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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You see, there were these teeny tiny people who lived in a doll Tamara bought at the mall and though they were quite peaceful and kind, when they came out to introduce themselves she thought they were fleas and sprayed the whole lot of them with an industrial de-lousing agent that really was chemically harsh and probably not something pregnant women should get within 50 yards of.

The people, who were called Unids, by the way, didn't die from the spray but rather developed a thick tolerance for the stuff, like French people with sarcasm. As the old saying goes, that which doesn't kill you only makes you stronger, but the part they left out is that it also gets you high as shit. When the Unids finally came down after a fantastic three days of psychedelic reverie and a full-body buzz, they no longer cared about uptight square concerns like whether the inside of the doll was a mess or if they had a contingency plan in place in case the vacuum cleaner came around again. They cared about one thing and one thing only: gettin' some more of that happy juice.

For a while, this was easy, since all they had to do was pop out of the doll when Tamara was around and wave their arms around. Before you could say "Louse in my house!" they were swimming in the good stuff like bennies from heaven. It was wild, I'm talking high on the hog like the '86 Mets. They'd call it the "Salad Days" if salad came with crack as a dressing option.

But the problem was, before too long, Tamara figured out that the Unids weren't fleas at all. Nor mites, nor any kind of vermin she'd ever seen before. After a few weeks the shock wore off and she started looking at the Unids a little closer, and that's when she realized that they were kind of cute. Sort of like tiny little wooden dolls with stylized, painted-on faces. Pretty happy-looking really. And once she'd figured that out, well, then there surely wasn't any reason to de-louse the poor little buggers, was there?

Big, big problem for the Unids. Their connection had dried up like an Arizona housewife hitting menopause. Their future wasn't so bright as to require the wearing of shades, but they wore them anyway, to hide their bloodshot, bugged-out eyes. The Unids were going cold turkey like a third grade class on a picnic field trip to the North Pole, and they liked it about as much as they liked Sarah McLaughlan. Which is to say, not at all.

Finally one day one of the Unids, who shall remain nameless since none of them ever had any names, so why should we start now? They didn't have telephones or fax machines or anything, so they hardly had use for names, "Hey you!" always did them fine and they hated the stuck-up little prick types of little tiny people like the Omits who insisted on everyone calling them by their absurdly long snooty full names, like Alexandarium Mananavicholious Tooterflute.

Anyway, one day one of the Unids figured out that the only way they were going to score again in this lifetime would be if they all put their heads together and came up with some really freakin' scary costumes. If they could manage to scare Tamara bad enough, she just might send some of that sweet, sweet de-lousing spray their way in a panic, and then my friends, the train would be made of gravy. That's what he said anyway, I'm not sure what the train thing supposed to mean, some kind of cultural slang thing that doesn't translate well probably.

So anyway, this is how the Unids honed their now-legendary costuming skills. First, they were dressed as fleas. Then, when Tamara got wise to that, it was skin mites. Then ticks, then moose fleas. I don't think there really is any such thing as "moose fleas," but Tamara didn't know that so I have to give them some points for creativity there. Before long, word got out that the Unids made some pretty wicked costumes, and they soon went into business for themselves and did well enough that they could buy their own delousing spray and they nodded off happily ever after.

A pretty heartwarming story, true. But if you ever get any of those little junkie pricks living in your beanbag chair, you might as well just throw the thing away, because it's just going to stink after that.

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Well, well, well, if it isn't Boguslaw Sadowski—actually, it is. Or someone who looks incredibly like him.

That's correct, good people, my old nemesis, 40 years my junior, has returned: Boguslaw Sadowski. Also known as "the mad Russian," when he gets extremely pissed off. He may not actually be Russian, but I'm not here to argue semites. All I know is he's my arch-enemy and the stakes in this game of me vs. the mob are raised considerably.

You may remember Boguslaw Sadowski posed as a woman on the internet and tricked me into paying for his flight over here from Eurasia—at least you might remember it if it happened to you. He broke my heart that day. I was all set to meet the most unconventionally beautiful woman of my life and make her my bride, only to find out I had been conned by one of the best. Sure, things work out for the better in the long run, and I met my darling Felchyana, which brings me to my current mixed-up with the mob existence. So maybe things work out for the best only to backslide into the territory of terminally fucked up once again.

But I'm rambling, which is unlike me. What's important is that although ostensibly nothing has changed, things have changed considerably. In addition to trying to find a way out of new mob family and still keep my new wife, I now have my latest worst enemy breathing down my neck.

Boguslaw is unattractive—large and burly, a pock-marked face, iron jaw, slick jet-black hair parted down the middle and a nose worn away by years of fisticuffs. The same features I found so attractive when I thought him a woman are now reprehensible and threatening. He is what the ancient Greeks meant when they coined the phrase, "a man not to be fucked with."

I wish I had that luxury. And a speedboat. But time is slippin' into the future and I'm running short on ideas. As if things weren't bad enough, now in addition to finding a way to take out Yogi and the rest of the ambiguously Russian mafia, I must contend with the world's most intimidating 5-foot noseless mobster.

I sought out Omar Bricks' advice, being something of a young ruffian himself, and I believe what he said was quite true: "A man can only be pushed so far until he explodes like a mailbox full of gunpowder." That wasn't so much his advice to me on the situation as it was a warning of what would happen if I kept bothering him for advice. But it's as true in our time as it was in his, yesterday afternoon just before happy hour.

It's clear I will have to act, and with extreme prejudice and racial epithets. But like a thick scab, I must pick my moment. Camembert is already on board, and has guaranteed he will "fight like a crazed rabbit if you drag me into this." Whether he was directing the fighting at me or our common enemy, I'm not sure, but when push comes to shove, Camembert will roll in on my side, if I push him in that direction.

My current thought is to make allies with the, let's say, "Russian" mafia while awaiting Lee's return. When Lee comes back, with his kung-fu grip and sizzling bass lines, I will finally have the backup I need to challenge Yogi for leadership of the mob. Not that I necessarily want to be a mob leader, but I've heard stories like this before—hearty and sincere white people forcing their way into gangs, taking them over, and using them as a tool for good. And if I had a Coolio song to back me up, I could even make it into a box office hit. But first thing's first.

Step one: Bide my time. Step two: Gather a bad-ass army. Step three: Challenge for leadership of the tribe. Step four: Make a hit motion picture with a best-selling soundtrack. Step five: Stop telling all my secret plans in my nationally web-published column. But that's a consideration for a more peaceful time.

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