The FYC

Yeah, I know I promised you a Thanksgiving Week roundup, but once again, I am proved to be not just a first-class liar, but also an absolute a-hole. Nothing new there, really. You all knew that already.

Since I got distracted while trying to write up a recap of one of the greatest bachelor parties ever to be thrown (again, I'm sorry...you'll get it someday) I figured I'd give you something to read.

So, in honor of tonight's North Carolina v. Illinois matchup, and for that matter, the whole Big Ten - ACC Challenge, I give you:

No, I'm not dead (at least not anymore...truth be told, I was probably legally dead between the hours of 3 and 5 am on Sunday.)

I just got back into the Loo and am a little pressed for time, so I'll go ahead and make you a deal: I will be back with a Thanksgiving Week recap sometime within the next 24 hours, if you go over to The Phat Phree and read my revamped Keith Hernandez Curse article.

Deal? Deal.

And don't be shy on the voting, either.

See you later, folks.

Oh, it's getting hot on my website, but not in my house. Unfortunately, the tension running on the comments section to yesterday's post aren't able to warm up my home, which is suffering from an ill-working furnace and has left me very, very cold. (And, for the record, I like Canadians. Especially if they are bearded.)

In other news, my favorite week of the year has arrived. Thanksgiving Week!

Why is the week so beloved? Easy. There's wine, sports, beer, food, whiskey, strippers, more wine, and even more wine to be enjoyed over these next 9 days! You can't loose.

I'll be traveling up to Peoria on Sunday to do some dry-walling (the actual carpentry kind, not the metaphor for having sex while still wearing your clothes) at my parents house and staying up there all week to earn a little extra cash. Which I will need for my buddy Tito's bachelor party on Saturday. Should be top times.

So you won't be hearing from me this week. Sad, yes, but you'll survive.

If you are struggling to kill time at the office, the following are my substitutes:

For tomfoolery: Jason Mulgrew
For shenanigans: Slack LaLane
Sports: Deadspin
Cardinals: Viva El Birdos
Humor: The Phat Phree or McSweeneys

And with that, I'm gone.

Have a good Thanksgiving week everyone! And go ILLINI!

Towards the end of last week, as both the Marine Corps Birthday and Veterans Day were fast approaching, I received some beautiful cards from both friends and lovers, thanking me for my service to this great nation of ours.

As quick as I am to downplay any role in which I served to provide our great land with the freedom which we are still living under today, I am as quick to be proud of (hopefully) the great things which i did while serving. I was only one part of a giant, but delicate, machine. One which is unseen, yet omnipresent. One, as scary as it may seem from time to time, does in deed look out for the best interest of Mr and Mrs American.

I find myself quite often questioning the paths which our current government is taking us into the future, and I can not say that I have always agreed with them (I did not vote for Bush in '00 or in '04) but from time to time it humors me to look back to the fall of '01, and remember how much we hoped for, and loved, our President then.

I will always remember the week of 9/10/01 as the week of the best surf that the East Coast has ever seen.

On Monday, September the 10th, 2001, my buddies Rob, Sammy, and myself got off of work around 4:30 and drove out to the beach, where we saw some of the highest and cleanest surf we had seen in years. We rode our boards on that gentle, clean break for the next three hours, until daylight had faded into darkness. As we sat on our boards, sharing a twelve pack and staring out into the great North Carolina surf, we knew we were in for a great week.

We partied on the beach all that night, and in our barracks rooms well into the morning. Once the alarm clock shrieked it's ugly siren come morning, we proceeded to go to work and to entertain ourselves at one of the most dryest of dry computer classes.

I had fallen asleep on my keyboard around 9:15 when my buddy Sammy woke me and said, "A plane hit the twin towers...it's all over the news."

It took a few more reports of downed planes before I broke out of my hung-over shell and sprang into action, cancelling our computer class for the rest of the day and having everyone meet up in our office. We left our office early that afternoon, making sure everyone was to go home, make sure their equipment was in order, and assemble in the morning.

Once our business was taken care of, Sammy and I remembered there was surf to be cared for. It's hard to put into words what I was thinking in the most spiritual place in the world during what will end up being one of the most important dates in world history, but I remember thinking to myself, as I lied on my board in the warm waters of the Atlantic, that from now on, what ever I do... I do for my country... and if I ever want to lie in this beautiful ocean again, I must do it as well as I possibly can.

The next morning, things were extremely different. There were guards everywhere. People were pointing machine guns at me. But I had not lost the lesson I had learned the night of 9/11.

That Thursday, the 13th, I was sent to a school in Pensacola, FL. It took me two days to drive there, and when I reached my destination in America's Red-Neck Riveria, I sent out the following e-mail to my friends from Peoria who had not heard from me that week:

"Misses and fellas-

Sorry if you got something partial from me earlier..stupid computers.

Right now i am in Pensacola, Fl until the 24th of Oct (or until the call to arms comes up) and the flag will come up for me by then I am certain. We are teetering on the brinks of a third world war and i couldn't be any prouder.

Throughout my life i have heard that American youth is too desensitized to violence and too pampered...if Pearl Harbor hit us we would not care, we'd just go back to watching Jackass. We have now shown that those assumptions were erroneous, we do care and we have helped. Now we must show the resolve, patience, and temperance of our Grandparents. Please talk to them and hear how they reacted to Pearl Harbor when they were our age...we learn through wisdom, knowledge and history.

While driving through the south today the Flags and reflections for prayer, which were being flown on even fast-food signs, gave me the desire and motivation to respond to the people responsible for ending innocent civilian lives and ending the innocent lives which we and all of america have enjoyed for the past twenty some odd years.

I am here to let you and everyone else enjoy the freedoms of America. If that means my life being taken so that you, or anyone else, can enjoy another day...and I speak for all servicemen... another day of FREEDOM, then I am ready to go and die for our loved ones and beloved country. In regards to how i feel, after investigating the domestic sides of the attacks, i spent Thursday night throwing up.

I had not cried since grade school...and i cried three times while driving today...twice during "God Bless The USA" and once during "Pink Houses"...i know you love that, Boomie.

I dont really know how to describe the feelings that i have. I can only say that i know now why i was thrown into the Marine Corps. Although i still am a believer and follower of God, i know that fate and spirits worked its way into the mix. If anyone of you know wants to know why they're here...and I now realize why I am...WE WILL RID THE WORLD OF EVIL!

But it will take support from back home, of course. Please help out any way possible (Give Blood and pray.)

I am certain none of you saw this coming, however you must realize that our time of being "fat and happy" is over...and if you ever want to be that way again, you must start living to the fullest of your potential. As if every day is your last...and smile every day the sun comes up, for that is another victory for America.

It is going to be the "long haul" as they say, but of course if there had never been a long haul before this we wouldnt be saying it...another reason to know that America will prevail. As Japans Prime Minister said.."Let those who did this act hear this...we attacked America before, and we felt the repercussions."

As President Bush said "We will find those who did this, we will smoke them out of their holes, we will get them running, and we will bring them to justice. They will be exposed, and they will discover what others in the past have learned: Those who make war against the United States have chosen their own destruction. You will be asked for your patience, for this conflict will not be short. You will be asked for resolve, for the conflict will not be easy. You will be asked for your strength, because the course to victory may be long."

i love you all and I'll be in contact before i leave for somewhere...

With Peace and Love you're in my thoughts and in my prayers,
Alex Fritz"

Weeks after that e-mail, I would be in Cuba. Months after that, in Kuwait for the invasion of Iraq. Although I knew by then, that our leaders may be bull shitting us a little, I still had faith.

Maybe, someone else learned a lesson like I did on 9/11. As I rode the waves, I knew that one thing led to another, some times we couldn't help but to ride a wave, even though there was a better one behind it, and to always always always learn from your mistakes.

Don't accept failure.

Embarce it.

Learn from it.

I don't know what really put me in the mood to write this post.

Most people, or I should clarify, most people not from New York, don't think about 9/11 anymore. Afterall, most people not from New York aren't directly connected to the attacks.

Most people are pissed that gas is $2 a gallon, as if nobody saw that coming.

Or pissed because they have to fight through traffic, only to stand in line at the airport for an hour before they go on a business trip.

Or don't remember how much everyone wanted to invade Iraq in March of '03. Republican.. Democrat. Everyone. Anyone.

I think it's time we start looking past everything which is going wrong with this war, this struggle...with this...this... American jihad..and start finding a way to resolve it.

To find the resolve which we all pledged we would have after 9/11.

To have that resolve.

To bring our dudes home.

To have peace.

Everywhere.

I have been hearing early rumors that Albert Pujols has won his first ever National League Most Valuable Player award today (apparently satellite radio, ie. XM Radio, has a few leaks which they need to fix.)

There is nothing for me to say about Albert the Great that has not already been said before. The plain and simple fact is that Albert is a man among men. Like Kerouac writing prose amongst third-graders. Like Michael Jordan playing in a frat-boy intramural B-Ball challenge. Or a sober Jim McMahon against a defense in 1985.

It just wouldn't be fair. I could leave it at that, but I won't.

I sincerely wish Albert could have won this prestigious award sooner, but Barry L. has been busy breaking records with that enormous melon of his for the last four years.

When you line up Albert's stats for the five years that he has been in the Majors, he compares favorably to baseball greats like Ted Williams, Al Simmons, Jimmie Foxx, and Joe DiMaggio.
At the pace that he is on, Albert is not only going to become an all-time Cardinal great, but an all-time baseball great.

I have a plethora of memories provided by Albert already: Waking up my Marine buddies while screaming wildly in the deserts of Kuwait after he had a game winning hit in April of '03... His walk off against the Astros in July... The Shot against Lidge...All great memories.

But my favorite memory is that of The Lady Friend and myself, sitting in the bleachers of Busch Memorial last May. TLF and I were still in the single digit amount of dates, so that night was paramount towards the future of our relationship.

The Cardinals were playing the Dodgers and it was one of those really boring games...Sure, we had comic relief by yelling at Milton Bradley and watching as he pretended to pull a wallet out of his back pocket and count off thousands upon thousands of his imaginary dollars...and whenever the Dodgers had a confrence at the mound I could stand up and yell "HEY... JD DREW... I THINK THEY'RE TALKING ABOUT...HOW MUCH YOU... SUUUUUUUCK!!!" followed up by the bleachers erupting in laughter.

But, all in all, it was the kind of game where you find yourself being jealous of the old man in front of you keeping score because at least he had something to do every 12 seconds.

It was then, during my boredom, that Albert stepped up to the plate with a runner on second. I said to TLF, on a 1-1 count in the fifth inning "First, he got that cutter low and in and then a fastball in on the plate...see how he's moving his front foot towards right field? He knows they're going low and away on him. He's just got to smack it through, he knows what to do."

Next pitch? A curve, low and away, that Albert smacked between 1st and 2nd for an RBI single. And it was then I realized, that no matter how big of a baseball dork I was, TLF doesn't mind.

And I love her for that.

As for Albert, I know every time I have seen him this year, I have either thought to myself or said aloud "This is the greatest pure hitter I will ever see."

I have seen George Brett. And I've seen Mark McGwire. I've seen Mike Schmidt. I've seen Barry Bonds. And I've seen Pete Rose. I've seen Frank Thomas. And I have even seen Tony Gwynn.

But I have never seen anything like Albert Pujols.

Someday, injuries may catch up to him; and we've seen how that can end up. I've said it before, and it's worth remembering: Frank Thomas was Albert Pujols before Albert Pujols was Albert Pujols.

Someday, rumors may catch up with him. Maybe he's not 25. Maybe he has taken HGH. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But no matter what happens, I'll be able to tell my children about the greatest hitter of my generation.

About his pure stroke, about his intensity, and about his greatness.

Note - If you are reading this and not from the St. Louis area, or not a Cardinals fan, I feel obliged to tell you that Willie McGee is regarded as somewhat of a baseball god in this town. Every sports franchise has a Willie McGee type character - someone who was a good to great player, though probably not a hall of famer, but someone who left their fans with millions of pleasant memories. Check out WillieMcGee.com to see what I'm talking about. I respect the man as much as anyone, but I do find it odd that Willie can't even order a steakburger with cheese in St. Louis and not get a standing ovation; meanwhile Ray Lankford can get a hole-in-one playing the Golden Tee machine at Mike Duffy's and only get a mild-to-luke warm applause. Anyhoo...

About a month or so back, a buddy of mine (Dave Timpone) asked St. Louis Post Dispatch writer Derrick Goold in one of his mailbag columns about his thoughts concerning why the Cardinals have not yet retired Willie McGee's number 51. Mr. Goold seemed to sympathize with Dave's want, and suggested that perhaps a petition should be started and submitted to the Cardinal's front office.

Dave, however, is now planning on doing (in his words) "instead of a petition - I could do a write up of why I think his number should be retired and then have the next 100 or so pages be random people talking about their favorite Willie McGee memories. Now I have to figure out how to get random people to give me their Willie McGee stories."

If you're interested in helping out Dave's cause, head on over to a thread we started at Viva El Birdos, take part in the poll, and feel free to share your favorite Willie Memory ("Willie McGee and me sitting on a park bench, sharing an ice cream cone" is not only acceptable, it is awesome.)

Thirteen years.

Thirteen long years.

During my childhood and adolescent years, I spent thirteen years and a lot of my parent's money being edu-ma-cated in Catholic schools.

K through 12.

Every now and then, I wonder if my schooling really made a difference in what kind of man I am today (for better or for worse.) Generally, whenever these questions arise, there is no definite answer. Today, however, things are different.

Thanks to the rather large network of friends who happen to be Catholic which I have accumulated over the years, it has been brought to my attention that November the 15th is celebrated throughout the Roman Catholic Church as Albert the Great Day.

Also occurring this year on Nov. 15: The National League Most Valuable Player award winner is announced. And this generation's "Albert the Great" is lined up nicely to win that award.

And a Nov 15th celebration date isn't the only thing these two legends have in common. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you a case for fate:


St. Albert the Great (d. 1280 AD)

Known as the "teacher of everything there is to know."

Mentor of St. Thomas Aquinas

Studied under the Dominicans

Bishop of Regensberg

Albert Pujols (b. 1980 AD)

Know as the best hitter in baseball and student of everything there is to know

Mentor of St. Yadier Molina

Actually is Dominican

Cardinal of St. Louis

The best part of being Catholic? Fish frys. The second best part? Beer busts with the men's club. Third best part? Knowing crap like this. Thanks Sr. Mary Gene!

So that basically seals the award up for Albert, right? Well, don't be too surprised if Satan [or as you might call him, Barry L. Bonds (the L stands for Lucifer, I think.)] somehow tricks the baseball writers into voting for him.

Damn slippery Satan!

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On a different note, I've been hearing rumors that Cardinals radio broadcaster Wayne Hagin will be let go and replaced by John "Don't Call Me Principal Edward" Rooney, formally of the White Sox later today.

Just thought you should know.

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Have a good weekend everyone. And if you know a veteran, make sure you tell them thanks for their service and buy them a drink (especially if that veteran happens to be me. I'll be at The Famous Bar on Saturday night and I'll be thirsty.)

Congratulations to Mr. Chris Carpenter (aka "The Savior") for winning his first ever Cy Young Award, and only the second Cy Young in Cardinals franchise history.



Let's hope this is just one of many more to come.

Now, we wait to find out about Albert.

230 years? You still seem so young.

The venerable Ace Cowboy from over at Slack LaLane has recently been discussing what he was doing this time of year seven years ago. He was up at school in Chicago and had a few friends come in town for three nights. They were four dudes who Ace had known for a while, really cool guys; maybe a little too into music and drugs, but all in all good fellas.

Ace and I got to talking about those guys (he didn't know that I knew them too) and I started to remember their Chicago stay as well. In fact, I had caught up with them in Madison the night before they drove down to Chicago. Mike, Jon, Page, and Trey. Four crazy fucks. Phish.

I don't talk about it much anymore, but back in '96-'98 I was a HUUUUUUGGGEEEE Phish fan. I saw just about every show they did in the Midwest (Madison, Deer Creek, Alpine Valley, UIC, Champaign) and had a blast doing so.

When Phish went on hiatus for the first time in 2000, I was floored. It was the same feeling I had when Darryl Kile died, almost like losing someone who you had grown up with. Anyhoo...I got over my obsession with them and moved more from the classic rock which had warmed my heart through Junior High and the jam-bands I had loved during High School to newer music; be it Radiohead, Wilco, and other pretentious stuff. Or, starting around fall of '01, ass-hat hipster stuff like The Strokes or Kings of Leon.

Phish got back together in 2002 and I saw them in Raleigh during that tumultuous summer of '03. It was a really weird experience. From the last time I had seen them in '98, I felt as if I was five years older, but the crowd was still 17 years old (if that makes any sense.)

Anyway, the music was great, but I had long before quit smoking pot, and I had just got home from Iraq, so the last thing I wanted to see was a bunch of dirty wookies.

After that show, I had a little bit of closure. My Phish obsession had officially come to an end. They were a giant part of my adolescent years, and have provided me with a million happy memories. I thank them for that. However, I'm still pissed that I used to spend $3 for a grilled cheese sandi that somebody cooked in a parking lot.

Remembering where I was at seven years ago, however, takes me back to when I was 18 years old and didn't have a care in the world. It was during the stretch of time after I left college and before I joined the Marines. Irresponsibility reigned supreme.

I was working full time at Office Depot (I know, pretty glamorous) when I heard Phish were playing in Madison and then three nights in Chicago. Since I had friends who went to school at Wisconsin, and another friend who was modeling in Chicago (which actually was quite glamorous) I knew I'd have people to stay with if I wanted to follow Phish around for four nights. I scraped up some cash, got some tickets for the shows, and pointed my '93 LeBaron north, Wisconsin bound.

The first night, at Madison's Kohl Center, was a blast. Lots of booze, great tunes at the show, collegiate shenanigans afterwards. Not as good as Deer Creek in '98, but not as bad as Champaign in '97. Good times all around, though.

Some friends had made the drive from Peoria to Madison with me and when we woke up the next morning, one had decided that she was going to stay an extra night in Madison and go back to Peoria later. The other two made the drive with me down to Chicago, where we stayed at our friend Erin's apartment in Lincoln Park. The first show at UIC was not as good as I was expecting but still quite fun.

The next morning, I had learned that another group of friends had come into town for the show and had an extra bed in their hotel room if I wanted it. Since that sounded more comfortable then where I had slept the night before (underneath of a coffeetable) I took them up on their offer. Their hotel was out by O'Hare, which would normally be a half hour drive from where I was leaving from. It ended up taking over two hours and I vomited twice while driving. Not cool.

By the end of the second night in Chicago, I was officially sick. Like shaking and puking sick. But, I wasn't about to let that keep me from having a little fun.

A couple of buddies and I had gone into downtown Chicago to kill some time, when I noticed that we weren't too far from the Sears Tower. I had always wanted to try something there, so we went.

I walked into the lobby, went to the first security guard I saw, and said to him "Excuse me sir, where is the sporting goods department?"

"What?" the old man replied, clearly flustered.

"The sporting goods department. I need a pump to inflate my basketball."

"What are you talking about?"

"I need to know where the sporting goods department is. This is Sears, isn't it?"

"Son, I think you're a little confused...this is the Sears Tower, not a Sears department store. We don't have a sporting goods department."

I began pouting and kicking fruitlessly at the floor, mumbling about how much my basketball needed to be inflated. Quickly, and much to the old security guards surprise, my quite self crapulance turned into loud, uncontrollable rage.

"What do you mean there's no sporting goods department? THIS IS THE WORST SEARS EVER! THIS SHOULDN'T BE CALLED THE SEARS TOWER! IT SHOULD BE CALLED THE SEARS THAT SUCKS! BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT IT DOES! IT SUCKS!"

And with that little temper tantrum, I had finally fulfilled my life long dream of being kicked out of the Sears Tower.

Later that night, Phish played their final show at UIC. A show which, due to sickness, I was forced to be sober at. And I thank the lord I was. It was, and to this day still is, the finest rock concert which I have ever attended. Hands down.

We got to the arena early and were standing about three rows off of the stage for the entire concert. By the time they encored with a cover of The Edgar Winters Group's "Frankenstein" and an acapella cover of "Freebird," I was toast.

That night I made the drive from Chicago to Peoria alone, driving through one of the worst storms I have ever witnessed. I woke up at my parent's house the next morning, not remembering a good 3/4 of that drive, but knowing somehow I had made it home.

At the time, those four days didn't seem too special. I was 18 and I thought my adult life would be an incredible journey of concerts, beers, friends, and little to no responsibility. Little did I know that within one year from then, I would have been arrested, become an uncle and a godfather, and joined the Marines. More responsibilities than one could shake a stick at.

But those four days, man. Those four days with Phish. Those four days on the road.

Those four days were probably the coolest that I have ever been in my entire life.

Stupid sports.

This is normally an extremely relaxing time of the year for me. The baseball season has ended and the College Basketball season has yet to heat up, leaving me with a nice little calm period to drink wine, look forward to T-Giving, and yell obscenities at people who don't buy me drinks on Veteran's Day.

Generally, November is the one month of the year where I can sit back and really not care about what's going on in the sports world.

But this year, my sports "down time" is non-existent. Why? Because this year the sports world is effing ridiculous. How in the hell could I not pay attention.

These are a few stories which have heated up in the last week or so:

• ESPN questions America's intelligence by holding fake press conferences
• At long last, hot lesbian sex has finally entered the sports world
• Some big douchebag in Philly got fired and everyone has to care about it
• God still loves Catholics...As for Mormons? Not so much
• Free agent outfielder loves baseball, boobies

Clearly, the sports world hates me and wants me to continue focusing my attention on whether or not Mike Piazza will play for Italy in the upcoming Baseball World Classic instead of...I don't know...doing something I actually need to do to, like find a job.

Although, Buster Olney just reported that Wally Joyner used steroids while he was playing baseball. I'll probably go ahead and spend the next two hours cruising the information highway to find out whether or not the Peoria Chiefs will keep ol' Wally World's number retired.

Stupid sports.

I am trying a new feature out here at the FYC. When I run posts which are neither subject heavy, nor overly thought ridden (mainly Quick Thoughts type columns), I would like to propose a certain song which you should listen to in order to enhance your FYC experience.

Right now, in order to fully experience this post, you should be listening to "Sheep" by Pink Floyd. Just click on that link. It's that easy. And it greatly increases you reading enjoyment.

Trust me.

It does.
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Some good thoughts concerning Supreme Court nominee Samuel Alito (and family) are being kicked around by the good people over at The Airing of Grievances.

I'm still wondering...is Sammy's daughter old enough to be considered a fox or does that just make me plain old creepy?

Also, how about Bill Clinton's hand seeming to be resting upon her nubile shoulder? I, for on, love it.
___________________________________________

Also, did you happen to catch a glimpse of Mark Cuban's sport coat last night? It looked as if it was made out of felt, and it had a Mav's logo in the middle of the back, surrounded by the words "I LOVE THIS GAME."

I'll give at least 35 cents (American!) for a picture of that glorius sports jacket.

The Association thought that only the players had a hard time dressing like decent human beings in a professional enviroment. I suppose their dress code ombudsman should have seen problems with Mark Cuban coming from miles away. I'm pretty sure everyone else (or at least Deadspin) did.

Now, that will teach those starched shirts and their dress code!

The NBA....it's FANTASTIC!
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I'm leaving for Peoria this afternoon and will be gone for a few days, so don't be shocked if you don't hear from me the rest of the week.

Although, I will try as hard as possible to entertain you come Friday as you get through your last-day-of-the-week-afternoon boredom's this week, I can make no absolute promises. I will be staying at my parent's house and all they have...is...dial up Internet!

Yes, it sounds horrible, but I'm sure we will all somehow make it through this most harrowing of experiences.

After all, it does mean free food, and what 25-year old doesn't love that?

Later on down the road, ya'll.

A damn good story made it's way into the news last week, only to be buried underneath a pile of Supreme Court nominees and indictments. One week after the story broke, it has already been forgotten about by people who make their livings beating jokes into the ground (ie. Jay Leno) but not by me. I refuse to let this beauty slip through the cracks:

"Savvis Communications Corp. has placed Robert McCormick its chief executive on unpaid leave and will launch an internal probe related to a credit card company lawsuit alleging he was two years late in paying $241,000 in charges at a Manhattan strip club.

The lawsuit, brought by American Express against McCormick and Savvis last week, charges that the two were late in paying charges rung up on McCormick's corporate credit card at Scores, a trendy New York strip club.

American Express claimed that McCormick rang up the charges in a single visit to the club, while entertaining a small group of business acquaintances.

The bulk of the charges were for tips that McCormick gave to lap dancers who were entertaining his party in a VIP room known as the Presidents Club."

We've all read this story previously, and most of us probably got a good, hearty chuckle from it. Yes, the headlines probably should have read "Big Shot Douchebag Loves Strippers, Hates Himself" but in today's post-Janet Jackson nipple flash, pre-Scott Baio being recognized as the second coming of Christ society, we have tamer and more mellow headlines like "Savvis CEO on Unpaid Leave." Boring!

What upsets me the most from the media's handling of the story is the lack of a true investigation into how one can spend $241,000 in only one trip to a strip club. The only nudie joints I have ever been to have shady names like Toby's, Driftwood, or Magic Hands Happy Finishes and More. Those are the types of places where if you pay more than $40 in one night, you'll probably leave with a crippling venereal disease.

I've never heard of this "Scores" located in this "New York" (whatever the hell that is) but I suspect that both are figments of Robert "I've Made a Huge Mistake" McCormick's imagination.

Or not.

What the hell do I know?

"What the hell do I know?" Funny you should ask. I know how I'd spend $241,000, that's what I know, Jack!

First off, $41,000 would go into a special bank account which could only be touched if/when I needed to be bailed out of jail (we'll call that my "Get out of Jail Free Card")

I would then spend $50,000 for a 75-acre lot of land with a shack and a lake in North-Eastern Mississippi.

Next, I would by a used RV ($15,000) and fill it up with gas ($75.) A stop by the grocery store will yield enough Whiskey, wine, and bread to keep myself and my traveling company of four (myself, The Lady Friend, a maid/masseuse, and an intern/researcher) alive for the trek ($750). We'll throw in some Gatorade ($2.75) and a pack of 1985 Topps baseball cards ($0.50) and we have already spent a total of $106,828.25 before hitting the open road.

The drive may well be the most exciting trip of the journey, as I would no doubt be speeding the entire way. If I get pulled over for traffic violations, no biggie...I'll simply step outside of my RV and promptly begin urinating on the cop. I'm not going to let that "Get Out Of Jail Free" money go to waste.

After approximately 14 misdemeanors, 3 felonies, and 5 days of travel, the group and I will arrive at our new home in Mississippi. I will quickly fence off my land ($5,000) and secede formally from the United States (secession forms can be found at Office Depot for $5.99) claiming my land as "Kickassistan" and myself the King.

After hiring Ram Jam to play "Black Betty" (Kickassistan's national anthem) and hiring baseball legend Dale Murphy to act as my second-in-command ($2,500 and $20,000, respectively) I would drive to my local market to but some shrimp, BBQ spare-ribs, folding chairs, and beer-coolies with funny sayings like "Your Village Called. Their Idiot is Missing!" or "Please Hold My Beer While I Kiss Your Girlfriend!"($1,000) and some beer. Actually, make that lots of beer. $1,500 worth of beer. And a new refrigerator ($800...I've always hated that old fridge in my fictional shack in Mississippi...I mean...Kickassistan.)

Roommate Matt has always wanted to drive a Rolls Royce into a lake, so I would buy him this one and let him drive it into my lake.

Which leaves me with $4,395.76 left to spend. Which would obviously be spent in order to buy a Cigar Store Indian ($799), the softball jersey that Alex P. Keaton wore on "Family Ties" ($499), a moped ($1600), some gift certificates to give out at Christmas time to Charles Oakley's Car Wash ($1,000), and finally, a new grill ($499).

Those should be enough supplies to get the group by on for the next fifty years or so, and we will live in peace and solitude in Kickassistan; drinking wine, listening to obscure Elton John songs and watching baseball on pirated cable television before succumbing to old age.

Or until I am found putting squirrels down my pants for fun and everyone realizes that I have gone completely and totally insane. Which ever comes first.

Now THAT, Mr. McCormick, is how one properly spends $241,000.

Any other ideas, people?