Who Let the Pogs Out?

Yesterday we here at This Site published the first ever account of the secret, underground Pog tournament held on Secret Pog Island (which is located in the greater Atlanta area) and introduced you to three of the six competitors at this millenium's tournament: Francis "HAMMA SLAMMA" Kingston, Fabbio "JUICY FRUIT" Brucio, and Kano "KANO" Kano. Today we will give you the low-down scoop on the final three contestants at this year's sure-to-be-legendary (by "legendary" we mean "CBS-movie-of-the-week worthy material") tournament. Be wary, for the gritty details of this Pog tournament are not for the weak-hearted. The following contains graphic violence, high fructose corn syrup, nudity, fun activities, and heavy drug usage. Parental guidance is advised.

PROFILE XBXBX90210

Name: River "QUOTATION MARKS" Bonanza
DOB: 10/15/85
Weapon of Choice: "The Friz-B." Extremely large slammer, approximately 1 ft. in diameter.
Favorite Pog: Pog with Wolverine on it. Watch out, Bubs!
Favorite Food: Coke Zero Slushie

Background: River Bonanza is the stuff Pog legends are made of. Rumored to have been born in 1885, River Bonanza has a handlebar mustache that even the most elitist of handlebar mustache enthusiasts would dub "more than satisfactory by my own very high handlebar mustache standards." While this has nothing to do with his supposed time-travel, it is his most distinguishing feature, aside from the fact that he has four arms. This gives him the unique ability to wield a larger-than-life mega-slammer, once thought to have gone extinct years ago. His mega-slammer, "The Friz-B," measures over a foot in diameter, and is rumored to have been poached from deep within the Amazon rainforest. A slam from "The Friz-B" has recorded a 4.2 on the Richter scale. River hopes to make some connections at the tournament and hopefully secure himself a job in a middle management positon at an accounting firm. Or maybe just to find a ride home, 'cuz even with four thumbs, most drivers have been very reluctant to allow him to hitchhike with them.

PROFILE QP55378008

Name: Slugger "JONATHON" Lucky
DOB: 1/1/90
Weapon of Choice: One of those plain, regular, plastic slammers.
Favorite Pog: The one without any label or anything. It's just like a circle of cardboard.
Favorite Food: Crazy Glue

Background: Slugger "Jonathon" Lucky doesn't really like pogs all that much. But his mom keeps making him play it because she's always nagging him to go out and play with the other kids. But no one even plays pogs anymore, mom! His pleas are met with gentle, oblivious humming. He plans on totally running away from home someday to do what he's always dreamed of doing: sniffing glue and buying cigarettes without his mom getting all up on his ass about it. Until then, he's trying to make money at pogging to pay for his clarinet lessons. And he hears that the winner of the tournament gets to make his or her mom to buy a Playboy Magazine for them and she can't get mad at them for it, and he's been wantin' one of those for years. Plus, he's pretty addicted to Beanie Babies, and a little extra cash could never hurt with that habit.

PROFILE ABC123DOREMI

Name: Norman "POGZRFUN87" Wilmington
DOB: 7/21/68
Weapon of Choice: "Little Man," his slammer built of purified uranium-235.
Favorite Pog: Pog that looks like a donut. It's got sprinkles and everything! No hole in the center though. That would disqualify the pog.
Favorite Food: Flour

Background: Norman "PogzRFun87" Wilmington is regarded by some to be the single most dangerous pogger on the market these days. A former special ops leader, Norman left his old life behind to explore the elusive and exotic art of pogs. He left behind a wife, several children, and his dog, Mr. Puffykins. Norman even went so far as to have cybernetic arms installed in place of his weak flesh-ridden ones to increase his "slamming" ability. His ambition in pogs knows no bounds. He has trekked to the farthest bounds of the earth to secure uranium-235 in order to make his highly unstable and frightening "Little Man" slammer, which could result in a massive explosion taking out 20 square miles after every slam. He claims to be "the most powerfullest [sic] poggerator [sic] in da [sic] galaxiverse [sic]!!!1[sic]!!!" He also enjoys sitting by the side of nature trails and murmurring "oil can...oil caaaaan..." at unsuspecting travellers, and then challenging them to a pog match immediately afterwards. He is currently being treated for radiation poisoning, so is not at his strongest level.

Let Slip the Pogs of War!

It hit me the other day that This Site had never run a story dealing with the international phenomenon of pogs, despite the fact that the term "pog-mania" lies hidden in our URL address (as well as my home address, strangely). It should be noted that we begrudgingly were forced to take that URL address when we discovered www.cnn.com had already been taken. Sigh. It's a dog eat dog world on the internet...or should I say, a pog eat pog world?

No, I probably shouldn't say that.

We at This Site had come across a secret, underground tournament several years ago. One of the highest stakes. This isn't your run-of-the-mill Tokyo Drift tournament on the streets of Tokyo or that secret, underground poker room run by Oreo-loving John Malkovich. This is a Pog-related tournament. Only the best of the best dare wait for the ancient, secret ninja ship to arrive at a secret port to take them to the most secretest of locations: Secret Pog Island, which is shaped like a giant pog. Or, in non-pog-user terms, a "circle."

The chronicles of what transpired at the most recent tournament, held once every thousand years (or, at least, the board members claim it WILL be, but the Pog has only been around for about 15 years, so it's hard to say), was pieced together from diary entries, eyewitness reports, and ESPN's live coverage. For the first time ever, the public will be made aware of the secret, underground pog tournament of Secret Pog Island. Today we will go over the first three entrants of the tournament.


PROFILE P42X667
Name: Francis "HAMMA SLAMMA" Kingston
DOB: 8/14/76
Weapon of Choice: Hammer-shaped Slammer
Favorite Pog: One that has the Green Ranger on it, and he's playing that song with his dagger that summons the Dragon Zord!
Favorite Food: Junior Mints

Background: Francis comes from humble beginnings, growing up on the mean streets of Tehran, using his natural aptitude for "pogging" to keep he and his younger brother, Richie, fed. He crafted his own powerful slammer during his apprenticeship with the local ironsmith. Forged from the blade Excalibur, the "hammer slammer" is feared for its strength and confusing shape. Tragedy struck young Francis three years ago, when he introduced Richie to the dangerous world of pogging. Playing in backalleys and secret dungeons, Richie got in over his head and owed a substantial debt to Fabbio "Juicy Fruit" Brucio, notorious mob boss in control of Tehran's streets. When he could not pay Brucio the latest payment, Brucio ordered Richie be slammed...in front of Francis, no less. Seeing his brother slammed in such a horrific manner is an image that Francis will never forget, and something he will carry with him for the rest of his life. He is determined to become the greatest pogger in the world, as a loving tribute to his fallen kin. He also wishes vengeance on Brucio, but realizes he would be dishonoring his younger brother by repeating his mistake. He'll probably never even get the chance to personally fight Brucio in the game that took his brother's life and which he happens to also be a master at.

PROFILE UK2561PP
Name: Fabbio "JUICY FRUIT" Brucio
DOB: 1/11/39
Weapon of Choice: .44 Magnum (he uses it at his slammer, but it's actually just a gun)
Favorite Pog: "Pogs? Are those the goddamn circles of cardboard all the dumbshit kids are playing? Those things are retarded." - Fabbio Brucio. He refused to divulge if he even owned any pogs.
Favorite Food: Rigatoni

Background: Fabbio "Juicy Fruit" Brucio was born to Maria and Ribio Brucio, two Italian stereotypes, in Sicily. His mother Maria loved to cook big Italian dinners and ran a very strict household. His father Ribio was a stern but loving olive farmer who would say "Whatsamattawitchu?" and "Fuggedaboudit!" all the time. Fabbio came to New York, took out a bank loan, and founded the Queens branch of the Italian Mafia. He blackmailed the President of the United States, (we have decided not to use names to protect those mentioned), into giving his organization "tax exempt status" and recognition as an official organized religion. He was introduced to pogs after he found one of his sons playing the game, and discovered that it was a good way to get kids involved with the mafia at an early age. He also shoots cans for fun.

PROFILE B00T3LV5
Name: Kano "KANO" Kano
DOB: Unknown
Weapon of Choice: Eye of the Slammer
Favorite Pog: It's like, an eyeball. It has the iris and the cornea and all that shit. It looks really realistic too. It's so sweet.
Favorite Food: Pumpkin Pie

Background: Little is known about Kano, but rumors of his origins persist. Is he a cowardly minion? Blackface performer from the 20's? Orthodontist with a hidden past? Contestant on Global Guts? Maybe he is some of these things, but more likely he is all of these things and more. He lost an eye after a particularly unruly pog match in Alcatraz Detention Facility, wherein an illegal slammer was used and the resulting ricochet took his right eye. He now plays to torment others as he has been tormented, and also because he heard that the winner of the secret, underground pog tournament got a $25 gift certificate to the local Bennigan's restaurant. And they make a mean loaded potato soup. His Eye of the Slammer is a world-renowned slammer, for it contains the remnants of his lost eye and is still sorta squishy. A mad scientist placed a metal plate over Kano's lost eye, and in turn has given Kano the impression that he is a freak and has therefore become quite mad himself. Mad with ambition, that is.

The Hitman

These days, I tell ya, murder ain't what it used to be. It used to be, in my business that is, that when a fella was giving you trouble, you got eliminated him like you would eat a hefty serving of Mama Joanna's famed potato salad: loudly and rapturously. But those days are past. Now, if you wanna eliminate some worthless thug, you gotta do it like you would eat a perfectly good slice of pizza that's on the top of the garbage: discreetly and when no one was looking. These days it wasn't even safe to murder someone yourself. You have to hire someone to do the murdering for you! I don't make the rules, and I usually don't even play by 'em. But in this case, I ain't got much of a choice.

That's where Brett comes in. Well, we call him "B," because there's another Brett and I knew him first, so he kinda had claims on that name. B, though, is the only person I trust with something as important as murdering. So when time came for me to put a hit out on Neil "Boots" Armstrong, I called up B. We decided to meet at the usual spot: a warehouse near the docks.

I...well, you don't need to know my name. Just know this: I am the most powerful man in America. You think that sonuvabitch you elected as President holds the title? Don't be naive, Johnny. I run the show 'round this country. The red, white, and blue answer to me. No one fucks with me. No one. Neil "Boots" Armstrong thought he could. Thought he could fuck my virile young wife and that I'd never put the pieces together. Well, he didn't know who he was messin' with. I found his spacesuit, covered in their sexual fluids, in the washing machine. Slipped up, spaceboy. And now he was gonna pay the price. The storm that I would create was gonna descend upon him. He was gonna learn why I was who I was and why he was nothin' but a grease stain on the side of the road.


"The fuck you want, cocksucker?" inquired B, taking off his sunglasses that he wore regardless of the time of day, and handing off his jacket to one of my petty goon-esque minions.

"Hey B, I wanted -" I began.

"I told you to never fuckin' call me that, all right, you greasy faggot? As a matter of fact, you shouldn't ever be addressing me by my name, you dirty fuckin' numbskull."

"Listen B - I mean...you! - I got someone I need whackified, if you know what I mean..."

"Well no fuckin' duh."

I slid a picture of Boots across the table to B.

"This fuckin' old shit? Are you fuckin' wasting my valuable time with this? This old fart'll be dead in six months. You fuckin' dumbass."

"You will be handsomely rewarded," I added, opening the large metallic case that lay on the table in front of the two of us. It was filled with gold dubloons and diamonds. The whole shpeel would probably retail at around $15 million US. B was worth every penny.

"Okay, Mr. Fuckhead. I'm listenin'. Who the fuck is this guy and what the fuck did he do to you? Did he not invite you to his fuckin' slumber party or some shit? Did he break your favorite Barbie's head off?"

"It's Boots, B - I mean, you! Jesus, I'm sorry, bud - and he fucked my wife. He fucked my wife and now-"

"Yeah, yeah, I get the fuckin' picture. He'll be dead in two days. I'll just be taking this case with me."

"Pleasure doin' business with you!" I added as B was walking out into the sunset.

B didn't say anything back. He didn't need to. He was a pro. He was also giving me the finger, and probably assumed that took care of the need to respond with words. B...he was the man, when you wanted it done fast and right.

Sports Team Battle League

Today, I awoke to the screaming and cheering of my roommates, who enjoy particular sports, and within that, particular sports teams (or squadrons/gangs/groups/herds/etc.). Why the chaotic jubilation? Their particular sports team was doing very well in some sort of league-sponsored tournament. It was the sports team, "The Bears," battling their opposing sports team, "The Saints." Now, I have absolutely no idea as to what specific sport the two teams were engaging in, but it involved a ball and running, two things which scream accident waiting to happen to the likes of I.

I found myself almost instantly bored (I say "almost," because there was a commercial for health insurance that had me particularly captivated towards the beginning of my viewing session). These "bears" look nothing like the bears I've read of in novels and seen in hit films such as The Edge! And it is hardly "saintly" behavior to attack and bludgeon your fellow man, solely due to your pursuit for an oddly-shaped ball! That's when it hit me: this particular sport was in dire need of some revamping. Nay! All sports! And I alone held the key to the solution to the answer.

Wouldn't it be far more interesting to see a gaggle of bears battling with an assortment of saints? All of the sports members involved in this game were virtually indistinguishable from one another! All had similar gear and helmets and the like (and were all clearly of human origin). But in a match between actual bears and real-life saints, the battle lines would be clear to all. Plus, it would be life and death circumstances, making the suspense thick and the audience enraptured in the proceedings. I have looked up several team names, and here is whom I think would be the top five competitors in my new ultimate sport: Sports Team Battle League! (or STBL for short)

1. The Angels
Analysis: With the power and grace of God (and/or Jesus Christ/Mohammed/Buddha/Zeus/etc.) on their side, this team would be virtually unstoppable.
2. The Rockets
Analysis: Pure and simple weapon. Made to explode and create as many casualties as possible.
3. The Wizards
Analysis: Magic is a powerful and potent force, but there are not enough wizards in the world to pose a viable threat to the world's supply of rockets.
4. The Senators
Analysis: The power of the government lies with this team, and could theoretically have games won before they even begin by passing key legislations.
5. The Avalanche
Analysis: Avalanches are really strong. And nearly unstoppable. Let's see you stand up to an avalance, hoss.

Honorable Mention - The Heat
Analysis: Heat? This is a difficult team to categorize. It is simply the natural occurence of heat, which could bring thirst to it's opponents, but it not a physical being in itself, so would probably be disqualified.

So support your local chapter of the Sports Team Battle League! Be sure to check back for more sports-related updates here at This Site!

A tiger in outer space vs. a burning ball of nuclear fission. Odds are on the Suns, but I'm sensing an upset!

Oh Fuck! Terrorists! Finale! Part Two!

CHAPTER 24: 7:00 a.m. - 8:00 a.m.

PART 2



Then Jack landed on the moon. Then he killed Bossli Explosionyed after a suspenseful and viscerally-astounding gun battle. Then he just sorta chilled on the moon until around 7:59, when he got a call on his cell phone.

"Jack Bauer."

"Jack, congratulations on stopping Bossli's evil plans!" proclaimed Richard Walsh, Director of CTU.

"Richard..." began Jack.

"Yes?"

"I'm taking tomorrow off."

Richard Walsh, Director of CTU, chuckled at this.

"It's been a long day, eh?"

"Yes. And I'm on the moon."

"Well, I guess you've earned it," admitted Richard Walsh, Director of CTU.

"The moon. I'm on it. I have no idea how to fly a rocket. I think I'm going to die here."

"But the thing is," continued Richard Walsh, Director of CTU, "Jack, you've used up all of your personal days for this quarter. So...you need to be back at your desk by 9:00 AM, or your ass is grass."

Richard Walsh, Director of CTU, hung up the phone.

Jack closed his cell phone and threw it into the lunar distance, watching it as it majestically soared through the air - well, not air, because there is no air on the moon, but something like air - and finally touch upon the surface, creating a small cloud of moon dust in its wake.

It had been a long and exciting day.

7:59:59


THE END

Oh Fuck! Terrorists! Finale! Part One!

CHAPTER 24 : 7:00 a.m. - 8:00 a.m.

7:00:01

Jack, drenched in goat blood and feces (from unspecified origins), arose from the collapsed toolshed. His clothes were tattered, his body worn, and his left eye poked out by a decorative swordfish display at the local Applebee's. But his mind was resolute. Resolute on stopping terror in all of its forms and colors and shapes and sizes. Jack pulled his body from the wreckage of the once mighty and proud toolshed and basked in the sunlight; much like a phoenix rising from the ashes only to realize that it was actually a terror-fighting phoenix that had only one hour left until a massive terrorist attack took place.

Bossli Explosionyed's entire series of terrorist attacks throughout the course of the day were in fact a diversion to keep Jack Bauer from discovering his true objective: blow up the moon. It seemed so obvious in retrospect; the clues had been everywhere. The spacesuits and Tang at Explosionyed's mom's apartment, the copy of Apollo 13 at the site of the suicide bomber at Target, and finally (the most damning piece of evidence) the note reading: "I AM GOING TO BLOW UP THE MOON AT AROUND 8:00 AM DEATH TO AMERICA." Jack had let this situation nearly slip out of his weary hands, and for his negligence, Jack knew it was up to him and only him to stop Explosionyed's treacherous scheme.

Jack had gone dark from CTU a few hours ago, in order to avoid Bill Buchanan's incessant phone calls that he would make for no real reason, other than to ask Jack "how he was doing" or "who his favorite Beatle was." The only communication Jack had within CTU was that of Ricardo O'Brian, Chloe's twin Costa Rican brother, who took over Chloe's position after her unfortunate and untimely beheading by Mike Novick, former-Chief-of-Staff gone bad.

7:06:44

Jack dusted himself off and searched through the wreckage for his cell phone, which he had been using every five minutes for the past 23 hours without re-charging. When at last he found it, he immediately called Ricardo.

"Soy Ricardo, CTU."

"Ricardo, it's Jack. You were right all along. Explosionyed's going to blow up the moon!" gasped Jack, still wiping blood from his mouth.

"So what do you need from me, Senor Bauer?" queried Ricardo.

"DO YOU WANT ME TO TORTURE YOU OR SOMETHING?!" propositioned Jack, pointing his gun at the cell phone.

"Jesus Christ, Jack, calm down," snapped Ricardo, who was insensitive and rude. "I can help you if you tell me something to do."

"All right," began Jack, lowering his weapon, "I need you to hack into NASA's computers and hijack me a rocket."

"What? Are you insane? What could -"

"I WILL TORTURE YOU WITH MY MIND!" bellowed Jack, as he clenched his fists and eyes and focused on using his mind to torture Ricardo as hard as he could, not realizing that he did not have psychic abilities and the events of the day had completely destroyed what little sanity he had left.

"Fine, fine," sighed Ricardo. "I'll open up a socket and steal you that rocket."

"And I need it within the next ten minutes," announced Jack, hanging up on Ricardo.

"It is literally impossible for you to get to Cape Canaveral in ten minutes, Jack," spoke Ricardo to no one, 'cuz Jack had hung up. Ricardo sighed. "Well...better get going." Ricardo hacked like he had never hacked before, and in seven minutes, the Shuttle Palmer was at their command.

7:19:06

Jack rode his prize stallion, Whistlin' Dixie (whom he had been forced to ride since the terrorists destroyed all automobiles with their "Automobile Bomb Technology" about ten hours ago), onto the launch pad of Cape Canaveral. He leapt off the noble steed and rushed abaord the rocket, sparing no time. Using his cell phone, he called up Ricardo O'Brian.

"Ricardo! Start the launch sequence!" exclaimed Jack. "Now, dammit!"

"It is not in any way possible for you to actually already be on the rocket at Cape Canaveral."

"Dammit, Ricardo, I don't have time to argue with you! Just do it! Dammit!"

"Fine, whatever," murmurred Ricardo, as he opened a socket and used bandwidth or something to start the launch sequence at 7:20:44.

7:20:54.

"BLAST OFF!"

And with an explosion of patriotism and rocket fuel, Jack Bauer was thrusted towards the cold, vast reaches of our galaxy...and his destiny.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Oh Fuck! Terrorists!

The biggest televisionary phenomenon has begun yet again. 24. A simple number has become the obsession of a nation. In trying to milk the proverbial teats of this proverbial cash cow, the proverbial writers of the proverbial show have proverbially sold out and released a series of proverbial "novels" for the 24 canon. These novels are under the heading "Declassified," and show us obsessive viewers some literary insight into the life of Jack Bauer before all the televised craziness started.

I have begun a 24 novel of my own, and I will today show off the first chapter for all of America to behold and read in awe of my genius.

24: Declassified: Oh Fuck! Terrorists!

CHAPTER 1: 8:00 a.m. - 9:00 a.m.

8:00:01 A.M.

Jack Bauer awoke from his heavy slumber, startled by his cat, Mr. Snuffly-Pookins, jumping onto his face.

"Mr. Snuffly-Pookins," mumbled Jack, with his eyes still closed, "if you do not leave my face within the next five seconds, I will totally Jack Bauer-ize your sorry ass."

At 8:00:07, Mr. Snuffly-Pookins was totally off Jack Bauer's face. There was no way Jack was going to be able to go back to sleep after that though. Mr. Snuffly-Pookins had scratched the bottom of his lip a little, and blood was trickling out ever so slowly. Jack threw the covers off of himself, but still had not opened his eyes, almost as if he was hoping that if he did not open his eyes, the day would not begin.

"Fuck. I can't keep staying up 24 hours a day. I'm so goddamn tired."

Jack, knowing that his act of defiance was merely an excercise in futility, finally opened his eyes and let the sunlight awaken him to a new day, full of promise and hope. Birds were chirping. Jack got out of his bed to use the can. Meanwhile, terrorists were plotting America's destruction.

"Let's blow up America," suggested terrorist lackey Terrormed Evilyeer.

"Okay," agreed his boss, Bossli Explosionyed, who was an evil terrorist. "But let's do it...within the next 24 hours!"

Jack was washing his hands after using the can, when he noticed he was almost out of handwashing soap. Jack Bauer was a man who liked two things: killing terrorists and cleanliness. This would not stand. Jack grabbed his jacket, his aviators, and his car keys, and headed for his Toyota Prius, the finest driving apparatus yet invented. He jammed the car key into the key slot and twisted it like it was a knife in the neck of a terrorist, which he would twist to give that terrorist some extra pain. The car started and Jack put the transmission into D. D for Drive.

Jack checked his watch. It was 8:09:18. Shit. He had been sleeping for three days straight. He grabbed his cell phone from his jacket pocket and dialed CTU.

"Chloe O' Brian, CTU," answered Chloe O' Brian of CTU.

"Chloe, it's Jack," said Jack to Chloe.

"Ugh," responded Chloe. "What is it, Jack? I'm really busy following terror leads!"

"I need you to re-position some satellites to tell me where the nearest Target is. I need some soap."

Chloe frowned at this request. "What? I could get fired, Jack! What if Chappelle catches me? I could get in big trouble. And hey! You haven't even been into work in the past three days. Why should I help you?"

"I WILL TORTURE YOU LIKE YOU WERE A PUNY TERRORIST IF YOU DO NOT HELP ME, CHLOE!" yelled Jack into his cellular telephone.

"Jeez, okay!" muttered Chloe, clicking away at her computer. "There. I'm sending the images to your PDA. Follow Awesome Street to Justice Avenue and take the first right. You'll see the Target on your left."

"Thank you, Chloe."

"Just get into work as soon as you can. Walsh needs to talk to you about something. Gosh. Jeez. Ugh."

Jack ended the call before Chloe had the chance to mutter more remarks of annoyance at him. He could already tell it was going to be "one of those days." He wasn't going to get any rest until 8:00:00 A.M. of the next day, or until some terrorist tortured him into unconsciousness. And at the top of every hour, everything was going to go to shit.

Pulling into the parking lot of Target, Jack realized something. "Target? That would be the perfect target for a terrorist strike!" Jack jumped out of the Prius and towards what had to be the next terrorist target. Jack saw a terroristy-lookin' guy who was probably a terrorist. And he was. It was Terrormed Evilyeer!

Terrormed was walking towards the front entrance of Target with a cruel smile across his face. When he reached the automatically-sliding doors, he pulled a trigger out of his pocket. Jack saw this, but he was still at least fifty yards away, and did not have his gun on him. There was nothing he could do.

"Prepare for TERROR, America!" shouted Terrormed, pressing down on the trigger, which made him explode 'cuz he was wearing a bomb vest secretly.

"NO!" shouted Jack. "Dammit!"

This was going to be one of those days for sure, thought Jack. He knew he was going to have to do some tough things and make some tough choices. It didn't matter how much hand soap he got...his hands were still going to have to get dirty to get through the day.

8:59:59.

Me Want Job! Step 4: The Treausure Map

There it is. The secret pirate treasure map. Slip this under the cover sheet, headshot, and resume, and you've got a surefire shot for success! Untold riches await your prospective employer simply by following the instructions of this map. Don't forget to inform him to beware of the area near the gigantic skull!

There. Now you have all of the tools necessary for the application process. That sweet, sweet job interview is only a few hundred incessant phonecalls away.

Me Want Job! Step 3: The Resume

Heya, buddy! What's the word at the watercooler? Oh, you don't know because you're not allowed near the watercooler anymore after "the incident?" Also because you don't work at that building and had been sneaking in to urinate into the watercooler? Oh, I guess that's what "the incident" is, huh? Yeah, I guess I should have figured. Well, what if you COULD get a job at that particular building? Then you could urinate and everyone would suspect that OTHER hobo. Sound too good to be true? It's not.

We here at This Site think that you are a great worker and would be a great asset to whatever fast food chain you want to apply for a part time position at! And at best a below-average worker at any non-fast food chain to want to apply for a position at! And we want to help you reach desperately for your pipe dreams. Previously, we've helped you write a moving and enthralling cover sheet and produce a fantastic and life-altering headshot. But time to resume with our task with...your resume (reh-zu-may!).

STEP 3: GRENADE! EVERYBODY RUN! - The Guide to the Perfect Rehzumay

Okay, here it is. The meat and potatoes. The heart. The Jerry O'Connell of your "Crossing Jordan." The resume! Here is where you truly have the chance to prove yourself and display how much customer service skill you gained in your two month tenure at Taco Bell. Here is an example that will teach you the ways of the job-getting. Make sure to just copy-and-paste everything and then give this to the job-people at McDonald's. Using your brain to change things would only lead to failure and regret.

___________________________________________________

FRANKLIN T. AMERICAN

191 Meth Street
Bridgman, MI 90210
Telephone: 911 (I've murdered the woman who used to sit at this desk and have been taking personal calls ever since. The guy next to me have been asking me a lot of questions, such as "Who are you?" and "Where is Susan?" and "Why do you have blood all over your shirt?" so you had better hurry!)
E-mail: 911@internet.net

JOB OBJECTIVE

Senior Assistant Manager, Drive Thru

EDUCATION

Enrico Colantoni Junior High School
Totally aced my gym class.

University of Educationalness
August 2001 - May 2000
Overall GPA: 10.9

WORK EXPERIENCE

Speedway Corp.
February 2002 - Present

• Siphoned gas for personal usage


• Took abandoned coffee cups and refilled them when clerks were not watching


• Used public bathroom facilities on numerous occasions

Meijer Corp.

June 2004-June 2004

• Slept in the furniture department a few times


• Ate cereal out of the boxes and then pushed them to the back


• Made friends with some of the hamsters

HONORS AND ACTIVITIES

None.

__________________________________________________________

Me Want Job! Step 2: The Headshot

Stop eating out of that trashcan, my good sir! Do you think you'll find your dreamiest of dreams in there? Do you think you'll find financial success amongst the trash and scraps of food? Do you think you'll find job recommendations that will shoot you up the corporate ladder faster than you can say "HELP ME! I HAVE BEEN SHOT OUT OF A CANNON!"? Probably not. In fact, I'd say the odds are slightly worse than 0%. ZERO. Think about it, neighbor.

We here at This Site can help you! We're here to provide you with the right equipment to perform the complicated process of birthing your new life of employment. Yesterday, we gave you the cover sheet (your scalpel), and today, we give you your headshot (your headshot).

STEP 2: HEADS UP! INCOMING FIRE! - The Guide to Getting the Perfect Headshot

Let's start with an example:

Man, that John Wilkes Booth had one great headshot. I mean, he pretty much defined headshot with this. Look at the thoughtful pose and the wild yet refined mustache. The classy-yet-not-flamboyant ascot. The scruffy yet composed hair. Perfection.*

Now, traditionally headshots have only been quid pro quo for "actors" and "models," but the fast-paced business world is changing. Looks count, people! Would you really want an ugly person doing your taxes or serving you food? What if they got some of their ugliness germs on your food and you ate it and then became ugly?! The business world is not ready to let that happen to consumers, so it's time to find yourself a great headshot to display your unique good looks.

You must find a photographer who can take pictures, or paint real fast. Make sure he has a good camera, like the FunTime Kodak Disposables. Then paint yourself black, white, and gray and everything around you those colors as well. Although color was discovered around 1955 and everything became bright and technicolor in the world, the headshot was perfected with John Wilkes Booth back in 1889, when God still had the world in a dismal black-and-white. That became the standard, so now actors go to many paint stores to secure themselves the finest headshots possible. You can too! The result will look a little something like this:

* - This is what we here at This Site consider to be subtle humor at its finest. But we're not being facetious truly, because that man did take one hell of a nice headshot.

Me Want Job! Step 1: The Cover Sheet

Top of the morning, prospective employment seeking person! Yes, you! What is that you say? You already have a job? Well, wouldn't you prefer to explore the exciting world of employment? To sail across the angry seas to make your fortune in the glorious spice trade? Much of the western world has yet to be discovered, so how's about it? Be the Columbus of the world of job-seekers? Sound alright?

YES! Of course it does! But do you have the tools necessary for such a venture? A cover sheet, a resume, a headshot, and some screwdrivers. Philips head. Trust me. Do you have these things? NO! Of course you don't! If you did, you would have risen so high in the employment ladder that I could scarcely hope to see you without some highly powered telescopes.


Here is an example of one of the perfect tools you will need for fixing the leaky pipe of employment:

STEP 1: TAKE COVER! - The Guide to a Perfect Cover Sheet

Think you can say you were the CEO of a Fortune 500 company and still expect to reach that lofty goal of assistant night manager at Arby's? Think again, my fine feathered friend. Without a cover sheet explaining who you are and why the employer should even bother not setting fire to the establishment for the sole purpose of taking away a potential employment spot for you nor hunt down your entire family and ritualistically murder them individually, the employer will surely not hire you. And will probably set fire to the building and then murder your family. Here is the ideal cover sheet:

___________________________________________________________


FRANKLIN T. AMERICAN

128 N. Patriot St.
Bridgman, MI 41256

Telephone: Dial 0. Ask operator for payphone outside the Speedway. I’m usually there, but if someone else answers, ask for “the hobo.”

February 30, 2004

Mr. Giles – Dir. Of Human Resources
McDonald’s Corporation
999 McDelicious McAvenue
McAnytown, IL 98131

Dear Mr. Giles:

I am a prospective employment prospect employee. My name is Franklin. My favorite color is light teal. Enclosed you will find my resume, a headshot, and a map that will lead you to buried treasure (my little gift to you!). I am responding to the statement my friend Brad made about the McDonald’s needing a new drive-thru lane employee. I can do this.

I am an American who loves America, do not listen to what Brad says. I have over 32 years of experience eating your food products, so I feel I would be the natural choice in spreading the love of a good old fashioned McWhopper to Mr. and Mrs. Average Joe American. I have good hearing and speaking skills, so the drive-thru job would be a cinch. I promise not to eat too many of the products or stab the customers as much as in my previous job. It really wouldn’t even be possible to stab anyone in the drive-thru lane anyhow!

I also have very good customer service skills. Or should I say skillz. I am one with today’s youth culture, and am comfortable using their language and their style. When McDonald’s changed their slogan to “I’m Lovin’ It!” I knew that I would have to join the company, much like Aldo Burrows on Prison Break. The slogan indicates to me that you too are acutely aware of today’s youth culture, and I think together we would make an unstoppable team, destroying everything in our wake.

May I arrange an interview to further discuss my many qualifications and my theories on aliens? I am available between the hours of 4:30 PM and 4:46 PM on Tuesdays and Sundays. Meet me in the women’s bathroom at the Speedway this Monday at 4:35. Tell no one.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Jobbily,

Job Seeker (that’s me)

___________________________________________________

Surviving the Zompocalypse: Old People vs. Zombies

The zombie apocalypse has been a long time coming. Where will you stand when the battle lines are drawn? Probably on the side of the living, unless you're really into eating brains, which you might be. Hell, far as I know, they're the most delicious thing ever. But I'm old-fashioned, so I'm pro-living, not pro-undead.

But when the lines are drawn, confusion sets in. How does a combatant on the side of not-zombies tell the difference between the two most mistaken species in the universe: old people and zombies? Here's a guide that should help.

SIMILARITIES:

-Both old people and zombies have terrible skin. Skin texture and wrinkliness is not something that you can use to define.

-Both old people and zombies have no will to live, and would probably ask you to smash their heads if they had the ability to speak.

-Both old people and zombies feast on the brains of humans. Zombies feast on them for unknown reasons. Old people, however, feast on them because of their fluffy, flan-esque texture. And to extract the knowledge accumulated in the brain for their own diabolical purposes.

-The eldery and the undead both share a hobbling movement. Zombies will rarely, if ever, been seen in wheelchairs, however. But they always take the handicapped spot at the local grocery store, because they're bastards.

DIFFERENCES:

-Old people live in retirement homes and city dumps. Zombies live in your worst nightmares and malls.

-Old people will only bite you if you are covered in molasses, or another sticky and sugary substance. Zombies will only bite you if they can see you, much like the T-Rex in "Jurassic Park."

-If you are bitten by a zombie, you will transform into a zombie within minutes. However, if you are bitten by an old person, you will just be really grossed out and confused. EDIT: However, you WILL eventually transform into an old person.....eventually.

Well, that's all well and good, when the zombie Armageddon strikes and all. But what if Grandpa Stu turns into a zombie? What do I do then, Captain Expert McKnowitall Esquire?!

ANSWER! Take out his dentures! The old person/zombie hybrid cannot bite you in this case, but only humorously gum at your wrists! Oh, Grandpa, when will you learn? You silly old old person! Take some Xanax and die, please, like all of the other old people.

2007 - The New Year In Pictures