BEST MISSPELLING - MACROECONOMICS: Misspelled by Brittney Kaminsky at her sixth grade spelling bee in Madison, Wisconsin. Macroeconomics has three C’s, not two, Brittney, you stupid bitch.
SEXIEST MAN - ABE VIGODA: That Fish is one sexy bitch! And believe it or not he is still alive! At least he was when we printed this.

Come this September, I will have lived in this neighborhood for 22 years. And after all those years, I only have one desperate request to make of those who live around me: for the love of Christ, please stay the fuck off my lawn! Time and again, I’ve emerged from my front door only to find some reckless hoodlum traipsing across my fine plot of grass. Day in and day out, folks come from all around to trample my pride and joy: my yard. It’s as if assholes fall from the sky in some miraculous Old Testament display, and they just happen to land on my fabulous blades of emerald green.

It was 4am and I could hear them downstairs. She was with him in our own house. We had talked yesterday; the usual “Freedom and Independence” speech that every woman carries religiously in their purse, next to make-up and unclaimed phone numbers scrawled on bar napkins. She had even admitted there was another man, which I reluctantly took in stride.
“We can still be friends, can't we?”

My mother owned what I consider to be the most beautiful firearm I'd ever seen. It was a nickel-plated .38 Police Special, and it could be found just about anywhere in the house: next to the phone, atop a stack of magazines, in a basket of laundry-- wherever my mother happened to leave it lying loaded. The weight thrilled me. I'd often heft the pistol about the house whenever no one was looking. At eight, I understood the redneck pride involved in packing heat.

Ben handed the glass pipe back to Ryan, holding it in for as long as he could. He didn't want to look like a pussy, but he couldn't help it; his eyes were watering like crazy and his lungs were burning. He coughed uncontrollably. Fumbling blindly for the water bottle, he took a mouthful, but spat it out in a mist as he coughed again.

Once again I find myself flipping through the Rolodex of shit that is my cable system, looking for something, anything slightly entertaining. Nothing. Not even a glimmer of hope from the trusty Cartoon Network, and I missed SpongeBob and Invader Zim. Fuck! My next stop is a chunk of news channels to check out the news scroll. I find that those little blurbs of info are just enough to inform, intrigue, and thoroughly piss me the fuck off. Please note, some of this material may be a bit dated by the time you get this in your grubby little hands.

I’ve got an idea for a device. I guess you could call it an Electronic Descrambler. And when I build it, I will unlock what must have been one of the most clandestine languages ever to be used in the cloak and dagger arena.
The most popular hits of the ‘80s and early ‘90s all had common words in them. Silly crap like: “heart”, “passion”, usually the number “two”, “night”, and lots of “oh, baby” and “aw, yeah”. There were hundreds of fluffy phrases with no apparent purpose. It must have been both redundant and deeply insulting for a reason.
I think I now know the answer.

Last week, I put my shirt on. That's the true story, so remember it. My favorite “Alligator Wrestling” shirt has two metal buttons on it. Last week, as I was putting it on, I stupidly scraped them across my face and cut the top of my nose. A sizable chunk of skin was ripped away, leaving a bloody hole I didn't even notice until I looked in the mirror at Borders. I was completely embarrassed, having walked around the store for a good 15 minutes with a small stream of blood, flowing down the slope on my face.

[2] DECENCY
Well, whatever. I was back at Grandma's by 8pm. First thing I noticed was that large, beautiful television set-- gleaming in the living room, all bright and just asking you to channel hop until the early hours of the morning. Beside it lay a remote control that looked like some navigational device for a spaceship.
I smiled and thought maybe it was all for the best like this. Who needs Jesus and his fridge?