Some facts about your host that you might find interesting:

1. At the current pace, he does his laundry less than four times a year.

2. The host is currently experiencing sexual congress regularly with two individuals, with a steady average of four "encounters" a week between the two partners. This is due to functionality, and not part of any polyamorous relationship. In fact, your host's current expressions of sexual energy are largely a result of pure functionality. Hot and decidedly titillating functionality, needless to say, but largely an effort to regulate amounts of seminal fluid and corresponding levels of stupidity and violent self-directed rage. This strategy has proved largely successful.

3. He regularly consumes somewhere between 30 and 50 alcoholic beverages a week. This level has held steady since the Summer of 2003, and was directly preceeded by a robust escalation beginning in the fall of the year of our lord 2001.

4. The host experiences two or three dreams every week featuring one, and often all, of the following elements: a large cache of high-powered weapons, the bookstore where he used to work, an alien race made up of huge lizard beasts covered in white fur, bicycle messenger assasination squads, tornados, the bodies of his friends and loved ones ripped apart like ripe fruit before his eyes, and finally revenge in a spectacular globalthermalnuclear fashion. Needless to say, sleeping the last few weeks has been fun.

5. When, that is, your host can sleep at all. Approximately half of the host's time spent in bed in the last few weeks has been in a state of insomnia-induced "he wants to sleep but he can't sleep" catatonia. This catatonia averages about 2 1/2 hours per night, after which either the host falls into a thin slumber or gives up the ghost completely to smoke cigarettes and watch the late night rerun of Lou Dobbs Tonight.

Old Grey Whistle Test


I’ll tell you what it’s like. It’s like never having actually been in love with someone, but with a growing shadow you only see in retrospect, shading dismally over your last thousand days and all that they have meant to you. For an instant you remember a smile, or a touch, or a glance or a moment dancing in a crowded party and that memory is so much like dust now, a simple, plentiful thing that you have to clean up. Avoiding messes is your main priority, and it is hard. You want to be a mess, lash out at certain petty emotional injustices you had a hand in creating, drown your sorrows in Miller Lite until the world around you grows heavy and finite, more controllable, narrows down into a tiny sliver. But control is the hardest task, pretty much impossible. All you can do in response to the thudding, leaden machinations of your heart is listen to Crooked Fingers and pound Smirnoff until your senses are mere villains, and your bed is the only place you can stumble to.

Beautiful Shining Above Atomic Plant

Take a break from listening to the new Liberal Radio Mafia and check out a young lady from the Ukraine that rides her motorcycle through Chernobyl and takes pictures and makes a truly wicked 25 page or so web diary about what she sees. The pictures are mind-numbing enough, but her entries in rough English tell the real story. You and your magazines should do a story about this woman. If the last four pages of her diary don’t make you feel crazy, please hand in your humanity license at the front desk and make your reservation to join George Steinbrenner in the Seventh Circle of Hell. AND TELL HIM OZZIE SENT YOU WITH BEST WISHES FROM TINO MARTINEZ.

The liberal radio is kind of bugging me. You know? I hate Rush. I hate Hannity. I hate Ann Coulter. Not that she has a radio show of her own, but she does have conservative rage and writes books that make my balls shrink up into my kidneys because the fact that she is on the NYT best seller list means that Goebbels-esque discourse is so totally part of the national cant, not to mention that she looks like five twigs lashed together with scarecrow hair and I can hear the bracelets jangling on her tiny little wrists and that thought gives me a headache. Dunno why. Maybe I’m just imagining things about her jacket photo. Drudge makes me laugh, but he Dem bashes like G. Gordon Liddy in a prison shower, which tuckers me out. Pagilla likes him though. so WTF. But I’ll tell ya what I do like, and it’s sports radio.

Sports Talk Radio is so totally almost-macho and jokey and retardo that it has won me over, even when the jocks aren’t just talking about baseball. Every other commercial break has an ad for things like Pajama-grams to get your wife when she’s mad at you for raiding your kid’s college fund to pay off your bookie. That and Ultra-Carb weight loss pills that “work wherever the beer and pizza is affecting you. Because ladies notice!” This crapola comforts me. Pointless interviews with Bill Walton about his all-time Final Four team (UConn over Duke and then OK State this weekend, btw) comfort me. Tomorrow Dan Patrick will interview Hank Aaron. Who really cares what is said? He could call Babe Ruth a honky Yankee drunk he was glad to home school. Ta-dow! He won't cause he's a class act, but even if he was giving us his recipe for matza soup, you need that. It’s HANK FUCKING AARON. PREACH, HANK!

Easy goofball jocularity has a ring of the familiar to anyone who grew up loving sports, and it probably turns you off and I realize that I’ll never be able to convert you. But, hear me out. It’s never SMUG. I’m so tired of SMUG. Terry Gross sounds smug. Ira Glass, even if I often like his show. Al Franken talks like a dick stalk. Not to free associate all over your internet time, but I think smug is what killed Al Gore, and it could well kill John Kerry. Liberals need to wean themselves from the smug teat NOW. May I introduce you to Tony Kornheiser?

Call me Fishmeal. You know why I barely ever blog? If I'm not working, I'm reading. Or I'm watching C-Span. Have you ever watched a hearing of the U.S. Senate Select Committee on Foreign Relations with your hosts John Warner (R-Va) and Carl Levin (D-Mich)? I have a surprise for you! YOU DON'T NEED CABLE TELEVISION TO GET YOUR C-SPAN ON, SON! Did you know that you can in fact listen to every congressional whisper on the internet? Yes, my friend. Every subcommittee appropriation throwdown in splendid streaming Real Audio. George Tenent on the low post, Tom Daschle pawing at his dribble like Ron Artest. True Wonks know that the website for C-Span has all the White House press briefings, full congressional sessions and National Press Dinner meltdowns a Gov head could ever want. Not to mention Washington Journal, which is kinda like what the Today Show would be if the ‘Cock dumped Matt Lauer and Katie Couric in favor of Roll Call Editor (and former McLaughlin Group power forward) Morton Kondracke, had no commercial breaks or weather reports, dropped all the interviews with self-help and diet gurus and totally abandoned their stay-at-home mom constituency in favor of ultra-wonk freakouts and hours of random call-ins from inchoate citizen policy wizards who have encyclopedic knowledge about how to improve the corporate tax code and suddenly find themselves with some 1-800 airtime on nationally broadcasted cable TV. Follow that shit up with 120 minutes of Prime Ministers’ questions on the live and direct from the House of Commons and that ass is chronically entertained!

Dun, tell 'em Ozzie sent ya.

Some More Details of Her

In our enduring quest to display the most amusing/disgusting/incomprehensible web-based behaviors exhibited by males of our species, we here at Ozzie Guillen for Pres. present the following, from HowWasShe.com, perhaps the most base website we have ever encountered:

Comments By:cowboy49
Comments: Some more details of her. Told me one night that she thought about fucking one of my buddies and me at the same time and about an hour later there was a knock on the door and guess who it was. Bagged her on the first date and every date after that. Made the stupid mistake of marrying her and having 3 kids. The only saving grace of that is I got the kids after the divorce. Loved giving me head while I was driving and would hold her ass up in the air so everyone who was driving by would see. Would blow me anywhere and everywhere. On a school playground, in the back of my truck at a drive in, on an elevator, in a parking garage. You name it and she will do it. She now also has a cocaine problem and killed an old woman in a nursing home where she used to work by dropping her out of her wheelchair. Totally fucked up in the head, a complete psycho. Once stabbed me in the arm while I was holding our 3 month old son. Totally tricked her into leaving. Went out and bought a computer, got aol and gave her free run. Within 3 months she had an affair and that gave me the reason I needed to file for divorce. My advice to everyone, don't tap that ass but if you want a decent blowjob then go for it

In other, perhaps more palatable news, we are currently embarking on the second volume of the Left Behind series of books, Tribulation Force, and fully intend to eventually experience every volume in the series (but not the Kirk Cameron movie, duh). We have no idea why we are suffering such ridicule from our friends, but intend to ignore them. We are talking weird right now, it should be noted, because we are also attempting to read the Patrick O' Brian Aubrey/ Maturin adventure books in a rapid and sequential manner. Heave ho and all that. Very exciting stuff for devotedly Midwestern landlubbers like ourselves (and no, we haven't given up on the 3200 page/7 volume Vollman treatise on violence, Rising Up And Rising Down either).

Further updates on extreme forms of masculine stupidity to follow, obviously.

In order to satisfy a meaningless argument about whether or not CNN's Anderson Cooper is, in fact, the bastard child of Gloria Vanderbilt, I happened upon the following post at Celebstation.org:

I would like Anderson to pull down his pants and boxers so that we can see his blond pubic hair above his long smooth tinkle that hangs between his legs and then bend him over a news desk., so that I can spread his legs and we can have anal sex in which i finally crack anderson´s cherry!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The boundries of the human imagination are infinite.

This White Sox off-season has been the worst in recent memory. Who have we lost? Carl Everett. Roberto Alomar. Bartolo Colon. Tom Gordon. Scott Sullivan. Tony Graffanino. With nary a whimper, I might add. Who have we gained? Jose Uribe. At least we kept Scott Schoenweis! That's like saying your going to improve your jazz fusion band by spiking Jaco Pastorious' Crystal Light with hemlock and getting the bassist from Veruca Salt to be your main songwriter. Magglio = Cobham.

In Berto Center news, the Bulls have been playing like the turd burglars we suspect they might forever be. Eddy Curry is supposed to be the big man down low, a monster in the paint and on the post. He's a beast who should dominate opponents front lines with physical play, especially since he hasn't been a rookie since before 9/11. All he's done this year is to give goons like Brian Grant foul shots aplenty and generally embarass the franchise with his "jazz hands" ball control meltdowns. 6 rebounds a game? Al Jolson could give Curry a Marv Albert-style facial from his pine box. Dave Corzine had better stats, and he was the worst honky center this side of Bill Walton's old clipped toenails. Tyson Chandler, the other twin tower, sits on the bench waiting for Cortosone shots and complimentary boxes of Skittles while his back heals. Jamal Crawford is just like a young MJ, except he can't shoot, penetrate, work a passing lane or draw fouls better than a seventh grader. Worst of all, the United Center is full almost every game. Can you imagine what Bulls fans would do watching Ben Wallace and Chauncey B every night?