olite society was rocked this week when a Kansas man was arrested for unleashing a five-minute tirade of profanity after the clumsy fucker fell out of canoe in a public park, sparking a nationwide controversy over foul language. According to shocked bystanders, recent immigrant dickhead Lataf Smokel shouted “whoops!� “shucks!� and other similar salty words after displaying his canoeptitude, running afoul of a little-known and controversial Kansas state statute outlawing indecent public speech.

“This motherfucker was guilty as shit,� explained officer Turk Winchel, who witnessed the crime. “I heard that asshole go off on his tirade like a cock-teasing bitch with her credit card taken away, with my own fucking ears. There were fucking kids around and everything. Un-fuckingbelievable.�

The event reminds many of the Michigan conviction of Timothy Boomer in 1998, who swore up a storm like Yosemite Sam on swearing pills after a similar canoe mishap on the Rifle River, only to have his conviction overturned by the ACLU after the fucking judge pussied out.

While many legal groups consider such laws to be total bullshit, local citizens have made it clear they’re fucking sick of inconsiderate motherfuckers exposing their children to irresponsible language in public places, and have shown their support for throwing the goddamned book at the homos.

“If there’s one thing I hate, it’s cocksuckers who don’t know how to watch their goddamned mouths in front of children,� explained Rote resident Archdeacon Mavis Plum, over tea. “The world’s not your own personal playground, shithead. And just because some cunt shit you out of her man-trap when you were a baby doesn’t mean you’re entitled to fuck up our children, dickface.�

“Some slut farting you out of her cooch doesn’t make you God’s own miracle, dickwad,� added Reverend Alan Thornburg, in reiteration.

Even normal people were in agreement.

“What kind of dickless honkeys would talk like that in front of our kids?� asked Maybel Cummings, a local PTA leader. “Talk about your real sacks of monkey shit.�

While many journalists reporting the story found Smokel’s language too fucking objectionable to print, since the commune only officially exists in the Cayman Islands this reporter is free to hint at the true extent of their offensive nature. Beyond such merely-scandalous epithets such as “golly,� “hoo-boy� and “Heavens to Betsy,� Smokel was also quoted as dropping several pants-shitting unmentionables. The most unpublishable of the man’s crimes against decency is spelled like “shit� and rhymes with “hoot,� if you catch our inference. Irresponsible rumor also points to the word “eff-hockey stick-eye-pee� being heard, though spontaneously blocked from the memories of several present in a subconscious act of self-defense.

Some anonymously supportive locals have suggested that Smokel may just be unfamiliar with American customs, since wherever he’s from, words like “he*k� and “d*rn� may be perfectly acceptable language in mixed company. But most Rote residents find that pretty fucking unlikely.

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Does everyone recall when John Walker was busted by our elite killing force of C.I.A. operatives over in Afghanistan? Sure they do. And then, all of a sudden, after announcing to us all that John Walker, an American, had been arrested among the Al Qaeda forces, they come out and start calling him John Walker Lindh? Hold on to your asses, folks, 'cause medicine man Red Bagel is about to seriously blow your mind.

How convenient that a plea bargain prevented Lindh's case from reaching his testimonial. Some might say it was the work of defense and prosecutors to put this nightmare of the American judicial system behind us, so Lindh could get on to facing his punishment and the American people could feel some sense of justice. I say malarkey! Ma-lar-key! Nobody wanted Lindh to testify—not his attorney, not the Justice Department, not Lindh himself.

The truth is that John Walker and John Walker Lindh are two separate people. Whoa, eh? Blew your mind out your ass, didn't I? Red Bagel promises, Red Bagel delivers.

If Lindh had testified, he would have doubtlessly revealed his horrid true story. Even if he had attempted to keep it a secret, those of us who know the real John Walker, or the most basic of human behaviors, would have suspected something was amiss. Because John Walker was sent to Afghanistan to infiltrate the Al Qaeda terrorist organization after the bombing of the U.S. Naval ship. That's right, Walker was no traitor, but the noblest of subversive, patriotic spies.

It was only once over there that Walker discovered how closed Al Qaeda was to outsiders. It was this close-knit secrecy that impeded Walker's infiltration attempts, and kept him from finding out about the Sept. 11 attacks until it was too late. Only shortly after, the Al Qaeda realized how valuable a symbol Walker could prove—an American traitor joining their cause. So they put Walker through the loyalty ritual.

Not all Al Qaeda members go through the loyalty ritual. Only outsiders that Osama bin Laden does not personally know or people he thinks would be funny to humiliate. Walker, and other possible recruits, were forced to eat alien larvae that had been found among cowpies in Saudi Arabia. The origin of these alien larvae were unknown, and picked by bin Laden only because of their strange purplish color. Those who wish to prove their loyalty eat the disgusting larvae and therefore show their dedication, which beats their previous test of eating dynamite and running into a wall, which really limited their new recruits.

Unfortunately, this larvae ingested by Walker and others contained sentient alien life that slowly began to reproduce his shape from the inside. In fact, by the time of the Al Qaeda Oz-like prison riot in which he was apprehended, John Walker as we knew him was no more. He had been disintegrated inside out, replaced with a hybrid alien-human being calling itself John Walker Lindh (after the alien larvae's own name in its own tongue). By the time our government realized their recovered spy was not the same person, they had to treat him like a traitor and silence him with this mock trial, but keep him from testifying to the American people as to his true nature.

For those who might doubt the legitimacy of this story, admittedly pieced together through my own ten minutes of research on the Internet, I pose this question to you: What other reasons would an American have to side with another country against his own, the noblest and most Christian-like in the world?

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Dorothy said there's no place like home, but I would say that wartime Yugoslavia can't be all that different. No, dudes, I'm not a homebody. My thoughts don't turn to charming holiday gatherings around the fire with the ones I love since it usually involves a lot of alcohol and the fire involves the firecrackers someone tried to light by cooking them in the oven.

I would say my family's strange, but that's everybody's family. My family is homicidally manic-deppressive—there, that at least sounds more original. Seriously, my family is always happy when I come back to Bellmont for Christmas, but catch any of them on the right day and they're happy when the mail shows up. They're fundamentally unhealthy enablers of every drug habit you could name and they derive pleasure from each other's pain. Which is all fine, since that's how I am, but it's real dangerous to put us all in the same place.

First, there's my dad, Fozzy Coleman—dad somewhere got the impression that he was black, and even more odd, that he's Ike Turner. Dad rules the house with an iron thumb, an iron thumb being some gardening device he got for Christmas 20 years ago that spreads mulch. My favorite holiday memory of dad was that year we converted to Judaism. Mom made soggy cornbread and accidentally poisoned the turkey gravy with make-up remover, and when dad found out he was so pissed he threw the menorah like a trident and it stuck in the wall. The bright side was that it worked so well we use it to hang the Christmas stockings still.

Then there's my mom, who's great when she's sober, if you can be there during that time from 8 to 8:15 a.m. When she gets drunk she says all the things normal moms only think, like, "I had plenty of chances to drown you, Clarissa," and, "By my calculations, you still owe us about $359,000—oh, what, you thought the room and board were free rides?" My mom's name is Bunny, but dad always calls her Bunny Coleman like it's one word. Like, "Bunnycoleman, who ate all my fucking French toast?" Or, "Get my bath ready, Bunnycoleman."

It's hard to complain about my brother and sister, they're not really to blame for anything—between having my parents for their parents and having my shadow to live in all their lives, it's amazing they aren't screwed up.

My brother, Randy, doesn't let us call him Randy anymore since he joined that cult in the compound next door to mom and dad. At least he didn't have to go far to get brainwashed. He prefers to be called Toot now, and he's actually pretty nice, the nicest one of the bunch. He curls up in a ball and chants whenever mom and dad fight now, he tells them they have bad Chaka Khan or something, some kind of karma rip-off the cult made up, and the worst thing he does is steal from mom and dad to give to the cult so they can build that glass temple of theirs. Which is all fine by me, I never take more than $20 home when I go anyway.

My sister's a bit more peculiar. She never had the looks or talent to be an actress like me, so she was driven into this weird-ass obsession with grades and scholarships and stuff. She went to Harvard like that Good Will Hunting guy and majored in lawyering. Now she works for the ACLU and writes books on feminism in her spare time, really spaced-out shit. She doesn't come home too often, actually, but she sends self-help books and fruit baskets.

I guess, more than anything, this time of year is about forgetting your family is clinically sociopathic and learning to keep your temper in check long enough to sit down for a single Christmas dinner. To gather around the tree, open up crappy presents, and pretend you like at least one of the things. To sleep in your old room and act like you don't hear your dad getting nasty with your mom, shouting, "Take me to town, Bunnycoleman!" in the room right next door. But at least when you hear that, you know it's just another ten minutes until everyone gathers in the living room around the kitchen fire and opens their presents. And that's as much family as anybody gets these days.

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