Koo-koo-kachoo

Koo-koo-kachew all you pas-de-calais-kateers out there. I'm quite pleased to announce that yours truly has been invited to join a very special club: (...and not the mile high club. my application was turned down again...) Due to several highly altruistic acts of selfless heroism, I'm receiving a career upgrade. I've just been promoted from ordinary run-of-the-mill 9 to 5 paper-pushing subhero to superhero. That's right...no more scrubbing toilets at the Palace of Justice for me. No more starching and pressing batman's cape, and definately no more slaving over a washbasin to remove the unseemly brown racing stripes from robin's bright day-glow undies. From now on, I'm travelling first class. Free booze, free news, and free tatoos. Koo-koo-kachoo!

Before I get about the business of saving the world, let's pause to reflect on the three tender acts of humanity that have earned me my newfound position. The first altruistic deed, and perhaps the one most likely to be immortalized in a made for tv movie, took place in Paris. Without gloating over the details, let's just say I rescued a poor Japanese tourist from almost certain death at the slow crippling hand of French beaurocracy. After a mere 1 hour of sleep, and fueled only by caffeine and a sense of humanity, I was able to help this poor guy obtain the paperwork required by visa to get his camera replaced. The other two acts are barely worth mentioning...stopping a pickpocketing and catching a falling senior citizen were just icing on the cake.

Here's the good part. While I already have my war cry and an arch-nemesis, the Walrus, (more on him later), I still need an official name and uniform. I'm open to suggestions. Until then... Koo-koo-kachoo!

ready with ready wit

Not a lot going on, pas-de-calais-kateers. Sorry, once again for the extended leave. I've been, um, doing stuff. Valenciennes, nestled in a cozy corner of the l'Escaut river has turned into my home away from home. Scotland is great,but, ah, to be once again in Compton sur l'Escaut, with the putrid stench of a broken sewer main filling the air, and a small gaggle of crop-topped, track-pants-tucked-into-socks scooter gang boy-racers hustling for spare smokes and beer money in a crater that used to be "un parking". In Valenciennes ist immer etwas loss. Gin, juice, and girls.

peace out,

Jacob

friends, romans, countrymen

Just a quick update...I know it's been a while, but as most of you know, I live in France which by all standards is a third world country. I feel like my best means of communicating with you, my loyal community who must be on the verge of suicide after 3 months silence, would be through either carrier pidgeon or notes in bottles. I've started training the pidgeons, but they're slow learners. They don't seem to understand anything other than pecking and shitting, so I doubt they'll represent a reliable means of communication anytime soon. My only recourse is to scribble my latest thoughts on scrap paper, stuff them inside old perrier bottles, and chuck them into the river. You should all be getting the last 3 months worth of journal entries any day now...just keep your eyes peeled.

Rugby infielders for truth

Old habits die hard, eh Georgie boy? Tell me...have you ever fought fair and won anything in your life?

ass from sea to shining sea

First of all, let me preface this by saying I'm not the most supple, graceful athlete on the pitch. Truth be told, my body seems to have morphed from Elvis Presley on the Ed Sullivan show to Elvis Presley "Hawaii Come Back" special all in just a couple of short chip and television filled years. (Damn those bastards...they know that once you pop, you can't stop yet they push their drug legally in every American gas station from Anchorage to Miami.) With this out in the open, I still have to make myself a quasi-hypocrite by making fun of this girl's boom-boom I saw at the gym today.

Damn.

I mean fucking piss-christ.

I think it wasn't only her body, but also how it was presented. She was wearing tight lycra work-out pants that looked like they were stretched to their breaking point and screaming for mercy. She had her monstrous boom-boom shoved into the brightest pair of pepto-bismol colored stretch leotards I think I've ever seen. And this is coming from someone who was a refugee of the late 80's hammer pants craze. (Don't laugh. I took shrapnel in that conflict....it was MY time in hell.) You could see every wrinkle and dimple in her ass...a half-blind cartographer could have charted and recorded every single curve and nuance from at least 10 meters. It looked like a can of biscuits had exploded in her pants. Even her stretch pants had stretch marks.

I have respect for anyone who goes to the gym, especially people who are like me and enjoy the finer things in life. And by finer things in life, I mean fried things. But the combination of a monstrous batty and bright pink stretch pants should always be avoided. It looked simultaneously disgusting and sweetly innocent, much like a picture of rainbow bright shitting out a unicorn.

I'll leave you with that visual.

Jacob

bipartisanship

FUCK TEXAS.....FUCK COWBOYS....AND ESPECIALLY FUCK THE ALAMO....FUCK

There she is....miss America