he trial of last century is making all the news in Mississippi and nowhere else, as the racially-motivated murders that inspired the film Mississippi Burning are underway after a lengthy ignoring of the whole thing. It took a little time to build a case and find a non-racist jury, but after 41 years, Edgar Ray Killen is being given as fair a trial as the white man's legal system will allow in a Philadelphia, Mississippi court.

The accused killer Killen is on trial for the premeditated murder of civil rights workers James Chaney, Andrew Goodman, and Michael Schwerner, who came to the town to aid in black voter recruitment. The accused was originally tried in 1964, but the jury deadlocked and couldn't decide whether murdering a Negro and two Jews was a crime in Mississippi. "Killer" Killen, as this reporter's just dubbed him, was released and not retried for years, although he was punished then by enduring Southern cooking at a barbecue in his honor thrown by all his Klan kronies.

Thankfully, Hollywood intervened in 1988 with a film about the murders fueled by the performances of Gene Hackman and Willem Dafoe that, while good, no self-respecting black man is going to sit through when they've actually lived the same shit every day. Embarrassed by the liberal ass-tanning, modernized Mississippi began a crusade to re-try Killen and put the killings to rest once and for all.

Since the accusations have resurfaced, Killer Killen has denied orchestrating the murders and downplayed his involvement with the charitable organization the Ku Klux Klan; or at least that's what his lawyer says he has said, the 80-year-old is a bit indecipherable over the loud sound of his wheezing and mumbling. Philosophers only I've talked to suggest maybe Killen will live another 30 years as his real punishment from God, long enough to see black culture completely co-opted by every white kid on his street and allowing black performers to dominate the box office, television, and every station on the radio. And there's always the White House, if God is particularly cruel to the poor peckerwood.

Some fellow good old guys and girls have come to Killen's defense, while denouncing the killings, and say the frail, birdlike man had nothing to do with the horrific murder of people they wouldn't have spat on back then. Among those testifying were other Killens, including Killen's brother and sister-in-law, and several associates with peculiarly pointy hairstyles, like Cricket Beechauser.

"I love Killen," said the comparatively young 75-year-old Beechauser. "Killen taught me everything I know, not that I'm braggin' or nothin'. I'd do anything for him, that's how much I respect Killen—I'd go to jail for Killen. I'd go to hell for Killen, if that's what I had to do. Killen ain't any more racist than anyone here in this courtroom." To which at least the defense agreed.

The only irregularity in the Killen trial came on Friday when an angry protestor in the courtroom objected to the Beechauser testimony. A young white woman stood up and began shouting at the witness, still on the stand, insisting if the Ku Klux Klan liked Killen so much, they deserved Killen.

"Order in the court!" clichéd Judge Marcus Gordon. "If there's any more outbursts I'll remove the defendant. Then there won't be any Killen to shout about."

The prosecutor Mississippi Attorney General James Hood, for those of you who like irony, said the state would win this time against the Klansman.

"This time we will get Killen for these killings—hey! I just noticed how that sounds. Weird. But in all seriousness, my office is seeking the death penalty. And we'd better hurry up because this old Nazi is half in the bag already."

So declare the men of law in Mississippi, where the state motto in racial killings is "better late than never."

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I'm here to talk to you tonight, to tell you that this bogus shit has gone on long enough. You know what I'm going to say, don't you? Well you're wrong, this isn't about turkey thermometers and how come they don't work for people too. This is about some serious shit this time, no foolin'. Tonight I'm here to talk about Nostradamus.

Now I hear a lot of people going on about how great this guy was and how he saw into the future and all that. Well I'm calling his bluff. Let's hear him stand up and defend himself if he don't like it. That's what I thought.

Historical fact proves that Nostradamus was a punk-assed bitch. It's true, look it up yourself.

I mean, name for me one of his predictions that actually came true. Yeah yeah, I know you're going to go on about how he predicted world war two and all that shit, well I don't buy it. Who did he say the bad guy's name was going to be? HISLER! Nice try, Nostradumbass! Any school kid knows the dude's name was Adrian or some shit like that. Strike one for our pal Nostradamus.

I'm sure he predicted a lot of other shit that almost came true, I don't know, the thing I saw on the Discovery Channel only talked about that Hisler thing. I'm not impressed, you know? 'Cause like close only counts in horseshoes and some other lame-ass shit.

So why is everybody going on about this guy? Where's my kudos? I can bet you dollars to Dolly Parton that Nordstromsdamus never had to deal with having Amy Grant's "Baby Baby" and the disco version of Beethoven's fifth symphony stuck in his head at the same time. That's some real triumph in the face of advertising if you ask me.

You want some real predictions for the future? Fifty years from now, I bet they'll be beaming up commercials onto clouds and the sky, we'll all have those X-files chip thingies in our necks and easily impressed folks will still be going on about Nostrildamus while they hum "Baby Baby" under their breath. And you can quote me on that.

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That guy thought he was so smart. If you're wondering who I'm talking about, pause a second to read the title of this column, up above. You with us now? Good. Now: Who wears their hair like that? Assholes, that's who. Only an asshole could pull off the "I'm so brilliant I don't have time to comb my hair or make an appointment at SuperCuts" look. Get over yourself, buddy. You wouldn't be fooling any of us if you had a crew cut. Crew cuts are like nature's shorthand for "dipshit." Smart of Einsteen to figure out the haircut ruse, I'll give him that but little else. And what's with all that relativity mumbo-jumbo? Any loudmouth off the street can make up some kind of magic formula and get praised for it, as long as he knows how to intimidate people and doesn't ever back down. Don't believe me? Fine, Q=xW34. Not so hard, is it? Now line up to kiss my ass, I'm the new genius on the block.

And let's not forget Mother Theresa and her whole ego-trip. "Oh, look at me in my cute little hat! I'm so fucking wonderful and giving! I help the poor with no thought of my own gain!" What a bitch.

And what about that Newton? Overrated. Those fig cookies suck hard. There, I've said it, somebody had to. Those things are so dry I bet if you added a drop of water they'd blow up to the size of an air mattress. Maybe that's what they're for, I don't know. I don't claim to be on the cutting edge of these matters. That does seem to be a lot of air mattresses to sell in one package, though. At the grocery store no less. Maybe if you were shopping for a whole commune in need of temporary bedding it would make sense, but there can't be that many of those people out there. Maybe there are. The thought kind of scares me, frankly.

If it turns out I've eaten over 30 air mattresses that are just waiting to inflate the next time I take a sip of water, somebody's going to be hearing from my lawyer. You can count on that. As a matter of fact, I'm leaving a note for my lawyer now in case the mass-inflation kills me, which it likely might. I don't want him to have to guess at what my last wishes would have been. Litigate, motherfucker! I don't pay you to look good in that suit. (Nice suit, by the way.)

While I'm at it, I'm going to leave a note for my chef as well. Don't want that smarmy bastard cooking my liver or anything untoward like that after I'm gone, just because I didn't leave behind a note specifically forbidding it. That guy has a hungry look in his eyes.

Who else was an asshole?

Did I mention Mother Theresa? God, she really sets me off. Sure, most of you out there in la la land probably buy into the cult of personality that says she was the greatest thing since shit on toast. And I'm sure some of those homeless orphans thought so when she was giving them backrubs and buying them big-screen TVs and what have you. But did any of you true believers out there ever play ping-pong with this piece of work? I didn't think so. Mother Theresa had a ping-pong mean streak as wide as Cecil Fielder's ass. You didn't dare ace a serve past that big-knuckled monster unless you wanted to see what one of those paddles could do to your tender butt-flesh. All those kids at the orphanage knew the unwritten rule: you let the Mother pad out her table tennis win streak if you want your porridge tonight, bucko.

Truth be told, I'm not that fond of Aristotle either, but that's a column for another day.

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