Yabba Dabba Do-You-Have-an-Umbrella?

I don't discount the atrocities of a devestating category-5 hurricane. Certainly Wilma will ruin many a life and destroy our faith in the Gods of the Gulf (aka Jeb and his going-steady, Katherine "Al Gore So Did Not Win in 2000, Jesus Told Me So" the former Florida attorney general), to say nothing of our national adoration of one Mr. Fred and his Flintstone clan.

(This is why they* invented The Weather Channel. And that pig-fucker Al Roker. What a douche.)

But as it seems we're in for a season of mutiny, we should discuss plans to conquer Mother Nature's Storm of the Century of the Year 2005: Live on Ice. Word on the streets is she's a bitch who hasn't kicked her smack habit and isn't about to go to Promises. We can only hope.

So here's my idea: In order to curb the enthusiasm of celebrites and those who wish to get their photos taken carrying boxes of bottled water and cheese sammages to victims, I'm going to donate all the money required to bail a major Southern metropolitan city from a hurricane, fromt he dinkiest of rain trickles to the most horrific category-a million.

Here's what I want in return: At the time of payment (my PayPal account is currently frozen due to some bad betting on a life-sized Jared Leto poster--er, I mean, an old, uh, book of something--but I'm good for it), I request the naming rights to said as-yet-unleashed storm. That's right. I get to name it, for a to-be-determined sum of American currency, and the money goes to the victims of the horrible, devestating, really bad hurricane.

It's a brilliant idea, and unlike some of my gems, one I came up completely on my own. People have rolled their eyes, but I think it's because they're embarrased they didn't come up with it on their own. They'll learn.

In the meantime, I am taking donations for what I am calling Help Save The People From the Hurricanes of the Future Fund. Any donation is welcome, nothing is too small.** So open your pocketbooks, take out your wallets, and give, give, give! Wilma needs our attention.

Or should I say, Hurricane Bjork.


*I want to start a Web site called www.they.com where we, I mean "they," say everything they always say. You know, they say there's going to be snow this weekend. They also say drinking one glass of wine a day combats heart disease. I didn't say it, they did. I mean us. We are they, and us are you.

**Nothing below $4 million, please. This isn't PBS. We know you have it.

Chew-me-up-and-spit-me-out-bacca is Back!

There was a girl we, I mean they, called Chewbacca in high school. She had monstrous red hair and a mouth that could make your eyes water in fright.*

Anyshit, here's a story you're going to love. It's got all the elements of a heartbreaker: Intrigue, international espionage, some really huge hairy man tits. Be careful. It might bite.

My favorite paragraph is the fourth, but some say the sixth is a killer too. Read them all. Have a toilet handy.

-Ben-bacca

*I typed freight by mistake at first, before realizing it didn't make sense to say "eyes water in freight." Unless, of course, you were on a train and you were crying. Back to my stories.

Carrie Oakey

Why are people so afraid of karaoke? It's a lovely way to spend an evening out at the local dive with your friends and your alcohol. It's also the best way to show off your Neil Diamond infatuation.
Everywhere around the world. He's coming to America.
Oh yes. He is coming. To. America.

Pass the salt

My fourth grade teacher was named Mr. Bland, and while he lived up to that moniker on an hourly basis, there was a quality he posessed that was informed, vibrant; very un-bland. To this day the first thing I think of when I think of Mr. Bland, besides the obsessive computer jokes and musings about how the world was going to crumble before our eyes if we didn't back up every library book on a simple personal computer, or how he took great pride in the newspaper hats he made us assemble like cheap Americanized oragami on Paper Day (because reading the paper would be too easy, too...bland) ...

Okay, so the third thing I think of when I think of Mr. Steve Bland was a stupid joke he told us about a headless man. Like the myriad folds of the Peter Pan-like newspaper hat, I can't remember the steps leading up to the final product. But what I do remember is the punchline: "You better quit while you're a head."

We'd laugh, mostly to comply with his threats of a doomed natural existence on account of the un-archived books. But we'd also laugh because he was just too simple to be taken seriously. "Quit while you're a head." Pause. "Get it?"

Oh man.