The Cutting Return of YABNews

It’s been a while since we’ve contacted the YABNews Desk for a lead on a story. All this time, we’ve been getting memos from them as to how they support the Writer’s Strike and refuse to produce any material. Then we realized that the royal “we” is a fictional writing device, and since I’m not part of the WGA, then neither are they. Hey, I don’t member authorizing the purchase of a foosball table for their break room.

You see, YABNews doesn’t know how to cover the big issues that consume today’s press. Primary elections? Not interested. Israeli-Palestinian peace talks? No thanks. The Writers Strike? Ok, maybe. No, over the years YABNews has focused on the truly unique in breaking media coverage.

If it should break residential architecture in the process, so be it.

Today we bring you the story of a hunting enthusiast in the great state of Michigan. I can’t say I’ve ever felt the real need to hunt. It’s not the primal longing that so many people claim it to be. Of course, I may have been turned off to the practice when I was young. I remember as a young lad attempting to snipe water fowl as they flew diagonally across my range of vision. If I missed, a neighborhood dog would inexplicably arise from the weeds to mock me. Stupid dog.

So while I can’t speak from experience, I have to assume that hunting supplies are expensive. Why? Because it can be considered a niche sport or game, and all supplies for niche sports and games are expensive. For some reason, those who enjoy their athletics on the fringe have more cash to burn. They buy things like snow skis and road bikes and rifles to fill that need. Of course, one has to wonder why so few people get into these sports. Maybe it’s because as kids we don’t have the kind of allowances to skeet shoot or ice climb. And because of this, these sports lay on the fringe. Like I said, it’s a vicious cycle.

Back to our YABNews report. According to the article:

A man who hid hunting knives in his pants to try to steal them from a western Michigan store tripped while fleeing and stabbed himself in the abdomen, police say… The man had put about $300 worth of hunting knives in his waistband, police told WZZM-TV. Police say he tried to leave the store, but Meijer employees confronted him and a scuffle
followed. The man then fell and was stabbed by the knives he had
hidden in his clothing, police said. They said it happened about 5:40
p.m.

Ok, I have a few thoughts about this real man of genius. And in honor of our hunting theme, you’re going to get them…IN BULLET FORM!!!

• Now while I haven’t had to price them lately, I really have no idea how much a hunting knife costs. Did the guy steal 1 $300 knife? Or maybe 25 $12 knives? We just don’t know. Regardless, a waistband isn’t exactly my first choice for knife concealment. Hey, buddy, ever heard of pockets?
• I take that back. My flag football league requires that all shorts or pants worn cannot have pockets. It prevents people from reaching for a flag and dislocating a finger on an errant stab. I’m cool with that. You know, except for the fact that every single pair of pants in Dick’s Sporting Goods now comes with pockets. I find it hard to imagine that our Knife Thief managed to shop around and find a pair that came pocket free.
• The fact that you are stealing knives gives us a good idea of where your morals rest. That said, why didn’t you steal some blankets or pillows, too? Hell, this is a camping store. They’ve probably got marshmallows in the back you could have ganked.
• If you have knives in your waistband and you’re going to trip or fall, you should probably do everything you can to not land in a position so that they may stab you. This is called the Kyle Williams Postulate. It’s named after a famous hurdler that in warmups tripped over a hurdle. Rather than further injure his thumb – which was in a cast from football season – Williams went into the track favoring his hand. Instead? Collarbone first. Had the Knife Thief listened to Kyle, he’d have a broken collarbone, but non-lacerated abs.

Too Cool for Pool

You grow up around enough swimming pools, you realize there is only a limited number of activities you can do in its vicinity. I suppose just about any sport is a possibility, and some sports (like basketball and volleyball) have gone so far to create pool-ready equipment in case you’re interested in such a contest. But you know why most sports haven’t caught on in a swimming pool?

Sports require running, and you suck at running in the pool.

Seriously, even if you hit a whiffle ball to the back left corner of the deep end, rounding the bases will take a good 12 minutes. And football’s no good either – how exactly do you determine when somebody’s down? And as we learned from the NFL’s foray into London this past weekend – most football players tend to be terrible when water is introduced into the equation. Instead, kids everywhere have come up with a number of games that would, conversely, not be that fun if played on land. That’s what makes them excellent pool games. Sharks and Minnows, Marco Polo, Chicken Fight – and not to forget the ever-popular “Laps” – have become pool mainstays, and I have little doubt that these activities will be on top of the list of things to do next summer.

You know, as long as there aren’t any buzzkill zoo animals in your watering hole.

The fires that have ravaged California over the past week have done very little to benefit anybody. A million people were forced to leave their home, hundreds of homes were burned to the ground, and it will be some time before the Golden State can move on from this tragedy. With such a major event dominating the news for the better part of this fortnight, not a whole lot has surfaced from which we can find humor. In fact, the only good San Diego fire joke came courtesy of KSK – and if it’s KSK, you know irreverence is on the menu. So while I did not want to completely ignore the situation in SoCal, I’m glad I’ve been able to say my piece. Now I can move to comedic pastures – highlighting the one Fire-related event that’s worthy laughing about.

THERE’S A HIPPO IN YOUR POOL.

If you read the second article in Jay Glazer’s NFL beat column from two days ago, you’ll see that San Diego Chargers special teams coach had to prepare for more than just the Houston Texans this week. His wife called to let him know that sure enough, a hippo from the nearby San Diego Wild Animal Park had escaped amidst the chaos and found a new place to dwell in the coach’s pool.

It is unlikely he used the diving board.

The National Zoo here in Washington D.C. has hippos in residence which I have seen on more than one occasion. I have to say, these mighty beasts aren’t exactly movers and shakers – their sedentary lifestyle suits them fine. In fact, going to see the hippos at the zoo is the equivalent of going to the movies to stare at the exit signs. But this hippo in particular is now in the swimming pool of a football coach, and unless he plans to leave and ravage the Hopkirks’ garden next store, Coach Crosby probably isn’t going to be pleased for an extended period of time.

So let’s play some games with the hippo.

As I mentioned above, there are only really three games that are awesome in the pool: Sharks and Minnows, Marco Polo, and Chicken Fight. Which would be the best to challenge the hippo to? Let’s review our options.

Sharks and Minnows – Winner: HIPPO! When you’re a shark, it’s the goal of the minnow to get to the other side of the pool without getting pulled to the surface. When you’re a minnow, you have to get by the shark. You tell me which is easier: stopping a charging hippo or getting by a creature that is the width of the swimming pool.

Marco Polo – Winner: TIE! If a hippo closes its eyes, it’s probably sleeping. Game over.

Chicken Fight – Winner: YOU! You see, you thought Chicken Fight was all about hoisting your girlfriend onto your shoulders for a match of chick-slap dominance. Instead, it’s your chance to kick nature’s ass. The hippo has decided to team up with that stupid tickbird, (in the name of symbiosis), and your girlfriend can totally take that pipsqueak.

Behind the Sour Cream

“What, did you take Stupid Pills this morning?”
- Mr. Potato Head, in “Toy Story” (1995)

Sir, you might want to check that prescription a little more carefully.

When Toy Story hit the big screen over 12 years ago, it changed the face of animated film forever. The capability of the genre was expanded farther than anyone could have imagined, and it put many an old-timer tracer out of work down in Buena Vista. Hell, they even decided the art form deserved its own Academy Award. The work of Pixar Studios has benefited children across the globe and John Ratzenberger alike. Heck, it even got crap like Titan AE made. Because of computer animation, Hollywood has changed.

And apparently, Hollywood has changed computer animation.

The toys that were cast in the original Toy Story were likely selected because of their timelessness, recognition, and comedic appeal. Yes, some original unknowns like Woody and Buzz Lightyear had to be pulled from unknown talent, but the Toy Casting Agency did a nice job to round out the ensemble. Rex, the neurotic dinosaur, came from an acting family whose ancestors did stunt work in the old-school Godzilla pictures. Slinky Dog had always been the consummate professional, a working actor who had slapstick training from the era of the Stooges. The Army Men often served as extras in the WWII epics of the fifties and sixties. Finally, Hamm the toy bank pig was so talented at his craft; he managed to continually find work despite being in a town run by Jews. Despite his kosher restrictions, even Stephen Spielberg admires that guy’s work.

And then there’s Mr. Potato Head.

Mr. Head, for short, had done some stage work on Broadway (ok, it was past Broadway in the Macy’s Day Parade), but ultimately was a green actor on the silver screen. It helped that his spouse, Mrs. Potato Head, also had her SAG card, as they were hired jointly due to their on-screen chemistry (if that’s what you want to call it.) His ability to channel a vast range of emotions via some facial re-arranging was also a plus that the casting directors saw. Once on set, he fell in beautifully to a role that appeared tailor-made for him. But then again, tailor-made was just a part of his Hollywood pedigree. His grandmother, Edith Head, was a force to be reckoned with in the costuming industry, and Pixar rewarded the family’s work by basing a character in The Incredibles on Potato’s grandma.

Oh, how fame can change a man.

Mr. Potato Head was well-liked by critics and children alike in Toy Story, giving Pixar an easy decision to write him into the sequel, Toy Story 2, which would release in the winter of 1999. His role expanded to action sequences, as he was an asset to the Al’s Toy Barn driving sequence. Life was great. He and Mrs. Potato Head then were offered a variety hour-type show on the WB, which would eventually go to Nick Lachey and Jessica Simpson. Afraid of the dreaded typecast, they turned down a talk show on the Food Network. Toy Story 3 has long been rumored to be in the works, but the potential split of Pixar and Disney’s working relationship put that on hold for the first few years of the 21st century. Even though Pixar is once again a part of the Magic Kingdom, a potential release date has been pushed back to 2010. Mr. Potato Head is in talks to join the cast, but again, that’s a while from now.

Then the offers stopped coming.

When that phone stops ringing, it’s hard for a struggling actor to keep his spirits up. You do some commercial work for a fast food chain to pay the bills, but that’s about all that’s on the agenda. That 4-bedroom house on the cliffs defaults in a hurry, and rather than reduce one’s self to a 1 bedroom apartment, you decide to pack all your belongings inside the trap door on your back and live with old acting buddies in similar situations. Mrs. Potato Head left Mr. Potato Head for one of the McDonald’s Fry Guys. And just when you think you’ve hit rock bottom –

You get busted in an Australian airport for ecstasy trafficking.

Talented And Gifted

This past summer, you may remember that I spent a week out west in the mountain city of Colorado Springs, Colorado. It’s probably like many cities that call the Rocky Mountains home; the air is thinner, the forests are more abundant, the views are picturesque, the REI Outdoor Sports Stores are bigger, and the speed limits are greater. However, there are two very specific attributes that allow you to distinguish the Springs from so many other towns in the Mountain Time Zone. They are listed below.

1. The Air Force Academy makes sure that the planes per capita average for the city is well above the national average.
2. Kids are not allowed to have fun at recess.

The former is self-explanatory. The latter? That’s YAB-explanatory.

The Associated Press is reporting this morning that Cindy Fesgen, the assistant principal at Discovery Canyon Elementary in Colorado Springs, has taken it upon herself to ensure that the one fun part of school be removed from the agenda: recess. (Personally, as a band dork, I wouldn’t know what recess is. In middle school, my idea of a good time consisted of leaving at the end of lunch to goof off in the band room. And that, friends, is #72 from the List of Things I Avoided Mentioning to Katie While We Were Dating.) It’s not that Fesgen has altered the space-time continuum as to remove the 12-20 minutes immediately following the children’s mid-day meal; no, she’s just put the kibosh on a recess activity that’s older than the meatloaf those kiddies just dined upon.

She banned Tag.

And while I wish I were talking about that abhorrent body spray, I’m actually referring to the playground game in which a simple hand touch can turned the hunted into a hunter. Yes, the one playground game that doesn’t require any sporting equipment, team formation, strategy, captaincy, uniforms, scorekeeping abilities, and lung power will no longer be allowed. It’s FORBIDDEN. It’s PROHIBITED. It’s..it’s-

“It causes a lot of conflict on the playground.” said Fesgen.

See ya, handle. It’s time to fly off of you.

Before I decided that musical instrument mastery was the way to get chicks, I did at one point participate in recess activities. In elementary school, this is all we did. It was the way we decided who was the best athlete in class. It was the way we killed time until some wonderful teacher would buckle like a belt and get us one of those red playground balls. It was our passive-aggressive means of showing interest in the opposite sex by using a game of caustic aggression to display attraction.

(Kim Zawacki, you never could catch me.)

And I’m guessing the totalitarian regime that is Discovery Canyon Elementary banned all variations and versions of Tag.

Freeze Tag, a harmless permutation that actually gave both sides a way to win or lose, is probably out on account that its reference to subzero, wintry temperatures may cause adolescent depression. Red Rover is probably misconstrued as another term for dog fighting, and the American Government has zero tolerance when it comes to dog fighting. Tag Heuer maybe an excellent manufacturer of luxury watches, but Fesgen knows that Tiger Woods endorses the product, and he swings metal clubs violently for a living. That guy who dated Rachel on Friends? Stay the hell away from our school. German exchanges students were deported for merely a mention of “Guten tag.”

Our guess? In elementary school, Cindy Fesgen is horrible at Tag.

Breed, Eagles Breed!

And fish were just starting to feel safe.

Quite possibly the biggest news to ever be heard in the hallways of Arlington’s United States Fish and Wildlife Service, it seems that despite the rocketing gas prices, the fledgling war effort, a loss of confidence in Presidential leadership, the struggling real estate market, and Paris Hilton’s ability to capture the national attention span, America is doing just fine. While most accountants use numbers as the bottom line for success and failure, we here at YAB prefer to live in the abstract.

Symbolically speaking, we’re awesome.

The latest sign? The noble Bald Eagle just pulled a Pacino.

For the duration of my life, our national bird was out. It was the poster creature for every reference to extinction, endangered species, and threatened existence. While all the fame and publicity of holding such lavish photo opportunities might seem nice for awhile, look what it did for the title’s predecessor. Poor Dodo, we hardly knew ye.

Despite being limited in number, the Bald Eagle has consistently stepped up to the plate for the U.S. It has stayed still countless times so that we could create bronze replications for our federal buildings. It has survived a horrific re-creation of itself at Nationals games. They’ve sent one of their best to serve as one of the most-underrated Muppets of all time. But because of rampant deforestation, urbanization, and prejudice towards those who lack full-bodied heads of hair, the Bald Eagle has declined in numbers over the years.

Time to pull them back in.

After all, the Bald Eagle is such a stern, menacing, dignified avian animal, it sets the tone for all of America on the international stage. Ever wonder what birds other, less impressive nation have come up with? Switzerland employs the noble “chicken,” while the UK rolls with the fierce “European robin.” Other than Peru’s “Andean Cock-of-the-rock,” frankly we’re not impressed.

And for the record, someone should probably break the bad news to Mauritius. Their national bird in the dodo.

Being placed on the USFWS’ federal list of threatened and endangered species is like taking a seat on Death Row. You know your time is coming as a species to disappear, and it becomes a waiting game. Countless inmates have come before you – T-Rex, Auroch, Laysan Rail – and gone without much fanfare. When the Bald Eagle joined the list, things did not look good for him, nor America.

But these birds – they are a-breedin’.

Come June 29th, the USFWS will hand down a landmark decision as to whether they will or will not remove the Bald Eagle from our national registry of short-stick carrying creatures. It seems that while everyone was so careful not to kill these guys, they’ve taken the opportunity of this safe period to build their numbers back up and re-enter the birdforce with numbers not seen since the beginning of the 20th century. So in an unusual reversal of fortune, it seems the Bald Eagle has proven itself worthy as a self-sustaining national landmark.

(That freeloading oak tree, on the other hand...)

So just where are all our bald eagles, you may ask? According to this map, they prefer the cold confines of states like Minnesota and Wisconsin. And while the climate in Arizona and New Mexico are largely similar, bald eagles prefer being in the former by a score of 86-8. And you questioned the draw of having four pro sports teams. But the most curious thing on the map? Apparently, there are 2 bald eagles somehow finding a way to live in the District of Columbia. Sure, there’s only a pair in Vermont and Rhode Island, too, but where in DC can bald eagles fly?

Apparently, they’re cool with taxation without representation.

Me? It was the One-Horned Man!

(First off – it looks like Niagara has rightfully won the opportunity to get waxed by Kansas in the first round of tomorrow’s March Madness tournament. Good for them. In other news, be sure to scroll down a few posts for details on how to get into the second annual YAB = You’re a Bracket tourney. One more entry, and that’s a guaranteed prize for the winner.)

So…that’s the story you’re sticking to?

I suppose if we actually paid our YABNews team, we’d report on far more interesting things that may actually affect global politics, business, or at the very least, the weather. But no, for the second time, we’re tracking alcohol-induced vehicular tomfoolery in the Great Northwest. (That’s a tag waiting to happen.)

To Montana, news team!

Last week in Billings, a truck driver found himself talking to the fuzz after realizing he could drive his truck no further. The reason? The front of the truck had been firmly lodged into a light post. Now maybe it was the five prior drunk driving convictions talking, but the police were a little overly quick to assume that Jack Daniels was riding shotgun with Mr. Phillip Holliday. I mean seriously, maybe the guy just has an intense distaste for light posts.

But no, we’re both wrong.

Hell, it wasn’t even Holliday behind the wheel! You can’t convict a man that wasn’t in the driver’s seat! What kind of country do we live in that just assumes that the man getting out of the driver’s side door immediately following a lamp-to-truck collision was the helmsman? Just ask Holliday – it wasn’t him.

A unicorn was driving.

Now why are we all so quick to assume this man isn’t telling the truth? OF COURSE you’re not going to see a unicorn get out of the car – they’re imaginary. And if any of you had an imaginary friend as a kid, you sure as hell know they’re invisible creatures. Have YOU ever seen a unicorn at the scene of a crime? Of course you haven’t. They’re too good at the hit-and-run. It’s a well-known fact that unicorns are terrible drivers – I would hide when the police came to investigate – most likely by means of vanishing, too. Back to invisibility until the next time they can bow their head down towards your kitchen counter and hook your key ring on their completely practical horn. Bunch of skeptics.

The bail has been set at $100k.

Now we’re not accusing Holliday of being a genius, either. If he indeed has a unicorn hiding in thin air, maybe he should get from here-to-there, I don’t know, ON THE BACK of the unicorn??? Rumor has it those suckers can fly.

As a postscript, we’d be remised if we weren’t serving an educational purpose here at YAB. Therefore…

Top Five Animals You Should Let Be Your Designated Driver.

1. Monkeys – The closest to the human race genetically. There’s just something about having opposable thumbs that allows one to grip the wheel and not just slap it in frustration.
2. Bears – Bears spend so much time in commercials breaking into mini-vans and eating innocent campers’ swag that I’ve got to assume one of these days they’re going to save their claws and drive that Honda Odyssey to the local Wegman’s.
3. Cats – Okay. Actually just one, and his name was Toonces. Wait a minute? What am I saying? Didn’t most of those sketches end with that stupid feline driving off a cliff? Oh well. He must have gotten his license at some point, so he’s in.
4. Centaurs – Exhibit the same vanishing power that unicorns do, only with a man torso – actually has hands to steer the car and adjust the A/C. And really, one doesn’t need toes to push the gas and brake – a sturdy hoof will do just fine.
5. Kangaroos – A little lead-footed, but comes with own cupholder.
   

999. Groundhogs – They drive angry.

(Several) Pennies from Heaven

Your team wins the Super Bowl, and you assume you have the run of His Kingdom.

Look, I was a college student once. I know what it’s like to have to work hard for a little spending money on the weekends. I worked at the Dean of Students Office, where the most mentally stimulating thing I got to do was to look through all you student application files (little known fact: Nordberg was a baton twirler in high school) But hey, I made minimum wage, and that paid for pizza on the weekends. What Kevin Russell of Hobart, Indiana did? Well that’s just wrong.

For those too lazy to click through this link, this 21-year old tried to cash a check in the amount of $50,000 at his local bank. And if that’s not suspect enough for you, it turns out that the One who was paying to the order of Kevin Russell was none other than God.

Yep, the old King Savior, King of Kings, Lord of Lords, Servant. And that’s not me just throwing accolades the Almighty’s way. That’s the way God apparently signs his checks. Now Kevin Russell is in jail for check fraud as well as intimidation (I guess faulty funds transfers involving omnipotent deities will get you that charge.)

I’ve heard of televangelists getting rich in the name of the Lord, but college students? That’s a new one. So while Russell awaits a court date, we here at the YABNews desk spent all night praying, and out prayers have been answered. God, thanks for granting us this interview.

God: Not a problem, My child.
Chris: So God, let’s get the facts straight. This WAS a fraudulent check, right?
God: Of course it was. I’ve been known to reward ingenuity in the past – Michaelangelo did such a nice job painting that ceiling that I made sure someone in the future named a Ninja Turtle after him – but monetary payouts? That’s not exactly my style.
Chris: So you’re saying you don’t have a checkbook?
God: Well, of course I have a checkbook. Someone’s got to pay the Sun so it doesn’t cut off our power. But there’s two ways to know if a check from Me is authentic.
Chris: Oh yeah? Do tell.
God: First off, there’s no way I have a savings account at the Chase Bank in Hobart. All of my accounts are kept safely at First Bank of St. Matthew. Once my tax collecting apostle came to Heaven, I had to give him something to do rather than insist to the other guests that they owe tax. For the record, there are no taxes in heaven.
Chris: So what happens on April 15th up there?
God: We have a barbeque luau. Last year we got Mozart to headline.
Chris: And the second check of authenticity?
God: My checks are HUGE. I get them from the same place the Publisher’s Clearing House gets theirs. It’s way more fun that way.
Chris: Of course. I should have known. So Lord, I’m in the market to buy some real estate. Do you have any advice for me?
God: Let me read you a passage from My Biography. (summons his Bible) In Timothy 6, it reads “Surely then, as far as physical things are concerned, it is sufficient for us to keep our bodies fed and clothed.” I say that shelter goes along with that. And while I love all my children, it should be noted that I find apartment complex landlords often use free will to stick it to good, hard-working people. This displeases me.
Chris: That’s what I figured. So what becomes of Kevin Russell, the man who thought he could swindle you out of a cool half mil?
God: There is an old Proverb (28:20 to be exact) that says, “The faithful man will be richly blessed, but one eager to get rich will not go unpunished.”
Chris: Sounds like a dagger to me, Kev.

Godzilla's Next Challenger

“Mom! We're on high alert here. I almost killed you! Right then! You don't even know!”
- Eddie (Vince Vaughn), “Mr. and Mrs. Smith”

There are many types of drills in this world. There are the kind that you use (with limited success) to hang framed prints and posters on the wall. There are the formal marchings of the military, those which require a specialized sergeant to carry out. High schools often have whole teams of drill, that assist in halftime show entertainment at football games. Hell, they’re even drills that could really use a banana right now. However, none of these listed drills can help you when danger is around the corner.

That’s why we have safety drills, orderly exercises that train people as to how to act under extreme situations of duress and panic. They’re pretty effective, we assume, considering we live outside the path of hurricanes, tornadoes, earthquakes, and air raids (?). But you can never prepare too much, we sometimes believe, which is why we wish to pass on this story of careful preparation, in case you ever find yourself in a similar situation.

Ah, the old escaped ferocious animal drill.

Now I’ve been to a few zoos in my lifetime, and I’ve always wondered would happen if any of the more mobile animals were to escape their nature preserve-like habitats. Most animals (at least in Philly and DC) either have 1) water 2)a fence or 3) the simple laws of gravity to prevent them for joining the tourists on the other side. Yeah, birds can fly around but if a toucan gets out, is anyone fearing for their lives (assuming you aren’t holding a multi-colored bowl of fruity cereal?) But monkeys – yeah – now there’s a real threat to society.

Those suckers can move.

Much like the kids in Jurassic Park, monkeys know that they have to climb if they want to overcome a giant fence (electrified or not). And in case they try and pull such a stunt, the Zookeepers of the Tokyo Tama Zoo are drilling to make sure they know how to act accordingly.

Enter Guy in a Monkey Suit.

Yes, the Tokyo Zoo’s idea to see how their employees would prepare for a loose monkey was to dress up one of their own and set him loose on the sidewalks. First off, I don’t care how noble you’re feeling – if there is an upright monkey as tall as you casually walking your way, you don’t try and contain it; you run for your life.

So the monkey is freewheeling his way through the park and the Tama Zookeeper Strike Force leaps into action. Yes, that’s a mini-clown car assault vehicle, and yes, that’s a woman with a tranquilizing shotgun hanging out the window to take that monkey down.

And it appears she succeeded.

But here’s the thing about this drill: they didn’t plan for the consequences. While the fake monkey was stopped in its tracks, thus ensuring a peaceful return to his cage of origin, the image of a primate being gunned down in cold fur is now emblazoned in the memories of horrified school children.

The final act, however, was greeted by hysteria among the young crowd who, as they watched the drama unfold, were completely taken in by the animal's 'demise'. It took some time for staff to circulate and reassure the audience that the horror had all been a fantasy.

The next time my office has a fire drill, I think I’m going to convince our intern to run around the building dressed as a raging ball of flame and fire. Yeah, that’ll do the trick.

Toughest. Mormon. Ever.

Rulon Gardner would like to challenge God to a duel.

This world does not have the firepower to derail Rulon Gardner. Jack Bauer, Vin Diesel, and Chuck Norris could attack him one-by-one (Foot Clan style), and they would have as much success as The Astronaut Farmer at the box office. Rulon Gardner can’t be dismissed by the other great warriors of our world. For Rulon Gardner, a man who commands so much respect a blogger cannot type his first name without immediately following with his last, has found a way to not only cheat death, but steal death’s wallet and run up a $250 tab at Denny’s.

Rulon Gardner is tired of fate.

Over the weekend, Rulon Gardner was flying on a plane over Good Hope Bay near the Utah-Arizona border. (More likely, the plane was flying on Rulon Gardner – he’s that beastly.) On the Not-to-So Scale of Airplace Velocity, his craft plummented from So-to-Not in matter of seconds. Before Rulon Gardner could even put on his super cape and utility belt, he was submerged in icy, 44-degree water. For an hour. Yes, it was a full hour before he and his two friends were rescued from the frigid submersion of their plane, but Rulon Gardner doesn’t care about elapsed time. He spent the hour doing laps for a cardio workout and killing innocent fish with his swiftly-kicking feet.

This wasn’t the first time Fate tried to kill Rulon Gardner.

In 2004, Rulon Gardner was riding a motorcycle when he was struck by a speeding vehicle. (This is the complete opposite of Ben Roethlisberger, who Rulon Gardner torments on a daily basis for wussing out and letting the car win. In fact, Rulon Gardner went to Big Ben’s house over the holidays, pulled his Christmas cards out of the mailbox, and ate them in front of Ben’s elderly mother for no reason whatsoever.) He flipped over his handlebars upon impact, and walked away with a few abrasions and a bruised heel. But Rulon Gardner doesn’t care about heels. Heels are for people who are afraid of the consequences. Rulon Gardner lives life on his toes.

This wasn’t the first time Fate tried to kill Rulon Gardner.

In 2002, Rulon Gardner was stranded in the wilderness of Wyoming when his snowmobile died and he ended up losing a toe due to frostbite. One would assume that since Rulon Gardner lives life on his toes, this would be a major problem. But he could care less. Who needs ten toes, anyway? Most of them are non-participatory freeloaders. Oh, and to make the country of Japan pay for his crappy Yamaha snowmobile, he picked this guy for revenge.

This wasn’t the first time Fate tried to kill Rulon Gardner.

In the 2000 Summer Olympics, Rulon Gardner fought Alexander Karelin for a gold medal. Karelin hadn’t lost a match in 13 years. Rulon Gardner decided that was ridiculous. Fate asked Karelin to destroy Rulon Gardner. Alexander Karelin now hangs his head in shame.

This wasn’t the first time Fate tried to kill Rulon Gardner.

In the third grade, he brought a bow and arrow in for Show and Tell. The kid who sits in front of him brought a bar of soap he whittled into, well, a smaller and more uneven bar of soap. Rulon Gardner found that it was so painful to listen to Soap Kid, he decided to distract himself from the agony by shooting himself in the abdomen with an arrow. Good God! Do you know what a compound bow can do to the mid-section of a nine year-old? It’s a good thing Rulon Gardner was no normal nine-year old.

Rumor has it that upon this flesh wound, Rulon Gardner looked to the sky and yelled, "Oh, Smite me, mighty Smiter!" (We're waiting on confirmation from Soap Kid, so that last part may be the only part of this post that's false. Unbelievable.)

Tubers from Heaven

If one chose to travel from my hometown to the New Jersey Township of Freehold by car, you could expect to be on the road for slightly under 50 miles, slightly over an hour, heading slightly NNE, and pass approximately 9 Wawas. You would also get to spend some quality time on the New Jersey Turnpike, while migrating from the nice, forest-loving South Jersey into the ambiguous, non-quite-sure-what-to-define-it-as Central Jersey. This is how you would do it, if you decided to travel by car.

However, if you choose to travel by moon rock, the route is a little more direct. All you have to do is get in your moon rock, descend from the sky by the powers of gravity, reach a terminal velocity, and with all the collision insurance you can buy, crash through the roof of a house in Freehold and lodge thyself into a wall.

(It’s a more direct route, but there’s way fewer Wawas via this method.)

Yes, much to the surprise of the Freehold Township branch of NASA (read: old crazy guy with a telescope), some sort of metal-based rock came crashing to earth Tuesday night. Authorities are calling it golf-ball sized, which by viewing this photo of the thing, we have two questions. First, has anyone thought to rent the 1996 Rian Johnson flick, “Evil Demon Golfball from Hell!!!”, as to make sure that this wasn’t a present from Satan that came from below? (And also to be the first to ever rent said flick?) Secondly, look at this picture of the rock. Now think of how big a golf ball is.

What kind of jumbo golf do the good people of Freehold play? What do they use for golf tees? Umbrella stands?

Moving past the littlest of details, we’re really glad that Detective R. Gelber was so quick to offer his ruler for the official measurement. How do we know it was old Gelby? He has a freakin’ label on his ruler. I can understand laying claim to something more valuable, like a stapler, by putting one’s personal sticker on it, but a ruler? Is Freehold a crime bastion for measurement tool theft?

Anyways, after the Feds ruled out that it did not come from an airplane (thank God, by the way – I’d be rethinking air travel if plane parts look like that.), it was left to the police force of Freehold to determine its origins. You know, investigate chemical compounds, weigh, feel, observe, calculate, matter studies – stuff that could be helpful.

OR! We could just put it in this tube? Yeah, that’ll solve the mighty mystery.

(Apropos of nothing, an anagram for Freehold Township is Tenfold Horsewhip. Warrants mentioning.)

You wonder why completely ridiculous things happen to good people sometimes. There’s no way anyone could have predicted ye old ball of space foil would crash through their roof, forcing them to make the weirdest call to their insurance provider ever. But these people should consider themselves lucky. After all, remember that woman who was struck by the lamppost that fell courtesy of the Cat in the Hat during the Macy’s parade? Yeah, her. She’s also the resident of the apartment that Cory Lidle’s plane crashed into on the Upper East Side. Just wow.

What’s YAB’s take on this “moon rock” from outer space? Simple.

God didn’t like his baked potato.