The Dharma Bum by Jaysen Buterin

"Here we are now, entertain us..." -- Burt Inacok

So a pirate walks into a bar with a steering wheel tied to his waist...

Bartender's seen lots of things before, so he goes about his business...

After a bit, the pirate gets up to leave and the bartender just has to know...

So he asks the pirate, "Hey pal, what's with the steering wheel in your lap?"

To which the pirate replies, "Aarrggh, it's drivin' me nuts!"

Now that I've got your attention boys and girls (and omniscient OFF! Editors) there are a few things that have been running amok amok amok in this warped grey slab of matter that I call a brian...I mean brain, that have been buggin' me for a bit, so naturally, they'll seep into this issue's sermon - brought to you by the Church of Jaysen, (where anybody who carries a torch for kids who carry candles will not be transferred away and "forgotten about" in some sort of "ostrich syndrome" but instead will be caned, flogged, sacked, tarred and feathered, swirlied, noogied, wedgied, kicked in the jimmy, and for good measure, stoned. No my fine sativa friends, not that kind of stoned - and no, falling asleep with your contacts in does not give you a medical excuse to sit on the green couch and touch the face of godot. This is the kind of stoning that involves lots of rocks, an angry mob or two, and some good ole fashioned camaraderie. After all, who isn't up for a good stoning? Only if it's a sandal and not a shoe though.), anyway here are some things that have been buggin' me, so we'll see how they fly...bug, fly, I made a funny...

Why is it in an age where Vanilla Ice gets more fists pounded into him by Willis than the new guy in cellblock 6, and the size of Britney Spears' breasts seem to mysteriously change more times than a Taliban edition of the Kama Sutra, does anybody really care that the WWF changed its name to the WWE because they were scared of the panda bears? And why the hell does Fox persist in bringing continuous coverage of that thing they call the "sport" of Nascar for what seems like a hopeless eternity showing the same cars go around and around and around and...what's going to happen next...around and around again, eliciting the same response from the mulleted stockholders of Schlitz and PBR of "Woohoo!" every time they see a car go in a circle - when I want to watch the Simpsons? I mean, not that watching cars do the same thing over and over again (look kids, it's Big Ben) doesn't whip everyone with their house on wheels and an appliance store on their porch into a frenzy more than "Buy One, Get One Free" night at Hooters, but don't they have entire channels devoted to nothing but sports...and hooters? In return, I think there should be a channel of nothing but the Simpsons, and Greg the Bunny...and occasional episodes of Space Ghost. In fact, that's the second commandment in the Church of Jaysen, right after we get past the concept of original sin, with the emphasis being on original! C'mon people, in this space-age road-rage world we live in we've heard all the boring ones - I coveted this, I slept with that, I had impure thoughts, blah, blah, blah. It's time for original sins like "I strapped a piece of buttered bread to the back of a cat and dropped it off the roof," or perhaps "I slipped off the trapeze while engaged in a compromising position with a hobo from Guam, a donkey, and a rake, and the rake fell out of my hands and killed the donkey, and now I feel really bad." Now that's original. But rather than spend time trying to figure out why we can put a man on the moon and clone just about anything, yet we can't make a damn saltine package that you can open with your hands, let's get back to celebrity boxing...

Some may call it crass but I say rise against those who would oppress you, take off your hat with the beer cans for ear flaps and the straws that stick in your mouth, kick off both flip-flops, turn off the Cops marathon, and stand up for your rights! And really, what's wrong with Celebrity Boxing? Who wouldn't be glued with ooey-blooey by the thrilling spectacle of two potato-shaped former child stars pounding the life out of each other just for a few extra nanoseconds in the spotlight? Some say it points to the downfall of society, but I say, "Let's see more blood!" Why not exchange those boxing gloves with bags of broken glass. Then we'll see how cocky Danny Bonaduce gets when Greg Brady swings that deathbag like a transvestite resisting arrest. And once again, I've managed to confuse myself to the point that I have no idea what I was talking about, and have now decided to put down my pen and go cuddle with my Special K. So as the sun sets slowly in the west, I bid you a fond farewell, from the Church of Jaysen, where positions of power and rank are not based on the size of your hat and the weekly sermon will always end with the ever-divine singing of AC/DC's spiritual hymn, "Highway to Hell." G'night kids.