Tuesday, December 30, 2008
This took place right before the holiday ::cough:: Christmas ::cough:: break. The last full day before break each class has a “holiday” party that is kept as secular as possible so not to make any Jews or other groups jealous by reminding them about how big a B.A.M.F. Santa is.
I personally like to consider myself a Druid. Why a Druid? Why the hell not. They worship trees, and shit. And it totally throws off the occasional Jehovah Witness you meet.
Anywaaays…back to the party, so the class mothers come in and throw this nice little party with crafts, food for snacks and we watch “A Charlie Brown Christmas.” During this party I discovered one of the perks of being an “educator.” Gifts. We’ve all heard the old saying, “it’s better to give than receive.” WRONG. Getting stuff is awesome. I made out like a bandit. Gift cards and certificates galore, I don’t think I will ever have to buy anything from Starbucks again, not that I ever bought something from there before, but still.
The day was winding down and the kids were waiting for their buses to be called when one of the little girls in the class, I, walked up to me.
I: Mr. R., happy holidays, sir.
Mr. R: Why thank you very much I, and happy holidays to you too.
I: Can I ask you a question?
Mr. R: Sure, what is it?
I: Are you Jewish?
Mr. R: Um…no, I’m not. Why do you ask?
I: You just look Jewish.
These are the comments that make working with kids worthwhile.
And then someone tossed their biscuits in the bathroom...
We here at the Sports Quiz Media Empire have created a freeze ray that will cease the malicious doings of said universe. The downside is that it will also kill us all.
Price you pay I guess...sorry kids.
Monday, December 29, 2008
' Like gettin' raped in the face.
AnyCindyLouWho...I personally think New Year's is a good idea. We reflect upon the past 12 months. We think about the future, and even enjoy celebrating in the present. It's probably the only time of year that the American collective consciousness is consistently alive and well in what has been, what is, and what may be. So cheers to that!
As far as my own plans go for kissing 2008 goodbye, I'm not sure yet. One thing's for sure though...I'm not kissing it goodbye...
I'M KICKING ITS WHORISH SLUT MOTHER BITCH CRAP ON YOUR DAY CRAP ON MY DAY INSULT YO MAMMA ONE IN THE STINK LOHENGREN CMON SHOW I DON'T CARE SO SCREW YOU SHAVED POSSE MEMBER YEAH FUCKED BY A TRANNY FUCKED BY YOUR DEAD RELATIVES WHILE RIDING A PINK HORSE AND WEARING A PINK BUNNY SUIT ERGO PINK NIGHTMARE SUCK ON A STICK O' DYNAMITE MY WIFE LEFT ME MY DOG LEFT ME MY OWN DICK LEFT ME FOR CHRIST'S SAKE EVEN MY FAVORITE PAIR OF SOCKS LEFT ME donkeycheese DONKEY PUNCHIN ASS GOODBYE!!!!!!
Yeaaaaah...it's been a shit year. So I guess I'm one of the false hope fools who longs for 2009 to have a shred of something better. We. Shall. See.
What do you all have in mind for this beloved and despised time of year? Please, comment and share. Let's all get crazy.beautiful.sexy.baby.buttsex.nutso on this one eh? Let's get it together. Meeting of the minds. HELL!!!!! LET'S MAKE IT A SPORTS QUIZ NEW YEAR!!!!!!!!!!!
We'll get all of our old guests together at Tinks in Scranton and reallllllly party it on down! Just think of it, Bill Cosby chastising everyone for drinking alcoholic beverages. Kermit the Frog committing racial crimes!! Chris Walken humping a barstool, mistaking it for a fine piece of ACE! Father P jerking off onstage!!! The list goes on and on and on.....and on............on...........
I mean it. Let's do it. Because if we don't, I'm just gonna have to settle for a threesome with Canada and Tyler, and although that's fun, we've pretty much exhausted our creativity in that arena already. (Unless someone's got a Crocodile we can borrow, and a can of powdered organic south African bee honey.)
Don't let me down peeps.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Now, I do believe it's true that we can say whatever the FUCKING JESUS WASN'T REAL hell we want to on this lovely little Blog. I really should check my notes though, Uncle Sam is everywhere. Afterall, he was just arrested for gettin down to kiddie porn the other day, but all charges were wiped. Don't tell anyone because he's really embarrased...kinda.
Friday, December 26, 2008
As most of you are aware, our friend and colleague Tyler hiked up his grumpy pants recently and clattered out a special Christmas tirade railing against nearly everyone. I would like to take this moment here to let our readers know that Sports Quiz Radio covers all kinds of political ideas--and while Tyler more often represents the Center-With-Mild-Right-Flavorings, I want to assure you that I am here to represent the far left with positions such as mandatory man-marriages and beating unwanted babies to death with socks full of nickel rolls. And, while we're outing our habits, I voted for Barack Obama, may peace be upon him. And I also must agree with Tyler that my fellow supporters of Obama tended to be more annoying. But that's mostly because I hate hipsters in general and that Venn diagram had a hell of a lot of overlap. Just like "McCain Supporters" and "People Who Cannot Read."
But this post is not about politics. It is about Christmas--which is a completely a-political time of year. This year my scattered immediate family collected in Scranton and drove down to my grandmother's house in New Jersey. Somehow my father had procured an audio copy of the only mystery ever written by Abraham Lincoln, and we listened to it on the way there. It was disturbingly awful. It was based on a case in which Lincoln was the defense attorney, and it shows that Lincoln was actually quite bad at his job. His clients managed to get off mostly on sheer luck, and he was never able to offer an explanation of whatever happened--even for the fictionalized story. Most mysteries have some kind of ending, perhaps in which the strangeness of the whole story (the "mystery") gets unraveled and explained (the "solution"). But Lincoln ended his story with what was basically "Well that was all quite a strange occurrence, wasn't it? Too bad we never figured out what the hell happened there. Might have made a good story." Perhaps one day he took off his lawyer-ing hat and put down his mystery writer-ing pen and said to his beastly wife, "Mary, I can't write worth a shit and I'm the worst lawyer in the world, so I might as well give up now and become the President of the United States and free an entire race of people from centuries of institutionalized inhumanity." It is unsettling to see an amazing specimen of human capacity fail spectacularly at something. It was like watching Thomas Jefferson inadvertently fly a hot air balloon directly into the waiting jaws of a crocodile, all the while screaming incoherently and helplessly. Or like watching To Kill a Mockingbird with all the reverent children and black people edited out. Or it's like neither of those things, because they are silly.
Remember, kids, on this most holiest of days, that even a middle-aged Jew with good prospects can fuck it all up.
Merry Christmas, everyone!
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Over the past six or so months I have found myself increasingly apathetic about the news. This is an extremely dishearteningly trend for me especially since I almost became a political science major in college. At one point in my college career I could name every Supreme Court Justice from right to left, who appointed them, their religion, and one of the major cases they decided on. Since then I have avoided watching those cable “news” channels and reading much on the Internet. My last safe haven was the newspaper, and even that has been assailed by sensationalism and loss of objectivity. I find it increasingly hard to find truly unbiased news articles. I want to hear both sides of the story; I want to hear all the facts. I don’t want someone telling me what I should think or someone giving me their opinion. I want to come to these conclusions myself.
That is at the heart at my growing apathy towards much of the news. It is no longer news; it is sensationalism with no objectivity. This fact seemed to have become unbearably clear in the months leading up the election. My apathy often teetered on anger especially when I did read certain articles or more often when I spoke to people about the election, who often spoke with total conviction when they lacked any true understanding of the issue.
Unfortunately, the majority of these people seem to be supports of Obama. Too often it seemed people who supported him, and in turn, voted for him only understand two things in his entire campaign, “Hope” and “Change.” The have come to the conclusion that Obama can magically wave a wand and fix every ill in this country. Stop the war in Iraq? Done. Tax the rich more? Done. Save jobs? Done. Stop those evil Republicans? Done. Lower Gas Prices? Done.
It got to the point where it seemed that voting for Obama was not a political decision, but a decision made on what is hip and cool. Wearing your Obama pin around before and after the election was the latest fashion statement, not a political one. People blindly associated Republican evils with John McCain simply because he was one. Some of which he deserved and some that he did not. I found myself avoiding political discussions all together since I knew it would be less about politics and more about “how fat McCain’s fingers were." I did notice an overwhelming number of “election night parties” being held. Seriously? Is that what is fun now?
“Hey guys, let’s all meet at my place and watch CNN. That hunky Wolf Blitzer is going to me on, he gets me all hot and bothered.” Come on people.
“Hey guys! It’s a hologram! Just like in Star Wars!” Did someone say sensationalism?
“I wonder what type of dog Obama will get?” Did someone say loss of objectivity?
Now that the election is over I thought I would be spared all the crazy political hoopla. Wrong. I am now being barraged with TV ads trying to sell be “collectable” Obama victory plates and coins. It is a sad day when Montel Williams is doing commercials for coins with Obama on them. What happened Montel? Did you run out of “Who’s the Daddy?” candidates for your show? WHO THE FUCK BUYS THIS CRAP?
“Honey, can we get us that nice plate with Obama on it? It would look swell next to grandma’s urn.”
The realistic truth is that Obama will lucky to do the things he promised in his campaign. This is not to belittle Obama, but to highlight the fact that he works in politics, where deals are made and broken in the shadows, and everyone’s soul is for sale. The majority of this post focused on Obama supporters and how they “irked” me, but that is not to say that all of McCain’s supporters were leveled headed and fully informed. I’m sure we have all seen the Youtube video of that crazy old bat calling Obama a Muslim. Both sides are equally guilty of everything spoken about in this post, I only happened to encounter more Obama supporters than McCain supporters, probably due to my geographic location (The Northeast).
I’m sure I’ve ruffled some feathers in writing this post, and I’ll even throw it out there, I voted for McCain. I still really like Obama, I hope he does change things. God knows they need to be changed. I think he will be a great president and wish him the best. I’m just going to be realistic about it.
I just want to know if they're going to paint the White House now.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Luckily, the Internet provides:
We have a Wikipedia article.
(More on our adventures sometime in the future.)
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
I was there a few Mondays ago with my long-time friend and brother-in-arms, the playwright Robert John Parry, IV. As he steadily made disappear two white russians followed by a forgotten number of four horsemen (which would be enough to kill or at least induce considerable vomiting in mortal men), the questions became more and more sports-oriented--which is an area embarrassingly far outside of my expertise, while RJP4 is unmoved by our human proclivities for organized sport. Naturally, the conversation moved to a common topic of ours: namely, what in the crimson April fuck is wrong with Japan.
Well, to be fair, the conversation started out with Ninja Turtles. I am fascinated by the Technodrome, the lair/vehicle of the Shredder. From Wiki:
Even in this dramatic image, the Technodrome shows itself as an imposing and fearsomely ridiculous piece of equipment. The name comes from the German technodrommen, which means "big metal sphere with tank treads and an eyeball on top." Or, perhaps, is a portmanteau of technology and aerodrome. Which would make the Technodrome a really fancy airport. Or maybe they picked drome because it sounds cool, or because it sounds like dome and the whole contraption is kind of dome-like in a retarded way. The mystery continues.
One of the most fascinating aspects of the Technodrome was that it was always spoken about as if it were some hugely important and powerful weapon, but always ambiguously. One got the sense that even those that lived inside the Technodrome were uncertain of what, exactly, it did. Perhaps its greatest weapon was the confusion it would most likely cause upon arrival on the battlefield--its mysterious power being its complete inscrutability. And what, exactly, is the purpose of the gigantic eyeball? The Technodrome spent most of its time underground. The giant eyeball seems like more of a hindrance than an advantage in that situation. I imagine it was constantly getting stuck on rock formations. Or perhaps it was just a functionless hood ornament.
Furthermore, one can clearly understand the advantages of an underground lair. One can also clearly understand the advantages of a mobile liar. However, the combination of mobile-ness and underground-ness mitigates the advantages of both. An underground liar is difficult to get to while a mobile liar could be anywhere. If an underground liar is mobile, you are basically constructing a massive tunnel right up to your doorstep--and it can't really "be anywhere" because all one would have to do to find it is travel in one of two directions: follow the tunnel that goes this way, or follow the tunnel that goes that way. Also, cave-ins would naturally be an issue. I doubt the Shredder was some kind of rock doctor.
Aaanyway, RJP4 brought up that in the Japanese version of the Turtles they have the prerequisite Giant Robot which the Turtles drive or pilot or operate or transform into or whatever (I believe I found some evidence here: wait for the credits for the weird robots to start appearing). I also recalled that the Japanese version of Spider-man has this same confusing and unnecessary addition as well. This naturally brings about the question: why does Japan feel the need to insert the Giant Robot into everything--even places where it would be narratively inconvenient for a Giant Robot to be? If Japan does a production of Hamlet, does he scream into a wristwatch at the end, calling forth an enormous robotic version of himself, garbed in gunmetal with its trademark "ray of metaphysical doubt" weapon? And yet, here is Peter Parker, humble freelance photographer struggling to pay the rent--and also endowed with a robot the size of a skyscraper. With which to fight...gang members? Ah, like opening a can of peaches with a shotgun.
Because of the Giant Robots omnipresence not only in Japan's homegrown cultural artifacts but also being shoehorned into their imports and transliterations--regardless of the appropriateness--it becomes clear that the Giant Robot is some kind of Japo-Jungian archetype. Kind of like how all American heroes are basically cowboys in different wardrobes and situations...which is representative of our unconscious love of gay men.
RJP4 and I then spent the next hour or so trying to decipher what the Giant Robot may mean as a cultural symbol. I think most of Japan's fucked-uppedness in the eyes of the West can be traced back to the whole we dropped the World's most devastating weapon on them--twice. Unfathomable violence and destruction has the tendency to make people a little weird. Is it any wonder that the Japanese culture fetishizes innocence to a degree that would embarrass Holden Caufield? I mean, we disintegrated their children.
But that is really a separate and more disturbing discussion. I think that the Giant Robot fetish can also be traced back to that whole atomic business. It makes sense that a people that affected by devastating technology would in turn attempt to anthropomorphize and redirect that technology as some kind of protector. And who is it that almost always pilots or controls these Giant Robots? At least, in the original Japanese TV shows, it's most often children. Done and done. Another culture psychoanalyzed by Canada Jackson and RJP4, Existential Detectives.
The West has their own cultural warnings against nuclear warfare: post-apocalyptic visions of the future where the land is afire and Mel Gibson wanders in the midst of murder machines or vampires or zombies or vampire-zombies. But all of these are insufficient caveats. The strongest reason why we should never use nuclear arms is Japan. Japan shows us that the atomic bomb is more of a pervert bomb than anything else, and we would only surive through fondling each other on subways and showing hardcore animated sex on Saturday mornings.
"Look upon my works, ye mighty..."
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
In a time when The Ninja Turtles are no longer just sewer dwelling bad-asses, but (I kid you not) futuristic warriors in space, I find solace in knowing that Nerf has avoided this bullet. Too often I awake early on a Saturday morning and put on cartoons only to find myself confused and upset by what I see. How many idiotic anime monsters/card/robot battling shows do we need? I’m pretty sure most of us remember the tremendously retarded re-imagining of the Looney Tunes as “Loonatics.” Only some one on a bad acid trip could possible think of re-imagining Bugs Bunny as “Ace Bunny,” and giving him (I swear to God) “Laser vision” and a “Guardian Strike Sword.” Who let this get past development? Did they give the keys to CEO office to a bunch of fat, anime obsessed, 12-year-olds who think shirts with dragons on them is “phat?” Jesus Christ!
But I digress. Nerf is still bad ass. The Nerf bow and arrow was my first Nerf weapon. I remember spending hours in my backyard shooting the arrows at absolutely nothing. My arsenal quickly grew and became increasingly more vicious as I grew older. Nerf wars became a common event in my house and neighborhood. The only thing that stopped us was when we lost all our darts. The zenith of my Nerf gun tooting years came when I was given “The Ulimator.” This gun was all business. If this gun were a man, he would beat the crap out of vegans while he wore a fur coat. And to top it off, he’d knock up your girlfriend. I remember reading the warning on the side of the gun, “Do not shoot at people or animals,” and instantly wanting to see if I could hit my cat from across the yard. My cats soon recognized the sound of any Nerf gun being pumped and would scatter at the sound only to reluctantly crawl out from under the couch hours later. The recoil on this bad boy was enough to leave a bruise on your face if you held it wrong and when fired sounded like you snapped a leaf spring in half.
The new Nerf guns seem to becoming better with age. Who would have ever though that an automatic Nerf gun was possible. These people did. I want this gun like a middle-aged single woman wants a baby. Seeing this in the insert blew my mind, and made me proud to still have my Nerf guns safely tucked away in my basement.
The bottom line is this: if people actually read this crap, we might actually keep it up. If people actually comment on our posts, we might actually keep it up. Otherwise we might get distracted by some shiny object and wander off--and definitely not keep it up.
So if you want our kids to eat, and if you want us to be able to maintain our hedonistic lifestyle of gold-plated hooker parties, you'll help make this shit popular.
Until we get famous and forget all about you.
Yours in Christ,
Saturday, December 13, 2008
My parents had recently bought brand new garbage cans in an attempt to thwart some very determined squirrels from getting into the cans and scattering the garbage all over the driveway and the neighbor’s yard. The new garbage cans with their “innovative” locking lids seemed to be successful at first, there was no new garbage strewn about the driveway for what seemed like days. The squirrels were persistent and we soon began to notice claw and teeth marks on the lids of the cans. These scratches and gouges soon turned into gaping holes that the squirrels used to get in and out of the cans letting them return to their favorite pastime of spreading garbage all over the driveway. We never saw them come or go, we only saw the results of their escapades. That was all about the change one fateful morning.
I had off from school and my mom had compiled a list of chores that looked to me like enough evidence to get her charged with child labor. The first chore on the list was to take out the garbage, which was usually an unassuming task. The garbage cans are located right next to the side door of my house; making taking out the trash is a very simple. You open the door, turn immediately to the left and drop the garbage in the can.
On this fateful morning, when I opened the side door and turned to my left my eyes met with those of a squirrel. The squirrel quickly dove back into the hole in the lid of the can in a futile attempt to escape. At this point, I made what seemed to me to be the most logical decision possible for a 13 year-old boy. I decided to teach the squirrel a lesson.
I dropped the garbage back on the steps and proceeded to kick the side of the garbage can as hard as I could while yelling “DIE SQUIRREL!” I knocked the garbage can onto its side with all my strength and pounded on it, kicked it, rolled it tossed it up and down the driveway with vigor all while cursing up a storm and stringing profanities together into new and creative ways.
“Dumb Ass Motherfucker!”
“I’ll teach you Bitch!”
“Cock Ass Bitch Whore!”
“Bastard Bitch Mom!”
“Crap on your day!”
“Fuck you rodent bastard!”
“Rot in hell, you dick bitch!”
“You ass mongrel!”
I have no idea how long I pummeled the garbage can, but in my grand finale I raised the garbage can above my head, squirrel still inside, and spiked it on the ground with a triumphant roar. Now gasping for breath and standing over the seemingly defeated garbage can I looked down the length of the driveway towards the street to discover that my mailman had witnessed this whole bizarre act. The mail for my house in his hand, he stared at me with completely bewildered face. I don’t know how much he had witnessed, but by the expression on his face, he had seen enough to come to the conclusion that I was certifiably insane.
Realizing the man who delivers the mail to my house every day had witnessed what looked like an act of blind rage upon an inanimate object, I felt the need to try and justify what he had just seen. In all my infinite wisdom as a 13 year-old boy I said in a crackling voice, “There is a squirrel in there and I’m trying to scare it.” The look of bewilderment still on his face, he nodded to me and proceeded to put the mail in our mailbox and walk away.
Feeling like a total fool I looked down at the garbage can with a look of defeat only to see the squirrel run out of the garbage can and up a tree entirely unharmed.
Recently at [Demarcations] I was talking with an older employee about comic strips. This, of course, made me think of Calvin and Hobbes--with which he had little contact. As we were talking about the strip I had a very sad realization: Calvin and Hobbes has become anachronistic--dated! It focuses on a boy who spends the majority of his time outside, building forts and snowmen and riding in a wagon. The kid also has an imagination so powerful that it shakes the foundation of the material world he lives in: dinosaurs flying fighter jets, cardboard box time machines, and that constant, fabricated companion.
I'm afraid that the generations after mine would look at this strip and see nothing of a foothold. No context, no frame of reference. When I was a kid I seem to recall being nearly always outside. I climbed trees. I dug massive holes for the hell of it. I went to the park and rode my bike, and I remember being called from the back porch as the sun went down. But now it is rare for me to see any kids in the neighborhood. Sometimes, as I am going to work, I see them slogging their way up to the old John J. Audubon School #42--and sometimes I see them slogging their way home. But that is it. The park is full of old people and young couples with dogs. I haven't seen anyone on a bike here in ages--at least, anyone who didn't have sunglasses and lycra shorts.
And this is how I know I am old. I have started my what's-with-the-kids-these-days speeches. Next I'll be confiscating errant frisbees (if there were any) and lose my ability to use a remote control. But I really do feel that these generational changes are significant--moreso, perhaps, then the one behind me complaining about "the rap music and the em tee vee."
I think it is better for kids to be outside getting scrapes and bruises and playing tag or Cowboys and Indians than screaming homophobic obscenities at each other while one of their avatars teabags another.
I think that if this generation had a Calvin he would be a fat, lonely little fuck altogether medicated and crushed out of existence. We could call it "Calvin and No One," because he sure as hell wouldn't be able to imagine his way out of a paper bag, let alone come up with a separate being. Whereas the previous had remarkable insights and thoughtful observations, this bright and shining new Calvin would have fingertips stained orange from Cheeto-dust, pale skin from constant illumination-by-monitor, and would most likely grow up and go Columbine on all our asses.
Sweet Jesus, I just went back and read what I wrote and I come off as one of those internet assholes that are so popular these days. Sorry to put my grumpy pants on, all. But what else are blogs for but the late-night airings of our indignant rages passed off as legitimate social commentary and criticism?
The next post will be back on track. And will most likely mention vomit. I am noticing a pattern.
Friday, December 12, 2008
But beyond the shuffling and vomiting hordes, [Demarcations] also provides its many services to some genuinely astonishing people. Tonight I had the pleasure of helping a young boy who had clearly traveled through space and time from the distant lands of what can only be called "1992."
(I have done a Google Image Search of the phrase "1992" in order to better show what I mean, but I got distracted by one of the results:This woman, who looks considerably like television's Ricky Gervais. She is also a "traffic manager" from 1992.)
At first I was struck by the time traveler's appearance: light blue tapered jeans; an oversized striped sweater of the colors green, orange, and red; white high top sneakers; a green down vest; and a perfectly shaped blond semi-mullet. Unlike a regular mullet, which was worn primarily by the lower class (a tradition carried on today only by idiot sub-humans), the semi-mullet was the rich man's mullet--being business in the front and slightly more drunken business in the back. For those of us who grew up televisually inclined, think of the blond Taylor child on Home Improvement.
Next came the mysterious time-wanderer's request: He wanted the Simpsons. "Ye Gods!" thought I. Trapped in the confines of the early nineties, this poor soul has yet to see the fate of the Simpsons! Sure that he would not believe me, I--with heavy heart--led him back to the glass DVD cases, where I unlocked for him seasons four and five.
After my brief encounter, I thought that he had gone. But he returned again to continue marveling me with his antiquated tastes and behaviors. He approached me, apologizing for taking up my time again. Can you imagine? A child! Apologizing and being needlessly polite! He wanted to purchase another boxed set--this one of some wrestling business. How can this boy afford all these boxed sets, I thought. But then, slapping my forehead, I remembered: the nineties were times of economic prosperity. Mulleted children with day glow slap bracelets and deep seated fears of a Negro President scampered around buying ridiculous shit all the time. Such a strange and terrifying world this boy had come from: a land where Sonic the Hedgehog is a cultural icon, where the "overall" is not extinct, and Star Wars--Oh! Those beautiful Star Wars!--remains unblemished. He probably still played outside, thought computers were only for doing math problems, and had never called anyone a "gay ass bitch faggot" after they "killed" him in cops and robbers.
As he left the building--surely to disappear in a ball of lightning--I could not help but think of such a brave old world.
But then some crazy motherfucker tossed his biscuits in the bathroom.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Mr. R: I love this comic! This is one of my favorites.
Mr. R: I always loved the ones when Calvin is in the snow.
At this point M stares directly at me for about a second, breaks eye contact and licks the page from top to bottom.
Mr. R: M, Why did you do that?
M: I dunno.
Like I said before, M likes to keep me on my toes.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
During the fourth grade lunch period I walk around the cafeteria and make sure that some form of decorum is kept. On this day, I was called over by A, who told me that he had something to tell me.
A: Mr. R! Guess what?
Mr. R: What?
A: My cousin is hot!
This statement may be true, but is none the less disturbing.
Sports Quiz is not dead. They tried to kill us with such things as standards and decency--and other thoroughly unamerican things--but we are back. At least, we hope we are back.
The plan, if we can ever be said to have anything of that sort, is to continue on this "Internet web log" contraption. And after that? Who knows. Perhaps The Man will shut us down again. Or, more likely, we will get bored and wander off.
Either way, stay tuned. We are your friendly neighborhood freaks in the corner--and everybody sucks but us.