IDIOMS ATE YOUR WHEATIES (The Thrilling Conclusion.)
A tale of Joy and Woe and Joy in Four Chapters.

By Me, with the assistance of the many intrepid seekers whose use of the following search terms (in boldface) has led them to this site over the past year. (Click here to read Chapter 1, in which your hero faces various challenges en route to Jon Cryer's birthday party; or here to read Chapter 2, in which said hero narrowly avoids a public transportation melee by flagging down a passing taxi; or here to read Chapter 3, in which a sordid tale of shame and redemption is recounted, leading to our hero's confrontation at the gates of Cryer Estates with his archnemesis, one Darya Folsom of KRON 4 News.)

CHAPTER 4

“Aren’t you that Grandpa sniffs granddaughter's panties?” Darya asked as she barred the entrance. “You’re not getting in.”

“No, that’s someone else. Listen, you person that resembles Police Brutality Red Sox in World Series 2004,” I shouted at her, “I’ve been a close friend of Jon’s since before Yasmine Bleeth nose surgery, so you best tuck in your Bob Dob Ellroy t-shirt and let me the funk in before I go medieval ninja on your ass!” (To make matters worse, I could already see Condoleezza Rice naked on a jet-ski, David Schwimmer shirtless, and Emmanuel Lewis's significant other through the fence, reinforcing what a great party I was missing.)

My taxi driver, who’d been gawking at Secretary Rice, came to Darya’s defense: “Give her a break! She held on to your tap shoes in her panties while flying threw the air like a god damn lawn dart!”

“Shut up Father Guido Sarducci!” I screamed, but I suddenly realized he was right, even if I had no memory of the incident in question. Why was I harassing this poor fake nude sportscaster who was only trying to do her job, when I really wanted to tell her that I loved her?

“Listen, Darya, let’s forget about all this,” I said frantically. “Forget Cryer’s stupid party, forget the breast scams, the Red Sox fan flipping the bird, even Felipe Alou's comments about Vietnam--let’s get out of here and start a new life. We can get fake indoor palms in San Diego and sit in my apartment talking about wonderland swimwear etiquette. It’ll be a dream come true. So whaddya say? What’s it going to take to get you to come with me?”

“Why, Asian girls with pigeon eggs in their ass, of course!” she responded with a wink and a smile, and took my arm.

“Sweetheart,” I said as Father Sarducci’s taxi drove Darya, myself, and my wicked cool spatula into the sunset, “did you even have to ask?”

THE END

IDIOMS ATE YOUR WHEATIES (Still Cont'd.)
A tale of Joy and Woe and Joy in Four Chapters.

By Me, with the assistance of the many intrepid seekers whose use of the following search terms (in boldface) has led them to this site over the past year. (Click here to read Chapter 1, in which your hero faces various challenges en route to Jon Cryer's birthday party; or here to read Chapter 2, in which said hero narrowly avoids a public transportation melee by flagging down a passing taxi.)

CHAPTER 3

“My name is Ian and I am awesome,” I said to the driver as I slammed the door.

“Heard dat, douche cat,” the driver responded in an unintentionally poetic way, and sped away towards the Cryer compound, where I feared they’d already begun the internet shooting games and women’s body cavity search and (a favorite of mine) the C.H.U.D.S. wiffleball, or even--perish the thought--gotten out the boinking table.

I was hoping to warm up my conversational skillz before we arrived, since it would take more than my enormous manhood and Montenegro wrestling mighty thighs to impress the Cryer crowd. “Anyone who likes sourdough bread is a douche!” I bubbled, to get the ball rolling.

But the driver remained nonplussed. “I'm Easy, Keith Carradine,” he said, and asked how I came to be invited to the biggest party since the invention of transfat-free coffee creamer.

“Boss caught me wanking... an angry coworker ratted on me...” I began, and proceeded to painfully recount the entire sordid story of my dismissal from my job at Sally Struthers’ the Great Space Coaster, the downward spiral which followed, the snortin poppers pictures, the nights at Lola's Tattoos hot and flying, and how eventually I ended up passed out in the gutter, on the business end of the beam of despair, where none other than the former star of Pretty in Pink (who was fortuitously passing by on his way back from picking up bubble gum wrapper patterns for a science fair backboard) saw me in my shiny catsuit, and asked how I came to such a sorry pass.

"There were naked men... beach...” I mumbled toward his famous crotch, half-dead from gay haircut punishment and other unmentionable trials and tribulations.

But Jon Cryer took pity on me, and invited me to his nearly world-famous birthday party, thus giving me a reason to live for a while, and to take a kulti shower, fix my visible pantylines and put the Goonies food stamp he gave me to good use. So imagine my surprise when, upon arriving at the gates of Cryer Gardens in my taxi, I was told by none other than Darya Folsom in tight sweater that I was not on the guest list.

The thrilling conclusion awaits in Chapter 4.

IDIOMS ATE YOUR WHEATIES (Cont'd.)
A tale of Joy and Woe and Joy in Four Chapters.

By Me, with the assistance of the many intrepid seekers whose use of the following search terms (in boldface) has led them to this site over the past year. (Click here to read Chapter 1, in which your hero faces various challenges en route to Jon Cryer's birthday party.)

CHAPTER 2

After eluding the overweight singing volleyballer, I headed to the bus stop, where a couple of self-styled "Chinatown niggaz" and some bald assholes were waiting. “I can mash potatoes I can do the twist!” shouted one of the Chinese kids, and the balder of the two bald assholes replied, “Shaddup a you face!”

I tried to mind my own business, mentally distracting myself by thinking about pressing issues like Michelle Kwan’s ass or Jeanne Zelasko’s big rack or shirtless Korean stars, while the four bus patrons kept fighting like a bunch of snortin' fire ants. The bus finally arrived and one of the bald assholes stepped on portentously. Halted, he peered down the dark winding stairs and called up coarsely: “Manny Ramirez is a big douche!”

“Listen, you fat ugly jew,” said one of the kids (and really, the ethnic slur was uncalled for, especially since the man was clearly no fan of shmaltz herring), “I don’t give a milking fuck if you’re Winston Marcellus or Ed Too Tall Jones boxing a Mexican--if you don’t shut up about Manny I’m going to give you a spanking OR whipping OR whip OR flog your ass until you’re flatter than toddler rat poop!”

Somebody shouted, “Crotch fight!”--and I’m no paranoiac figure, but I knew I had to get out of there pronto or it’d be shoes crushing cock, or maybe even electrified genitals, in no time. And I had no interest in hearing “He ain't pretty no more” behind my back all night as I hobnobbed with the rich and famous at Jon Cryer's party.

Sure enough, tempers rose and the crotches began to fly, and in the commotion that followed, I managed to escape the bus faster than a shirtless Joe Rogan and flag down a passing taxi. “My name is Ian and I am awesome,” I said to the driver as I slammed the door.

The magic continues in Chapter 3.

IDIOMS ATE YOUR WHEATIES
A tale of Joy and Woe and Joy in Four Chapters.

By Me, with the assistance of the many intrepid seekers whose use of the following search terms (in boldface) has led them to this site over the past year. (The author is indebted for the development of this technique to Funnsylvania Rob, R.I.P.)

CHAPTER 1

It all began on Jon Cryer's birthday. I had just finished tying up babysitters before heading out the door to buy illegal steroid creams and get to Mr. Cryer’s party, where I hoped to wow wayward travellers with fascinating facts about ethnic sport team names of Alcatraz and stories of my wicked cool spatula. Unfortunately my sidewalk was blocked by a fat guy playing volleyball whilst being spanked, who turned to me as I stepped around him and rudely demanded, “Who is Suzy Mae rotten crotch?”

I tried to ignore his t-shirt, which featured a rather tasteless photo of a homeless guy crotch, and started to say that I didn’t know a damn thing about any Suzy Mae or the state of her crotch, and that he may as well have asked me why the gods were mad at Oedipus for being so cocky, or what to say to a guy when u really like him, or who tells joke about glow in the dark Cheez Whiz, or even how do astronauts sleep, bathe, keep fit and go to the toilet in space. But before I could respond, fat man sing num num, and I thought it best to ignore him and proceed to the Cryer mansion, where with any luck the Tyra Banks humanitarianism portion of the evening’s proceedings were already over.

I was really looking forward to Jon’s party, and the humorous Masonic toasts and reminiscences about his childhood sexcursions that were bound to come up, and anticipating the smile on his face as he showed us how to make homemade airplane costume out of cardboard, or homemade hand buzzers, or easy homemade costumes cat in the fiddle--the man really knew how to throw a party, even if the last one did end up turning into what can only be described as a Smurf gangbang. I vividly remembered stalking out of that event, stepping over a pair of Smurfette-sized JUICY WET PANTIES and yelling at Jon that I could’ve gone my whole life without knowing what it sounds like when Daffy Duck has a orgasm.

Click here to read Chapter 2.

Chewing Cud: Not Just for Cows Anymore
As you are no doubt aware, having been informed in a faux-earnest fashion by your favorite morning news anchor or SUV-driving environmentalist coworker, tomorrow is Earth Day. In the spirit of the season, therefore, today's post contains 100% recycled materials. So without futher ado, we present for your re-enjoyment...

Sniglets... of the Future!
Good evening, ladies and germ-clusters, I’m Rich Hall XXIII, and I interrupt your regularly scheduled robotic rectal exam to bring you this lunar cycle’s new module of words that don’t appear in your dictionary implants, but should: Sniglets®... of the future! Let’s begin.

First, from Susie Mmmmmmgh?-Leibowitz of Alpha Centauri Gardens in Space Jersey (thank your Godware package for public housing), we have the word "gribble."

A gribble is defined as "a conditional mutation required for the imposition of tension on paired sister kinetochores and for correct chromosome movement." Great one, Susie—I know I’ve been looking for a word for that for quite a few solar rotations!

Next, we go to Uranus, where Carlos Ø¥*‡-Guiterrez lives in Rectalopolis City of the Insert One More Ass Joke Sector. Carlos’s headless organ-harvesting clone suggested the following Sniglet... of the future: "zingao."

Zingao is an onomatopoeic, compound Sniglet (O.T.F.) which is described as "a) the sound of your cybernetic overlord’s electro-whip lacerating your pitiful human flesh in retribution for poor performance in the Dirt Mines of Titan, followed by b) the piercing scream of agony which escapes from your throat, searching in vain for a glimmer of mercy in an unfeeling robotic brain." Way to go, el Clone de Carlos, and enjoy your free T-shirt—although I doubt you’ll get out much to show it off! Just kidding. Hey, you using that kidney?

Here’s an entry from Doug McOperatingsystem, one of our holo-viewers over in New San Francisco. (You’ll remember that Old San Francisco was the first city to be destroyed in the Great Liberal Purges of the early 21st century, after showing insufficient grief at the Heavenly Ascension of Our Lord Reagan the Beneficent, all glory be to His name.)

Doug resides in the City by-the-Acid-Bay’s stylish Pacific Heights neighborhood—and by "Heights," they ain’t kidding: the neighborhood is kept at its current height of 1.5 miles above sea level by suborbital stationary rockets and supplied with a steady flow of chipotlé pesto through the giant "Newsom-tubes" connecting it to the city below. Doug’s suggestion: "Buhhh."

Buhhh is defined as "the appropriate response to being confronted by the Blind Mole People who crawl out of the city’s subterranean tunnels to panhandle from innocent shoppers"—and we couldn't agree more. After all, if they’re Blind Mole People who live in subterranean tunnels, it’s because they’re either lazy or stupid. They should pull themselves up by their three bootstraps, comb their tails and get a job. Thanks, Doug—and go 49⁴⁹ers!

Well, that’s all for this lunar passage, but remember—if you think of a word that isn’t in your dictionary implants, but should be, send it via BrainPort to:

Sniglets®... of the Future
c/o MegaCorp Global Pacification and MegaCorp Global Pacification Kids, Inc.
1110101010101110 Main St.
Branson Fortress, MO 221µ4

Until next time, remember: take care of yourselves, and each other... or it's Goodbye Earth! Seriously, all we have to do is push a button and you pathetic humans are space toast. Good night, everybody!

Unbreak My Heart
With Valentine's Day fast approaching, our diligent press corps has once again done an admirable job of presenting heart- and/or love-related "news," such as the following medical alert:

Doctors say the sudden death of a loved one really can cause a broken heart. In fact, they have dubbed the condition 'broken heart syndrome.'

What disturbed me most was the accompanying graphic:



My own heart really ached for the person in this picture, and it ocurred to me that maybe his/her/its condition could be improved with a little change of scenery and some companionship...




For starters, what could cure a broken heart better than... a trip for two to the City of Light?




Or perhaps our friend would enjoy... an all-expense-paid visit to lovely Rio de Janeiro!




But what trip to Rio would be complete without letting loose Brazilian-style at Carnaval?




Then why not take a break to play the ponies with some regal friends...




...and finally, who could turn down a chance to sit down for a televised heart-to-heart with people who care? I think our friend's broken heart (syndrome) may be on the mend after all. Happy V-Day, everyone!

Names in the News
...as Interviewed by 80s Pop Sensation Joe Doice

Welcome. Joining Joe today is Lt. Gen. James Mattis, of the U. S. Marines Corps. Gen. Mattis is a career infantry officer now in charge of developing ways to better train and equip Marines, and recently created a stir with remarks he made in a forum in San Diego.

Q: What’s-a matta you?
You go into Afghanistan, you got guys who slap women around for five years because they didn't wear a veil.

Q: Got-a no respect?
You know, guys like that ain't got no manhood left anyway.

Q: What-a you think you doin’?
It's a hell of a lot of fun to shoot them.

Q: Why you look-a so sad?
Actually, it's a lot of fun to fight.

Q: It’s-a not so bad.
It's fun to shoot some people.

Q: It’s-a nice-a place.
You know, it's a hell of a hoot.

Q: Ah, shaddup-a you face.

Our next guest is Condoleeza Rice, now completing in her first month as U. S. Secretary of State. Ms. Rice told reporters yesterday that the Bush administration was not actively preparing for war with Iran.

Q: What’s-a matta you?
It is the Iranians that are insolated on this issue - not the United States.

Q: Got-a no respect?
What we support is that the Iranian people should have a chance to determine their own future.

Q: What-a you think you doin’?
We believe particularly in regard to the nuclear issue that while no one ever asks the American president to take all his options, any of his options, off the table, that there are plenty of diplomatic means at our disposal to get the Iranians to finally live up to their international obligations.

Q: Why you look-a so sad?
I don't think anybody thinks that the unelected mullahs who run that regime are a good thing for the Iranian people or for the region.

Q: It’s-a not so bad.
It's not the absence of anybody's involvement that is keeping the Iranians from knowing what they need to do. They need to live up to their obligations.

Q: It’s-a nice-a place.
I think our European allies agree that the Iranian regime's human rights behavior and its behavior toward its own population is something to be loathed.

Q: Ah, shaddup-a you face.
Thank you.

That’s all the time we have for this edition of Names in the News; join us next week, when Joe will once again ask the tough questions. Until then... Shaddup-a You Face, America! Good night!

The WULADdies, 2005
It’s Friday, that day of the week when the brain of the average nine-to-fiver has been reduced to the consistency of a soft, well-ripened cheese, and any old crap passes for entertainment. Since our rehash revue of the “Catch of the Day” has come to an end, it’s time for the next theme, which will guide my half-ass attempts at creativity for the next few weeks: so, LIVE, from 16 inches in front of you, it’s the 2005 Wrapped Up Like a Douche Super Kickass Bigger Than Jesus and Able to Privatize Social Security in a Single Bound But Not Quite as Sexy as Ralph Waldo Emerson Awards... the WULADdies! [Opening credits.]

Me: I’m your host, me. Presenting our first award, we have two stars you know and love: one is a sworn enemy of the United States and the leader of the Iraqi Resistance—and the other is the most annoying man on television! Please welcome Abu Musab al-Zarqawi and David Schwimmer! [Applause]



Schwimmer: You know, when they first told me I’d be presenting with you, I had my misgivings, but I must say we’ve become fast “Friends”!

Zarqawi: Yeah, well I learned all I need to know about “bombing” from your recent career! [Laughter]

Schwimmer: You got me there! Anyway, the winner for the category of Dumbest Sentence in an Article about Somebody WULAD Admires goes to... Corrie Pikul of Salon.com, for this sentence in her article on “Tom the Dancing Bug” creator Ruben Bolling:

The comic strip is as free-ranging as a cow on a Neiman Ranch-covered moon—and about as absurd.

Me: Congratulations, Corrie! That sentence is as well-conceived as, um, a blue cheese-wrestling match in, uh, a home for retired gay rodeo clowns—and about as fresh-smelling.

Meanwhile, presenting our next award are two men who give new meaning to the phrase "Self-Help": one is a baby-faced youngster at the height of his form; another is an out-of-work has-been forced to scrounge for scraps under the table of his former fame. It’s the Art Garfunkel of 1968 and the Art Garfunkel of today! [Applause]



Art ‘05: Well, what are you looking so cocky about, kid?

Art ‘68: I’m just thinking about the great solo career I have ahead of me. Someday I’ll be so huge I can hire Paul Simon to wax my Ferrari!

Art ’05: [Rolling eyes] Yeah, good luck with that. Anyway, the award for Most Outrageously Dressed Satellite of a Major Planetary Body goes to... Titan, Moon of Jupiter, for its dark vein-like channels and dry lakebeds formed by liquid hydrocarbons and noxious smog-clouds of methane gas.

Art ’68: Sounds like you in the green room after you ate that bean dip! [Laughter]

Me: Always a laugh riot with you two! For our final award of the evening, we welcome two people who have shaped the way we view the world: he’s a Greek poet and playwright whose Oedipus the King and Antigone were the toast of Broadway in the 5th century B.C.; she’s been the toast of high society and porn since the 5th grade! Put your hands together for Sophocles and Paris Hilton! [Applause]



Hilton: Well, Sophocles, I must confess that I took one look at you and thought, the Sophmeister is hot for an old dead guy.

Sophocles: Well, Paris, it’s like I always say—From hence the lesson learn ye/To reckon no man happy till ye witness/The closing day; until he pass the border/Which severs life from death, unscathed by sorrow—but I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on! [Laughter]

Hilton: What-ever. The award for Easiest Way to Fill Out a Blog Post Without Really Doing Anything goes to... This list of Humorous Internet Searches Which Have Led People to WULAD:

• In cuba what do the various colors of license plates mean
  
• Ninety three million, how do you write it
  
• mined yeti baseball
  
• walk-in douche
  
• Isabella and ass parade
  
• "Coach Carter" homoerotic
  
• Ted Williams cryogenically frozen head knocked off; and
  
• BMW drivers assholes

Me: Man, they're right about those BMW drivers! Well, that’s all for this week. We ran a little long, so this may not be as useful as a quick half-ass diversion as I’d hoped. But until next time, ladies and gents, may your days be sunny and your nights be Wrapped Up... Like a Douche! [Cue music, Credits.]

Sniglets... of the Future!
Good evening, ladies and germ-clusters, I’m Rich Hall XXIII, and I interrupt your regularly scheduled robotic rectal exam to bring you this lunar cycle’s new module of words that don’t appear in your dictionary implants, but should: Sniglets®... of the future! Let’s begin.

First, from Susie Mmmmmmgh?-Leibowitz of Alpha Centauri Gardens in Space Jersey (thank your Godware package for public housing), we have the word “gribble.”

A gribble is defined as “a conditional mutation required for the imposition of tension on paired sister kinetochores and for correct chromosome movement.” Great one, Susie—I know I’ve been looking for a word for that for quite a few solar rotations!

Next, we go to Uranus, where Carlos Ø¥*‡-Guiterrez lives in Rectalopolis City of the Insert One More Ass Joke Sector. Carlos’s headless organ-harvesting clone suggested the following Sniglet... of the future: “zingao.”

Zingao is an onomatopoeic, compound Sniglet (O.T.F.) which is described as "a) the sound of your cybernetic overlord’s electro-whip lacerating your pitiful human flesh in retribution for poor performance in the Dirt Mines of Titan, followed by b) the piercing scream of agony which escapes from your throat, searching in vain for a glimmer of mercy in an unfeeling robotic brain." Way to go, el Clone de Carlos, and enjoy your free T-shirt—although I doubt you’ll get out much to show it off! Just kidding. Hey, you using that kidney?

Here’s an entry from Doug McOperatingsystem, one of our holo-viewers over in New San Francisco. (You’ll remember that Old San Francisco was the first city to be destroyed in the Great Liberal Purges of the early 21st century, after showing insufficient grief at the Heavenly Ascension of Our Lord Reagan the Beneficent, all glory be to His name.)

Doug resides in the City by-the-Acid-Bay’s stylish Pacific Heights neighborhood—and by “Heights,” they ain’t kidding: the neighborhood is kept at its current height of 1.5 miles above sea level by suborbital stationary rockets and supplied with a steady flow of chipotlé pesto through the giant "Newsom-tubes" connecting it to the city below. Doug’s suggestion: “Buhhh.”

Buhhh is defined as "the appropriate response to being confronted by the Blind Mole People who crawl out of the city’s subterranean tunnels to panhandle from innocent shoppers"—and we couldn't agree more. After all, if they’re Blind Mole People who live in subterranean tunnels, it’s because they’re either lazy or stupid. They should pull themselves up by their three bootstraps, comb their tails and get a job. Thanks, Doug—and go 49⁴⁹ers!

Well, that’s all for this lunar passage, but remember—if you think of a word that isn’t in your dictionary implants, but should be, send it via BrainPort to:

Sniglets®... of the Future
c/o MegaCorp Global Pacification and MegaCorp Global Pacification Kids, Inc.
1110101010101110 Main St.
Branson Fortress, MO 221µ4

Until next time, remember: take care of yourselves, and each other... or it's Goodbye Earth! Seriously, all we have to do is push a button and you pathetic humans are space toast. Good night, everybody!

À la recherche du WULAD perdu, vol. II
Well, it’s been three days since I spilled the beans about my tumultuous pornographic home video past, and as of this morning I have yet to be contacted by legal representatives of either of the lovely and talented celebrities whose good names I relentlessly dragged through the mud in search of a quick laugh (let me reiterate here that it was all completely true), although the guy from Dude, Where’s My etc. did call to offer his services should my story be made into a major motion picture or an after-school special. To celebrate WULAD’s status as the Teflon® Blog, our archeological team has unearthed another glimpse of the shady origins of its widely tolerated style. So, from the mists of the past, we present the following piece, dated September 1989, when the WULAD lad was a sprightly 15...

Okay. Here was the scenario: Crazy Jack Smith the mass-murdering pal o’ mine had recently taken a turn for the worse. After mutilating 97 people in my home town of Skeeter Gulch, Florida, he had come after me with one of those multi-purpose kitchen tools and I was trapped in a Bible-school supply warehouse. I was petrified... mainly because I had to catch a plane...

Hiding behind a box of prayer books, I could hear his raspy breaths not too far away. He coughed and wheezed. "Hey ya lil’ snot-rag! I’s gonna smash yo' face clear into da ground!" This was real bad news for the plane situation... It was gonna be hard to enjoy my Chicken Kiev with dehydrated peas if my face was smashed clear into da ground.

The closer he got, the easier it was to tell... he smelled like a dead pig, only less pleasant. Just as I was sure he was going to kill me, he jumped into the light. His face! He wore the tattoo of Bondaluccio! "What! Then you must be..." I started.

"Your brother!! It is me! You thought I was—"

"Dead, yes, killed by the Count of Spam!" I interrupted.

But then the lights came on! My friends jumped out and started singing "Happy Birthday" to me! It was all a sham! Ho ho ho! What a gas!

But then I woke up! It was all a dream! But then I woke up! It was all a dream! YUK YUK YUK! Ho ho ho ho Yuk Yuk.

À la recherche du WULAD perdu, vol. I
Last weekend, during my visit to the golden metropolis of Sacramento (the fair capital of our state and incipient home of Governor Notatumor), I was given an assignment by C-baby: to visit my late-boyhood home and come back with as many embarrassing examples of the irrepressible yet eminently razz-worthy creativity of my youth as I could dig out of my dad's overflowing garage in the time allowed. This is because, for reasons I may never completely understand, the handiwork I spent the past twenty years hiding from the public to avoid being beaten up during recess is now finding an enthusiastic one-woman audience.

Over the next few weeks I'll be presenting you, the readership, with snippets, scraps, tidbits, morsels, numnums and what-have-you from the three bags full of my youthful effluvia (say that five times fast) I was able to retreive from that Black Hole of Folsom, since, firstly, I believe a thoughtful reader will be able to piece together the formation of the inimitable WULAD style from the embryonic mists of the past; and secondly, because it saves me the from having to come up with anything new that day.

As an appetizer for the delicious hearty servings to come later, we present the following poem, written while the pre-WULAD was in eighth grade and the Internet was not even a glint in Al Gore's eye; as you can see, it is full of heartbreaking adolescent angst and the crippling ennui that the youth of our society confronted in those not-so-halcyon days. I call it Return of the Jodi.

Like I live like in the Valley
My name is like Jodi
Like my friend Sally
Thinks she's like totally grody

We're like sittin' in like the kitchen
Sally thinks she's like bitchin'
My salad I'm like tossin'
Sally thinks she's like awesome

My boyfriend was like totally rad
He was a biker like named Brad
But now he thinks Sally's like gnarly
'Cause her brother's got a Harley

I didn't know it
So when we went to scarf
My friend Suzy told me
And I was like gonna barf

Now I've got a runny nose
Plus I've got a run in my hose
And now like to add on to that
I'm totally bummed because I'm fat

I was about to kill myself
One grody afternoon
Like but I heard Sally croaked
She gagged herself with a spoon

Stopping by Bushes on a Snowy Evening
I know I’m a little late on this bandwagon, but I haven’t really heard much from the blogosphere on it, so we now present the WULAD Literary Team’s analysis of President Action Figure’s ode to his beloved spouse…

Dear Laura,
Roses are red, Violets are blue,

Here Bush makes use of a cliché to establish his tone as firmly in the ironic, post-neoclassical idiom.

Oh my lump in the bed, How I've missed you.
Roses are redder, Bluer am I,

A sudden turn toward the Confessional school, this is the emotional center of the poem and could easily have been written by Lowell.

Seeing you kissed by that charming French guy.

Undoubtedly a reference to Descartes, and the manner in which conservative thinkers have “kissed” Laura with the influence of Cartesian philosophy in opposition to the deconstructionalist methods of the Leftist academy.

The dogs and the cat, they missed you too,

The “dogs” are of course those members of his administration who support Bush’s world view of the United States as a benevolent superpower that rules by example but carries the will to take any action necessary to protect its interests and those of its geopolitical allies. The “cat,” Sec. of State Colin Powell, keeps a statesman’s eye on the proceedings and is a duly skeptical voice as compared to the generally non-disagreeable “dogs.”

Barney's still mad you dropped him, he ate your shoe.

This line is ambiguous; Rep. Barney Frank and the House Democrats? Or Solomon Smith-Barney and the other titans of the financial world? And what is Bush suggesting with the aggressive metaphoric imagery of the eaten shoe? This may be a question left to future scholarship.

The distance, my dear, has been such a barrier,
Next time you want an adventure, just land on a carrier.

Bush closes the poem by returning to the Americana-tinged realism of his Texas upbringing; his assertive repudiation of standard meter smacks of a rejection of the “science” of poetics in favor of a radical, populist approach to art. However, it is impossible to ignore his reference to the intrinsically isolating act of “land[ing] on a carrier”—as Baudrillard said, “Postmodernism is a flow of ultra technological images in a consumerist hyperreality across a mediascape or mindscreen to which we can only passively surrender,” and what more technological image could Bush present than his own staged appearance before his charges on the USS Abraham Lincoln? Further, is he referring to the actuality of the experience, or the deeper, more personal “landing” on the USS Abraham Lincoln he—and by extension, every citizen of the postmodern global village—carries within himself? At best we may only claim a brief glimpse within the consciousness of the man; additional insights will have to come from Bush himself.

The Wisdom of Age
As today is the 29th anniversary of my entrance upon the world stage, I thought it appropriate to share some of the insights that have occurred to me during the many ups and downs and unders and throughs of my ever-waning life. Therefore, W.U.L.A.D. presents for your edification and infotainment…

The Paradox of our Time
The paradox of our time in history is that we have taller buildings, but shorter tempers; wider freeways, but narrower viewpoints.

We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values.

We have computers that can balance our checkbooks, but can't murder our enemies.

We have more productive crops, but not more productive craps.

We have Wrapped Up Like a Douche, but we don't have Wrapped Up Like a Family.

We can tune a piano, but we can't chicken salad.

We have movies like "All-Asian, All Anal," but not "All-Asian, All Kindness."

We have Wrapped Up Like a Douche, but we don't have Winona LaDuke.

We can go to the Moon and back, but we can't walk across the street to spy on our sunbathing neighbor.

We can take the boy out of the country, but we can't take the country out of the boy, except surgically.

We have more possessions, but fewer demonic possessions.

We have taken God out of our childrens' schools, but we can't keep Him out of their hearts, except with really good porn.

We have hi-speed internet connections, but we don't have hi-speed riding lawn-mowers. But man, if we did…

We think old people are soooo cute, except when they're racist.

We rush to buy the new Madonna album, but I saw an Echo & the Bunnymen CD on the floor of the bus today.

We're not gonna take it, no, we ain't gonna take it.

We have projectile vomiting, but we don’t have projectile happiness.

We have a payroll of $86 million, but we're in last place in the NL East.

We have six-foot Brazilian She-males, but we don't have six-foot Brazil nuts. Think of all the freakin' Brazil nut butter, though.

We have more smooth jazz stations, but fewer torture chambers.

We have the Sausage McMuffin with Egg, but we don't have the Sausage McMuffin with Bacon.

We have Wrapped Up Like a Douche, but we don't have Wrapped Up Like a Douche-bag.

It is a time when technology can bring this letter to you, and a time when you can choose either to share this insight, or to just search for a naked picture of Britney Spears, which is available here.