Generally speaking, I don't archive my Hambo rants on the site. Most of them are come with a 'void after' date because the topic is 'of the moment'.

From time to time, I spew some red meat worth keeping. Those rants - rants that amuse, amaze or annoy me, for some 'what the hell was I smoking that day reason - will be available here, until they stop amusing me.

Yes, it's true, I sometimes crack myself up when I reread a rant after that creative spurt has run its course. I won't apologize for that, because it's not my style and, besides, you probably wouldn't believe me, anyway.

The items that land here are ones that I find worth keeping around, for one reason or another. Hopefully, one or more of them will rock your world, too.



My On-Going Adventures With Iggy "The Grifter" Kowalski

Global Warming

I had quite a fright, earlier this week, when some Globally Warmed, Mexifornia, alarmists spewed their deranged drivel about the forthcoming deluge. When you cut through all the hyperventilating, you find out that, within the next 100 years, the oceans will swell to such dimensions, it will make Noah's Flood seem like a toilet overflowing, comparatively speaking.

Suitably agitated, I immediately began to worry about that property investment I have in the Colorado Rockies. Faced with an emergency of this magnitude, I decided to spend some quality time with my ace investment advisor, Iggy "The Grifter" Kowalski. Luckily for me, it was visiting day at the penitentiary, so I didn't have any problem 'booking' an appointment with him.

Iggy: "I've been expecting you."

Me: Returning his smile, I noted: "You're looking lean and mean in that prison-issue garb."

Iggy: "This place works wonders, that way. It's better than all those fat farms I visited, back in the day."

Me: "I'm concerned about my property investment in the Colorado Rockies. I know it's halfway up that mountain, but the Globally Warmed meatheads make this flood thing sound bad."

Iggy: "You worry too much. Even if we assume the worst case scenario, you'll be sitting pretty on beach front property."

Me: "I got those Google Earth images you e-mailed to me, last week, and I still don't see any sign of that 'transition'. When, exactly, do you expect that 4 acre plot on the vertical face of a mountain to make the move to horizontal?"

Iggy: "You worry too much. I told you this is a 'long term' investment. If I've learned anything in this institute of higher learning it's the fact that, eventually, everything that's vertical, makes that transition to horizontal."

Me: "If you say so, Iggy. When's the parole hearing?"

Iggy: "Next month. The timing couldn't be better. I have a smoking hot deal in the works, on some land in Antarctica. When that ice sheet melts...solid gold. I'll save a piece of it for you, as long as I can, but they're going to sell fast."

Me: "I'll let you know, after the IRS gets done auditing that tax return you whipped up for me."

Breaking 'Iggy' News

Some of you - the three hardy souls who read Hambo's Hammer regularly - are familiar with my personal financial guru, Iggy "The Grifter" Kowalski. He's the financial genius who has me on a first name basis with the entire auditing department of the IRS.

Anyway, when I visited Iggy at the penitentiary, he hit me with some astounding news.

Me: "You're looking good, Iggy. Having love-struck Bubba chasing you around the cell block turned you into a lean, mean, grifting machine."

Iggy: "Thanks, I think."

Me: "I know that smirk, who have you separated from fiscal sanity, this time?"

Iggy: "I'm applying for grad school."

Me: "Grad school? Isn't that jumping the gun? You're not up for parole for at least another year."

Iggy: "Not THAT kind of boring ass grad school. I mean grifter grad school."

Me: "Grifter grad school? I know I'll hate my self for asking but what the hell is THAT?"

Iggy: "I just put in the necessary paperwork to become Bernie Madoff's cellmate."

Me: "Bold new concept."

Iggy: "You better believe it, Sparky."

Smiting Congress

This week, while he was perpetrating my tax return, my personal financial guru, Iggy "The Grifter" Kowalski, sounded off on my pet theory for curing what ails Congress.

Me: "You're looking good, Iggy."

Iggy: "There's nothing like a two year stretch in a federal prison for tax fraud to make you a lean mean, spreadsheet molesting, machine."

Me: "You're in a very cheerful mood. You're not holding a grudge, because they made me testify at your trial, are you?"

Iggy: Aiming a toothy smile at me, he shook his head. "No harm done. It let me meet my hero, Bernie Madoff. Besides, everyone knows when it comes to finances, you're a blithering idiot."

Me: Still worried, I reminded, "The last time you were this cheerful at tax time, you told me the U.S. Mint would need to put on an extra shift to print enough money for my refund."

Iggy: Laughing, he rolled his eyes. "Whine, whine, whine. I wonder if they still have that same hottie on their local auditing staff? You know the one, the tall, slender, brunette with the big cans and sexy accent."

Me: "She was there when they audited me last year, and I have her penciled in for this year, just in case. Sonia is a big fan of your work. In fact, she called you the Michelangelo of fraud."

Iggy: "The Michelangelo of fraud! I love it. I'll have it printed on my business cards."

Iggy: After several minutes of nerve-wracking humming, he glanced at me over his shoulder. "I've been thinking about your pet theory."

Me: "Pet theory? Which one?"

Iggy: "The smiting one. The one where - what do you call him?"

Me: "Old Ka-Boom?"

Iggy: "Yeah, HIM. The one where HE wipes out Congress with an asteroid."

Me: "Oh, that one. What about it?"

Iggy: "It has a flaw, or two."

Me: "A flaw? What flaw?"

Iggy: "For starters, Old What's His Name..."

Me: "Old Ka-Boom."

Iggy: "Yeah, HIM. Anyway, you'd need to ask him for a smiting which might present a problem, since he stopped taking your calls when you started calling yourself 'A Pagan'."

Me: "I'm working on that one. One of my readers has a hotline to heaven, so I might be able to do an end run around the celestial disconnect."

Iggy: "PIGster J, your Professor of Piety, seems too serious about his supernaturalism to request a smiting, but I'll concede the point."

Me: "You conceded much too easily. What else have you got?"

Iggy: Gloating, he hit me with the dreaded Iggy Smirk. "Old What's His Name's well documented fondness for fools, drunks, scallywags and moonbats would, by definition, exempt everyone on Capitol Hill via HIS 'fools, drunks, scallywags and moonbats' exemption."

Me: "Good point, but I might catch a break and submit the smiting request when SHE is getting on HIS last raw nerve."

Iggy: "I won't let you trap me into dissing Mrs. Old What's His Name."

Me: "Coward."

Iggy: Gives me the finger. "That distraction would require precise timing. Based on my encyclopedic knowledge of your investment strategy, I'm here to tell you that nobody is going to accuse you of good timing."

Me: "Is that it? 'Pagan' and that asinine Old Ka-Boom smiting exemption?"

Iggy: "That's more than enough. However, you might want to consider the fact that America's chad-punching retards are so clueless that they might just kick over a few rocks and elect another bunch of fools, drunks, scallywags and moonbats to Congress."

Me: Feeling smug, I gave him the finger. "I won't argue the point, but, since they'd all be rookies, it would take them a few years to hone their craft to Iggy-class perfection."

Iggy: "A quasi-insulting compliment, but, considering it's YOU, I'll take it."

Me: "You're welcome."

Iggy: "Ideally, they should put me in charge. I'd have America showing a tidy profit, in record time."

Me: "President Iggy? Bold new concept."

Iggy: "You better believe it, Sparky. I couldn't do any worse than this Dumbo-Eared rookie who is the poster punk for losernomics."

When Iggy is right, he's right.

A Taxing Day

If you're wondering why I'm not keeping up with my assigned Editor of PIG duties, I can explain it in two words: Tax Time. As usual, this annual Hambo stress test is administered by my friend, Iggy "The Grifter" Kowalski.

Me: "You're humming to yourself again. I thought 'we' agreed that you'd put a damn sock in it, Iggy."

Iggy: "I'm in a good mood."

Me: "The last time you were this happy, you talked me into buying that 'oceanfront' property in Death Valley."

Iggy: Smirking, Iggy wagged his finger at me. "You'll be singing a different tune, after that super storm and its 40 days of torrential rain puts the rest of the state under water."

Me: "Bullshit! I did some homework and found that your 'you'll be high and dry' sales pitch didn't include the fact that Death Valley is 282 feet BELOW sea level."

Iggy: Still smirking, he dismissed my accusation with a wave of his hand. "Details, details. I don't allow petty details, like that one, bog me down. I deal in the big picture."

Me: "You get me gunned on adult beverage, weave your web of words, and the next thing I know, I'm pissing away money on your 'big picture'. So far, the only thing I've gotten from it is heartburn, and an annual IRS audit by Tax Nazis who keep nominating my tax returns - the ones perpetrated by you - for a Pulitzer Prize for Fiction."

Iggy: Frowning, he growled though clenched teeth. "Everybody on the cell block was pulling for me, last year."

Me: "I know. They keep sending their friends around, asking me for a copy of this years whopperthon. I thought I was done rubbing elbows with your criminal fan club, now that I don't have to perform this annual tax ritual in the visitor's room at that Federal Graybar hotel."

Iggy: "Whine, whine whine."

Me: "Why don't you just shoot me, instead of torturing me, like this, year after year?"

Iggy: "You're the one who keeps coming back for more."

Me: "Guilty, but I have my reasons."

Iggy: "Reasons? Are you trying to steal my Sonia? I'm shocked that she didn't mention THAT when she sent me that personal 'go ahead, you sexy thing, make scream with ecstasy' note."

[Hambo note: Loyal readers will remember that, in a prior Iggy adventure, expressed his admiration for Sonia, describing her as that: "hottie on their local auditing staff. You know the one, the tall, slender, brunette with the big cans and sexy accent."]

Me: "I never should have told you she called you the Michelangelo of Fraud. I know she'll make me pay, big time, when she takes personal charge of my IRS Audit, this year."

Iggy: "She adores me."

Me: "She's gobsmacked by the audacity of your 'big picture' schemes. That doesn't not mean she sobs on her pillow, calling out your name."

Iggy: Indignant, he gave me the finger. "Which part of 'go ahead, you sexy thing, make me scream with ecstasy' personal note didn't you understand?"

Me: "It was NOT a love note, Iggy. It was a RESTRAINING ORDER that contained an unambiguous message for you: STOP STALKING ME."

Iggy: Sticking his nose in the air, he muttered an impressive stream of profane pleasantries at, and about, me. "Sonia and I have a very complicated relationship."

Me: "Her testimony at your fraud trial put you in that Federal Graybar, and she's ready to sent you back, if you don't stop stalking her."

Iggy: "Does that mean you won't put a good word in for me, when she audits you, this year?"

Me: "Sonia specifically ordered me not to mention your name. If that sounds like sweet nothings to you, maybe you've been in that Graybar suite much too long."

Iggy: Humming again, he aimed that 'get ready, Hambo here it comes' look at me. Given your attitude, I shouldn't tell you about the golden opportunity I found that's perfect for you. I admit that my Death Valley plan has hit a snag, or two, so I'm going to make it up to you, with some Pacific island property investments where you can enjoy a glorious view of the ocean."

Me: Consulting my notes, I stared a challenge. "The moment I read about those atolls - the Tulun Islands, and the Takuu Islands - which are SINKING beneath the waves, I knew it was just a matter of time, before you tried to sucker me into 'investing' in them. No sale, Iggy. I mean it this time, so don't bother to pour that high octane persuasion into me, because I'm ON THE WAGON."

Iggy: "You're getting bitter in your old age, Hambo. I blame it on that PIG thing where you spew all your demented bullshit. This lack of...civility is very troubling. Like all clear thinking individuals, I know it's not your fault. It's that cow, Sarah Palin, who makes you spew all this vitriol about me, and my beloved Sonia."

Me: "Do I need to drag out the copy of the RESTRAINING ORDER that SHE gave me, so I can read it to you, AGAIN."

Iggy: Pretending to ignore me, he started humming again. "I'm going to thrill you with this year's refund, which is, once again, a new personal best. No wonder our National Debt is so out of control, if they give YOU a refund like this."

Me: "I'll call Sonia in the morning and schedule an appointment for the audit."

Iggy Hits The Big Time

Some of you - the two hardy souls who read Hambo's Hammer regularly - are familiar with my personal financial guru, Iggy "The Grifter" Kowalski. He's the financial genius who has me on a first name basis with the entire auditing department of the IRS, including his dream girl, Sonia.

[Hambo note: Loyal readers will remember that, in a prior Iggy adventure, he expressed his admiration for Sonia, describing her as that: "hottie on their local auditing staff. You know the one, the tall, slender, brunette with the big cans and sexy accent." His unrestrained enthusiasm for Sonia, prompted her to get a restraining order to make him stop stalking her. Her testimony was instrumental in sending Iggy to a Federal Graybar Hotel for tax fraud, but Iggy has magnanimously forgiven her.]

Iggy: "It's about time, Hambo. I almost gave up on you."

Me: "What in Blue Fucking Blazes is Kowalski Statistical Services?"

Him: (Laughing.) "I knew you'd be like this? Who gave me up? My goody-goody brother, Ziggy?"

Me: "He refused to discuss it, or you and your mom hung up on me.

Him: "My new employer, uh, exclusive client, is very persuasive."

Me: "Obviously."

Iggy: "So who gave me up?"

Me: "After spending quality time with your graybar hotel suite neighbors, without any success, I was stumped, or so it seemed. It took a while, but I finally realized that there was one person who would always know how to reach you. You wouldn't let something as petty as a restraining order..."

Him: "SONIA! I offered her a job, but she's playing hard to get."

Me: "I guess we're headed back to the visitor's area of a graybar suite."

Him: "My, uh, client got me out from under her restraining order and got me off probation. If all goes as planned, they'll wipe out all traces of my criminal record."

Me: "Wow. Who's in charge of that? Eric Holder?"

Him: "He's involved, but indirectly."

Me: "I think that brings us full circle. What the fuck is Kowalski Statistical Services?"

Him: "I owe it all to you."

Me: "Iggy! What the fuck have you done to me, now?"

Him: (Laughing) "I told Barry you'd be like this. Anyway, my client was so impressed by the genius I demonstrated on your tax returns that they hired me to work my numerical wizardry to pull Healthcare Dot gov, otherwise known as 'Obamacare', out of the crapper, on paper, of course. That's right, dude, I've gone over to the dark side.

Me: "Does that mean you won't do my tax return, this year?

Him: "I grandfathered you in. You don't think I'd miss my chance to see MY Sonia, do you?"

Me: "And here I was worrying, needlessly. I'll alert Sonia, so she can schedule my audit."

Him: "Good thinking."



Why has American Greatness fallen on hard times and how do we restore it to its former glory?

This week, the Free State of PIG dabbles in national introspection, with America’s Greatness occupying center stage. We’re going to confront American Greatness. We’re going to discuss what it is, and what it isn’t. We’ll also discuss why American Greatness is so diminished in this first decade of the 21st century. We think the decline in American Greatness is why Americans seem inexplicably determined to bulldoze that ‘shining city on a hill’ and replace it with a cesspool of class envy and tyranny.

Michael Medved’s favorite tag line includes a phrase singling out America as "the greatest nation on God’s green Earth". There is no question that America’s Greatness - real or imagined - is why so much of the world views America with a mixture of hatred, envy and grudging admiration. Around the world, many people would like nothing better than destroy us, but, failing that, they would really, really, like to live here.

The dirty little secret about American Greatness is the fact that so many Americans hate our greatness. Steeped in ‘America sucks’ from kindergarten through grad school, their stated goal in life is to destroy American Greatness, and make this nation conceived in liberty as impoverished, as full of despair, as terminally crappy, as garden spots like North Korea, or the infamous Ruskie gulag.

The easiest way to start pinning down what American Greatness is, involves stating categorically, what it isn’t. American Greatness exists in spite of, not because of, Elected Tormentors at every level of government. Their ideal isn’t the rugged American individual or the fabled Minuteman, it’s the back alley mugger whose livelihood is stealing.

American Greatness exists in spite of, not because of, a horde of chronically needy parasites, who are no better than a rampaging mob of looters. They’re indistinguishable from the rat bastard who throws a brick through a store’s front window and runs off with a television set.

American Greatness exists in spite of, not because of, the chronically-oppressed, perpetually caterwauling ‘victims’, whose only claim to ‘infamy’ is being born with politically-advantageous immutable traits (race/ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation).

American Greatness exists in spite of, not because of, the border jumping scumbag invaders, who expect to be rewarded, thanked, for inflicting their diseases, their squalor, and their ethnically-cleansing gangs on us.

American Greatness exists in spite of, not because of, the Jihadikazes hiding in our midst. Their American Dream of a USA tyrannized by sharia-wielding mullahs is, in reality, a sovereign individual’s nightmare.

Now that we’ve excluded, looters, muggers, Jihadikazes, border jumpers, professional whiners, and neo-Marxist scumbags, it’s time to turn our attention to the individuals who exemplify American Greatness.

American Greatness can produce moments of inspiring courage, during extreme circumstances, as exemplified by the heroism shown on September 11, 2001. We saw American Greatness in action, when members of the NYPD and NYFD entered the dangerously unstable Twin Towers to save the lives of those trapped inside. American Greatness was showcased by the courage of the brave passengers on United Flight 93, who gave their lives to prevent another attack. They etched their Americn Greatness in our minds, by bringing the airliner down near Shanksville, Pennsylvania.

American Greatness is a dedicated law enforcement officer, and true American, Joe Arpaio. After a distinguished, 32 year, federal law enforcement, career which made him the head of DEA for Arizona, Joe set his sights on the post he still holds, Sheriff of Maricopa County, Arizona. In 1992, this frisky, 60 years young, pup was elected sheriff for the first time. In 2008, after 16 years on the job, Sheriff Joe Arpaio, now a vigorous young lad of 76, just won his fifth, four-year, term as sheriff.

American Greatness is embodied by inspirational men like Clarence Thomas, Thomas Sowell and Walter Williams. Rejecting their assigned victimhood labels, shrugging off the taunts of "Uncle Tom", "boot licker" and "house slave", they refuse to be suffocated by a group identity. Instead, boldly defying the Ethnocrat asshats, they dare to conduct their lives as that American classic, the individual.

American Greatness is that farmer, salesman, coal miner, trucker, or byte wrangler who puts his daily life on hold, then dons a uniform and ventures forth to defend this nation from its sworn enemies. They put their lives on the line...they go in harm’s way, to defend the right of those so-called Americans back home, who view American Greatness as a cardinal sin.

A more common form of American Greatness is the kind we encounter every day, but don’t recognize. It might be that pimple-faced, perpetually smirking, 12 year old down the street, who makes you feel like an idiot when he fixes, in 5 minutes, the computer problem you’ve been fighting for 2 weeks. Try to ignore that ‘you’re still a moron’ look, because that pimple-faced pest might very well be the next Steve Jobs, or Bill Gates.

American Greatness is that rugged individual who carves out his own, modest, outpost of capitalism through his hard work, long hours, and grim determination. He’s not planning to become a full of himself slacker like a Kennedy or a Rockefeller, who is coasting through life on the borrowed greatness of a room temperature ancestor. This rugged individual only wants Uncle Sam to get out of his way, so he can test himself in the marketplace, and, if it all goes well, leave his family a little better off in the process.

American Greatness is a rank and file American who dares to pin back the Dumbo ears on a presidential candidate, by asking this mantra spewing meathead a pointed question. Despite the fact that the candidate showed up in his neighborhood, on his front lawn, Joe the Plumber had his life turned upside down, inside out, by Messiah Barry’s minions. Shrugging it all off, Joe the Plumber kept speaking out. In the process, he showed that he, John Q. Public, had a better grip on the Founding Fathers’ dream for America, than all the self-aggrandizing gasbags on Capitol Hill.

American Greatness is that rank and file American, who puts in 16 hours a day on two jobs so his son or daughter can be the first member of his family to get a college degree. The only reward he seeks is giving his children a leg up on the ladder of success.

American Greatness is that anachronism, the sovereign individual, who has the nads to tell the Nanny State to take their liberty-infringing safety net and shove it. It’s the willingness to tell that persistent pest, Uncle Sam, "Back off, punk, I can live my life without your constant interference."

American Greatness is everything that our home-grown neo-Marxists, and their Dumbo-eared Messiah, hate about sovereign individuals. At its core, American Greatness is about daring to defy the Korrectniks. American Greatness is telling the parasites (in and out of government) "not on my dime", and "never with my consent". American Greatness is the willingness to fail, repeatedly, on the road to success. American Greatness is taking responsibility for your own actions. American Greatness is daring to celebrate your successes and having the guts to admit - and learn from - your mistakes.

Now that we’ve illustrated what American Greatness is, and what it isn’t, it’s time to answer the relevant question: Why are the Obamunists, Korrectniks and Elected Tormentors so determined to eradicate it? Why? Because they know that American Greatness and rugged individualism are joined at the hip. They know that you can’t get rid of that pest American Greatness without eradicating individualism, from sea to shining sea.

As long as Americans dare to be individuals, they will continue to resist the Siren Song of neo-Marxist tyranny. As long as Americans dare to be individuals, who strive on their own initiative for greatness, it will be impossible to turn them into faceless, nameless, slaves of the all-powerful Nanny State.

Unfortunately, the Korrectniks, the neo-Marxists, have been very successful in undermining American Greatness and rugged American individualism. For more than two decades, they have been programming the clueless to reject their individualism and replace it with a group identity. They sweetened the deal by giving perks to group think minions, and imposing penalties on recalcitrant individuals. Those clucking "American Greatness sucks" chickens came home to roost in an election that made an unrepentant, Joe Stalin class, Marxist the president of this once great nation.

The enemies of American Greatness won’t stop until every stubborn individual holdout is tracked down and fitted with slave of the Nanny State chains.

If you want to revive American Greatness, you must start by daring to proclaim: I am, first and foremost, an American, a sovereign American individual. I am not a victim. I am not a class envy-riddled parasite. I am the author of my own life. As the master of my own fate, my destiny is in my hands. I don’t need to be coddled, protected or babied by the Nanny State, so back the hell off, Sparky.

The fate of American Greatness is in your hands, PIGsters.


Suffer The Children

I’ve been too hard on the Nanny State, so I am obligated to make things right. I have, for example, deliberately ignored all thing things it does ‘for the children’. For example, did you ever take a moment to think about all special ‘rights’ that the ‘generous’ to a fault Nanny State bestows on tykes? I didn’t think so, but I’m going to enlighten you:

In many government cess-schools, a ‘child’ has a right not to fail. No matter how pathetic their scholastic performance, they matriculate to the next grade because leaving them behind would give them a major boo-boo on their self-esteem. The Nanny State gives them the right to skip an essential life lesson: ‘Failure’ teaches you that nothing comes easy and success takes hard work.

A child has the right to ingest putrid slop in the school lunchroom, because he’s being saved from sugar, transfats, and anything else the would delight his taste buds. They have the right to learn that eating is a job, a chore like taking out the garbage and cleaning your room. You’re not supposed to enjoy it. You’re only supposed to do it.

A child has the right to stand around on the school playground because he’s being saved from dastardly politically incorrect things like tag, dodgeball, running, chasing, and anything else that might be fun. They have the right to be liberated from all those playground lessons that help build a pernicious blight called ‘character’.

A child has the right not to be assaulted by ‘damaging’ hugs from his friends and classmates during school hours. Why, if that was allowed it might lead to - GASP - friendship.

In Korrectnik-infested enclaves, the ‘child’ has the right not to lose when playing in an organized kids sports league. Losing would damage their self-esteem, so they have the right to run around and go through the motions of playing a ‘game’, but the outcome is never in doubt because nobody is allowed to keep score. Here, again, the child has the right to be saved from those horrendous ‘character building’ episodes.

A child has the right not to see anything on the tube that might ‘shock’ him, her, himher or it. He has the right to watch boob tube fare that won’t assault him with all those bad words that dad says when he’s channeling his inner Tim the Toolman. He has the right to watch boob tube fare won’t ‘enlighten’ him with wardrobe malfunction peep shows, like the ones put on by Mrs. Miller who really should learn to close the damn drapes when she’s changing clothes.

If all goes according to the Nanny State’s plan, a child has the right to enter adulthood utterly unprepared for one of objective reality’s sucker punches. A child has the right to enter adulthood utterly unprepared for success through their own hard work, because they never endured failure, and losing, as part of growing up. A child has the right to enter adulthood as an emotional zombie because they were never allowed to have fun. A child, in short, has the right to enter adulthood equipped to become one thing, and one thing only, a parasite. The child has the right become a parasite who will let the Nanny State make all their decisions, big and small, because they are incapable of conducting their own life.

Suffer the children? You better damn believe it, let’s nuke the damn Nanny State Sparky.



[A friend of mine is a complete Nebraska Cornhusker lunatic, especially when it comes to football. One season, not too many years back, the team went from first to worst by doing a spectacular gridiron belly-flop. I sent her a packet of materials that purported to be from a beyond the fringe group of Cornhusker wingnuts, called The Cornhusker Underground. The following items were intended to help my friend easily identify those core traits that make a "real" Cornhusker.]

This is not an official Cornhusker Underground document and the Underground is not responsible for its contents. Rather, it is a tool used by the Senior Field Services Coordinators to help the novice Recruitment Specialist get started during those first nail-biting days on the scouting trail. Most of our field staffers find it a constant source of inspiration, and an excellent way to get a 'feel' for the organization to which they've dedicated their lives.


Don't be discouraged by the intellectual void in which these prospects thrive. We are not looking for nuclear physicists; Albert Einstein couldn't qualify for Big Red Waterboy, but Vlad the Impaler had Cornhusker written all over him.
Case in point, T. Jackson Kruger, nicknamed the 'Cannibal' by his team mates after biting off the ear of the Oklahoma State tight end. In spite of T.'s on field prowess, at the end of his 5 year college career, he still couldn't spell his first name.

The prime candidates seem to gravitate towards certain seemingly brainless sports, to which our fiercely competitively Huskers bring that distinctive Nebraska touch.
Killer Kowolski, who is we're happy to report eligible for parole in 2009, won the National Demolition Derby 5 years in a row, without using a car!

A special word of caution is passed along to our many female staffers: with or without the structural steel chastity belt issued to every woman in Southeastern Nebraska, no female who is younger than god is safe within 5 miles of a Husker in heat.
By all reports, Sven 'the Slaver' Olafson was ruggedly handsome fellow with an earthy charm that captivated many women, once they got over the initial shock of being dragged out of their beds and chained up with the rest of his 'trophies'. We're not sure what part of Sweden Sven hails from, but it's clear that their customs are startlingly different than ours. It's unfortunate that we didn't get to know him better before the narrow minded citizens of Topeka convicted him of kidnaping, towards the end of his first season with us. Happily, a group of civic-minded Big Red boosters liberated the young man, helping him return to his native land where he lives in quiet comfort with 83 of his favorite American ladies.

Don't be taken in by childish bar room theatrics. Any clown can crush bear cans on his forehead. Such simple-minded stunts may impress the Sooners, but we expect more from our men.
No-Neck Nathan Needlander once humbled a Tavern full of Okie beer can crushing yahoos by performing that self same feat with the engine block of a Hudson Hornet. That's a Husker!!

What appears at first to be a severely debilitating physical handicap should not automatically remove a prospect from consideration.
To this day, the mere mention of Peg-leg Petrovich is enough to strike terror in the heart of anyone who ever faced him. This legendary, All-Universe linebacker wasn't content to overcome his handicap; his success depended on it. Undaunted by the amputation of his left leg the morning of the Oklahoma game, 'Basher', as we came to call him, reported for action that very afternoon. This heroic Husker went on to play the game of his life for three full quarters and would have finished the game if he hadn't been ejected for beating the Sooner signal caller senseless with his artificial leg. Who can forget the inspiring sight of Basher bounding after the terrified quarterback, swinging that wooden leg over his head. We can all take great pride in the way he applied his handicap in solving the problem at hand.

You will find the task of establishing communication with our Big Red warriors quite a challenge, but don't give up. Essentially non-verbal by nature, Huskers express themselves with a rather extensive array of seemingly inarticulate sounds which the untrained listener might misinterpret as gibberish.
Husker standout, Lunk Olsen is without equal in this regard. Taking this marvelous economy of words to unmatched levels of perfection, he limited his vocabulary to a single word: a certain infamous four letter expletive meaning copulation. Armed with this much maligned F-word and it's corresponding gesture, this honors graduate demonstrated a unique eloquence while pulling down a hard-earned 4.0 average on his way to a Master’s degree in English.

Admittedly our Huskers are, at best, a tad rough around the edges. In fact, you will find that they routinely ignore certain extraneous, socially-imposed behavior restraints. It's obvious to even the most casual observer that they are so focused on maintaining the high standard of Husker performance that they can't be bothered with inessentials like personal hygiene. Suffice it to say that if you're ever down wind of a Husker, you'll know it.
Cornhusker great, Cedric 'the Sewer' Slaughter had the curious habit of celebrating his various bodily functions in public. In fact, this All American center is credited with using his finely honed expertise in the area of flatulence to signal enemy defensive schemes to quarterback, Charlie 'Gasper' Sullivan whose tragic death from respiratory failure during the Orange Bowl still remains a mystery.

Always be on the alert for those telltale signs of a Husker infestation. The most readily visible clues are the familiar penis-shaped obelisks constructed out of empty beer cans. A gathering of the 'Big Red Special' edition of the Ford Ranger pickup truck with those one of a kind fifteen foot high John Deere tires is another sure indication of Husker activity in the area.
Cornhuskers gravitate to a variety of refined, cultural festivals: wet t-shirt contests; Spitting, Pissing and Belching Triathelons; The Annual 'So's Your Old Lady' Debate and Melee; a Miss (Anything) Bikini Contest. They also favor any serious sporting event: Big Wheel Truck Car Crushing Rodeos; Tractor Pulling Competitions; The Budwiser Pass Out International Hangover Bowl.

[Mrs. Hambo insists that the foregoing recruitment guidelines are incomplete without this 'introductory' letter that accompanied them when I gave this 'gift' to our Big Red bonkers friend. For the sake of my continued domestic tranquility, I am posting it here for your amusement.]

Corn Husker Underground
1 Dumm Puppy
Pil Lage, Nebraska

Ms. Ayeve Benrouwn
1-900 Push Hover
Hel Losailor, California

Subject: Cornhusker Underground Talent Search Committee

Dear Ms. Benrown;

Congratulations! After a long, bitter, campaign, you have been elected to the ultra-exclusive Corn Husker Underground Talent Search Committee. As you know, it is unprecedented for a new member to be given such an honored position, but we believe that your colorful, multi-faceted personal history makes you uniquely qualified for a post which carries such awesome responsibilities. In addition to your duties as Advanced Field Scout for the West Coast, you will be asked to guide the efforts of our Senior Field Coordinators in those delicate matters where your expertise has been so sorely needed.

Your new duties go to the very heart of the Underground's glorious struggle to reverse the alarming decline of our beloved Nebraska Cornhuskers. The sad fact is that our gridiron gladiators are not cut from the same mold as our all-conquering rape and pillage warriors of old. We are counting on you to put the Big Red back on top where it belongs.

If, you're starting to question our sanity, I don't blame you. How bad can it be, you're asking yourself. We're still in the top 5 in all the ratings, have a major post-season bowl on tap and even beat those slimeball Sooners in their own backyard. The truth, I regret to say, puts these accomplishments in a much bleaker light. It is only through the tireless efforts of the Underground that our team's reputation hasn't been damaged beyond repair. The truth is quite demoralizing, so I urge you to sit down with a revitalizing alcoholic beverage before you read any further.

Ready? I certainly hope so. Get ready for a series of nasty shocks. This year, in Lancaster County alone, there are no less than 77 documented cases of virginity and this doesn't even include the 39 we had left over from last year! If this chastity epidemic continues, there could be another Morality Plague, the likes of which hasn't been seen since the middle ages. This situation is so grave that it even rivals the International Spinsters Convention of 1924. Being an avid student of Cornhusker history, you will, no doubt, remember how our boys met that challenge head-on, rising to the occasion with characteristic enthusiasm. The fabled 'Night of The Eager Beavers' which ensued, sent every last one of those vintage first-timers home with a big Husker-induced smile on her face. Alas, I fear that our current crisis will not be so easily overcome.

Yet another harbinger of the catastrophe looming on our Big Red's horizon, relates to the precipitous decline in the once thriving bar and tavern refurbishing industry, which has been brought to a virtual standstill by the inactivity of our Huskers. Incredible as it seems, our still victorious boys have not destroyed a single drinking establishment in well over 2 years. Subversive elements in the local media are spreading vile rumors that our beloved Huskers don’t even drink.

This calamity can, indeed must, be averted, but only with your help. Considering the hostile media coverage which has hounded the Underground’s most recent program, I would be shocked if you didn't have serious reservations about getting involved with the Underground. For the record, you have my personal assurance that the radical, fringe, elements within our group who conducted this insanity have been purged, after a bloody power struggle.

In their defense, I must admit that the concept of fielding a team made up entirely of mercenaries, commandos and anti-terrorist squads is not, in and of itself, fatally flawed. Unfortunately, try as we might, we couldn't get the boys to grasp the 'game' concept. Full of the traditional Big Red pride, they took it very hard whenever the other team scored. Razing entire cities as revenge might seem to be a bit extreme, but it's a known fact that most of our opponents have no sense of humor anyway.

Granted, we may have miscalculated, somewhat, but our hearts were in the right place. For the most part, no real, lasting, harm was done; our deep-pocketed financial backers made full restitution and saw that all of the devastated towns were rebuilt. Well, all except for Lawrence, Kansas where a tactical nuclear strike made it unlivable for the next 357 years. Oh well, we learn from our mistakes.

Rather than scrap our entire agenda because of one minor mishap, we have confronted the problem and moved passed it. You are a vital step on our road to a full recovery. We believe that your highly refined instincts, coupled with your lifelong dedication to our cause, is more than a match for any misguided sentimentality you might feel over Lawrence, a town whose eradication went unlamented by those of us who were unlucky enough to have visited that Kansas pesthole.

The most serious threat facing us is this media-inspired witch hunt to eliminate steroid use in college athletics. While it is obvious, to the most casual observer, that this is aimed directly at us, the elitist sophisticates of the Eastern Media centers deny it flatly. The inescapable fact remains that their one and only goal is our destruction.

It is at such times that true genius comes into its own. We are, indeed, fortunate to have Dr. Franken and Professor Stein heading up our scientific programs staff. Having anticipated our current state of disarray at least 10 years ago, these visionary men have worked tirelessly, sparing no expense, to provide us with a new steroids substitute that is, we’re assured, virtually undetectable: Cornroids.

Developed in our top secret laboratories on Taiwan, Cornroids is the greatest scientific advance since the wheel. It has already been established that everyone has latent Husker tendencies. Through repeated doses of Cornroids, we are able to enhance these traits until they dominate the person. The end result is an artificial Cornhusker which is virtually indistinguishable from the original. To the outside world, they may seem like mindlessly macho thugs whose meager intellectual development came to a screaming halt with the occurrence of their first erection, but god help us, we do love the brutes.

In the enclosed package, you will find a variety of recruitment materials which I urge you to study immediately, if not sooner. After each interview, we ask you to write up a report of your encounter so that we may add it to our files. The sample of Cornroids should be safeguarded until you've had a chance to attend the Underground's hand to hand combat school where you will be taught how to cope with the violent side effects of this powerful substance.

Eventually, we will expect you to attend our bi-monthly board meetings to give us first hand reports on your progress. On those occasions, you will be consulted on a wide range of important Underground issues. It is my hope to personally engineer your election to our board of directors within the next year. Over the next few months, we will be providing you with additional research material to keep you at the center of our dynamic new program. With your hard work, and unflagging support, our Cornhuskers will, once more, fulfill their birthright to be number one for all time.

I am, and shall remain, your voice on the board.
Go Big Red!

Ima Fay Natic

A True Life Adventure

Before everyone gets their stuff in an uproar about this whole mess, I think it's necessary to lay some reality on you:

1) Mrs. Hambo volunteered to put the gunk on the drywall. In fact, she insisted on it.
2) Mrs. Hambo performed this messy little ritual, many times, without incident.
3) She was doing an excellent job, until........
4) The following is the actual message I left for my boss, concerning this incident.

Greetings Oh Great and Fearless Leader:

WHAT GOES UP........
Exhibiting a bold new approach to applied physics, Mrs. Hambo has reaffirmed Newton's celebrated law of gravity. Far from finished she went on to cement her foothold in the field of science by verifying the law of momentum, along with several other fundamental scientific principles.

There I was, enjoying my traditional Friday morning nap when I heard a crash and a scream, not necessarily in that order. Moderately irritated by this disturbance and just a little curious, I wandered out to the garage where I found Mrs. Hambo sprawled on the floor, celebrating her side TRIP into science with a four letter outburst that would make a sailor blush.

Always calm in a crisis, I sized up the situation: the step ladder beside which she was writhing in agony; the spilled bucket of drywall gunk; the traces of drywall gunk on Mrs Hambo's hands; her basketball sized left foot. While it's fair to say that I support her quest for knowledge, I was - still am - not exactly thrilled spitless about Mrs Hambo's concept of scientific methodology.

Taking charge of this crisis, I made a command decision to take her to her doctor. It may have been a mistake to wave the dreaded specter of male competence in her face when her defenses were down; I can see that now. Her response, unfortunately, was utterly female and all too predictable: “I can't let the doctor see me like this.” It's ok for this quack to see her with a foot the size of the Goodyear blimp, but God forbid that we would offend this clown's delicate nature with the sight of her splattered with drywall gunk.

Since standing was no longer one of her options and we had to get her on the road before her foot got too big to fit in our car, I did what any red blooded man would do. I dragged her out to the front lawn and hosed the wench down. (It's a crying shame that this bit of mega macho behavior was missed by my neighbors). After dragging her into the house, I stood over her, making menacing gestures with a tire iron while she squirmed into CLEAN clothes.

Three days later, Mrs. Hambo is in the hospital; her newly renovated left foot is in a drywall gunk colored cast, and our company’s insurance provider is wondering how in the hell Mrs. Hambo got her foot so fucked up that it needed an operation and two steel spikes to put it back together again.

Yes, sports fans, Mrs. Hambo didn't just break her foot, she totaled it! (The Doctor used the word 'crushed', and ran off at the mouth about multiple fractures of the heel, etc.) I think you get the picture. Anyway, Mrs. Hambo is slated to get out of the hospital today (Monday) and I need to take a couple days off to get her prepared for a life without scientific inquiry. (The good news, which may make up for her loss of scientific purpose, is that she gets to hobble through her new, improved, life on crutches.) My initial instinct was to take off the whole week but, since this is a busy time here in the bunker, I have trimmed this down to two days. (The vacation request is on our desk.)

There are certain radical elements among the Hambo faithful which have rejected this whole scientific inquiry idea. According to this 'expert' (my wife's cat), Mrs. Hambo was experimenting with skydiving. After explaining to this smart ass feline that, A) One cannot skydive from a step ladder and B) One needs a parachute when attempting a skydive, I decided to pass this same information along to Mrs Hambo, on the off chance that this fur coat with an attitude was on to something. Mrs. Hambo was sufficiently evasive to leave considerable doubt in my mind.



While it's true that HER account of the 'accident' is vastly different from mine, and much less colorful, that doesn't necessarily make it true. She does not dispute the principle facts stated here including the thrilling beyond belief part where I dragged her into the front yard then hosed her down.


[The following item is loosely based on a real televangelist. It is this pagan scribbler's fictionalized account that explains how he became such an inspirational force in the army of Old Ka-Boom. It's satire...it's humor...I know that because it always makes her laugh.]

Has anybody else wondered what the tube is inundated with all these religious hucksters who speak like some southern-fried half wit? The word picture I'm attempting to paint - if you'll stop nagging me about pesky details - is that of a person who spent the first 30 years of his life believing Bear Bryant was the name of the stripper at the local Holiday Inn.

Given the way my mind works - I have a extremely vivid imagination - I visualize one of those classic white trash deep south scenarios. Wearing a pair of faded overalls, the aromatic, unshaven, craggy faced man is proud to tell you - as if anyone down wind of him needed to be told - that he hasn't changed underwear since the day George Wallace got shot. Seated on the front porch of a run down, wood frame house that has needed a coat of paint longer than this rustic needed a change of underwear, he lets his bloodshot gaze wander over his slice of rustic Alabama paradise. Rusting cars are scattered in beautifully random order around the generously littered yard with only his prized 64 Chevy pickup - the one sporting the prerequisite 'America Love it or Leave It' bumper sticker - still in pseudo working condition. The man tips up the beer can, empties it, then deftly pitches it onto the mountain of empties where it lands with a pleasing 'clink'.

The man's blank look takes on a faint glimmer of what comes close to a hint of rudimentary intellect, as he gazes with pride on the herd of unkempt children who frolic in the filth of the yard. His pride and joy, Roscoe, a crafty little eight year old, separates himself from the cow chip pelting melee to race over to address his father.

"Daddy! Daddy! I got me a calling from the Lord. I'm a gonna be one a them T.V. Evangelists. It pays heaps more than used car sellin and it uses the same skills."

"Good thinkin, son." The man says proudly.

Is this all a bit too real for you? I'm not surprised. You must be wondering why an unrepentant pagan realist like me is interested in T.V. Evangelists. The answer is simple: Ernest Angley. Without a doubt he's my all time favorite among the teeming masses who make up the brotherhood of the 'chosen'.

Ernest Angley stands head and shoulders above the rest. In fact, I'm convinced he's the standard by which the others are measured. This dynamic religious trailblazer has single handedly put Akron, Ohio back on the map. (If you've ever been to Akron, you'd know what a monumental...super human task this had to be.)

Ernest's inspirational story of his personal encounter with the almighty is a shining example of his courage and determination. Ernest had his encounter after a long - his critics insist on adding the word 'lost' - weekend spent 'saving souls' in the countless bars, taverns and strip clubs that dominate the central business district of his beloved Akron. Being a certain sort of man, he sacrificed his body to demon rum in a vain, but valiant, effort to keep it out of the hands - and bellies - of the tortured souls who poison themselves with this devil's brew, night after night. It was during this state of 'holy inebriation' - the term shit-faced springs to mind, for some reason - that he was visited by the Holy Spirit. (Interesting phrase 'Holy Spirit', especially in this context.)

As a direct result of his encounter with the almighty, the good reverend suffered several permanent side effects (a lesser man might call them handicaps), and the grandmother of all hangovers. Being the kind of man he is - inspirational in every respect - Ernest sucked it up and turned this afflictions into tools for his work. (The Lord does work in mysterious ways.)

When he recovered from his encounter, Ernest discovered that all his hair had fallen out. After a prolonged, sometimes emotional, chat with his Lord about this side effect of his Holy Spirit(s) encounter, Ernest perked up considerably when God revealed to him that he should go out and buy a wig. It's a shame the Lord didn't think to endow his loyal, but intellectually-challenged, servant with the means - financial or intellectual - to purchase a good one. Undaunted by what the untrained observer might term an ill-fitting monstrosity of a wig, Ernest wears it proudly, proclaiming it his 'badge of salvation'...proof of his intimate relationship with God.

Another, potentially more devastating, result of his holy encounter was a severe blow to the head that inflicted what mere mortals insist on calling brain damage. Ernest's speech centers took the brunt of the blow, a potentially devastating setback on his road to the T.V. Evangelist Hall of Fame. What a divine irony that the Lord chose to test his servant this way, knowing full well that speech is the single most important weapon in an evangelist's war with the powers of hell. A simple word like 'God' is an agony for poor, brave, Ernest who pronounces it 'gaawaaaad'. In typical Angley style, Ernest turned this affliction to his advantage, declaring it a vital part of his highly individual style of speech. A related byproduct of his brain injury is his disturbing habit of uncorking bone chillingly inhuman sounds during his healing rituals. I don't know what effect these demented shrieks have on the demons Ernest routinely casts out, but they damn sure scare the shit out of me!

I hasten to caution you not to despair. Ernest's overdose of Holy Spirits did much more than further reduce his already limited mental capacity and make his hair fall out. The good news is that it gave him the power to perform healings. The catch is he can't use it on the person who needs it most, Ernest himself.

In typical Angley style, these healings are performed with his familiar flair and punctuated by his cartoon character noises. I still feel my utter amazement over that first healing I saw him perform.. A handsome, young, college age man came forward, explaining that the Lord had been testing him by making him deaf in his right ear. Smiling in his vacant, yet inspirational, way, Ernest gently placed his finger in the young man's damaged ear, then launched a prolonged series of chants, shrieks, and other gibberish I assumed were special Ernest coded prayers. Once he had finished his chat with God - still keeping his finger firmly lodged in the now healed right ear - Ernest spoke softly, quietly into the young man's undamaged left ear, asking, "Can you hear me in the Lord, now?"

"Yes!" The young man cried, overwhelmed by an infusion of the Holy Spirit over his miraculous healing.

I know what devil inspired, ungodly minions of Satan are thinking. The young man could always hear Ernest in the Lord with his left ear. It was his still blocked - now healed - right one that needed to be tested. If Ernest were here, he too would refuse to dignify such slander with an answer.

One of Ernest's most impressive feats involves the casting out of devils. I remember one particularly challenging case that involved a very...substantial - think of a Boeing 747 in a moo moo - woman. Any moron knows that being invaded by the Holy Spirit knocks the invadee right off his/her feet, which is why experienced healers/demon evictors - like Ernest - employ 'catchers', assistants if you prefer, who stand behind the possessed, to catch them when they go down. On this particular occasion, given the staggering dimensions of the possessed woman, it took what appeared to be death threats to persuade the two toothpick shaped assistants to stand in the prime landing zone.

While the senior 'catcher' kept the two doomed young men in the landing zone with an Uzi, Ernest raised his arms, letting the holy power build up in him then attempted to inject the Holy Spirit into this Goodyear blimp in human form with a gentle tap on the head. When the woman didn't fall - much to the relief of the deathly pale assistants cowering behind her - Ernest uncorked one of his demented shouts, screamed some of his prayerful gibberish, then let the holy power build up in him until his entire body quaked from the dangerous level of pent up holy energy. After explaining to his worried followers that the evil spirit was fighting him, Ernest delivered the Lord's healing grace with what looked like a vicious karate chop to the woman's head.

Needless to say, the Devil was evicted with a vengeance - not to mention a resounding thud - as the woman crashed to the floor. Screaming in abject terror, the toothpicks jumped out of the way, just in time to avert a potential tragedy. Once the building stopped shaking (Cal Tech called it an 8.3) and the lights came back on, Ernest stared down at the exorcized, unconscious, woman then spent the twenty minutes it took the paramedics to revive her explaining the finer points of evil spirit eviction to his faithful flock. To me, being an unenlightened heathen, it had looked like Ernest punched a fat lady's lights out, but to the true believer, it must have been an inspirational moment. I'm certain that the driver of the industrial strength forklift that carried the dazed, but healed, woman away had a look of unabashed, Holy Spirit induced awe on his face.

I'm sad to report that Ernest's special relationship with god hasn't gone unnoticed, and has been known to cause many of his fellow evangelists to envy him. Blissfully unaware of such things, Ernest continues his holy crusade against the powers of darkness. For me, it's comforting to know that every night, Ernest is wandering the streets of his beloved Akron, going toe to toe with the Devil, fortified by his faith and an occasional nip of the Holy Spirits.


Hambo’s History Lesson

[We all know that what we call ‘history’ is, much too often, some self-serving, self-aggrandizing, propaganda that casts the ‘victors’ of titanic historical struggles in the best possible light. I get that and, by and large, am able to cope.

There are, however, at least two instances where history has been deliberately warped beyond recognition to serve the unrequited needs of a dark, eons old, forces that I call ‘the Female Conspiracy’. If you’re thinking this is the work of that dastardly celestial pest, the dreaded Mrs. Old Ka-Boom, give yourself a cookie.

The following corrections to what we call ‘history’ are belatedly entered into the official record.]

Historical Correction #1: The truth about marriage
Contrary to feminist propaganda, the alleged state of bliss commonly called 'marriage' was not created by men to enslave women. In point of fact, it was mistakenly created by a pelvically-driven Swede named Henn Pecki, a man who was suffering from the most severe case of unrequited ‘wham, bam, thank you ma’am’ in all of recorded history.

A complete study of this 'bone' head's life shows us that the actual instigator of this particular aspect of the female conspiracy was a scheming little trashbag by the name of Ingrid Apple-bottom. This manipulative, mind-warping little tart went out of her way to excite poor Henn, until he couldn't take it anymore. That's when he came up with this marriage nonsense. Want to guess who gave him this stupid idea? Sounds to me like little Ingrid was begging to have her celebrated, boom-boom blistered with a two by four.

Bottom Line: Ingrid used her vastly overrated boom-boom to manipulate poor Henn Pecki into this marriage scam, then made him spend the remaining decades of life in "not tonight, Henn, I’ve got a headach" hell.

History Correction #2: Why Attila was such a fun guy
It's time to set the record straight about one of the most tragically misunderstood figures in European history: Attila The Hun. This poor man has been viciously maligned for centuries and it wasn't even his fault! Due to one of those insane arranged marriages, he was saddled with the dreaded Mrs. Attila, a lady who was in every sense of the word, the Royal Bitch behind the throne.

To make matters that much worse, our criminally slandered hero was born in Central Asia - one of those terminally boring, bring your own snow shovels in July places that's part of Russia, now. With a great big nothing to get him out of the house - away from the dreaded Mrs. Attila - our hero had to put up with Mrs. A's relentless nagging about how miserable their lives were and how much better their European (Roman) counterparts had it.

After a long, long winter of being locked up with the acid-tongued Mrs. A, who can blame our boy for taking out all that pent-up hostility on the rest of Europe? After being trapped alone with that dragon lady, you'd be more than ready for a fun filled summer of rape and pillage, too.

Bottom Line: Attila and his homeboys were, in reality, some egregiously maligned party animals who just wanted to brighten up the lives of the people, places, they visited.

[This third item does not appear to be the work of the Female Conspiracy, but does demonstrate how unlikely events inject a new term, a new concept, into what passes for popular culture.]

History Correction #3: A Historical Perspective on Waitresses
When put in its proper, historical perspective, it's not too hard to see why service has become a secondary function in the vast scope of knowledge encompassed by the science we now know as Waitressology. As you'd expect when considering a concept of this magnitude, it originated in ancient France. The original term was ressagier, which loosely translates as 'one who serves'.

When the Normans crossed the channel to bring culture to the artistically deprived British Isles, the ressagier concept went with them. Unfortunately, the British didn't fully appreciate the ressagier, which they shortened to 'ress'. An impatient, unsophisticated people by nature, the British couldn't adjust to the leisurely pace of dining as practiced on the continent. These primitives were always complaining and ranting about 'waiting for the bloody ress', thus giving birth to the modern term 'waitress'.

Bottom Line: A waitress is supposed to make you wait. If she didn't, we'd call her something else.



A New Egghead Study Proves Mom Was
Right About The Sorry Company You Keep.

Blamism is alive, well, and boldly going where nobody expected it to go in the first decade of the 21st century. We were, to say the least, more than a tad amused when a group of Eggheads with nothing better to do studied the reasons that people get fat. The simple answer: your habit of slam dunking, shoe-horning and cramming down insane quantities of the wrong food seems to be a likely explanation. Alas, that dose of personal accountability is wrong according to the results of a study that were just pooped out in the prestigious New England Journal of Medicine.

The other, likely, choice - one that’s very popular - is that your excess tonnage is a dastardly plot by fast food wrangling capitalists. They’re the manipulative scumbags who brainwashed you as a child with mind-numbing advertising on kiddie programs then ruined your girlish figure with an assortment of tempting, fat-inducing fare. We know this because the transfat obsessed twerps in our midst tell us that’s the reason. That might still be in play, but it’s not the conclusion reached by this study.

The study data reveals that the primary reason you’re a wide-load is because your best friend is a wide-load. Your lardass sibling and bloated parents have an impact but it’s not as great. We are, to say the least, stunned, and the implications of this completely disrupt our cherished blame-shifting calculations. During our brewskie-fueled, melee, uh, discussion, on this topic, the following excellent points were raised:

* According to these Egghead psychobabblers and their crock of a theory, a friendship with a human hippo makes you reach elephantine proportions. Since you’re a 'View' fanatic and came to consider Rosie your best friend in the world, it’s her fault that you’re fat and she needs to go into rehab at the nearest fat farm so YOU can shed a ton or two. Is that where this ‘study’ leads us?

* Does this ‘fat friends make you fat’ scam work in reverse? Will dumping your lardass friends and replacing them with poster punks and punkettes for anorexia make you skinny again?

* Would hanging around rich people make you rich?

* If your best friend is dumber than a box of rocks, are your brain cells going to abandon ship, en masse?

* If your friend has blond hair, are you going to wake up one morning with blonde hair?

* If you associate with Catholic priests, well, never mind, we all know what happens there.

* If you’re BFF (best female friend) is built like brick you know what, will you magically sprout Pam Anderson class sweater puppies to prove your friendship? Conversely, if you don’t sprout, can your ‘friend’, quite rightly, conclude that you’re not the friend you pretend to be?

* If your best chum is hung like John Holmes or Tommy Lee, will your trouser inchworm turn into a trouser anaconda? We doubt it, so don’t throw away your magnifying glass, hung like a chipmunk Sparky.

* Since Teddy 'The Swimmer' is the main man on the Senate floor and everybody's 'dear friend from Massachusetts' is he the reason that everyone in the Senate seems to be a drunken, womanizing, MORON?

If this study has you utterly and completely befuddled, we’ve got your back. Here, as a public service of PIG, are some questions that should help you cope with this momentous, mom warned me not to hang around him/her discovery.

You're such a wide-load you need to use the loading dock entrance to lumber into Baskin Robbins. Whose fault is it?
a) Your plodding herd of bigger than the Goodyear Blimp friends?
b) Your "Children are starving in Angola, so clean up your plate" parents?
c) Big bones/a thyroid condition?
d) Dick Cheney, because everything else is his fault?

You self-medicated your last functional synapse into submission. Whose fault is it?
a) Your loser friends who, shoot, snort, pop and gulp down anything that numbs their alleged brain?
b) Your "Just say no" hypocrite parents who get gunned to the gills on adult beverage every night?
c) What Dr. Phil might call an 'addictive personality disorder'?
d) Karl Rove, because everyone knows that there's more in that Kool-Aid than sugar and flavored water?

You're such a complete horndog that every porn site in cyberspace rolls out the red carpet for you. Whose fault is it?
a) Your porn monkey pal, Ziggy, who keeps sending you all those horizontal and squishy Internet links?
b) Your Holy Roller parents whose idea of a 'sex talk' involved giving you a 'how babies are made' book when your hormones started raging?
c) A chronic sexual addiction that defies modern medical science?
d) Jimmy Swaggart, because he introduced you to the 'get out of sin free' card?

Your DMV record is so loaded with traffic tickets it's the size of the Manhattan phone book. Whose fault is it?
a) Your street racing bonkers pal 'Crash', who keeps saying "You drive like an old lady"?
b) Your southern-fried parents who, eat, sleep, live and breath NASCAR?
c) Your attention deficit disorder because it makes you incapable of staying focused on traffic signals, stop signs and speed limits?
d) The Tri-Lateral Commission, because they use Draconian traffic laws to enslave you?

You're drowning in red ink and consider anything more than 50 cents in your pocket serious money. Whose fault is it?
a) Your pal 'Mooch', who elevated the 'have you got a spare buck' touch to an art form?
b) Your cheap bastard fatcat parents who insisted that you learn the REAL value of $ by earning it yourself?
c) Racism/sexism/classism that keeps you from getting a job that doesn't include the phrase "Do you want fries with that"?
d) Ronald Reagan, because trickle down economics never drips down to your level?

Your neighbors keep complaining that your dead lawn is an eyesore and is creating a mini dust bowl in the neighborhood. Whose fault is it?
a) Your prime dude, Spud, who was born with a tv remote in his hand, and keeps saying, "Yard work is for losers."?
b) Your parents who thwarted your dreams of a lawncare empire by hiring Juan the border jumper’s lawn service?
c) Global Warming, because it seems especially strong on your homestead?
d) Halliburton, because an Art Bell caller warned that they were cornering the market on lawncare products?

Despite a college degree and top graduation honors you’re stuck in a loser job. Whose fault is it?
a) Your best friend Tina who swore that a degree in sociology was the fast track to success?
b) Your parents who should have tried a lot harder to keep you from hanging out with a tramp like Tina?
c) Secondhand smoke from all those dives Tina dragged you into clouded your judgement?
d) WalMart, because that human services bitch laughed when you told her about your Sociology degree?

Okay, we’ve had some fun beating this ‘it’s all your friend’s fault’ crap into submission, but we feel obligated to state the obvious. If you’re fat, broke, can’t keep a job, are a menace behind the wheel of a car, or a hundred other sorry things, the culprit is as close as the nearest mirror. He/she is that familiar face who is staring back at you. It’s called personal accountability AKA taking responsibility for your own actions, your own choices. We’re just a tad shocked that these alleged ‘bright bulbs’ who perpetrated this study never found the time, or motivation to broach the subject.

You’re not a helpless victim whose life is controlled by crappy friends, bad parenting, an alphabet soup of syndromes or dark forces plotting against you. It’s your life, so if you’re not thrilled with the way it’s going, stop bitching, get off your butt and DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT. Don’t make us come over there.


Politically Incorrect Foods
A Triple-A baseball team, the Lehigh Valley Iron Pigs, decided to name its mascot ( a large furry pig) "PorkChop". It was all going along smoothly, until somebody spoiled the fun by complaining about the name "PorkChop". Apparently, a "pork chop" is more than a cut of meat. According to 'Hispanic' whiners, it’s also a racial slur against Puerto Ricans. That's a new one on me, but I won't dispute it. Anyway, the usual Ethnocrat subjects got their knickers in a knot and the team dropped "PorkChop" like a bad habit, bleating, pathetically, about sensitivity and diversity. Blah, blah, blah.

That incident got those Hambo wheels turning about the mythical 'right' that protects the chronically oppressed from being offended and how it makes everyday aspects of life a non-stop thrill ride. Take, for example, that routine trip to the supermarket for some groceries. Let's assume that you behave yourself: you don't pinch some sweater-bursting wench's 'melons', and you don't go 'Hambo' on that fat bastard blocking the brewskie aisle. You're still not out of the woods, because the grocery shopping trip is a far cry from "no harm, no foul". If they’ll black flag "pork chop", what else will they banish to keep some hypersensitive pinhead from getting a boo-boo?

Once I put my legendary imagination to it, I realized that your ubiquitous grocery outlet is a politically incorrect minefield. Setting aside such blatantly incorrect foods as redskin peanuts and squaw bread, both of which might oppress a Siberian-American, there are numerous other problematic foods that could launch that Korrectnik checkout clerk. Prove it, you say? No problem. Get ready to be dumbstruck with awe over my PIGish imagination.

For the sake of argument, let's assume you go there with the following list:

Pork Chops, Twinkies, Ho Hos, Goobers, Cheetos, Ham, Fruitcake, Chicken, Tomatoes, Lemons, Meatballs, Shrimp, Lays Chips, Prunes, Sponges, Butterfingers, Mr. Clean, Angel Food Cake

How the hell can you live with yourself, racist, sexist, elitist, insensitive Sparky? You just maligned the following groups:

Puerto Ricans
Pork Chop
Bun Rangers
Black Women
Unfaithful Spouses
Annoying Showoffs
The Differently-Rational
Genetically Gifted Women
Used Car Salesmen
Little People
Mr. Clean
Atheists, Pagans, Wiccans
Angel Food
Sluts (Again)
Virgin Olive Oil
Tender Loin
Flat Chested Women
Titleist (Golf Products)
Nappy Headed Ho's
Brillo Pad
Brawny Paper Towels
Chronic Masturbators
Beef Jerky
Hush Puppies

If that doesn't thrill the socks off you, here are a few more potential problem items on your shopping list:

Might offend someone who has serious 'issues' with their impulse control.

This item might offend that never been touched 'that way', 38 year-old dude who still lives in mom's basement.

Melons (in pairs)
Might offend amply endowed womyn.

Slapping that bunch of fresh garlic down in front of a grocery clerk who’s a dead ringer for Bela Lugosi is a no-no, insensitive bastard Sparky

Ringing up a product whose name is slang for money will give that clerk who just declared bankruptcy a boo-boo.

By now, you’re wondering if there are any supermarket items that are guaranteed to get a pass from the most hypersensitive Korrectnik. Yup. After a comprehensive search of the items found in most grocery stores, we have selected one that is bullet proof, in Korrectnik eyes. I refer, of course to that tastebud blight, that utterly indestructible alleged food, the rice cake. I won’t call your shots, but in Hamboland, when forced to choose between rice cakes and starvation, I’ll go for starvation, every damn time.


Fun Porcus Facts
Through my writings, most of you have gotten to know about the workings of my alleged mind in considerable detail. In hindsight, I probably should have warned you that my mind is a dark and dangerous place that’s not for the faint of heart. I’d apologize, but most of you wouldn’t believe me.

Some of you might be wondering about our esteemed publisher, Porcus. At most, you know that he’s an Irish-Italian gentleman, a talented artist who graduated from a top art school. But what, you ask, about the man himself? I’m not going to tell tales out of school, but perhaps a few pictures will give you a clearer image of him.

He enjoys visiting the great outdoors with his lovely bride:

A devoted husband, he enjoys shopping with his lovely bride:

He's very handy with a hammer and nails:

His sense of style makes a vivid impression:

The real question that remains to be answed is: Does he have a sense of humor about himself? We'll find out that answer, together.



© Copyright 1993-2022 PIG - The Politically Incorrect Gazette


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