uthorities were just plain pissed off with the news that America's "Runaway Asshole" had struck twice more this week, further eroding the nation's confidence in the common decency of man, while thrilling asshole fans and vindicating the merely inconsiderate nationwide.

In the first such incident, officials claim the asshole struck in Illinois, defacing the hallowed image of the Virgin Mary formed by salt run-off and pigeon shit on the underpass of an interstate expressway near Chicago. The emergency turnoff area and impromptu holy shrine had become an instant tourist attraction almost overnight, drawing the devout and bored from miles around ever since a homeless man was spotted trying to piss a complete manger scene onto the underpass last week. The holiness would prove short-lived, however, when the "Runaway Asshole" allegedly spray painted the word "bullshit" over the apparition and drew a Fu Manchu mustache on the Virgin Mary with a Sharpie marker.

Authorities believe this to be the work of the same asshole that destroyed the Virgin Mary image appearing in the window of a Clearwater, Florida office building in 1996. Before the window was destroyed, thousands of hoopleheads had gathered to gawk at the colorful apparition, which scientists claimed to be caused by extreme maintenance neglect, and a nearby Target store had begun to sell special bottles of Windex adorned with apparitions of the holy virgin. Authorities later retrieved the slingshot round that had destroyed the window, but apparently some asshole had coated the ball bearing with grease, making fingerprint identification impossible.

Mere days after the Chicago incident, the asshole appeared again in Wilmington, North Carolina, ordering a pint of frozen custard from Kohl's Frozen Custard, which is in no way affiliated with the Kohl's chain of department stores known for their lousy custard. Only minutes later, custard worker Brandon Fizer, distracted by some asshole in line yelling for him to "hurry it up with the custard, dickless," somehow managed to chop the end of his index finger off in the custard machine. Authorities remain uncertain about how this is even possible, considering that the machine consists of little more than a lever and a custard nozzle, but few deny that Fizer somehow miraculously found a way.

According to witnesses, upon finding Fizer's digit in his mouthful of custard, the asshole spit the fingertip into a nearby baby's eye, then snatched it up off the floor and ran straight to his lawyer's office. Numerous attempts to recover the tip so it could be surgically reattached to the rest of Fizer proved unsuccessful, as the asshole claimed to need it for evidence of emotional suffering in the upcoming civil suit.

Extremely amateur detectives have questioned whether there could be a connection between America's "Runaway Asshole" and Georgia's recently-famous "Runaway Bride," either by blood or through a marriage in the family. Some have even gone so far as to infer that the asshole may have talked the bride into buying her infamous bus ticket, or maybe he was even the one driving the bus, you never know. Others are intrigued by the possibility that the two could get together to record a cover of Soul Asylum's 1992 hit "Runaway Train" for charity.

Though the identity of the "Runaway Asshole" remains unknown, authorities claim to have several compelling asshole leads, and are currently seeking out both Donald Trump and the commune's own Omar Bricks for questioning.

Muslims Protest Violent Cartoons by Fucking Shit Up

Cheney Comrade Injured During Hunt for Bin Laden

Stealers Wheel Win Super Bowl, Says Heavily Accented Man

Colin Farrell Claims Responsibility for Groin Injury That Sidelined Kwan

What a load of misrepresentation. I hate to say this, it makes me sound like I've grown cynical in my slightly older young age, but I think advertising is getting deceptive.

Don't worry, I'm not the kind to lobby charges without producing some slim shred of evidence. In this case, let's talk about The Sims and its expansion pack follow-up, The Sims Unleashed. I bought The Sims a long time ago because the idea of being someone else was sort of appealing. Unfortunately, being my Sims wasn't much better than being me. No doubt I created masterpieces of Sim construction, a self-inspired female former child star Sim named Cloretta, and several male Sims who share the house with her like Conan O'Brien, George Clooney, Flat Chest lead singer Dill Warner, Vince Vaughn, and Hugh Grant. The problem isn't my Sim-creating, it's the game itself, which fails to live up to my expectations of how people I created would live life.

It's sadly true—these Sims just want to buy stuff and eat and take baths and talk to each other. Wow, what fun, she sarcastically stated. I can eat and take baths in my world! I get enough talk throughout the day, with, "Clarissa, your payment is overdue," and "Clarissa, I'd like to take a biopsy of this mole." I want my Sims to really live! Sexy-like, I mean.

Obviously I was excited when I saw the new expansion pack come out, Sims Unleashed! (exclamation point added by me). I was like, finally! Now my Sims will give up their ridiculous hang-ups like wearing pants around the house and only allowing two into a bed at a time. Well, "unleashed," what would you think? It should mean that my Sims are finally freed of the limitations of computer programs and allowed to emulate real human behavior. But no, not my Sims, thank you, deceptive advertising.

Turns out all the expansion pack does is give you the option to buy pets. I suppose that's what they meant by the commercial I saw over and over, but they played on my expectations with that dog humping the lady Sim's leg. Hey, I'm not into that kind of thing myself, I thought, but if they can do that kind of degenerate thing then they can surely do a few Kama Sutra positions in stunning high-res imagery. Nope, no changes at all in my Sims' sexual behavior, they just have dogs now. And the commercial was complete crap because I can't get any of my pets to hump legs or each other. Maybe there's a hot-key to do it or something, but it's not in the book and the technical support help line only laughs and puts me on speaker phone.

Is it too much to ask that my Sims live a life at least as interesting as mine? If we were keeping score and, what do you know, I happen to have some scores scribbled on post-it notes, the score would be Clarissa 2 threesomes and 1 orgy and Sims nil. And nil is not some exciting sex slang for a position like "nipples impressed on legs," it's dictionary slang for nothing.

I just want my computer games to keep up with the times, especially mine, and my times are hot and sexy and they aren't worried about working "jobs" and stomping roaches, and that's all my Sims do. And another complaint, my Elvis Presley Sim was killed in a kitchen fire after apparently trying to fry up some late-night banana sandwiches before I put a smoke alarm in. Can't I revive him in some way? It doesn't seem fair we can bring people back from the dead in the real world and can't do it in the lousy game. And I do mean lousy game. Thanks for nothing, Sims dudes.

º Last Column: Clarissa Coleman Re-Invented
º more columns

Before you hear it from anyone else, I killed like six cats this week. Three of them I hit all at once, but still, that's pretty unusual.

I didn't kill any of them on purpose, but try convincing everyone else of that. I can't really blame anyone. If the police picked up a serial killer and he said the whole thing was a big misunderstanding, I probably wouldn't believe him. But then again, I don't know why I'd have access to a newly-arrested serial killer at all. Forget it. No more analogies for me.

I hit the first cat on the way to work Monday. I was late for a few photographs for that comic book I'm on the cover of, Metallichick. And this ain't even a talking gig, it's not like they couldn't find some hot skank hanging out on the stoop and get her to fill in. That's how they discovered Marlena Dietrich, my mom said. So I'm driving extra fast and this cat totally leaps out in front of me. The cat is probably dead and these kids are crying nearby, so I feel like an ass for even stopping. So I pick up the cat and tell the kids I'm taking it to the Vet. So they'll shut up. Then I went to the shoot.

Well, the cat's dead by the time I get out, and my car stinks like some kind of "Tell-Tale Dead Cat" movie. I'm really pissed off, but it was probably dead before I even got the Metallichick breasts to stay on. Probably. But now I feel all bad and crap.

I go and buy the kids a new cat at this what-do-you-call-it place. Pet store. And the guy tells me this is the best cat they got, it's a coleco, and the little shit begins throwing up all over the car when I take it out of park. So I put it in the trunk, just for the ride over. The car already smells like dead cat, I'm not going to have puddles of cat vomit on the floorboards, too.

I had to drive around the neighborhood about 30 minutes before I saw the kids playing on a basketball court. I tell them I got a surprise in my trunk, and I do—a dead cat. Those little bastards screamed until I thought the police would show up. If I had to guess, it either died from the heat or that choking thing, ass-fix something. But I tell them he's going to be alright, that I'll rush him to the emergency room. Then son of a bitch if I don't hit three more cats just standing out in the middle of the street, like they're forming some kind of feline chain of protest against me. I didn't even see the pricks.

I decided to cut my losses and not go back to that neighborhood—those kids had to learn about death sometime anyway. That still didn't stop my cat-killing karma because one of those fuckers is screaming out my window all night Thursday. So I'm starting to freak out because when I'm in a normal state of mind I know cats can't really talk to each other, no matter how many good movies are based on that idea, but I'm all wound up about cat killing and think he's calling together an army to attack me.

It's all too fresh in my mind and I don't want to talk about it, but like I told the cops, it really was supposed to be a warning shot. I never fired the gun before outside of the target range and I swear I've never hit anything with the first try. I figured aiming dead at him was the best way to make sure I didn't hit him. Once in a lifetime shot, like one of the police guys said.

If you're one of those PETA people, please stop calling me—I get it. I'm an asshole. My mother's a cat-lover and she'd agree with you. I promise if you all stop throwing pig's blood or whatever it is at me on the streets and spray-painting my car I'll make a donation to some kind of cat-saving group of yours. Just lay off.

º Last Column: Crammed in the Closet
º more columns