What the fuck is a Cantata?  Is it a fruit?  Is it the fruit they extract all the taste out of to make that tasteless, calorie-less, almost-generic-orange-like-carbonated-beverage in the non-swill swill isle at your local grocer’s locally owned and overpriced emporium?

Ding Dong Kim Jong IL II is Dead!  That was about as hard to see coming as watching Peter North finish off a facial with a pair of Bausch & Lomb Astronomical Field 4.2 11 x 80 binoculars from two pearls of a necklace away.  KJII had already been proclaiming he wasn’t dead for years.  And, his third name is IL.  And it wasn’t an abbreviation for the home state of his favorite professional sports team.  More so than everyone else, this dude was destined to die.  I’ll tell you what I found really creepy about him.  KJII was always dressed liked the crazy dictator who just finished a segment showing Letterman some animals from the Pyongyang Zoo.  I get that it was supposed to be some kind of military motif, but the vibe was far less authoritative than it was “I got this shit on sale after I toppled the government of the Bananna Republic!”  Actually, upon further review, review, review, review, review…….. which is being caused by this seizure inducing cycle of repeated clips of KJII, it appears his chosen attire seemed to be a cross between a Bass Pro-Shop Jumpsuit and something Trekkish.  Functional.  It allows you to carry some of the tools necessary to keep oppressing millions of your people, while simultaneously fucking with several other world governments thereby affecting global diplomacy.  Nerdy.  You get a kick out of the hidden pockets, velcro, extra zippers, snaps and places to hide the type of shit you would have to kill yet another member of the would-be free press if they found out and tried to report it.

A thing about the Holocaust just came on the History Channel.  Before it started, it warned there would be pictures, videos and frank discussions.  It’s the fucking Holocaust!  It’s not like you can talk about that shit with pie charts, sock puppets with cocks, and Power Point demonstrations with cartoon characters.

The only real difference between an assailant and essayist is that the former physically takes out his aggression on someone, and the latter takes theirs out on a piece of paper.  The majority of the time, they both leave someone hurting, pissed off and wishing they could either kick their ass or write a complete sentence with correctly spelled words to convey just how they felt.

Christopher Hitchens gave up believing in breathing this week.  I wonder what the first drink he ordered at the first bar he found was wherever he ended up.  My next question is, who did he piss off 1st?

“The Presidential Suite” at the Broadway location of Embassy Suites in Nashville, Tennessee is quite the value for a mere $229.00 American.  You get a large living area that is adjacent to both sleeping quarters.  It’s got a table to do business of whatever flavor on it.  You can set up your laptop, break out your brief, chop up some lines and call some hoes.  The tables big enough and the motherfucker is sturdy.  The couch is a decent size.  It’s upholstered in a fabric that doesn’t immediately irritate the skin.  The 42 Flat Screen t.v. is nice.  The remote control has been dumbed back down into the late 80′s for some reason.  It is not too far off from needing a fucking wire attached to it.  It has channel and volume buttons.  There are individual button numbers which I was told have been known to confuse the less presidential by making them futiltly attempt to take advantage of free long distance dialing while all the long really only skipping between the History Channel, HGTV and ESPN.  The bathroom is a little weird.  You could barely shit one president in it at a time, much less the required Secret Service Agents.  It only has a normal size tube.  There is a mini-living appliance area.  It’s kind of like one corner of your room was designed for midgets.  Everything is smaller.  The refrigerator is the size of a microwave.  The microwave is the size of a shoebox.  The coffee maker is smaller than the bag of coffee it purports to be able to brew.  You do get a pretty good free breakfast with this here abode.  It’s omelets, pancakes and all the swine related products the eye can see.  So, I highly recommend getting your William Henry Harrison on next time you come to Nashville.

JIS

Seeing the morning after drinking makes you wish you were disbelieving.

The first step towards being a community activist is to come up with a hair style people will either remember, be unable to forget or be afraid of making and pissing off.

Taxidermy is always taking it up the ass.

Slap a Santa suit on the Republican Presidential front runner, force him to eat some Taco Hell and you’ve got the potential for a new holiday classic: The Gingrinch That Stole the Election.

Have you tried to use this Siri thing on the iPhone? Based on its ability to understand what I say, they should have just named it My Wife-I.  Siri-ously.  It’s just like marriage.  I spend more time explaining what I didn’t say or didn’t mean with that than I do actually saying anything.  I need Siri counseling.

I don’t use my account at all, but if I did, I’d write No Fat Tweets on Twitter.

Barry Bonds was sentenced to 30 days house arrest, community service and a fine less than the average cost of each steroid injection he lied about using that led to his conviction for obstruction of justice in Federal Court.  The judge postponed imposition of the sentence to allow the house’s lawyers to appeal what they believe to be a travesty of realty.

Accessed molester and former Penn State assistant football coach Jerry Sandusky was in court this week for his preliminary hearing.  In a surprising move, his lawyer waived the hearing saying he did so to get the evidence against his client sooner, and to insure his bond remained the same.  Sandusky refused to comment and sped away from the court house in what appeared to be the Oscar Meyer Wiener Mobile.

If a transvestite dies in the woods, does it confuse the bear who’s trying to take a shit?

I saw a guy on Pawn Stars try to hoard something the other day.  A Storage Wars guy had Holmes remodel one of his lockers.  American Pickers busted the myth that couches can’t fly when properly fitted with wings.

The Turtleman‘s grandmother and my grandmother were sisters.  As such, to glom onto the fame of a relative I’ve never met, I’m getting my own show called Lawyer Man on Tru TV next fall.  I’m going to travel around western KY and brave such dangerous territories as District, Circuit and Juvenile Court.  I’m going to dive right into jails and see what in the hell people who pay me have been wrongfully accused of.  The camera is going to show viewers how I use my bare hands, Rolex watch, fancy suits and shoes to convince prosecutors and others I must know what in the hell I’m talking about.

My thumb blew out.

JIS

I just ordered a pizza on my cellphone from Domino’s store #1487.  According to my fancy virtual “Order Tracker,” some pizza pusher named Derek put it in the oven at 9:12.  Oh, wait a minute.  That crazy bastard Derek then checked my pizza for deliciousness at 9:18.  The deliciousness checks are now complete.  But I don’t know if that means he stuck his finger or his dick in it.

How is the Internet keeping track of the progress of my pizza?  I can’t believe it can be cooked this quick with him continually updating its Pizzafacebook status so regularly.

I’ve become a little worried about Derek.  It’s now 9:23, and he hasn’t told me what’s going on.  He hasn’t asked me to repost his deliciousness check, or if I’ve ever eaten a delicious pizza cooked by someone who’s name started with the letter D.  He hasn’t posted any video of my pizza cooking, being taken out of the oven or put in a box.  And I haven’t got any invitations to Deliveryville or Pie Wars.  I mean, he could at least send me something saying my pizza went into the oven with a whole bunch of other pizzas that are now trying to get back together after graduating from High Temp High.

The progress of my pizza has now officially stalled at Step 4 on the pizza meter.  Step 5 is the last step left, but it’s a doozy.

Wait a minute.  My phone just updated and it appears Derek is still telling everyone my pizza was checked out to be delicous at 9:18.

Hell yeah!  It’s 9:30 and some dude named Kevin “just left the store” with my order.  I’m glad Derek suggested that Kevin and I meet.  I’m sure he is a nice guy.  I can’t wait till he gets here.  I have so many questions the website doesn’t address.  What flavor automobile does he drive?  How many stains will his uniform have on it?  Will his hair be long and greasy, or short and sparse?  What will he think about the fact I’m wearing my wife’s pajama pants, an Angry Birds t-shirt from Wal-Mart and my Halloween costume Big Lebowski robe?  The suspense is fucking killing me.  It’s now been five minutes since my order left the store, and I only live 1.9 miles from this particular Domino’s.  Should I call 911?  I lost the number for the Pizza Police.

Thank whoever.  Kevin showed up with my pie at 9:40.  He was about 5’6″ with a mustache that had a Mr. Bubble’s vibe.  He bought a pair of glasses, but was obviously wearing the free ones.  Kevin took pride in his appearance and did not have any visible stains, wrinkles, moth holes or Taser marks.  Kevin was very professional, cordial and gave me some type of coupon I lost instantaneously.  The last update of the website didn’t mention I discounted the value of the coupon.

All in all, I’d recommend sitting on your fat ass and using your phone to order a pizza.  You don’t actually have to talk to anyone.  You can see what you’re ordering.  Some random motherfucker you’ve never heard of keeps you up to date on all the goings on of your pizza.  It’s like a paid acquaintance is making you a short-term friend who will help get you through your temporary pang of hunger.  Then, just as soon as whoever told you they were making it, whoever else brought you the labor of your texting, it’s gone.  You fucking ate it.  Great experience.  Just hope that your fingers aren’t too fucking fat and greasy to enjoy it.

On Channel 306 HDNet the other night, there was some show called Celebridate.  I didn’t watch long enough to know who the celeb was, or where they and their date went.  I did see a quick montage a tois of the three datetestants.  One had a tattoo on her shoulder that looked like the artist had used an Etch A Sketch.  I can’t remember anything about one of them.  My favorite though was the girl who said she wanted a guy who could make her laugh because she loved to laugh.  Who the fuck doesn’t love to laugh?  There are only two times in a person’s life where they do not love to laugh.  The first one is if you’ve already been laughing so much that continued chuckling will cause a bodily event resulting in a pooling of fluids, or whatever the last substance entering your giggle googler being spit across the room.  The second one is is a situation in which fun must be suppressed like a fart in an elevator.  Come to think of it, if you are the one trying to hold it in or just gave in to temptation, what is funnier than a fart in an elevator?

Not to stand up comedian out, but what’s the deal with actors wearing bulky jackets in hot weather?  I first noticed this phenomenon when Keanu Reeves wore that Mexican woven surfer rug thing during the Summer in Speed.  Sure, he only applied it to a taut t-shirt over his rather ample upper torso Bill and Ted’s, but he’d have to have fucking delusional expectations to think he was going to stay cool in that thing during the Summer in L.A. Yet another instance of the above mentioned outerwear idiocy, is the alleged soon-to-be-former Mr. Will Jada Pinkett-Smith in the original M.I.B.  He’s parlaying around NYC during robbery and carjacking season wearing a jacket made out of tarp like material used by construction workers to keep shit dry, and rappers to keep themselves dry after clock’n hoes.

I went back to HDNet to watch something called Deadline! Unrated, the “100 Percent Happy Endings” edition.  The info button on the remote says it’s about “Breasts of all kinds, including Burlesques, pole danger and calendar girl.  Entertainment, High-Def, CC.”  I didn’t know the Info button had such weird taste in tit size.  Every set of tits on this show is more circular than Rick Perry’s reasoning.  These womens’ boobs are faker than the McAnimal that is slaughtered to produced the McRib.  If they don’t got some jiggle and sag, tell her to put up them salt water bags.  Titties ain’t supposed to be a replacement for that weird black-handled-spring-thing people in the 80′s swore by.

As I’m trying to cleanse my head of all these looney thoughts, a relatively unknown friend of mine on SpaceFace just sent me a Farmville request.  It came through and finagled my whole style on my iPad like a text message.  I have never played Farmville in my life.  The only thing I know about it comes from an episode of 60 Minutes I watched.  I want to be clear, the dude that thought up people paying to keep video vegetation alive is a genius.  I bear him no ill ville.  I just don’t understand why this one quasi anonymous chick keeps requesting I do something with Farmville.  Even though I continue to immediately delete these requests, I keep getting them.  Each one comes with her profile picture to the left of the request like a teaser for the next episode of Guilt Acres.  Whereas you get confirmation or denials of your requests to be friends, there must not be any records kept or notifications given for immediate deletions of Farmville requests or this chick would have sold my friend base to the gubmint.

Platoon is on whatever 519 AMAXHD.  I find it ballsy whoever that is has the guts to show a Nam movie with the Nutty Sheen in it in light of recent events.  If there was a Platoon Redux, the closing scene would be that crazy fucking warlock pissing on the Vietnam War Memorial.  Mark, highlight, underline, italicize, copy, paste or whatever my words.  That crazy motherfucker will be in a porno movie within the next year.  If he was born lucky, it will be a one man tour de force entitled “Two and a 1/2 Men”.

When a titty flick is on, why does the description even list the actors or attempt to describe the plot?  If it is a true tit flick, you may have seen the tits before but you can’t associate a name to them.  If you are up at the time of morning tit flicks come on, you aren’t hitting the info button to get plot summaries.  You’re hitting it for ratings and film lengths.  Just cause its an MA, it doesn’t mean you’re going to be able to stay up long enough to jerk off to it.

Channel 530 is Starz in Black.  I don’t know if this has just sprung up overnight or what.  I had no clue there was such a channel.  The only reason I found it is because I’m watching CB4.  Like jerking off, on one hand, I get ethnic channels.  On the other, they just don’t feel right.  I eat tacos.  I listened to rap in its infancy and understand everything about this movie.  I like egg rolls.  I will throw down on some sushi.  I didn’t learn to like all that shit from a bunch of different fucking t.v. channels.  I didn’t learn to be fat from the Food Network.  That shit is genetic.  I refined and honed my honkeyness without a channel dedicated to not being able to dance, having a flat ass and liking rap music.  But, at the same time, where is Honkey T.V.?  Unless you’re in a foreign country speaking a non-indigenous language, I think the idea of a TV channel related to your ethnicity is a non-necessity.  At the same time, if you can get that shit on TV, go for it.  I mean, goddamn, I’ll watch any fucking channel that periodically shows Roadhouse or Point Break.  Is ignorance an ethnicity?

Airline bottles of alcohol are a rip off.  But they do fit nicely in the pockets of a robe though.  This allows for them to be hid from a spouse, significant other, employer or religious leader.  And, drinking airline bottles makes you feel like you aren’t drinking that much.  Of course, that myth is debunked after there’s a Hansel and Gretel like trail of bottles left in your wake.  All I’m saying’ is, don’t rule them out just because they’re overpriced.  You may find them handy.

I’ve gone back to HDN.  Girls Gone Blue Ball is on.  This whole series is so fucking stupid I can’t take it.  I have no idea what the point of seeing drunk chicks in bikinis is unless it is in person and you’re single or ensconced with said wearer.

I’m trying to stay awake for Art Mann Presents, which is the next show.  He’s a funny bastard.  I’ve got a theory he is Joe Flaherty‘s unclaimed son.  I sent him some long-winded Slingo-filled email about a year ago, and he responded with a comment about it being funny.  I then replied to his response, but there was no reciprocation.  I chose not to go any further for fear of being charged with cyber stalking.  A SWAT team may burl up into my crib and stop me from watching if I stay conscious long enough to view it.

“I’ve never seen girls go this wild.”  That is a direct quote from someone labeled as a West Cost Cameraman in the Girls Gone Wild Fiefdom.  I’d have to think it is a total fucking lie that a dude who films drunk chicks for a living has never seen anything nuttier than some titty flashing.  That lying bastard has seen chics having sex with chics who were having sex with other chics while waiting in line to have sex with him just to get on camera.  I’ll say this, the dude who owns the whole franchise looks Munsterish since he was sprung from prison after his short stint for going wild and not paying taxes.  Another weird thing about the dude is someone forced him at gunpoint to engage in a “homosexual themed video” on January 22, 2004.  What does it say about you if your burglars take all your shit, and before leaving, break out the camcorder and force you to go to the really wild side?  When you think about it, you must really have fucked with someone because you’d think the homosexual acts you performed at gunpoint were performed on a practicing homosexual.  Unless you live in a particularly rough part of San Francisco, I’m guessing these burglars brought entertainment with them.  Now that’s Karma.

The manufacturers of the drug Dulera wants me to ask my doctor if it can help me breathe better.  If you’re having to recommend medicine to help you breathe to your doctor based off the advice of a commercial, I’d say you need to watch another channel for a second opinion.

In the spirit of crossover episodes, A & E needs to start a show that is a cross between Hoarders and Storage Wars.  Hoard Wars.  Here’s how I see it: The scavengers from Storage Wars could come in and bid on the houses of the Hoarders.  This would either help speed up their recovery, or make for a very exciting ending.  Auctioneers aren’t quacks like psychologists either.  That shit is real.  Whether you clearly heard what he said or not, you wiped your nose at the wrong fucking time and now you own whatever it is you bought.  Whether you wanted it or not.

I’m flipping through the channels and….The man you all know as Joe The Policeman from the What’s Goin Down? Episode of That’s My Momma, RANDY WATSON!!!!

What if there was a Cracker Awareness Week?  A White Freedom Fund Luncheon?  Honkey History Month?  Why are those of us who aren’t racist or supremacists worried about being aware, free, or interested care about what our history says our future has in store for us?  Is it because we are lazy?  I’ll be honest, if I were in charge it would be Cracker Awareness Week sponsored by Machaen’s Lawn Service – because “If you can’t do it, a Mexi can.”  I’ve never really understood why anyone needs to be reminded to be aware of their race with a special event/day/month.  I mean, you’re either stared at, stepped away from, looked down upon, tolerated, accepted or celebrated.  Don’t matter what fucking color you were or weren’t, or how aware you are, them’s the options.

I had a friend in college I co-created named The Googler.  He was 30ish, prone to wearing Glad Bags with a head hole in the rain, one golf glove on either hand for warmth during the winter, and handing out the most worthless of all analgesics, Ultram with the instructions to, “Take two Hoss.”  He use to say “bristle”, “bristle up” and “bristlin” a lot to describe various states of awareness and excitement.  For instance I’d say something like, “Hey Googler, what the fuck happened last night when you were talking to those chicks, before they kicked you in the nuts and maced you?” “Bristlin,” he would inevitably reply.  If you disagreed with him, he’d tell you to “bristle up,” and express your disagreement either verbally or physically.  To “bristle” really meant nothing more than to keep one eye open, an ungloved hand on a beer and the other firmly clinched on that bottle of worthless fucking pills an opiate would rather pawn than eat.  In his honor, I’m bringing bristle and all it’s conjugations back.  So, bristle up motherfuckers.  There’s going to be a hole helluva lot of bristlin going on.

After rallying in support of Joe Paterno earlier last week, Penn State students came to grips with the reality that the football program hid and protected a pedophile.  In their first attempt to acknowledge this wrong, 10,000 plus students took part in a rally in which they all held lit candles. These delusional bastards don’t owe nobody nothin, cause they had nothing to do with none of it. However, something as serious as what they say went down there requires a lot more than a live Freebird-like acknowledgement.

From this point on I think that, at the very least, no Penn State football player should be allowed to wear any uniform number under 18.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” now means something entirely different at Penn State.  While pronounced the same, it’s often heard as “You fucking a kid with me?”

I wish I had thought this one up, but it’s already making the rounds: “If an older woman who likes younger men is a cougar, what do you call an older man who likes young boys?  A Nittany Lion.

Sam’s Club, Paducah, KY – Paradise Horses released their controversial new product “Dora Likes To Explora” this week, a toy which was created after a company employees’ recent trip to attend a bachelor party in Tijuana.  It went up for sale at several popular retail stores across the country despite threats of protests, boycotts and even an endorsement from the Perverts for Explicit Needs from Inside Stuffed animals, or P.E.N.I.S. for short.  Samuel Johnson Sinclair Kennedy Vanderbilt St. James Gates Walton, the Current Relative In Control (CRIO), and founder Sam Walton’s eight great-great-grandsons from a previous marriage on his maternal privileged side recently released a statement regarding their decision to carry Dora at Sam’s Club:

“Sam’s Club has always been about the privilege of membership in a private club that’s not readily accessibly to the general public.  With the release of Paradise Horses’ Dora Likes To Explora, we feel we are staying true to the form Sam pioneered years ago, by allowing each and everyone of our members to decide whether they are open, support or even eguage in pre-pubescent bestiality.  The only difference between Dora Likes to Explora and Mormonism is she’s open to new ideas, and only loves one horse at a time.”

P.E.N.I.S. Head Steve “Secretariat” Stevens said he was glad Sam’s had finally shown support for the perverted arts.  “Look, let’s be honest.  Most people enjoy being liked by animals.  Most people enjoy betting on horse races.  Mix them together and you’ve got something to bet on.”  Many within the discount mass retail business have always waffled when it comes to items that either insinuate or endorse anything other than straight, missionary-style sex.  COSTCO Founder, renowned cheapskate, and sexual bore Pete Pennybags when asked about the toy at an Incredible Bulk Convention had this to say:

“If children of questionable alieneage want to fuck horses, that’s one thing.  But having the cost conscious American public support horse fuckin’ just ain’t right.  I mean, it even says right there on the box, ‘Encouraging Serious Horseplay’.  What kind of message will this send to our sexually confused and curious kids? And I’ll tell you another thing, all them vet bills ain’t going to be cheap either.  Some historians have claimed the Roman economy collapsed after an outbreak of horse fuckin’.  It could happen here too.”

If you’re famous and say stupid shit, people either classify your statements or musings as: (a) stupid, (b) drug-fueled ramblings, or (c) an ingenious interpretation of something in everyday life that no one else’s eye is keen enough to spy.  Well, I ain’t famous, but I’m going to say some shit famous people would be hailed for saying because it would either be so stupid it was smart, proof they read Niche or Confuse-yas in rehab, or just so goddamn obvious that saying it was impressive in and of itself.

- Thinking you’re smart isn’t smart unless you’re smart enough to realize you’re only as smart as those who believe they aren’t as smart as you.

- No matter how many times you get hit in the nuts, it can only hurt twice.

- A big, hard dick is great thing to have, unless it is time to run.

- Tits on a warthog are only useless if you don’t want to pork.

- Trick or Treating is the first chance any parent gets to assure themselves it is the kid that initiated playing doctor who is gay.

- The manager of the World Series Champions Cardinals Tony LaRussa uses the word goddamn as an adjective, noun, verb and motivational tool.

- No matter what anybody says about anything, it all really don’t mean anything about nothing.

- Tony Orlando did not play first base for the Cardinals.  Orlando Cepeda did not perform duets with Dawn.

- Sleep apenea prevents fat people from exercising in their sleep.

- Matt Damon has been in more movies without Ben Affleck than Ben Affleck has been in threesomes with Matt Damon.  At least that is what I heard.

- Radio talk show hosts are like heart monitors.  There is a steady pulse of conversation until someone calls and disagrees then the line disconnects like an ideological flat line.  The only question is whether a Code Red or Code Blue is necessitated to revive the witty, and often canned banter.

- If pictures speak a 1,000 words, photographs disprove 999 lies told before the liar is told there is a photograph.

- iPad/iPhone porn is the internet equivalent of a double headed dildo.  It prevents both sexual assault and consensual sexual contact because it allows users to master-i-bate on at the touch of a screen.

- If you buy Halloween candy more than 24 hours prior to handing it out to trick or treaters, you’ll treat yourself so much that you’ll think its a trick next time you put on your jeans.

- Oscar Wilde was queer.

- Prison isn’t so much of a deterrent for gay people convicted of a crime, as it is a suggestion to change their tastes.

- If you’re against Mexican immigrants, you are in denial about how good your yard looks.

- The only difference between liquor stores and Obamacare is you get to chose what you want to buy at a liquor store.

- People who aren’t worried about the economy were rich enough to not have any worries about it in the first place.

- Anyone who joins a political party with a name that is slang for having your testicles sucked is a nut.

- Roman and Greek mythology are interchangeable, but the Greek’s used fancy words, accent marks and pronunciations to sexy up all the pedophilia.

- Inner peace is nothing more than believing whatever the voices in your head are telling you.

That’s all I’ve got.  I’m almost drunk enough to think up some shit.

JIS

Believe it or not, the small sleepy city of Paducah, Kentucky always has some sort of low level scandal going on at all times.  You have cops resigning for inappropriate non-sexual contact of a sexual nature while on duty.  A hotelier holding out to be paid to leave town, and a hotel he could not afford so the city could buy it and tear it down.  The city buys a Convention Bouncy specifically for one yearly event, puts it on land they do not own and then attempt to circumvent the building code in the name of ice skating.  And then you got a guy named Steve Dolittle.  Basically, there has never been a job opening the City has felt he could not fill.

Come to find out today the executive director of the Julian M. Carroll Convention and Paducah Expo Centers embezzled somewhere around $200,000.00 in the past year.  If don’t know where the convention and expo center is, do not worry.  It’s obvious you have not been there since (a) you realized a wedding themed after anything Bristol Broadcasting promoted would be cheaper than champale (b) Dr. Kelly’s office moved to Reidland or (c) J.R.’s Pub finally fell off and floated down the Ohio.  This place is supposed to bring in people to convent about things, or to expose others to stuff.  Last time I was down that way, the only thing I saw was a convent of nuns running from a man who was exposing himself.

So to sum this scandal up, a cat named John Patrick Kerr, Jr. had been scamming the Paducah-McCracken County Convention Center Corporation – “PMC4″ for our purposes – out of at least $68,000.00 bucks a years while pretending to be the executive director.  Well, that was the part of the scam PMC4 cannot deny knowing about because it was his salary.  That was actually up almost $8,000.00 from when he started.  Kerr got a fleece increase because he met or set a bunch of “benchmarks” and worked “unusual and extra hours to accommodate events.”  For instance, he worked a lot of extra hours around the end of the month when bank statements would be mailed, and also the last couple weeks before April 15^th each year.

The PMC4 gave a press conference where they stated Kerr’s evil genius first came to after Paducah Bank gave notice a specially trained bank teller had noticed a sticky note attached to a check indicating someone was not suppose to forget to bring someone their half of the money.  The teller’s handler could not be reached for comment.  Paducah Bank released a statement saying, “We knew the investment in note-detecting trained tellers would pay off.  This is exactly the type of fraud that is perpetrated every day by the misuse of sticky notes and we here at Paducah Bank are not going to just sit around and take note of it anymore.”  The bank then alerted the previously fiscally comatose PMC4, who sprung into action and quickly realized no one should be getting half.  After an intense investigation from Friday through Sunday, the PMC4 had cracked what has been described by some as an intricate scheme.  Apparently, Kerr would write “single-signature account checks” to an alleged embezzlebell named Susan Wilson. She was posing as what is known in the convention and expo world as a “vendor”, and would issue Kerr fake invoices, cash the checks, obey the sticky notes and give him his half.  It was intricate because he worked there but actually signed his own name, instead of forging another person’s to the checks he apparently was not authorized to sign.  Contrary to reports, Wilson did not have a mobile cart or stand outside of the convention center selling fake documents.

How in the hell can a place in Paducah that is hemorrhaging almost a quarter of a million bucks, which is run by a government affiliated entity, not notice a whole bunch of what little money they have is being spent with just one vendor?  I guarantee you the only time a sole entity was the main cash flow of that joint was The Silver Saddle just after the premiere of Urban Cowboy and in the heyday of the Charlie Daniels Band.  The place has about one or two conventions a year at the most.  One of them is some bridal thing and the other requires you to either fail or pass some sort of health test.  You never know which one is going on until you show up.  It is ridiculous anyone tries to keep that place alive.  In fact, during the flood of Ought Eleven, after the million whatever renovation the City and County joined in on, it was determined that, if the flood water rose past a certain point, it would be able to convene and expose itself as much as it wanted all over Julian Carroll’s architectural namesake.  The City finally paid a guy to sell off the hotel not worthy of Baltic or Mediterranean Avenues and tore it down.  However, the structure still standing appears to have been abandoned like the square building block that could not be shoved into the rectangular hole by the slobbery -handed baby that is governmental waste is still standing.

Kerr and Wilson perpetrated their evil scheme of writing and cashing checks on a board of citizens and hope-to-do-wells and a bank who apparently did nothing but sit around and wait to be given “note-ice” something was wrong.  Just from an office supply standpoint, why didn’t anyone ask Kerr where all those checks were going?  To embezzle enough to support Tony Montana’s cocaine habit, you’ve got to be going through a couple saplings worth a day.  If Kerr was really doing enough business to write that many checks and generate enough paperwork to fool the PMC4 into believing the place needed money to actually operate – as opposed to just keep the utilities on because it was vacant – the Super Shredder would have been swinging by every couple of days.  The bank statements no one was paying attention had to be as thick as phone books because of the copies of the checks.  Rumor has it a couple of law firms were close to sealing deals to put magnets on them.

How did whoever balance their books?  I get this picture of the PMC4 handing a bunch of wadded up receipts, some pocket lint and a gum wrapper to their CPA.  I don’t know enough about taxes to go any further with this.

Steve Dolittle was appointed the acting executive director to take over where Kerr stole off. Most people around here remember Dolittle from his most recent government employee incarnation as executive director of the Paducah Renaissance Alliance.  It makes sense they would bring in Dolittle because he needs two more city-county government related jobs to get a set of gold plated steak knives.  It also makes sense because he has been executively directing an Alliance to rebirth Paducah, and what better place needs rebirthing than the convention and exposition center?  As of today, there has been no word on whether or not he will executively direct rebirthing, conveneing and exposing simultaneously.  It all sounds rather arduous.

After seeing a new Volkswagen Jetta commercial where the lyrics to Elton John’s “Rocket Man” were deciphered in an attempt to get you to buy an Aryan auto, my wife gently turned to me and said, “I didn’t know those were the actual lyrics.”  To which I responded, “I didn’t know flaming toadish tarts were a good way to attract people to buy cars.”

St. Louis Cardinals pitcher Jaime Garcia has hairlines so defined, it makes me wonder if it were actually spray painted on, or if his barber used a ruler.

Rangers outfielder Josh Hamilton, a recovering drug addict, went 0 for 3 in Game 2 of the 2011 World Series.  I’m guessing he thought the pitcher was a narc, and called off the deal before each at bat.

St. Louis Cardinals catcher Yadier Molina is the youngest of the three banjo-hitting, excellent defensive catchers from the Molina Family.  Jose, Benji and Yadier are the only three brothers in baseball history to have both played in the Major Leagues and won a World Series.  Amazingly, Molina brothers Harpo, Gummo and Zeppo decided not to play the sport.

St. Louis Cardinals outfielder Lance Berkman gave himself the nickname “Big Puma.”  Who the hell goes along with a nickname that the nicknamed named themselves?

According to Joe Buck, Tim McCarver knows everything.  According to me, Joe Buck is an idiot.

Over the course of his hall of fame career, Nolan Ryan threw a major league record 7 no-hitters.  He is now part owner of the Texas Rangers, and is frequently shown in the stands on TV.  It appears as though Nolan hasn’t thrown any no-eaters since he retired.  I heard Ryan was sued for concessional harassment by a former hot dog jockey named Demonte James.  James claimed Ryan would force him to hand over the majority of his weenies without paying for them whenever he worked the box seats behind home plate.  “Man, that fat motherfucker never paid me a Goddamn dime for all those honkey dogs he made me give him.  He treated me like I was working at Winki Dinki Dog and I was his bitch.  I guess Nolan and Ho’s got to eat too.”

There are an awful lot of insurance commercials during World Series games.  The only type of thing a baseball game should insure is that you have fun, act ignorant and get blackout drunk.

Well, like Public Enemy, I’ve got to shut er down for now.  Apparently my typing is making too much noise, so my wife can’t concentrate on reading her book with the lame plot and undeveloped characters.

It’s been less than twelve hours since the Yankees lost, so I’m still be angrier than a hemorrhoid that’s been freshly plied with Absorbine Jr. because # 28 didn’t materialize this year.  But, they’ll never be able to take Boston’s late season gag away from me.  To a minor degree, 2004 is kinda avenged.  Nah, not really.  To sum up the the Yankee mauling, here are a few overarching post-series observations from a militant, nutty, illogical and angry-when-they-do-not-win Yankee fan:

- Joe Girardi has never met a pinch hitter he did not want to use.  Except for Jesus.  Girardi had a catcher named Jesus on the bench, who was 2 for 2 in the series.  That’s right, Jesus is a Yankee.  In case you were keeping tabs, he recently left Chicago; but whereas he was bound for New Orleans, he apparently had time to make a quick stop in Detroit to get an RBI single.

- TV networks sometimes attach exaggerated descriptions for upcoming games, like “Battle in the Bronx” or “Melee in the Motor City.”  Well, I came up with a couple of suggestions that could have been used:  Yankees vs. An Umpire on TBS, and Yankees vs. Refusing to Swing on TBS

- Who in the hell would keep pitching Scott Proctor given his reputation as a sorry ass sumbitch?  Every time he ever comes into the game, the Yankees take it up the (insert anal/anus/rectum slang word of your choice) like getting a physical from Dr. Jellyfinger.  “Moon River” should be played whenever he comes out from the bullpen.

- Girardi is the dumbest former catcher-turned-manager to ever handle a pitching staff in the history of baseball.

- I haven’t seen that many check swings since a moody Richard Simmons was trying to balance his checkbook.

- Stevie Wonder could’ve seen the strikes the Tigers were throwing throughout the series. Whereas the Yankees batters refused to get the bat off their shoulder, Stevie would have at least wildly swung his cane a few times.

- I admit I’m abnormally hard on Joe Girardi for not changing pitchers, but he should also do so in moderation.  At one point, he was burning through them like Clearasil pads at a middle school band camp.

- I’m convinced ARod, or as AOld as I call him, is the most overpaid professional athlete since Jon “Contract” Koncak.  He’s AWorthless waste of batter’s box space.

- The Yankees got Fistered.

Well, the only bright side is that it is now full-blown UK season.  Yankees Ought Eleven.  Glad to have Nova’d Ye.