ulshitzkizu, the Eastern European principality best known for its unjust laws and shoddy exports, shocked no one this week by taking home a record twelve gold medals, despite never having even been visited by a black person in the nation's entire 314-year history.

The 2006 Whiter Olympics continued as expected all week, par for the course for an event designed expressly to reward behaviors no self- respecting black person would be caught dead engaging in, like running your fool ass around out in the cold as if you haven't got any sense at all.

"The Winter Olympics were invented in 1964 as a way for whites to make up for losing all their medals to black athletes in the summer games," explained Olympic racism expert Tyrone Blackula. "They had to make up a bunch of sports black people had never heard of, like hockey, and other events where, by the very color of their skin, black athletes would be at a disadvantage, like Naked Snow Hiding."

The thinly-disguised ruse came to a head in 1988, when pressure from the 2/3rds of the world that isn't even invited to the Whiter Olympics forced the token inclusion of the Jamaican bobsled team during the Calgary games. Predictably, the Jamaican team was unfairly penalized for attempting to push their bobsled up the run in record time, a perfectly reasonable misunderstanding of the event's rules for anyone not born in Norway.

Bulshitzkizu neighbor Upper Scamistan also took gold medals this week in curling and other white man cold-weather hobbies too silly to name. Experts on white people agree that U.S. is likewise heavily favored in the upcoming ice farming competitions and the always popular 400-meter skin bleach.

Network executives for NBC have been bitching and moaning all week about the poor ratings for their cherished little white sports love-in, which has rated even lower than reruns of old black-and-white television shows like Leave it to Beaver. Or, as they would be more accurately known, old white-and-white television shows. The Olympic ratings have suffered due in no small part to the network's staunch refusal to dye any of their preciously white Olympic snow brown to make audiences of color more comfortable with the proceedings.

Though it hardly qualifies as news, no black athletes have yet been spotted in Torino, the closest being American downhill skier Bode Miller, who once accidentally kissed a black chick in the dark at a party. Though event organizers are said to have been divided over the decision to invite the racially-mixed United States to the Olympic Games, arrangements were made to ensure that the only American entrants would be from the black-free states of Minnesota and Vermont.

In a desperate last-ditch effort to boost ratings, NBC has begun to refer to Australians as the "honorary black people" of the 2006 Olympics, due to their poor showing and the arid climate of their home land. But word on the street is that the network originally wanted to save that designation for Chechnya, had the embattled Russian province been able to take a break from getting screwed over long enough to field their own Olympic team.

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My first month of retirement has been a rough one. Since I'm all out of acting jobs, I've had to go looking for a new source of steady income. I mean, I still get my commune pay, but that's about as steady as the San Franciscan fault lines. And about as big as the straight population of that city.

Have you ever had to get a job before? Man, they suck. People tell you what to do and expect you to get it done or they'll fire you. If you ask them about your motivation they'll tell you to do it or you'll get fired. No subtext work at all, these guys. And very few of them cater worth a shit either. I tell you, this is the 21st century. How am I supposed to watch the register without a break when I haven't had any rye bread and pimento-less olive snacks in more than twenty minutes? Not a good way to keep your employees happy.

So in the three weeks since I announced my retirement, I've gotten jobs at Pizza Hut, K-Mart, Home Depot, Uncle Macho's Family-Style Restaurant, Target, and Bed, Bath & Beyond. I've also gotten fired from Pizza Hut, K-Mart, Home Depot, Uncle Macho's Family-Style Restaurant, Target, and Bed, Bath & Beyond. If nothing else, I'm a completist, right?

All my jobs go through the same life cycle—I get hired, things are okay for a while, and then I'm fired for no reason at all. Right now I'm working for Ms. Diffy's Jewelry, and I'm in that middle "everything's cool" phase. I'll probably get fired by tomorrow or the day after. Wednesday, if I play my cards right.

It's not as great as you'd think, working in a jewelry store. They make you sell things to people. Customers act like complete dicks and you can't tell them they can't shop there anymore. Which I don't understand, because when I'm on the other side of the counter, that's what I usually get. At least I'll know how things really work the next time some smart-ass employee tells me that bullshit.

I've never met Ms. Diffy. I guess she lives on some ranch somewhere in Arkansas, or wherever diamond magnates live. South Africa maybe. Ms. Diffy's second in command is Julie, the shift supervisor. I've been trying to get Ms. Diffy on the phone all week to let her know Julie is a real bitch who hires all her friends and treats everybody like shit, but the secretary I get on the phone at the head office keeps trying to tell me Ms. Diffy is only a corporate icon and doesn't really exist. I've heard some lame excuses to get out of showing up to work, but that takes the cake. I should probably call in sick sometime to Bagel and tell him I never existed, I'm only a corporate entity designed to sell the commune. He'd probably buy it, if you catch him early enough.

Oh, here's some more bullshit from the world of retail jewelry: Did you know you can't wear the stuff out, like, even if you have important shit going on later? You could've knocked me over with a fart when they told me that. I tried all the angles, too, like telling them it was good for the business, free advertising or whatever. I told them my doctor said I had a condition where I had to wear two pounds of diamonds or I get sick. Nothing. They knew it was all bullshit. At least the people at Uncle Macho's were more gullible, and let me wear all the chicken wings I could carry.

I'm not desperate enough to go back to acting or anything. Shit, I hope I'll never be that desperate. But I am almost ready for some major alternatives to working. Like going for a college business degree.

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Tony and I may have had a verbal disagreement, perhaps even one that came to fisticuffs. And some present may argue that I did not come out on top in this exchange. Some hysterical individuals have even suggested that I was bitch-slapped. Bitch-slapped? Come now; let us not get carried away here.

I merely suggested that a low-yield Mutual Fund would, in all likelihood, outperform Tony's hotshot "stock of the week," given the market's present course and well-established seasonal trends. And this was apparently enough to send Tony into a pre-verbal tantrum. I guess I should have taken mother's advice: if you don't have nice financial advice to give, don't give any at all. Touché, mother.

There was a row, I'll admit. And regrettable words were exchanged. I'm sure Tony also regrets some of his physical actions as well, like when he struck me about the head and neck with that radiator. Oh, the foolish things we do whilst in the grips of a spirited debate!

I've certainly been guilty of the same a time or two. Remember the time you were trying to convince me that ascots were still in style, mother? And in the heat of the moment I suggested that you were very occasionally mistaken in your conclusions? Oh, how many long nights did I wish I could have those words back! So I could certainly understand where Tony was coming from when he was attacking me with that rubber hose.

You know how those sorts are over at the Faberge Room, mother. They'll invent stories in their entirety just to have something to gossip about. And yes, they do indeed often involve bitch-slapping. It's a favorite subject in certain unsavory circles, I assure you.

Please mother, you must know without asking that your son more than held his own. I got in my licks as well, you can be sure. While Tony was closing the piano lid on my skull I fired off some particularly tart remarks regarding his breeding and manner of dress. As they say mother, fireplace pokers and piano lids may break my bones, but smart words hurt the worst.

Yes, I'm sure I can imagine what your friend Deidre would have had to say about the affair. "Who's your daddy?" Really mother, that's far too rich. I don't care if she was seated at the next table over; your bridge partner's debauched imagination is no proof that I announced to a room of socialites that Tony was my real father. I don't care if he'd had my arm twisted behind my back, I still wouldn't have said such a thing. You know father was my real "daddy," rest his soul, and I've got the switch marks to prove it.

I know father didn't raise me to be a "sissy," mother, that's why I saved my most cutting retort for last. While Tony was rolling the dessert cart back and forth over my neck, I let loose with a withering appraisal of his character that few in the room will likely ever forget, if they heard it over the crashing sounds and the shocked gasps of the many patrons present who had a weak stomach for blood.

Yes, mother, I did use the word "uncouth." I'm sorry. If Tony didn't want to hear that kind of language, he never should have stomped those broken shards of tableware into my privates. And yes, mother, I know you raised me better than that. I guess I just inherited father's ugly temper.

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