yslexia rereffus Mark Dingus-Smith held the world in awe this week after news broke that the central Indiana resident, no shit, talks to God on a regular basis. Thankful that the nation's latest God-talker is neither a Republican politician nor a New Age fruit, pious Americans have swarmed from miles around to gawk at the modest man's Indiana home, many hoping to eavesdrop on these heavenly conversations and catch a hint of what God really thinks about gays, contraception, and the red-hot topic of gay contraception.

Many were intrigued to find this simple man on a first name basis with the universal creator, with trivia buffs particularly interested in the discovery that, according to Mark, God's first name is Rufus.

"Who's a good boy? Rufus is a good boy! Rufus is the best boy in the whole wide world, isn't he?" gushed Dingus-Smith, offering encouragement to the singular deity, who surely must find his awesome responsibilities dispiriting at times. "Yes he is! Rufus is such a good boy!"

According to local news reports, neighbors discovered Dingus-Smith's gift after overhearing several one-sided conversations emanating from the house where Dingus-Smith lives alone with his dog, and asking the lifetime dyslexia sufferer just who he was talking to. Though unaccustomed to the national attention, Mark was already locally famous for unintentionally starting a minor Martian-invasion scare in the region last year after claiming in a bar that the nation's breast implants were full of aliens. After the shooting stopped, it was discovered that Dingus-Smith actually meant "saline."

Although the affliction of dyslexia is most often associated with difficulties in reading caused by the mental transposition of letters, in some extreme cases it can lead to the confusion of entire concepts. The most famous recent example of such being U.S. president George Bush's mistaken belief that Iraq had acquired WMD's, when in actuality the rogue Middle Eastern nation had just opened their first Wendy's.

According to Dr. Nikolai Balsvet of the McClurg Institute, dyslexia effects over 20 million Americans, though to those afflicted it only seems like 0.2 million, adding to their sense of isolation.

Some of the religious pilgrims who have made the trek to central Indiana and spent weeks camped out on Dingus-Smith's lawn have been disappointed with meeting Dingus-Smith and observing his decidedly laid back God-talking routine, which often involves playing with this dog and drinking Coors Light. Many untrue believers decried the entire story as "bullshit," peeling out in their RVs and pausing only long enough to throw trash on Dingus-Smith's lawn.

Others were upset that Dingus-Smith was taking his time working hot-button political issues into his dialogue with the eternal source of all life.

"I'm still pissed Mark hasn't asked God about gay contraception," groused lawn-camper Colman Slank of Nebraska. "He's always too busy playing with that goddamned dog of his. But this is one issue that really gets my goat. It's like the Reese's Peanut Butter Cup of moral outrage, that one. 'You got sinful perversion of man's natural sexuality in my blasphemous triumph of modern technology over God's natural plan!' 'Oh yeah, well you got blasphemous triumph of modern technology over God's natural plan in my sinful perversion of man's natural sexuality!'"

"You remember that commercial, right?" followed-up an uncertain Slank.

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I'm a ravenous collector myself—be it shoes, dresses, slacks, blouses, socks, or jewelry, if you can wear it and it impresses people, I can collect it. But it's not just limited to normal collectible items. I also collect strange and fun items that most people don't know about.

For quite a few years now I've collected valuable birth control pills. It's a peculiar market that takes a lot of time and effort to learn about, and I've expended the time and effort. My agent even jokes I've spent so much wasted time on my hobby I could've been taking acting classes or pursuing more auditions—he's a terrific kidder.

Birth control pills become collectible when they're not taken and result in pregnancy—obviously birth control pills that are taken cannot be collected, at least not without grotesque invasive procedures. Birth control pills that are not taken and have no consequences are plentiful, especially when taken by people who are not having sex. The real diamond out there is the birth control pill not taken and ends with a baby. I started out collecting them after I found out my mother said she already had one, though she never told me the full circumstances of how she got it and how she knows it resulted with pregnancy. Since I already had that one to start me, I started seeking out other valuable birth control pills to start a collection, not only for fun, but to provide some financial security in my golden years, 35-40.

It's a hard market to get in on, I know that from experience. People look at you like your crazy when you ask them if they have any valuable and rare birth control pills for sale—by my best guess they either don't know the market or are hoarding their own private stock. But a few guys, who at first glance seem pretty unreliable and swarthy, in fact have a great collection that they're occasionally willing to part with, for the right price. From one guy I got six different pills of differing value, one resulted in the birth of Freddie Prinz, Jr., and several others led to the births of the members of O-Town, though they're obviously not as valuable as, say, the birth control pills that caused N*Synch—birth control pills both despised and priceless.

The most treasured in my collection—and I'll never tell where I keep it or how I got it, though a drug addict down the street hooked me up with it, that much I'll tell—is the birth control pill that failed to prevent the birth of Prince Charles of the Whales. It's a real rare and old birth control pill from early in the century, back when they made them to look and smell like Altoids. And I got it real cheap from the guy. What a sucker!

My birth control pill collection has grown so much that I had to give up some of my other hobbies to concentrate on it, namely my collection of Who's Your Daddy? memorabilia, which office nerd and financial wizard Ramrod Hurley actually said is worth quite a lot of money now. Still, it didn't mean as much to me as my new collection, although I hate the idea of all that lost money.

I had it all, too— Who's Your Daddy? bedsheets, Who's Your Daddy? pressurized cheese, Who's Your Daddy? "cast sings the blues" CD, and Who's Your Daddy? birth control pills. Too bad I couldn't cross over that collection with my latest in some way, but those damn things work too well, from what I've heard. Anyway, that stuff was so rare that some of the items fetched a price between $100 and $2,000, so I almost wish I had held on to some of that stuff. Instead of selling it to Ramrod Hurley. But hey, a collector's pride is in adding the rare and hard-to-find to your collection, not in financial payoff. At least for me. Ramrod Hurley seems happier with his new Lincoln Towncar.

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Hey, shit on me, I got a virtual postcard! I haven't had one of these since the time the IRS sent me that nice animated GIF of a cute little thug breaking my thumbs. And, if you'd believe it, this is even nicer. Though I do miss that little midi file of the Macarena the IRS sent along with theirs. Whenever I see a mob movie I can't help but hum along... "One little two little three Macarena! Get off your lazy ass and make me a danish! Gordita banderas tijuana hola, HEY MACARENA!"

Man, I hadn't realized how much my Spanish was improving. These subliminal tapes are da bomb.

How dreadfully rudish of me to go on about my personal problems like that, I must say that I'm sorry and this is my brother Bill. We're from Okilyma, Kansas. Nice to make your acquaintance, would you care for a dip? Granola dip? A tall, refreshing glass of blue barbershop dip? Hmm. If I spelled acquaintance right, this may be the seventh sign that all hell is waiting for a tech support person to get loose on the other line. Pray for me, Webster.

I shall do my utmost to refrain from my habit of pleading with minority child star midget-people for the remainder of this column. It shall be a concerted effort, and an affordable concert. This I vow.

But knowing you (and we go back, don't we? Seems like it was near the turn of the century when I said to myself: "Akk! I'm an atom! Get me out of this catfood! Jaaaayne! Stop this crazy thing!" Uh, sorry 'bout that, on with the thing) I doubt you really mind. You probably stained a throw rug with your pee stream after that Loompatuwanka gag last column and you're just glad this column isn't full of show-stoppers like that one. Man.

I only wish I could be geographically further away, so as to escape the inevitable police dragnet when the AM-PM down the street realizes they're short three packets of creamer. I tried to stop the guy but he had some kind of backyard-wrestling ninjitsu going on that I wasn't adequately prepared to deal with.

Not that I really blame him. Scamming some free creamer would surely save on the ol' grocery bills, if you know what I mean. The Grocery Bills? That sounds like a bad co-ed football team from Safeway. Holy SHIT I'm funny! My apologies.

Anyway, ever know a girl who was getting married? I did. Trust me, in a few short months she will no longer resemble the friend you knew, if in fact you knew her, and if in fact she's a woman because otherwise the grammar of this sentence is just shot all to hell. She will become a strange married being with a remote-controlled ass. You know those domestic types with their burros. Tragic. I not only lost a friend, I gained a friend-in-law who listens to Christian Speed-Metal. Yeah, there really is such a thing. I didn't know you could bite the head off a dove for Jesus until last week.

Crapola. This little column has really bloated up into a monstrous ubercolumn, so big that there are trailers for it at the beginning of some of my other columns. I'd be upset about it, but then I just got this postcard that... seems to... answer my unasked question...

-violins soar-

Jiminy Christmas, did you see those violins? Must be another knockdown drag-out over at the music teacher's place. I should stop sneaking my clothes into his dresser when they're out.

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