a latitude about 4'10" from the floor) with me going on and on about football. The season will be over as of the night of February 5th, so at least you may take some comfort in the fact that there will be no more fuel for my obsession. After the Super Bowl, my interests will no doubt return to the introspective - Buddhism, poetry, coffee, dysthymia - you know, the standard Pacific Northwest leisure pursuits.

Speaking of the Pacific Northwest, here are some quick notes on life in the Big Wet One:

• As of this morning, we are on our 27th consecutive day of rain. As of Friday, our annual precipitation is 4.10" above average, a fact that I find 99.9% less than ossum. We don't live in a state. We live in a leaky basement.
• Humorous sign seen on a house during a recent trip to Portland, OR: HIPPIES USE SIDE DOOR.

And speaking of hippies - Arrrrgh! Body - strong! But - will - weak! Must talk about football!! Jake Plummer, the quarterback of the Denver Broncos, has either ceased all forms of personal hygiene for the duration of the playoffs, or is appearing in an off-Broadway revival of Jesus Christ Superstar. His exceedingly beardacious and hair-riffic appearance caused me to dub him Jakus Christ Superstar while the Gunn household was enjoying the Patriots/Broncos game yesterday. By the way, Jakus Christ and the Broncs beat Tom CryBrady and the rest of Coach Bill Bitch-A-Lot's Patriots rather soundly - 27-13. Undoubtedly, the Patriots will attempt to file a nuisance suit in civil court claiming fraud, robbery and battery by a crazed band of hippies in tight white pants. ("We was only there to goes and does some skiin', which we hear is wicked nice in Colorader this time of yee-uh," the plaintiffs said.)

Which brings me to poetry. Had a rather nice discovery in the last issue of Poetry magazine. (Yeah, I'm a subscriber, so what? Shut up!) A poet with the unfortunate name of Megan Grumbling (adolescence must've been hell on her, no doubt obviating the career choice) has a book out titled Booker's Point, a series of poems written around and about an old Maine coot named Booker. Poetry magazine has a selection from it online, the poem Raking Near The Great Works. (Please go read it before they update the page and the link breaks.) It might remind you a lot of the autumns we had in Michigan. Now that I live in the Land Of Two Seasons (and those would be Unbearably Shitty and Fawking Gorgeous), I miss those true autumns something ferocious.

And one final note, since you probably haven't been following the playoffs much-if-at-all, the Seattle Seahawks won their first playoff game in 21 years. And they did it despite 3 turnovers and the loss of their NFL MVP running back in the second quarter - which of course prompted me to write the following truly awful (and probably the first) Seahawks football haiku:

You heard us knocking / Now the door is coming down / Cold pond overruns

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

Like I Said

Andre Dyson, Marquand Manuel and Bryce Fisher make juice out
of the Redskins' Taylor Jacobs.

Dear Washington Post:

Shut up.

Sincerely,

Thaddeus R. Gunn

We Are So Going To Cream The Redskins

A local family prepares to grant custody of their child
to Seahawks Wide Receiver Bobby Engram as a special
"thank you" for a particularly ossum season.

Greg:

I know that you look forward to my letters as a source of deep discussion of salient matters and gleamingly unprejudiced discourse. Or perhaps you just anchored my blog to your F10 key so you can instantly launch it to obscure porn when the boss walks by. Either way, I appreciate your oblique references to it in your phone calls so as to maintain the illusion that you actually read it.

My half of this delicately balanced charade is to continue in these epistles exactly as though you were interested in what I have to say about that Grandest of All Sports Ever, American Football. [Insert fanfare.] So without delay, I shall deliver my completely unbiased forecast for this Saturday's NFC Playoff game between the Seattle Seahawks (I'm from Seattle - did you know that?) and those other guys with the unbelievably un-PC team name, the Washington Redskins. (Apparently the Alabama Battlin' Klansmen, the Texas Wetbacks, the New York Dagos and the Louisiana Stepin Fetchits were already taken.)


Seahawks Wide Receiver Joe Jurevicius demonstrates his technique
for giving the opposing team a pigskin suppository whilst Tight
End Jerramy Stevens looks on, chortling.

Here's my scientific forecast: we cream the 'Skins by about a bazillion points. Yeah they beat us in the regular season by a field goal. But that was only because I wasn't wearing my Lucky Underpants. When I was wearing my Lucky Underpants at the 'Hawks/Giants game (and the wind was blowing from the 300 level directly down on to the field), their kicker missed 3 field goals. See? Cause :: effect. And lemme tell ya, the Giants' Jay Feeley looked like he'd been cuttin' onions by the time that game was over, so I know he was catching a snootful of the magic. This time I will be wearing my Lucky Underpants again, but I won't be at the game. Since I'll be wearing my Lucky Underpants at home, that means that Teresa will probably require me to also wear a Lucky Lemon-Scented Urinal Cake around my neck, so that means - yeah buddy! Double-plus lucky!!

A lot of naysayers, yahoos, nabobs, and poo-prattlers will say that the Seahawks are going to win this game because they're good players. Yeah, whatever. So Shaun Alexander has practically every award in the NFL plus a jillion yard rushing record. So what if we have the top-rated offense. So what if we have pro-bowlers out the wing-wang. What-everrr! Any brainless pecksniff will try to sell you on "stats" and "facts", but I say Mike Mularkey! It's all magic! The team who rubs their rabbit's foot the hardest wins. And this year, the magic is on our side! Chief Seattle is doing the wave in the Happy Hunting Grounds for the Seahawks. Mark my Lucky Underpants. Oh wait. I already did.

Okay, so, your turn. How's your invention thingamahoolio going? Yeah? Oh. Hmm. Geez. You don't say. Wow.

Hey, wouldja look at that. It's 5PM and time to leave work.

Cheers, and give my best to Marie. Go Hox.

-Thaddeus

Beavers The Size Of Beavers

Castor canadensis in his natural habitat: the Web browser.

Greg:

I have found the most compelling sign that 2006 is going to be an extraordinarily fortuitous year for everyone: there is a beaver on the Google logo! A BEAVER! Or perhaps it is an attempt by one of the part-timers in the art department to recreate the canine form for the Year of the Dog (which is what we will be in as of the last weekend in January - "we" meaning we Mahayana-types at the Gunn residence). In which case, it's a dog with buck teeth and a really fucked-up tail. I choose to believe that it is a beaver, clutch the inherent auspiciousness of this sign to my bosom, and adopt it as my totem for 2006.

In my next NEA grant-award-winning essay, titled "Beavers: What's So Great About 'Em?", I will expound at length upon Mister Castor canadensis, his cunning, savagery, and industry. However, let me set my beaver down for a moment, and move on to matters more pressing on this New Year's Day. Namely, my New Year's resolution.

In 2005, global warming was huge. Icebergs the size of false patriotism broke loose from Antarctica. Polar bears the size of polar bears drowned. I got a sunburn the size of my body. And a hurricane larger than influenza attacked New Orleans with a fury the size of something really big. All of this left me feeling pretty small and weak, until I listened to my own advice from a few blogs back, which is to realize the actual extent of my sphere of influence. That will keep me from feeling like a failure over things I could in no way have an effect on.

I don't want to spend time that I could be using to clean up my own back yard to criticize the actions of others. So let's use my own actions as an example. I do not support the war. But will I have greater influence on ending abusive violence in the world by going down to the corner and waving a "No More War" flag and marching and putting my fist in the air and whatnot - or by going deep within my own psyche to uproot the origin of that violence that we all share, and work with all my might to end violence in my interactions with myself and those closest to me? Why should I insist on That Guy Over There disarming when I haven't disarmed myself? It smacks of US foreign policy: I'll keep building my arms stockpile, but if you try to build yours, I'll be justified in blowing you up. Whether it's on a national scale or a personal scale, I think the principle of Personal Disarmament should apply. I must disarm myself before I can talk about disarmament. I realize that most people would become concerned about disarming themselves when they have no guarantee that the other guy is going to disarm. Here's some heartening news. It only takes one individual disarming themselves to have a widespread effect on general disarmament. Think of the first few activists who took a seat at a whites-only lunch counter. Think Ghandi. Think King. Of course you don't have to be Ghandi or King, but you get my drift.

So you might say, "But Thaddeus, them last two bruthuhs got they asses shot, yo!" Well I can guarantee you this: you're going to die. Whether you march on Tienamen Square or sit at home eating Fritos out of a dog dish, you're going to die of something some day. Whether it's coronary thrombosis or bullet interruptus, rest assured that you will cack. So...in the meantime...whatcha wanna do?

Which brings me back - albeit briefly - to beavers. (The author grabs his beaver and raises it up for all to see.) Undertaking Personal Disarmament, specifically because it isn't easy, has to be pursued with the kind of focus and industry these lil' feisty peckerwoods come by naturally. (The author jabs his right index finger at the upraised beaver for added emphasis.) Inasmuch as I am as neurotic as a pack of neurotic little pack animals - say, Welsh Corgis - there has to be a way that I can bend my neuroses to achieve this end. So here's my resolution, complete with ultimatum:

I resolve to practice Personal Disarmament with the tenacity and obsessiveness of a beaver hereforward. And if I do not, a most horrible thing will happen: nothing.

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

SPOILER ALERT: King Kong

Is King Kong gonna hafta choke a bitch?

Greg:

There are just two words you have to say to get me into a theater: giant monkey.

To put a capper on the Christmas holiday, I finally went to see King Kong (reasoning that the holiday crowds were gone by now) and lemme tell ya this: it rules. ROOLZ! Yeah, the story is poop. Yeah, Naomi Watts and Adrian Brody need some real dialogue. And maybe a sandwich or something. Christ, those people are thin! And yeah, the monkey dies. But WOW! And HEY! And SHEEZUS H, HOWDEYDOODAT? Here's my synopsis:

King Kong (not his real name), is one endangered-all-to-hell species who lives on the last stick of land on the ass-end of the South Pacific (the ocean, not the musical). His neighborhood sucks, populated as it is with rabid dinosaurs, surly giant bats; and louche, insalubrious aborigines who need a serious bubble-bath and some third-degree orthodonture...and perhaps a good creme rinse. In short: real estate prices on Skull Island must be at an all-time low. And the only job that Kong can find is to kick loads of giant lizard ass day in and day out. Reminds me of our boyhood in the 313. Hard times, to be sure.

Along comes a group of well-meaning honkies with a movie camera and about three gross of Tommy guns. Together they decide that what Kong really needs is to be bused to a better neighborhood. (Again, reminding me of our youth in the 313.) Since the crew fails to establish a simple, congenial dialogue with the giant ape, they resort to the two weapons that have been the cornerstone of every American military campaign: poontang and firewater. Distracted by the willowy form of a breathless honkette, Kong is subdued when the crew's cockswain slam-dunks a jug of Thunderbird into his snout.

Cut to midtown Manhattan. (You call this a better neighborhood?) Kong has now been hornswoggled into working as a backup singer for a minstrel show. Oh, the sheer indignity of it all! Woefully underpaid, and unable to locate his Actor's Equity representative, Kong abandons the gig halfway through, deciding to take his talents to a theater where they'll really be appreciated.

On his way to the Apollo, woefully unaware of the city ordinance regarding unescorted apes on the upper east side after 10PM, Kong gets himself in Dutch with a hilariously quaint 1930's edition of the US Mechanized Cavalry. A heated confrontation ensues. You get the feeling that what Kong would really like to do is crap in his paw and send a monkey turd the size of a metro bus rocketing at that truckload of Army chumps at about Mach 3. (That would've been some OSSUM footage!) But no, what a bruthuh really wants is to get five minutes with his girlie, so he opts to go ice skating in Central Park...where it's safe and quiet.

As whitey is compelled by his evil nature to always keep a good man down, the cavalry drives Kong and his homechicken out of Central Park and up to the penthouse of the Empire State Building. Again, unaware of the city ordinance regarding giant apes in the high rent district, the mayor's airborne goon squad punctuates the letter of the law with a hail of bullets. The big monkey gets not one but several "caps" in his "ass", and does his best impression of Greg Lougainis in the throes of narcolepsy as he plunges to his death. Boo hoo. The End.

I know I probably just ruined the whole thing by giving the plot away, but go see it anyway! S'good! Giant monkey! GIANT MONKEY!

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

Baby Jesus Is The Antichrist

Baby Jesus: Strap on a coupla horns and he's good to go.

Greg:

A perfectly horrifying thought crossed my mind over the holidays. No, not the one about how Regis Philbin may actually be a puppet run by a gang of reprobate squirrels. The other one - the one where Baby Jesus is actually the embodiment of evil.

Think about it. During what time of year are more families and wigs torn asunder than any other? Yeah, that's right. Christmas. It is the season when the meekest of us become whiskey-fueled, wig-rending psychopaths. SUVs, chock-a-block full with holiday shoppers sport bumper stickers that read "I'd Step On Your Mom's Throat To Get A Great Deal On A Tickle Me Elmo At Wal-Mart!"

And what spirit provides the fuel for this season of revelry? Baby Jesus. Ergo? Yes. Ergo. And that is exactly my point.


Baby Jesus: Yo, Mister Potato Head! Ready to bend to my evil will?
Santa: Yes, my Dark Master.

Go ahead. Defy my perfectly circular logic. Have you ever seen two Baby Jesii in the same place at the same time? No. You have not. And you will not. Not unless they're stuffed. Or replicas. The kind of replicas with Cameras for Eyes that send Communiques back to the Factory! And then the Filthy Bottom will send His Dark Agents to Poison My Food! Igor! Bring me the ether! Sswwwffffft!

Much better. Now where was I?

Oh yes. We were talking about Christmas Dinner with the family. It went just fine, except that I think I had way too much coffee beforehand and afterhand and inbetweenhand and may still be suffering the effects of caffeine-induced toxic psychosis. And I've had tons of sugar in the past few days. I'm not too sure if I'm not sleeping at all or actually sleeping a lot faster than I used to. My gums - if you can call them that - are complaining bitterly about the truckloads of Italian nougat that I've been shoveling past them. And here's the kicker: I've been losing weight. I lost 1-2/3rds man teat in the week leading up to Christmas. But then again I've been both working out at the IMA quite a bit and badgering my wife. Wife-badgering, if you haven't tried it yet, is an excellent means of burning excess calories, although it does come with the risk of the wife getting fed up with your juvenile shenanigans and driving a stake of holly through your heart on Christmas night.

Look, before you click that little X in the upper right hand corner of your browser and close this window forever, I really do have a point. And that point is that I discovered this holiday season that certain emotional episodes may be the result of the emotional interpretation of bodily sensations brought about by diet. To wit, caffeine making a neurotic person's heart go pitter-pat might make them believe that there was something wrong with them physically, and then cause them a great deal of stress which they in turn take out on the family, the in-laws, the dog and whatever. Even people who otherwise have a great deal of emotional integrity might snap under the onslaught of increased sugar and caffeine intake combined with holiday stressors. So my theory is that it's not just the holiday that stresses people out and makes them into a bunch of emotional weirdos. It's the added crappy food/lotsa sugar/loads of caffeine thing that causes otherwise tender, loving hands to curl into the wig-rending talons of the Holiday Harpie. So - long story short - if you're a bona fide nut like me, there are more reasons to watch you diet over the holidays than just keeping your girlish figure.

And if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go back to weeping like a wee bairn - for no particular reason.

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

My Brain Has Turned To Creamed Fucking Corn

Henry Rollins demonstrates the benefits of Neck Farming.

Greg:

I don't know what you do all day other than sit around and think up novel ways to not respond to my letters. Oh wait - that's right. You invent stuff. Each day you chisel a larger niche for yourself in the abbey of history. Whereas I sit around all day and try to think up novel ways of getting people to buy stuff they could probably do without. Barring that, I at least try to write mass marketing emails that get read before they get deleted. So therein lies the difference between us: you have lofty goals, whereas I would be happy if my goals reached as high as the crown molding in a dormouse's terlit room.

Which brings me to my next point which is that I don't have one. The wife? Fine. Kid? Awesome. Work? Same as always. And I've had some pretty fun holiday gatherings so far. So why do I feel like I'm up to my neck in cement?

So speaking of neck, there is something I have been doing, which is to do some neck-farming down at the Intramural Athletic center at the University of Washington. I have spousal privileges there since Teresa is an employee of the UW. So I've been down there hitting the plates a few times a week and am becoming rather a fetching and well-muscled (albeit hairless) beeve. (That's an archaic term for beef cattle, in case you do something other than sit around and read the dictionary whilst avoiding work.) The IMA is just about the nicest health club I've ever been to. It has plenty of space, plenty of high-tech machines, and surprisingly little cock-ogling going on in the sauna. Yeah, I know that sounds crass, but what is it about guys that makes them want to stare at another guy's Ben Johnson just because? And it's always the old farts, the tenured faculty who are staring at your nether parts wistfully as though the were remembering that they had one once. I swear to Buffo Guatto, the next Professor EuroGeeze who stares at my bits is going to be asked in no uncertain terms to buy me flowers first. But still, it's nothing like the downtown YMCA, where tonsil jousting carried on day and night with complete impunity.

Okay, so there's that. And then there's football...oh wait, did I just put you to sleep? FOOTBALL! I recently got to meet Jerramy Stevens, a Hawks tight end, and a little slip of a fellow at 6'7" and 265 (about 14 and 3/4ths stone if you're Scottish). Both he and several other of his Gridiron Brethren came back this year with full-on Amish style beards. Perhaps it is the God-fearing, clean-living ways of the Amish that enables these mastodons to perform at the height of their game (4AM! Time for milking!). Speaking of which, you'll be overjoyed to hear that the Seahawks are doing quite well, have won their division, and have the #1 win-loss record in the NFC right now at 11-2. They've scored 83 points in their last 2 games, shutting out the Eagles on Monday Night Football 42-0, and cracking the 'nards of the 49ers six days later at 41-3. So yeah, it's a good time to be a Seahawks fan, and I'm happy to have made it to 2 of the last 3 games. Still, we get NO FREAKING LOVE WHATSOEVER from the press, one MegaDullard even going so far as to say "we don't know much about them way up there in the Pacific Northwest", neverminding the fact that there are such newfangled things nowadays as the Televisory Unit, the Home Telephonic Transceiver and the InterWeb whereby people can converse 'round the globe as though they were in the very same room!

I would say "I digress", but then that begs the question from what.

So with that said, I'm glad we had this chat.

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

Who Is Warren Christmas?

Il Natale di Buffo Guatto: Gloria im Extupido!

Greg:

You know I never use my letters to talk about the media and current events. I believe that both of those things are like boils and will go away eventually, no matter how bothersome they are at the moment. There's just this one thing that has me freakin' boggled. It's one of those times when you've just stopped paying attention because you thought it couldn't possibly get more ridiculous than this, that human beings can't possibly be that retarded en masse. And right about then, they go and raise the bar - practically build a damn monument to Buffo Guatto, the God of Stupidity. (I just made that shit up. There wasn't a Buffo Guatto until sentence before last. But you can rest assured that he just popped into existence on some corner of the universe, most likely at the corner of Mullet and Meathead in Philadelphia, PA.)

The War on Christmas? I'm agape. I can't even get upset over this one. It's too friggin stupid to believe. And yet it gets enormous airplay on Fox. Then again, enormous airplay on Fox is probably the metric by which all stupendous obtusery should be measured. "Did it play on Fox? How much? Well there you go."

Last night on The Daily Show, Jon Stewart copped to it. He and he alone is the enemy in the War on Christmas. And he "will not rest until every year families gather to spend December 25th together at Osama's homo-abortion-pot-and-commie-jizzporium". So there's something to look forward to, certainly.

Okay, but that's not even the best part. Henry Ford pulled this same BS back in the 20s (blaming the Jews), and The John Birch Society, too busy being dicks to come up with an original idea, recycled it in 1959 (blaming the Reds). And then, Bill O'Reilly, taking the ball from - oh what's his name - Zipperhead McDouchebag, the guy who wrote the book - goes and blames the lib-brrlz. My question to Mister O'Reilly is this: do you just not have enough spine to blame, say, the Negroes? Or the Guineas? Or the Beaners? C'mon. At least take a swing at some segment of society that isn't imaginary. Blame the Lithuanians. But he won't, and you know why? Because all of the aforementioned groups are armed. They have zero shit tolerance. They will kick, cut, split, and stack thirty cords of his honky ass and burn it in the pot-bellied stove to offset their heating bills this winter. (O'Reilly fully realizes how much ass he has, owns oil stocks, and therefore fears this.)

Okay. So. Anyway. Screw all that. If we wanna go back far enough, the mere celebration of Christmas is in point of fact a War on Yule. Remember: Christmas is a Christian perversion/subversion of that pagan holiday. Ergo, if you really wanna have a War on Christmas, celebrate Yule. You get to burn stuff, drink stuff, and do the nasty (required). How ossum is that? So strap on a set of horns, quaff some ale, and get as snockered as Buffo Guatto, there's a war on!

Gloria in Obnoxious Dei,

-Thaddeus

Holly Jolly Oligarchy!

These poor lil' bastards will never know what hit 'em.

Greg:

What is it about the holidays that makes everyone freak out? And by "freak out" I mean the most negative inference of that otherwise jolly term. I have seen footage of the Wal-Mart melee and its ilk - shoppers trampled, knuckles bruised, wigs rent asunder - an aggregate of events nationwide which are sadly becoming an annual celebration of carnage and cruelty on the scale of the Omak Stampede. However, the extent to which the proletariat freaks out by and large doesn't alarm me. I only wonder why the proletariat doesn't freak out far more often than it already does, in other words, why it takes an impending holiday to catalyze wig-rending behaviors. No, it is my own state of mind which shows an alarming rise in what I'd call "holiday hubris" that is my real concern.

To wit: This year, I became an oligarch.

Long story short: I freaked out, went to Ace Hardware, and purchased half-a-dozen miniature decorative porcelain houses. I set them up on my sideboard, and proclaimed myself Lord God King Daddy of Holidaytown. It was almost like the Republican Blowout of Y2K4. They didn't even see it coming...until they heard the booming-yet-lugubrious laugh of their new ruler from somewhere far, far across the dining room.

To be clear, I practice oligarchy under full protection of the Kirkpatrick Doctrine. (You may say, "hey - how is that oligarchy if you and you alone are the ruler of this tiny porcelain village?" My nearly invisible co-conspirators in this plutocracy are Seattle City Light who control the flow of electricity and the Uwajimaya Village Apartments who actually hold title to the land under the sideboard on which the village sits. I give both of these parties "kickbacks" each month in the form of "rent" and "utilities" in order to secure their silence and complicity.)

Now, moving on:

My subjugation of that tiny hamlet nearly complete, and the sweet tang of unopposed rulership swollen forty-fold in my bosom to almost Bush-like proportions, I am began to feel the urge once again to brave the winter night and scurry out to Ace Hardware where I might annex another ten - nay, twelve! - porcelain domiciles (at clearance prices).

But then, the wife threw down the kybosh. She claims that there isn't room enough in our 1,080 sq. ft. 2BR 2BA apartment for her, me, several tiny porcelain houses, and my ego. At least twelve of those things would have to go.

So here's my conundrum. There's no court in this land higher than The Wife, so any appeals on the matter are kaput. However, there is rather a clever loophole: there's nothing saying that I can't receive tiny porcelain houses as gifts from my brother for Christmas.

In closing, I implore, if you have an ounce of Christmas spirit, and are in the mood to support an fledgling nation-state and its kindly dictator, please purchase a tiny porcelain from Ace Hardware online (at clearance prices - some as low as $7 American - and free shipping, too...maybe) and have it shipped forthwith to my address. The Fatherland thanks you.

And now I must depart, as I feel the clench of madness in my hinderparts.

Merry Christmas!

-Thaddeus

The Definition Of Sport

David Carr: a man with an unimpeachably
positive attitude despite a dismal team record
- which makes him my personal hero.


Greg:

I know I should be doing something productive, like being a heckler at an open-mic poetry reading, but last night's MNF match up betwixt the Indianapolis Colts and the New England Patriots is still ablaze in my mind, so blog I must.

Yes, I know you're not a football fan, so just indulge me. Let your eyes glaze over and roll heavenward while I get this off my chest.

Fact #1: Pardon my French, but New England blows. Yeah they have three Superbowl wins in the last four years, but wins and stats ain't everything. To wit: they and their fans alike exhibited such unsportsmanlike behavior and so little grace last night that it only deepened my aversion to them. Example: When the Patriots were down by 14 points at half time, their own fans booed them. Booed them. What the hell? You root for a team, you support a team, and that means even when they suck. I sat in the teat-freezing rain in the midst of some-thousand-odd alcohol-drenched walnut-brained Bills fans until the very bitter end of the Hawks 38-19 loss to them last year. And I applauded my team as they left the field. The Bills fans around me were so stunned they were speechless, which if you know Bills fans is saying a lot.

Fact #2: To build on a point from #1, stats and wins alone do not a sportsman make. F'rinstance, you may laugh, but I think one of the finest quarterbacks in the NFL is the absolutely for-fucking-lorn one-and-seven Houston Texans' quarterback David Carr. Why? Because in spite of the fact that he's been sacked over 30 times this year (which is more than most QBs get sacked in their entire career), he has a brilliantly optimistic attitude. We're talking about a little Calvin Klein underwear-model-of-a-guy who wound up underneath 250 pounds, forty ounces, three stone, half a quart and tuppence of Hawks defensive end Grant Wistrom (shown here in his college days as a Nebraska Cornhusker)and came out smiling. For comparison, let me drop a davenport on you thirty times and see how cheery you remain. And on the odd occasion when his offensive line actually blocks for him and lets him get a play off, he looks pretty damn good. To paraquote: "I know we have a losing record, but game by game we're improving, and I'm improving." David Carr, you are a PRINCE! If I were him, I would give each and every one of my offensive linemen a bare-ass spanking at mid-field during a Monday Night Football broadcast and then summarily fire them all. And then fire the coach. And then the owners. And then crown myself King of all Football.

Fact #3: New England blows (he said, restating for added emphasis, right index finger held aloft). Why? Because last night, when they were down they became whiners and moaners. Coach Bill Belichick threw an illegal challenge flag in the 4th quarter, was apprised that it would cost his team a penalty, so to save his ass, made a bullcrap challenge on a clear-as-day call. Then to save hometown darling QB Tom Brady from taking complete responsibility for a 40-21 trouncing, they reached into the team ossuary and pulled out Doug Flutie's geriatric ass to replace him for the last series of the game. Flutie, voted the World's Most Birdy-Legged AARP Member, succeeded in picking up the sucking where Brady left off, actually tried to draw a foul on the Colts by bumping into a Colts player on purpose and then whining to the ref. And to just to shine up their turd of a loss real nice, Flutie got sacked and made a turnover on the last play of the game.

I don't care if they have 3 Superbowl wins. They act like losers, so to my mind, they are.

To give one last example, the consistently beleaguered Detroit Lions came to Seattle in 2003 and took home a beating. However, QB Joey Harrington, in the 4th quarter with no way of winning the game, was still skipping the huddle and calling audibles at the line as though the game were tied. That, sir, is sportsmanship.

Competitive sport is an unequaled opportunity for humans to practice grace under adversity, which is a salient lesson in our most troubled times. It is also an opportunity for the players to teach the spectators that same lesson by example. If you fail on that score, you are squandering your chance to strengthen the human character. And that failure, dear Gregory, while short of being unforgivable, is pitiable indeed.

Cheers and give my best to Marie. Go Hawks.

Ossum.

The view from Obstruction Point in Olympic National Park is
AWESOME.

Greg:

So, you think you so smart, do ya? Well while you were out being a genius inventor, I was off changing the English language for the better. You probably hardly noticed this morning when you got up, but as the day wears on, you will begin to notice minute adjustments in the bearing and demeanor of your fellow earthlings. The chasm between Mulletards, Mediocretins, CorpoDrones, Full-On Stallions and Saints Who Walk The Earth has been closed forever. Why? Because I have cast a great penumbra of equality - a shroud of sameness, if you will - over the quick and the not-so-quick. How? Because I threw a new word into the vocab, and that word is OSSUM.

You may recall that as recently as yesterday that "awesome" was used as a blanket term for describing anything from the sublime (the Glory of the Lord's handiwork) to the mundane (fortuitously receiving 2 bags of Funyuns from a vending machine for one low price). Not any more, my friend. I have changed that forever. Hereafter, "awesome" will only be used to describe events, objects and circumstances such as The Buddha Himself, adorned with a crown pinnacle, seated on a lotus in the vajra posture simultaneously handing me a check for $2.5 million dollars (or its equivalent) and slapping me a high-five.


Josh Brown's game-winning field goal in the last second
of the game was OSSUM.

Likewise, events, objects and circumstances such as Seattle Seahawk Josh Brown's Cowboy-defeating field goal in the last second of the game a couple Sundays ago (and the set of {all other events etc. which are < or = That Glorious Moment} on a declining scale ending in the aforementioned Bonus Bag of Funyuns scenario) shall be referred to as OSSUM.

These two terms, when uttered, sound so uncannily similar, that no linguistic retraining is necessary. See how I did that? I reclaimed one great word that has been consistently bent and beat to shit by adolescents and idiots alike, and in the process created a WHOLE NEW WORD! And this act of furtive brilliance was so effective that people don't even know they're doin' it. They're just doin' it! Howya like me now, mister smarty-pants inventor?

Here's the best part. It's already happening. I've done it already. It has taken effect. The language has been incontrovertibly changed. Go outside. Go downtown. Go to a casino. See that guy who just found a coupon on the sidewalk for a FREE side of baked, mashed or fried with his greasy-ass John Ascuaga's Nugget-tastic prime rib? That man is going to use my word!!


The fact that you are a genius but also bear and astounding
resemblance to this man (and I, thankfully, do not) is
OSSUM beyond belief.

So here's a little challenge for ya. Let's see if you can use this term correctly for the following scenario:

I recently got a thorough going-over by three different health professionals: a general practitioner, a sports medicine specialist, and a physical therapist. I got checked from stem to stern with the notable exception that I declined a prostate exam on the grounds that anyone who wanted to be that intimate with me should at least buy me some flowers first. So the consensus was that I'm in very good if not excellent health for my age, with the single exception being that on the push-ups portion of the fitness exam, I scored in the "Total Pussy" category. (I'm working on that with rotator cuff exercises. By comparison, I was off the chart on sit-ups, knocking out 57 in one minute. Top of the chart was 35.) All of this was combined with an actuarial exam that put my life expectancy at 102. That's right. I'm expected to go one hundred and two freakin' years before I cack. (Man do I have a lot of time to watch TV.) And I have low cholesterol, my flexibility is way above average thanks to yoga, and my resting heart rate rivals a sleeping bear.

So, dear brother, would you describe that news as "awesome" or "OSSUM"? Send in your answer now.

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.