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I have a “salt-and-pepper” beard, but the pepper is fading, and soon I will have a salt beard. Every time I see the beard in a mirror, I am reminded of my favorite Just for Men® Haircolor commercial. In the unlikely event that you do not know exactly which commercial I’m talking about, I will give you a short recap.

In Scene One, product spokesmen Walt “Clyde” Frazier and Keith Hernandez attempt to rescue their prematurely gray pal Emmitt Smith from the Running Back Rest Home. They fear that Emmitt’s gray beard is preventing him from getting laid on a daily basis. The boys are greeted at the home’s front desk by a buxom young woman dressed in cheerleader/nurse fetish wear. The camera pans across the geezer ward, and we see several other freaky fetish nurses tending to an assortment of doddering graybeards. Between scenes, beard technicians restore Emmitt’s beard to its “natural-looking” color, and by the end of Scene Two he is once again surrounded by sexy fetish models (this time waving pom-poms). And so we come full circle.

The Running Back Rest Home ad amuses me. I don’t fall off the sofa laughing or anything, but I do occasionally give it a reclining ovation. Not everyone likes it as much as I do, though. I know this. Some prefer the trippy psychedelia of Just for Men’s Summer of Life ad or the vaudevillian pratfalls of No Play for Mr. Gray. And let us not forget the stubborn few who insist that the entire Just for Men advertising oeuvre is built on a “flawed premise.” I have personally argued with every one of the Stubborn Few, so I am familiar with all two of their talking points. Perpend:

S.F.T.P. #1 — If the gray-bearded consumer is to believe that dye-beards have more sex, then why are the convalescing graybeards surrounded by sexy fetish models while the dye-bearded product spokesmen are only surrounded by other spokesmen? This is ironic, is it not?

S.F.T.P. #2 — Before Emmitt uses the product, he is surrounded by sexy fetish models, but after he uses the product, he is . . . em, still surrounded by sexy fetish models? So what is the product benefit? Is new Emmitt more surrounded than old Emmitt was?

I’ve got to hand it to the Stubborn Few. Their talking points are few, but they are persuasive. Even so, I can’t help wondering if a full-pepper beard would give me an advantage with freaky sexy fetish models. I’m scratching my salty chin and I’m wondering . . . wondering, wondering. And that, my friends, is the power of advertising.

Young Wayne Newton, his older brother Jerry, and his even older brother Isaac arrived in Las Vegas in 1959. At the time, Wayne was 15, Jerry was 16, and Isaac was 317 years old. The brothers’ first gig was at the Fremont Hotel, where they were billed as Sir Isaac and the Mathematicats. Later, at the urging of their agent, the Newton brothers changed their stage name to The Newton Brothers.

On March 9, 1963, Jerry overslept and missed the afternoon performance at the Copa Lounge. The crowd failed to notice his absence. Jerry continued to oversleep through the summer, fall and winter of 1963, and early in 1964 Isaac and Wayne decided hire a new brother. Taking the stage name Shemp Newton, Bobby Darin joined the act in April of 1964. In May, Darin changed his name to Curly-Joe Newton, and in July he switched back to Bobby Darin and went solo. Wayne and Isaac continued as a duo.

In 1970, Isaac Newton suffered a nervous breakdown and retired from the music business. The reasons for this breakdown were the subject of intense speculation. Isaac himself blamed his rigorous schedule — eight shows a day, six days a week for ten years — but his biographers believe the breakdown was caused by toxic chemical cocktails Isaac ingested during his alchemy experiments.

After Isaac’s retirement and subsequent hospitalization, Wayne Newton changed his name to Bobby Darin and went solo.

In 1982, Wayne “Bobby Darin” Newton won the Entertainer of the Year award and was knighted by Queen Elizabeth II of England. This was the first time any American lounge singer had been knighted by a powerless European figurehead. Unfortunately, this great accomplishment was overshadowed by Wayne and Isaac’s bitter and very public dispute over which brother had invented calculus.

Yesterday, the boss tried to fix our old laser printer with a frosting knife. Today, FedEx brought us a new laser printer. The new printer looks exactly like the old printer, but without the protruding knife handle.

The old laser printer worked perfectly until the boss put the evil, leering, wall-mounted trout directly behind it. A few days after that, the duplexer quit, and then a piece of rubber peeled off of a roller and fell onto the very hot nameless part which adheres toner to paper. When the rubber bit adhered to the hot nameless part, strange skid marks began to appear on all our printed material. Clients didn’t dig the new look. That’s when the boss jammed a frosting knife in the rear paper-jam access door. No jury would send her away for this crime. It was a crime of passion.

This morning, as I tried to attach the new duplexer to the new 500-sheet feeder (adjustable for Letter, Legal, Executive, 11×17, A3, A4, A5, B4, B5, and custom paper sizes), I leaned too far forward and bumped heads with the evil trout. I pulled back suddenly, and as I did, my forehead brushed against the fish’s serrated lower jaw. That’s how the trout drew first blood. If co-worker Barb hadn’t been there to hold me back, that trout would be “sleepin’ wid da fishes” right now.

And no jury would send me away for it, either. The fish is asking for it.

I feel lucky when I leave the house, so I stop at the Hopin Mad Mart and buy myself a Powerball ticket.

I slap a crumpled dollar on the countertop, and the Hopin Mad Mart guy puts it in the drawer.

I say, “I feel lucky.”

Guy says, “Man, you look lucky.”

I say, “I feel like I look lucky.”

Guy says, “Heh?”

I can’t pick up my Powerball ticket because my hands are full of front pocket stuff — crumpled bits of paper, coins, a tiny plastic hula girl, car keys, a cellphone and more crumpled bits of paper. These things came out of my pocket when I reached in for the crumpled dollar bill. By feel, I couldn’t tell one thing from another, so I pulled everything out at once. Now I have to put it all away. There’s no one in line behind me, so I do my business while Hopin Mad Mart Guy stands and grins.

“I don’t know if you know this,” I tell him, “but the odds of winning the Powerball jackpot are only 1:120,526,770.”

Guy says, “Sheesh. That all?”

“Yeah,” I say, “and the odds are even better if you pick the right numbers.”

Guy says, “You think like a winner.”

“I feel like a winner,” I say.

Guy says, “You look like you feel like a winner.”

I say, “Heh?”

New York Yankees’ petulant third baseman Alex Rodriguez has been assimilated by my Squirrel Collective. He is currently undergoing a painful cybernetic Yankees-to-Red-Sox conversion procedure, after which he will join the Pawtucket Red Sox for a rehab assignment.

When cornered this morning in the Yankees player’s parking lot, Mr. Rodriquez offered little resistance to the squirrel-drone Assimilation Team. His girlish karate chops were easily neutralized. Perhaps, in this moment of profound confusion, Mr. Rodriquez believed he was defending himself against a harmless Bronson Arroyo sweep-tag at first base in game six of the 2004 American League Championship Series. If so, he was sadly mistaken. My drones are relentless and efficient fighting machines bent on assimilating all species, even Yankees. They are not pot-smoking, guitar-playing, hippie-type Red Sox pitchers. Assimilation is no game. Resistance is futile.

While we’re talking about resistance, I should mention one more thing. The acquisition of Mr. Rodriguez was so easy, the drones didn’t even get a chance to say, “resistance is futile.” This was very disappointing for them. Drones love saying, “resistance is futile.” In fact, it’s their favorite part of the entire acquisition/assimilation procedure. (It should be noted, however, that they also enjoy using their pointy cybernetic fingertips to inject nanoprobes into a prisoner’s delicate pink parts.)

Mr. Rodriguez’s painful cybernetic conversion is a six-step process. It will add several cosmetic enhancements and physical capabilities, which should make it easier for him to fit in with his new teammates. The six steps are as follows :

1. Extrusion and installation of prosthetic shoulder-length dreadlocks

2. Implantation of bleached blonde goatee hair plugs

3 Application of synthetic pine-tar over NY logo on batting helmet

4. Removal of top three buttonholes from baseball jersey. (This will allow the jersey to fall open and flap about in an untidy fashion.)

5. Name change from Alex Rodriguez to Locutus Rodriguez or “Lo-Rod.”

6. Installation of holographic eye replacement and forearm control unit, which will prevent subject from swinging at low-and-away sliders after an opposing pitcher busts him inside with several fast-balls.

Instructions for the movie of my life:

The “Bee Sting Sequence” should be shot in slow motion. Not only will this create a dreamy effect, but it will also accentuate the the fluid movements of the flailing arms and the rhythmic stomping of the feet. Tight camera shots of hands swatting legs (but missing bees) should be synced to Nikolay Rimsky-Korsakov’s The Flight of the Bumble Bee. The actor MUST NOT drop the weed whacker while running, but must swing it one-handed in wide sweeping arcs. One stunt bee will follow the actor into the house, up the stairs and into the bathroom, where the two will square off in a climactic man-against-bee showdown. This will be the payoff scene for the Me character, who will vanquish his venomous foe and narrowly avoid looking like a powerless victim of nature.

Cut to Benedryl scene.

In a televised address from the Oval Office yesterday, President Bush advised Americans not to buy gasoline unless they need it. With gas prices reaching record highs and the busy Labor Day weekend approaching, the president also asked Americans to consider the following painfully obvious gas consumption tips:

1. Never stuff a gushing gasoline nozzle down your pants.

2. If anyone tries to stuff a gushing nozzle down your pants, “run like hell.”

3. Never wear a gas cap on your head.

4. (The president couldn’t remember gasoline consumption tip number 4.)

5. Postpone unnecessary vacations.

President Bush, who wore a dark blue suit and matching gas cap to the news conference, has recently been criticized for his own ambitious vacation schedule. He spent the last five weeks clearing brush in Crawford, Texas. This is believed to be the longest presidential brush clearing retreat since Andrew “Old Hickory” Jackson’s eighteen month “War on Brush” in the 1863-64.

There’s a tall stack of reading material in Mastercuts waiting area. I thumb through the trashy gossip magazines first, and when I’ve finished with those, I pick up a style book called “Warrior Hairstyles of 15th Century Europe.” Time flies. Before I know it, I’m in the big chair. My stylist uses a metal bowl, a broadsword, and a blow dryer to give me a look that really makes a statement. The statement is, “I may not look good, but I look good enough to pillage Normandy, so piss off, wanker.”

Friends, if I weren’t already King of France, I would storm the beaches this instant. As Henry V said in his famous St. Crispin’s Day pep talk, “Gentlemen in England now a-bed, Shall wake up with beadhead, whilst I have the most offending hair alive!”

Favorite Things

Camisoles, teddies and French negligee-ays
Tall sexy ladies in hot lingerie-ay
Throw in some acorns ’cause I’m the squirrel king
These are a few of my fav-o-rite things!

Spanking soft bottoms with stiff wooden spoo-oons
Rubbing girls’ pink parts in dingy saloo-oons
Bouncing fine ladies on squeaky bed springs
These are a few of my fav-o-rite things

When the Dog fights
When the Squirrel sings
When you’re feeling poor
Give me a few of my favorite things
Or I will sing some more!

Attila the Hun was a favorite nephew of King Hunibun, a fifth-century warlord and dance instructor. At an early age, Attila learned to ride a horse, shoot a bow, and dance with glow sticks. He also became a fan of techno, trance, and industrial music. By his late teens, Attila was leading the Huns in merciless battle against their enemies, the Ravergoths. He pillaged the dance clubs, damaging property and causing nervous patrons to experience feelings of impending doom. No one could match Attila in battle or on the dance floor, and by the age of 10, he was the Huns’ leading commander and choreographer.

On his 21st birthday, Attila met the Ravergoths at the Battle of Baggy Bottom Bog. The Huns gained the upper hand by mid-day, and as the Ravergoths turned to flee the field, they tripped over their extra baggy black pants and fell into the mire. This was the first of a series of conquests which left Huns in control of all of Eastern Europe and most of Western Massachusetts (including Springfield’s Entertainment district).

Attila and his brother Mozilla became co-Kings when Uncle Hunibun choked on an puff pastry and died in 433 AD. The brothers enjoyed a period of peace and prosperity which lasted for 8-10 days. When a Roman bishop mocked Attila’s flamboyant dance style at a trance party, war broke out between the Huns and the Romans. Atilla, Mozilla and their armies swept through the Eastern Empire, easily defeating the legions in their path. The victories in the east were followed by another 8-10 days of peace and prosperity. These would be known ever after as “the 8-10 golden days.”

In 445, while editing code for his new open-source web browser, Mozilla choked on an puff pastry and died. For the first time in weeks the Huns had only one king. They also had only one choice for web browsing — Microsoft’s Internet Explorer. The golden days were gone. After Mozilla’s death, Atilla became a reckless and carefree playboy, quickly burning through his trust fund. To support his lavish lifestyle, he demanded large tributes from both Eastern and Western Roman Emperors, and he pillaged their bars and restaurants when his demands were not met. Theodosius II, the Eastern Roman Emperor, sent Atilla strippers, Cognac, and cigars to keep an unsteady state of peace. Before long, Theodosius maxed out the papal credit cards.

The Western Emperor sent no booty. In 450, Attila renewed his demand for tribute, and when he was rebuffed by Rome, the Huns marched into Gaul. (Apparently they forgot that Rome is in Italy.) The Roman general Fleetus Enemus, who was in Gaul for the Tour de France, united his legions with the armies of the Visigoths, the Mopygoths, the Ravergoths, and the Fetishgoths. These united armies waited for Attila at Orleans. As the Huns advanced on the city, the people of Gaul hurled stones at them, causing great discomfort. With so many warriors suffering from Gaul-stones, Attila was forced to retreat.

In 453 AD, while celebrating his marriage to Idico, his 27th wife, Attila choked on a puff pastry and died. His empire crumbled 8-10 days later.

I was driving Mr. and Mrs. Marmaduke Mackintosh-McCampbell back from Dufftown, where they had taken the morning tour of Balvenie Distillery. As I came over the hill and down along the Loch-side, I saw a sort of boiling in the water. I carried on a wee bit, and when I looked again, there was a huge grayish-brownish hump — like a great oak whisky cask — floating half above the waterline. It was huge and shiny and brownish and . . . humpy.

“Sweet Jesu” I said, “Do you see that?”

Mrs. Mackintosh-McCampbell, who is a pathological liar and a drunk, said, “Aye, I see it clear as day, and I’ve not been in a bar yet this morning!”

“It’s Nessy,” I said. “I swear on the Stone of Scone, it’s Nessy!”

“Ach, it’s an eel! It’s an eel!” said Mr. Mackintosh-McCampbell.

“There’s no eels that big,” I said.

”Ach, it’s otters!” he said.

“There’s no otters that big,” I said.

“Ach, it’s Shaquille O’Neal!”

“That’s ridiculous,” Mrs. Mackintosh-McCampbell said. “Honestly, Pumpkin, why on earth would an Irishman be swimming in a Scottish Loch?”

Mr. Mackintosh-McCampbell did not reply. He leaned toward the wee wifey and gave her a good loud sniff. “She is full-bodied sweetness,” he said, “with light spicy notes and a hint of sherry fruitiness.”

“Attention, passengers” I said, “Monster on the starboard bow!”

Mrs. Mackintosh-McCampbell giggled. “Oh, Marmaduke,” she said. “Your finish is long and pleasingly rich.”

“Hello,” I said. “Earth to back seat. Come in, please.”

Just my luck. The Loch Ness monster is doing the backstroke right beside my car, and the only corroborating witnesses are the two drunk octogenarians making out in my back seat.

Friends, Rodents, Countrymen,

Today, with gin and tonic season in full bloom, with more sweaty Americans sitting in the punch bowl than ever before, with the naughty girls safely stowed under School Marm’s desk — the state of our blog is hot, humid and hung-over. (Applause.)

Since our last State of the Blog Address, we have talked much and accomplished little. It was a team effort. (Rah, rah, rah!) As a team we have embraced the true spirit of laziness. So let us not waste time talking about the things we haven’t accomplished. Let us take the lazier way and waste time talking about the things we’ve already wasted time talking about. (Warning, rehash section to follow.)

We spent the better part of a week discussing my sister’s unfortunate bundt cake fetish. We carefully measured the amount of torque (in gin and tonics per hour) required to make Rosalind® spin “like the flying twister bed in Wizard of Oz.” We established an S&M golf tournament called “The Masters” for the sole purpose of foisting my coveted red valet-parking jackets on unsuspecting and submissive golfers. We learned that School Marm went to school with Fernando Lama, who may or may not have worn Tony Lama antique brown full-quill ostrich boots. We coined the phrase “going Tony,” which either means getting naked or attaching two Yorkshire Terriers to one’s nether regions. (I prefer the former.) We founded the Church of Skortsporkology. And, after vigorous debate, we concluded that Rhode Island Red is a chicken’s favorite color.

There were personal milestones, too.

In the first six months of 2005, Rosalind® collected 567 Big City parking tickets. She became afraid of parking situations, but she never avoided them — not even when Auntie Lulu asked her to run out for Jell-O at 7:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning. After the traumatic Jell-O incident, Rosalind struggled to restore her inner balance. She tried putting hot rocks on her back, sniffing beer (and other aromatic libations), and standing on her roof during an electrical storm with a wire hanger in each hand. I don’t know which thing worked, but something certainly did, because a direct lightening strike failed to knock little Rosalind® off of her crumbling Victorian home’s rooftop. It did, however, cause the image of Sainte Plaster du Paris to miraculously appear on her bedroom ceiling.

Sadly, School Marm did not meet a good man at the Stop and Shop deli counter, but she did meet a kosher dill pickle, a cucumber (sprinkled with salt), and a foot-long chicken dog. Kudos to Marm for helping me remove the curse from my unlucky (and possibly evil) socks with that Hocus Pocus Dominocus stuff. Never forget the Dominocus, my friends. The Dominocus is the most important part of the sock spell. School Marm also worked tirelessly to keep the naughty girls under control and under her desk. Fortunately for every good boy who loves bad girls, she was not able to do either.

In the first and second quarters of this fiscal year, Chipmunky delivered several rousing pep talks, reminding us always to keep our backs straight and our tails fluffed. For this, I promoted Chippy to the largely ceremonial Minister of Morale position. It is comforting to know that whenever my spirits sag, Chippy will step up and say something like, “Brilliant diddly, O Masterful One,” or “Wave that bushy tail in defiance, Sire.” Please, everyone give it up for the Munkey. (Applause.) It is also worth noting that on at least one occasion Chippy ate a roasted turkey bagel sandwich with lettuce, tomato, onion, provolone and light swipe malaise.

Dr. Scott Spotman, our new Science Editor, has spent much of his time at BlogCo searching for the stripper with the lazy eye. He has also helped us with our gin and tonic torque calculations, and when he wasn’t busy shooting various wavelengths of light into carpet stains, Dr. Scott told us the best (and only) electron joke any of us have ever heard. Let’s hear it for Dr. Scott’s electrons! (Applause.)

As I prepare this address, McSwing remains enigmatic. We know only that McSwing knows Poetry Hall of Famer and sports prognosticator, Larry the Argyle Accountant. I say, any friend of the Argyle Accountant is a friend of mine.

That brings us to the naughty girls. What can I say about the naughties? Even though they are at least partially imaginary, their naughtiness is real and irrepressible. The naughties (especially Johanna) are an inspiration to us all, especially me. Now give me my pencil, you wicked thing.

What about me? What have I done since the last State of the Blog Address? Well, after much soul searching, I finally went public with my nearly heroic rescue of the grouchy man in the cigar-smoke-filled Cadillac. Although I most certainly saved this fellow from a minor door ding, I do not consider myself a hero. (Book deal in the works.) I also began work on a triple-X adult version of Mary Poppins. One song has already been published to the blog. Two others are in the can but may be too dirty for publication.

We have had less frequent visitors, too, and I hope they will play greater roles in BlogCo’s future. DJ Spoz left three funny messages where no one would find them, and my very tall neighbor 2Sides visited but left when I began to make her itch. Don’t let me forget to mention Julie Spotman and my fake cousin Bonnie Burton, who invented the internet. Finally, I would like to encourage all of the invisible visitors to consider visibility at this time. That means you, Cornfed. We talk for days on end about stains and squirrels and hangovers, for crissakes. We need your help.

I’d like to close with something truly inspirational, but since I can’t think of anything inspirational, I’ll just close.

Thank you America, and good night. (Applause.)

After reading the Dr. Laura Schlessenger article posted by Scott Spotman, one of my squirrel buddies sent me the following transcript from the Dr. Laura’s radio program.

Dr. Laura: You’re on the air. Make it snappy.

Caller: Umm . . . Dr. Laura?

Dr. Laura: Is this what you call snappy? I don’t have all day, sweety.

Caller: Dr. Laura, I’m my kid’s mom, and my husband is my kid’s dad, and my kids are my kids . . . umm, kids. Dr. Laura, my kid’s dad climbed our oak tree and he won’t come down. He’s been up there for TWO DAYS!

Dr. Laura: Is he chittering at you from the upper branches?

Caller: Yes! Dr. Laura, you’re sooooooooo smart!

Dr. Laura: And you’re not. Didn’t you know he was a squirrel before you married him?

Caller: Yes, but I thought I could change him.

Dr. Laura: Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhg!

Caller: Dr. Laura, he’s an animal. He wants sex all the time!

Dr. Laura: More than six hours per year?

Caller: Much more! And he wants to do it doggie style. Dr. Laura, he’s a squirrel — it isn’t natural.

Dr. Laura: I see this all the time. He wasn’t getting enough tail, so he treed himself.

Caller: Dr. Laura, isn’t he morally obligated to come down and mow the lawn? If the grass gets much longer, we’ll have to rent a baler.

Dr. Laura: You may as well write him a John-Deere-John letter, sweety, ’cause he ain’t comin’ down to mow no mow. Look on the bright side — you’ll never need to be in the mood again! Six hours of free time, baby!

Caller: Sob. Sniff. Thank you soooooo much, Dr. Laura.

The Oracle of Springfield tells Lay-us, King of the Mardi Gras, that his son Oedipussy will grow up to be a squirrel. Lay-us and his queen JoMama want a boy, not a squirrel, so they command the slave girl Roxilla to abandon Oedipussy in the Lapdance Forest. There he will be devoured by the wild beasts.

Roxilla has mercy on Oedipussy. She takes his cellphone and twenty bucks and then ties his tail to a barstool. Before leaving, she says, “Are you going to be here for a while?”

Fourteen months later, the host of a Mardi Gras stag party calls Oedipussy a pussy, and the insult rankles. To make matters worse, the host announces that he has run out of ziti and kielbasa. Oedipussy unties his tail and departs for the Deli of Delphi, where he hopes to pick up ziti, kielbasa, and advice.

At this time, Springfield is terrorized by the Sphinx-ter, a hard-drinking creature with the head of a gangster and the body of a 1969 Cadillac Coup DeVille. The Sphinx-ter emits smelly gases to smother all who fail to solve its riddles. In the deli parking lot, Oedipussy is waylaid by the Sphinx-ter, who tells him to find “the beaver that dances on the lap of a squirrel.” The dancing beaver will heal Oedipussy’s wounded pride, the Sphinx-ter says, but it will also eat his kielbasa. This is the “Riddle of the Sphinx-ter.”

Oedipussy cannot solve the riddle, so he files a grievance with the Riddle Rules Committee, asserting that the riddle of the Sphinx-ter (as written above) is in fact not a riddle but an imperative sentence. The Rules Committee rules in Oedipussy’s favor and banishes the smelly Sphinx-ter to Bondi’s Island. Springfield welcomes their saviour, Oedipussy, and offers him a Mardi Gras VIP card, free parking, twenty bucks, unlimited cellphone minutes and the slave girl Roxilla.

Meanwhile, on Bondi’s Island, the Sphinx-ter gives birth to four children — Beaver, Wally, Lumpy, and Oeddie.

Stay tuned for part two, Sons of the Sphinx-ter.

To boost employee morale, my former employer built a kitchenette in the workplace and installed a National 623 Hot Beverage Vending Machine. The reliable and durable National 623 dispensed freshly brewed tea, hot chocolate and soup-like product. It also dispensed freeze-dried coffee, with or without a mysterious additive called “whitener.”

You may ask, as I did, what is “whitener”? What is this substance that changes the color but not the taste of my coffee? If non-dairy creamer is the artificial substitute for cream, then is whitener the artificial substitute for the artificial substitute for cream? Is whitener further down the food chain than non-dairy creamer? Is that even possible? The truth is stranger than you suspect, my friends. Whitener isn’t even on the food chain; it’s on the color wheel.

Whitener is the first edible color since the orange.

Hidden amongst the giant smelly conifers of the Pacific Northwest, there is a tiny college called Evergreen State. Evergreen State has just one clam . . . umm, I mean, claim to fame — it is the only organization in recorded history to name it’s athletic teams after a clam. The Evergreen State Geoducks (pronounced GOO-wee-ducks) are the scourge of the Cascade Collegiate Conference, where they routinely beat the living shit out of Knights, Warriors, Raiders, Cavaliers and Thunderbirds. Only the toughest kids can be Geoducks. Every one of them has to be tougher than an six-pound overcooked cohog because their team mascot is a six-pound overcooked cohog and that invites mockery from opponents.

I would like to help the young athletes of Evergreen State (especially the cheerleaders). Therefore, I suggest the following: either add a frightening adjective to the current mascot name, making it The Angry Geoducks or the Homicidal Geoducks, or scrap the Geoduck thing entirely and go with something like The Battlin’ Bivalves or possibly The Hoyas.

In 1621, pilgrims celebrated their first Thanksgiving in Plymouth, Massachusetts. After feasting on corn and codfish and Tagamet, they all piled into the Plymouth Voyager and took the Mass Pike to Springfield. There they built America’s first strip club, the Mardi Gras.

From 1621 until 1692, the bar was called Cromwell’s Follies. Puritans, Dutchmen, and members of King Philip’s tribes gathered there peacefully to play Keno and to stare at naked women from Rhode Island and Florida. It was a golden age. Then, in 1692, a guy from Salem convinced the Puritans of Springfield that all naked women were witches. Of course, from the modern perspective this idea seems absurd. We now know that only a small percentage of naked women are witches, but the Puritans were ignorant and they dressed funny. Nipmuck, Podunk and Genovese tribal leaders were miffed when the Puritans threatened to close down the Follies. Several minor skirmishes near the men’s room escalated into the conflict which historians now call “King Philip’s War.”

In 1700, the bar reopened under the management of a young Frenchman named Martin Jean Paul Roch Yves Gilbert Motier de Gras. The frugal elders of Springfield (who did not approve of wasted syllables) shortened this strange foreign fellow’s name to “Marty Gras.” To this day, the bar bears the Frenchman’s name. The early days were difficult for Marty. The Cromwell’s Follies building was burned to the ground during King Philips War. Of the original structure, only the stage survived intact. When the insurance company denied Marty’s claim, townsfolk gathered together and helped their fine French friend erect a new building around the old stage. (The stage, which was quickly wiped clean with a moist towel, is still used today).

By the mid 1700s, revolution was in the air (or was that just the stink cloud from the Bondi’s Island sewage treatment plant?). All dancers named Tory were told to either change their stage names or be fined one hundred dollars. Many dancers “volunteered” to sell New England Patriots t-shirts to support the war effort. Those who did not volunteer were fined one hundred dollars.

In 1839, while experimenting with Jagermeister and Vodka, Mardi Gras bartender Charles Goodyear accidentally invented vulcanized rubber. This invention led directly to the invention of the basketball in 1891 and the figure-hugging rubber catsuit in 1972.

By the spring of 1860, Mardi Gras “regular” Milton Bradley was putting the finishing touches on America’s first boudoir game, Twister. For reasons that may not have been purely scientific, Mr. Bradley chose the dancers’ dressing room as the test site for his new product. After witnessing the enthusiastic response, club management resolved to launch the internet’s first live Twister video feed. (Twister cam is scheduled to go online in the first quarter of 2010.)

Clarence Birdseye, Mardi Gras patron and first marketer of frozen foods, conducted on-site testing of his new frozen Mudslide/Margarita mixes in 1930. Unfortunately, these new beverages were not a big hit with club patrons, and Mr. Birdeye’s apparatus was quickly replaced by two extra kegs of Bud Light.

to be continued

During the Voir Dire (French legal term meaning painful interrogation of potential jurors by petulant lawyers in a dark, dusty courtroom) the lawyers introduce me to a personal injury case. They introduce themselves and the plaintiff, too, and we all exchange pleasantries. The lawyers ask me several questions about automobiles and accidents and human arms, and I conclude that the plaintiff injured her arms in an automobile accident. She does not flap her arms in any way during the entire Voir Dire process, and this seems to support my conclusion.

The plaintiff’s lawyer asks me if I would be willing to award damages for pain and suffering if the defendant is found to be at fault. I say, “I dunno,” and he asks me what I mean when I say “I dunno.” I say I’m not philosophically opposed to awarding damages for pain and suffering, but I don’t know how to put a price tag on certain things — non-flapping arms, for example.

The plaintiff’s lawyer pauses. He says, “I know it’s hard to put a dollar value on pain and suffering, but do you think you can do it as well as the next guy?”

I say, “Yeah, I think I can do it as well as the next guy, but I don’t think the next guy can do it very well.”

At this, the defendant’s lawyer laughs out loud and the plaintiff’s lawyer frowns. Point for Team Squirrel. Now I know which attorney I can most easily offend.

Both lawyers ask if I can be a fair juror, fair to both sides, especially theirs. I say I think I can be, but I’m not sure. The plaintiff’s lawyer says, “what do you mean by that?”

I say, “what do you mean by what do I mean?”

He says, “Let me put it this way, if you were on trial, would you want yourself on the jury?”

This is a complicated hypothetical. Not only do two versions of me occupy a single space, but one me is asked to pass judgement on the other. I take a moment to consider my options. Finally I decide to tell the truth. I say, “No. If I were on trial, I wouldn’t want me on my jury because I would probably find myself guilty.”

The defendant’s lawyer laughs again. Another point for team squirrel, but I’m not free yet.

People of France,

It’s me, your king. I have just returned from the Italian city of Rome, where I paid my respects to two Popes, one of whom is not yet dead. It was quite a scene, let me tell you. As I basked in the pomp and splendor of Vatican City, I found myself reminiscing about those glorious days when French Popes ruled the feudal Christian world from Avignon. Neither before nor since, has the Papacy been blessed with such gifted practitioners of interior design. (Well, with the possible exception of Clement V.) If you are not familiar with the French Popes, here is their history in brief. Perpend!

1. Clement V (1305-1314) was Bertrand le Frugal, Archbishop of Bordeaux. During his infrequent visits to Avignon, Pope Clement slept either in a pew at the Dominican Monastery or in a rented room at the Avignon Motel 6.

2. Jean XXII (1316-1334) was Jacques “Deuces Wild” Duèse, a former bishop and professional poker player from New York. When he was selected by the Sacred College, Jean XXII sold his Manhattan duplex and moved to Avignon. He brought much of his “New York chic” furniture with him, including 300 chocolate mohair chairs and 125 tables topped with soft leather. Jean XXII had the Cathedral Palace enlarged, improved and fortified, and he added the first walk-in Jacuzzi to the Pope’s personal apartment.

3. Benedict XII (1334-1342) was Angus Archibald Argyle, or “Triple A.” Benedict XII was the first (and last) French Pope from the Scottish highlands. He believed fervently that no papal palace was complete without an all-girls’ boarding school, a private 18-hole golf course and a Scotch distillery. Benedict’s approach to papal palace design could best be described as Scottish simplicity mixed with English elegance and a dash of French indifference.

4. Clement VI (1342-1352) was either Pierre Roger or Roger Pierre, both of whom were rich aristocrats. Clement VI brought a keen sense of interior design and three-dimensional space planning to the Papacy. He didn’t appreciate Benedict’s vision for the “pope space,” so he accused the palace of heresy and burned it to the ground. His new palace, which was twice as big and fancy as the old palace, featured 4 whirlpools, 7 kitchens, a waterfall, a boathouse, a 3,500 square-foot disco and an indoor pool. Of all the French Popes, Clement was the most reckless with his Amercian Express card. On a single spending spree in 1348, he bought the entire city of Avignon and Queen Jeanne of Naples.

5. Innocent VI (1352-1362) completed the enormous building project begun by Clement VI, adding 38 more bathrooms and several pieces of imitation French baroque furniture. Innocent was uncompromising in his belief that clean lines and soft textures make a palace seem warm and lived in.

6. Urban V (1362-1370) was Robert de Guillaume. True to his name, Urban moved to the big city in 1370 to pursue a career in musical theater. Before leaving Avignon, Urban upgraded the palace’s digital and fiber optic capacity, added 5 Jacuzzis, 25 full baths, 18 bedrooms, an elevator, 2 billiard rooms, a movie theater, a foaling barn, a four-car garage and a tennis court. The two stone samurai warriors he installed at the front gate were supposedly a gift from Mike Tyson.

7. Gregory XI (1370-1378), was Pierre Roger de Beaufort. Gregory XI found the French to be rude, cynical and churlish, so he moved the Papacy back to Rome in 1376.

The last two popes lived in the Avignon Palace during the Great Schism of the Western World.
8. Clement VII (1378-1394) was played by Robert de Goulet.
9. Benedict XIII (1394-1423) was Pedro de Martinez.

In an effort to steer Americans away from risky food choices, the government unveiled a new food pyramid yesterday. The pyramid, which was designed by Peter Max and Tom Ridge, uses colored vertical bars to represent the threat level of each major food group.

The Food Pyramid Security Advisory System’s color code breaks down as follows:

Purple — Supersized risk of meat and bean gas attack.

Red — Severe risk of attack by fibrous fruits, particularly those high in (or high on) potassium.

Orange — High risk of eating more than 3 ounces of whole grains.

Yellow — Back away from the frialator. Elevated risk of lard and/or tallow attack on heartland.

Blue — Moderate risk of abdominal cramps, bloating and flatulence after ingestion of dairy products.

Green — Low risk of eating your veggies.

For undisclosed reasons, the government also added an M.C. Escher stairway to the food pyramid.