Corn Dog Bulletin

Iowa State Fans smell just like corn dogs.

Yes, it is often said, but so true.

ISU Fans just smell like corn dogs.

I would never tell them that to their face though. This is something better said at internet distances. Even now, I am afraid. I am afraid that they'll know I said it. I'll ride past one of them on the road someday, and they'll see that look in my eye that gives it away. The furrowed brow that says, "Gee, what is that smell? Is it corn dogs?" The next thing you know, my vehicle will be missing its Hawkeye plate brackets and my cat will be swinging by a noose from my ceiling fan… with a Troy Davis jersey on. Vandals!!

If you only learn one thing from me today, remember not to tell Clones how they smell - you know, like corn dogs. They seem, inappropriately sensitive to that whole corn dog issue. I think this may be why a lot of the rest of us get beaten up or otherwise harassed by the Clones. If you attend a Ball, Banquet or Event in Ames not only will it be missing class, culture and decorum… but try to avoid telling them that the whole, shitty sha-bang smells like one giant fucking corn dog. Say something else instead, like, "Wow, The Clones sure do have great accommodations. It’s no wonder they are so dominant at the Veterinary sciences! They are all so cool. Those school colors are so unique and don't, at all, resemble anything like urine and pig’s blood… and the logo?!?! Could that be any sweeter?!? I mean, a tornado with a bird’s head coming out of the top, it's like a metaphor for... I don't know... Jesus, Muhammad and Abraham all at once. God, I LOVE the food here."

Ignoring it is hard, I know. It's like when you're having sex and you try to think about football, what it must be like to live in Honduras or Santa Clause naked… you know, so you can last longer. That corn dog smell is just so overwhelming. It makes it hard for you to think about football or Santa or whatever else. Your brain wanders into corn dog topics like: "Gee, I wonder if I took a bite of your leg, if you would taste just like a corn dog?" or "Is this a real person or is it a giant corn dog trying to make me think it is a real person?" or "What did that giant corn dog just say?" or "Excuse me, Mr. McDermott, why is it that you smell just exactly like corn dogs smell?" Shit, after what I've seen of the Clones, I think it may be better not to smell them at all. Okay, not all of them. Some of them are nice, sure, smell the nice ones. That's okay.

You know what else is a bad thing to do? Holding your nose around them. They are real sensitive to that. Try holding your breath; don't be obvious about it, move your chest in and out like you really are breathing. Somehow they know you're trying not to breathe in the corn dog smell, and that offends them. They'll likely punch you in the throat and rub their face grease on you for that.

Should you breathe it in long enough, though, it'll permeate your whole body, and then you'll smell like a corn dog just like they do. But don't say, "Damn it, now I smell like a corn dog." That’s offensive, and they will throw things. Not corn dogs though, hard stuff. Stuff that leaves bruises and makes you bleed. Then you may have to get stitches or an X-ray… and I think we know that all they have there are animal hospitals, so you’ll have to wait in line behind livestock. Just don't say anything about it. If, God forbid, you do start smelling like a corn dog, just shut up about it. Okay?

I think kids are acutely aware of corn dog smells too. Counsel your kids on how to behave around Clones. If a Clone is driving around town, do not let your kids stick their heads out of your car window and sniff the air. No! Keep your windows rolled up. An odd change in their expression - indicating they smell corn dogs - might get a wrench or pipe or some other object tossed at your windshield. So, that's dangerous. Let your kids stick their heads out of the car windows as you drive on some other weekend.

I know you are just as puzzled as I am about all of this corn dog stuff. What puzzles me most is that I've never actually seen any of the Clones with a corn dog in their hand. Okay, maybe there's no mystery there - maybe they already ate the corn dogs. Who knows? Maybe there's a corn dog factory in Ames and they all work there. Maybe, there's a corn dog lotion that they use, or a corn dog perfume the ladies use. Maybe they use corn dogs as shampoo… or towels… or maybe they make their clothes out of them. Maybe their city council puts corn dog juice in the water supply - kind of like fluoride.

I know when you go to Ames, you're thinking: "Ahhhh. *deep inhale* Here I am in Ames, Iowa. I'll bet the people here smell just like Lemon Pepper Beef Kabobs or Slow cooked BBQ Ribs or Honey and Cornbread or some other quality Midwestern fare." But just stop thinking that. It couldn’t be further from the truth. They smell just like corn dogs.

In fact, please listen to my advice. Leave them alone about the corn dog odor. Don’t be cute and try masking the odor with something stronger. They'll curse at you. They'll say something like: "Hey asshole, how dare you smoke a cigar in my home." or "What the hell!! Stop putting urinal cakes all over our community?" Then they’ll start cussing out your kids: "What the fuck is wrong with your retarded 5 year old monkey!?!?! Little Mister Hawkeye Hygiene Elitist Toddler over here acts like he doesn't want to smell like corn dogs!" This is the kind of thing that will get you all killed and eaten… they eat people there you know.

The Clones are not like us. Don't you understand that? They are really sensitive about being sniffed and about their corn dog aroma. They know they smell like corn dogs and it is no laughing matter to them at all. I know, I know. We sniff each other all the time; I’ve been known to sniff a person… I’ll even snicker a little bit when someone farts or smells like Jimmy Dean Sausage and Athlete’s foot. Given my snickering I’ve never feared for my life like I do when I’m in Ames. Most people know when they smell and they usually have a sense of humor about it. But don't press your luck with the Clones.

Don't refer to Jack Trice Stadium as The Valley of Corn Dogs either… they don’t think that’s funny. Even if you've been drinking, they'll beat you up and take your money… and those are the small ones. The big ones do much more horrible things... you'll wish you were a terrorist in Guantanamo Bay.

Along these lines, be extra careful when you laugh in their direction - even if you're laughing about something else, like football or 3rd world countries or domestic violence or… whatever. If you can't control yourself and you must laugh though, do not snort. The snorting makes’em think that you smell their corn dog body odor from a distance or that you're choking on it. They'll likely burn your van for that. How do you think they’ve been beating us lately? McCarney was telling them that we’ve been ridiculing them for their Corn Dog Stench. Works every time… fucking corn dog psychos.

Mind this rule of thumb and you’re sure to be the Belle of the Ball.

All of my Deepest Love,
Gall

This Week’s Letter to Men, from the Bicycle Seat

Hey guys…I’m gonna get right to the point. I’ve kept my mouth shut for long enough - it’s time for me to take a stand. If I hear another one of you smug, grass-is-always-greener pricks make the ridiculous suggestion that you wish you were me, I’m absolutely going to lose it. You know what I’m talking about. You see a nice looking lady ride by on a bike, eyeballs nearly popping out of your frickin’ head, you elbow your buddy and say “Oh what I wouldn’t give to be that chick’s bicycle seat!” Your equally asinine cohort then invariably responds with another brilliant sentiment like “Yeah, buddy!” or “You can say that again!” The two of you then giggle like you just smoked a dime bag and read the latest Marmaduke. It’s at this point that I spend the next several minutes trying to control my blood pressure while trying to talk myself out of the salvage yard. Now, I’m going to try to spell this out for you as clearly as possible. I mean, I’m sure you never really expected to get a letter from a bicycle seat – and let’s be clear – this will likely be the last, so I’ll be very unambiguous with my thoughts.

First and foremost, ask yourself this: Do you know how erotic it really is to be a bicycle seat? Don’t rack yourself; I’ll answer it for you. Not very fucking erotic at all! To be totally straight with you, there really amounts to about a split second where I get a nice, up close and personal view of a lady’s tail. From there, not only does the pleasant view completely yield to pitch darkness, but even the tiniest of hind-parts absolutely engulfs me. Now, this may sound hot to you, but when something sexual begins to suffocate you, while exponentially outweighing you, pulling your meat out of your pants is about the last thing on your mind (more on that later). Further, while I’m on the topic, I’ve overheard a lot of these same blundering pricks who supposedly want to be me, making comments to and about other women – some even to their wives or girlfriends – that they want them to sit on their face. Yeah, you may feel like a sexual pioneer making such lewd remarks, but have any of you a-holes actually done it? Have you ever had a full-grown adult sit on your grill? Walk a mile in those shoes and then see how quick you are to comment, pal. Not even those demented bastards who tie scarves around their necks during sex can possibly derive pleasure from such an event. Take my word for it. Then again, don’t. Suffocate yourself for all I care.

Now suppose I can put all that behind me and actually get myself worked up about a gorgeous woman sitting on top of me. Let’s just say Fergie camps her sweet little rump right on me and I find it within myself to focus on the silver lining of the whole event. What the hell am I going to do? You’ve heard of impotence, I’m sure…not to mention the mentally disabling effects the disease has on a man? Well, let me be the first to tell you, it’s pretty fucking difficult to achieve and maintain a healthy erection when you have no dick! I’M A BICYCLE SEAT, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! I may sound as smooth as Barry White, but don’t let the silky tongue fool you – I don’t exactly know my way around a woman – I mean aside from her buttocks. I tell you what – the next time you find yourself bitching to your buddy about how tough it is to get laid, think about where I’m coming from. Not so bad now, is it? Now quit your whining.

Lastly, I would like you to do me a final favor and consider my clientele. Do you know how few bikes are ridden by one person over the course of their lives? And of that very small faction, how many solo riders are even remotely attractive? I happen to be lucky enough to be a woman’s seat, but believe me, that’s no picnic either. My second owner, God rest her soul, had the wild hair up her ass – and subsequently me, too – that she was going to ride out her twilight years on a 12-speed. I’m not a seat that wishes harm on others, but I’ll be honest when I say I didn’t shed too many tears when they closed the lid on the pine box containing her old wrinkly, weathered rump. And how about those that are even less lucky? My cousin Amos studied abroad in Paris for a summer; next thing you know, he’s got some uppity French prick training for the Tour de France on top of him. Believe me…he’s never been the same since. Thousands of dollars of therapy couldn’t make the nightmares stop. Poor bastard. Though, I will say, he was able to debunk the myth that French dudes don’t have balls. He may have been hung like a church pencil, but I guess I don’t have too much ground to stand on with that topic.
Listen, I’m big enough to admit it – I’ve joined a support group. I’ve found a nice group to hang out with and share stories with. They get me…and I really like that. And by the way, my friends The Toilet Seat and G-String Underwear wanted me to tell you to blow it out your ass, too. Their lives are no picnic, either – but at least we’ve got each other to talk to. Anyway, I hope I’ve been succinct and put it all on the table for you. I can never really make you understand what it’s like to be me, but if nothing else, maybe you’ll have a little compassion in the future…and if nothing else, maybe you can appreciate your own life a little more.

A Meal Fit for a King

During my brief two-year stay in Sioux Falls, SD, I developed a real affinity for a restaurant called Hu Hot Mongolian Grill. If you’re familiar with Hu Hot, or any other eatery of the same pedigree, you understand the carnival of gluttony that a trip to one entails. To illustrate this simply, I’ll tell you that there literally is not another restaurant I’ve ever experienced capable of eliciting the same feeling, which can best be described as equal parts intense satisfaction and physical pain. I can recall nary a trip to Hu Hot – and I’ve had many – where I left the establishment minus that post-coital sense of contentment, coupled with a fecal wolverine percolating in my bowels. I know, I’ve probably already said too much to make this even readable, but I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t share the rest.

In the year and a half since I’ve left Sioux Falls, my travels have taken me to parts of the world devoid of these Mongolian feasts. I’ve tried every Chinese restaurant I can find and combed the yellow pages for something of Hu Hot’s ilk, but never have been able to reach that same heightened level of satisfaction. That is, my friends, until this past Friday. With my lovely - and more sensible - wife out of town, and a long work week under my belt, I agreed to meet my parents at a local bistro by the name of “The Emperor’s Wok.” Certain that it could never parallel Hu Hot, I entered the restaurant with low expectations, like a scorn woman approaching a relationship cautiously, fearful of being hurt yet again.

When our apron-clad server Pablo approached our table, I opened my ears and mind and took mental notes of everything he laid before me. A Mongolian grill, a Chinese buffet, all-you-can-eat crab legs, and an American cuisine to boot? What kind of victual utopia was this? Upon taking in the lay of the land and plotting my feeding strategy from all angles, I decided to take a chance. I would let my guard down and dare to believe that this palatial establishment could somehow equal the status of the legendary Hu Hot.

I’ll tell you one thing: it felt good to love again. You know that totally vulnerable feeling you get when you let yourself fall for something? Well, I let it engulf me, and damn it, it felt great. I strolled through those culinary mazes, seamlessly weaving my way between wide-eyed patrons like the great Gayle Sayers in his prime. And if there is one thing I can say for sure, it’s that I left it all out on the battlefield that day. I left that restaurant without a single regret, certain I had given every fiber of my soul in dominating that restaurant. And here’s the best part: I wasn’t disappointed. I tore through those crab legs like a mad man and ravished the fried wonton like Gilligan finally getting a shot at Ginger after all those years. It was midway through my second bowl of Mongolian meat when I began to daydream. I imagined I was a Viking, using my teeth to tear the meat off the bones of the Kodiak bear I had just killed with my bare hands. Yes, this is how real men should eat.

While I know this sounds like a tale cut from the same cloth as Casablanca or Love Story, I’m sad to say the honeymoon would not last forever. It was shortly after the aforementioned bowl of meat had been vanquished that I first felt it. Originating from the furthest depths of my being, a faint, guttural wail withered its way up my esophagus, escaping from my mouth, foreshadowing the doom that was to come. Like a dog feverishly wagging its tale moments before a tornado strikes, this rumbling served as a warning that the party was winding down.

Eyes dancing wildly in search of the unlucky restroom that would be soon forced to accommodate my inevitable onslaught, a striking and ironic comparison came to me. My trip to the Emperor’s Wok had begun to personify an angry drunk. Like Whiskey Sours to your old college roommate or the guy in the tank-top at the Black Jack table, the Emperor’s Wok is pleasant and fun when taken in moderation. But moderation had clearly yielded to excess, and the results would not be pretty. I had greedily taken in countless edible pleasures with little to no regard for my own well-being, patiently taking the time to devour anything that crossed my path. The consequences, however, were swift and fierce.

With the intensity of a stockbroker and somewhere between a brisk walk and a sprint, I shoved off in the direction I imagined the bathroom would be. Waddling aimlessly about the restaurant, it was Pablo that came through again when I needed him the most, saving me precious seconds. Clutching his shoulder with what I’m sure amounted to a white-knuckled, G.I. Joe Kung Fu grip, I uttered a barely audible inquiry as to the direction of the facilities. Pablo, having probably gone through this routine with at least one frightened patron every night of his career, coolly delivered a clear and concise account of the shortest and quickest path to the lavatory. I couldn’t have asked for more from Mapquest. In hindsight, Pablo’s grace under pressure probably ranked just behind my decision not to steer my car into a bridge embankment as the best thing to happen to me that day.

For those of you who are faint of heart, I will go against my gut - pardon the pun - and abstain from regaling you with the gory details of what happened next. Let’s just say that what took nearly an hour to go in, took just seconds to come out. Let me also say that if my sphincter were my employee, I would send him and Mrs. Sphincter to the Cayman Islands on an all-expense-paid vacation in honor of the hard work he put in. Being able to hold off the Herculean burst that would soon emerge while I decorated the toilet seat with toilet paper was worthy of a medal of honor.

You may wonder why I chose to commit this experience to paper instead of merely forgetting the savagery, never telling another soul. The reason is simply this: to make sure it doesn’t happen to you. Let me conclude by drawing again from the alcohol comparison. Mongolian Grill is like booze - you must build up a tolerance before binging. No one in their right mind would slam ten gin and tonics after remaining dry for the previous two years, and the same should go for the Mongolian barbecue. So next time your bravado gets the best of you and you think you can take on the Emperor’s Wok, remember what happened to me. If I save just one, it’ll be all worth it.

From The Archive: "A New Age Dawns", 1/21/2001

"A New Age Dawns" (From The Wombat, January 21, 2001)

-WASHINGTON, D.C.-

Throngs of loyalists and constitutents celebrated the inaugration of the nation's 43rd president, George Walker Bush, who was sworn in today after a long legal battle ended with the Supreme Court's decision to halt the Florida recount.
Bush, a single-term Republican governor from Texas, campaigned on a platform of "compassionate conservatism"--a political ideal marked by an emphasis on peaceful, diplomatic foreign relations and a return to fiscally responsible domestic policy; all policies are implemented through the lens of Christianity with its inherent emphasis on caring for the poor, destitute, and a general importance placed on the sanctity of life.
"America can say goodbye to sky-high taxes," said Bush's campaign advisor, Karl Rove, speaking of former President Clinton's economic policies. "With President Bush's tax cuts and tight-fisted fiscal governance, this country's record-setting surplus will only grow."
Whereas Bush's predecessor sent NATO forces to Kosovo and failed to act on the Rwandan genocide, Bush's advisors say he has a much better sense of when force is necessary and when restraint is in order.
"The President has a terrific team of advisors with a tremendous amount of foreign policy experience," said Thomas Jennings, a fellow at the conservative American Policy Institute. "He's learned temperance from his father's decision to pull out of Iraq before it turned into a quagmire. This administration knows better."
And, speaking of the Clinton administration's negligence regarding Rwanda, Jennings asserted that this president wouldn't allow a similar atrocity to fester.
"I think we've all learned from Rwanda," Jennings said. "I have a feeling that this president will snuff out any African conflict before it can escalate into genocide."
Though most conservatives were basking in the glow of the Bush victory, some feared that Bush's "compassion" may come at a price for real, red-blooded Goldwater conservatism.
"With all this talk of compassion, I get worried that Bush might just be a fruity, civil liberties-lover in Birkenstocks," said Stanley Goodman, a registered Republican from Langley, Virginia. "I hope he just stays out of our personal lives like a good, old-fashioned conservative."
This is one point where some liberals and conservatives have found common ground.
"Though I disagree with his views on abortion and other social issues, President Bush seems intent to maintain strong civil liberties and personal privacy for all Americans," said Jane Goodwin of the American Civil Liberties Union. "I mean, I think the son of a president knows better than to pull a Jackson or a Lincoln and suspend habeus corpus," Goodwin said with a chortle.
After eight long years of obfuscation and deceit, the American people are ready for an open, honest administration; and, having only won by the narrowest of margins, the Bush administration will not rule as if it had a mandate.
"The age of partisan politics is over," said Vice President Cheney. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must leave for a hunting trip."

Red Sox relegate slugger Armas to reserve role

Barrett, Owen inexplicably slated to see frequent starting nods in upcoming season

-BOSTON, MA

With another game of RBI Baseball mere hours away in a local basement, early indications from Boston’s spring camp have right-handed slugger Tony Armas remaining firmly splintered on the Red Sox bench, leaving him to play a continued second fiddle to light-hitting middle infielders Marty Barrett and Spike Owen.

Armas denies reports that he came to camp out of shape, citing the “identical rotund build of every player in the league” as evidence that he’s as fit and athletic as 8-bit technology will allow.

“Hell, if you stood me and Dave Henderson side by side, you probably couldn’t tell us apart,” Armas said. “There’s something not right about that.”

Armas’ ever-limited role with the club is made more puzzling by the fact that the Red Sox will be once again counting on their bats to carry them past ever-competitive Detroit and perennial sleeper San Francisco. The presence of ace Roger Clemens should continue to offset a weak bullpen of Calvin Schiraldi and soft-tossing Bob Stanley, but it’s an accepted truth that Boston’s offensive firepower will ultimately dictate its success.

“It’s frustrating to see a guy like Tony so repeatedly underappreciated,” southpaw Bruce Hurst said. “I mean, as a pitcher with average velocity and unimpressive movement, I need all the offensive backing I can get. I think he gives us our best chance to win coming out of that leadoff spot.”

Armas has heard those sentiments echoed by the higher-ups, receiving assurance from Boston brass that his role with the club will be a substantial one. Nintendo Power magazine reports plans in the works to have the powerful righty regularly coming off the bench as a pinch hitter as early as the first inning.

While Armas was given no clear-cut explanation for his unexpected omission from the starting lineup, the club’s obvious respect for his bat has quelled discontent, to an extent, but also fueled further confusion.

“It’s not like he’s got the upper hand defensively,” Armas said of Barrett. “Everyone knows offensive substitutions don’t impact the team defense, so I can only assume it’s an opposition to moustaches and towering home runs that’s influencing this decision.”

Barrett has taken a diplomatic approach throughout the controversial struggle for playing time.

“I’m just trying to take this one reset at a time,” Barrett said. “I know that guys like Armas, Henderson and [Ellis] Burks have big bats breathing down my neck, but I’m confident that if I get my at-bats I’ll be able to earn my keep in this lineup.”

“No, that’s just not the case,” said a sleepy kid holding a Nintendo controller, who spoke on a condition of anonymity. “Marty Barrett is garbage, and that’s no lie.”

Barrett is not the only Red Sox starter to come under scrutiny, as light-hitting Owen and streaky left-hander Bill Buckner have also received mention as possible pinch-hit victims.

“Look, it’s a long season,” Buckner said. “If they want to sit me down every now and then, give my knees a rest, that’s fine. There’s nothing I can do about it. But, I mean, these are tough times. Every day that goes by we know we’re closer to finding ourselves without a working Nintendo and out of a job. I’m trying to take this a game at a time, and we’ll just have to continue to wake up every morning, blow in the cartridge and hope for the best."