MSNBC's Chris Matthews Undergoes More Surgery

yndicated newspaper columnist and host of MSNBC's Hardball Christopher Matthews was reported to be resting comfortably following three hours of surgery to remove excess fecal matter from his nose, lips and cheeks yesterday. Doctors at Walter Reed Memorial Hospital confirmed that this was the fifth such procedure in just the last two weeks.

"The problem starts with his kissing the president's ass," chief surgeon Jerome Splay told reporters. "He's just such an enthusiastic ass-kisser. He gets all up in there, you know, and he never knows when to quit."

Asked how long this had been going on, Dr. Splay responded, "It all started about the middle of September. Before that, the only thing we ever saw Chris in here for was over-inhalation of helium. He's got that voice that, when he gets excited, only dogs can hear him, you know what I mean? High. He's a high-talker. Well, he doesn't come by that naturally. It takes tanks and tanks of helium to get his voice up into that register, and sometimes he just overdoes it."

He went on to say that the recent surgeries were "all just since September, and they've been getting more and more frequent. In fact, if you recall that so-called pretzel incident with the president, that was actually the worst one of all. The truth of the matter is, that was no pretzel that was lodged in the president's throat. That was Chris's tongue. He had worked it all the way up through the alimentary canal, up through his stomach, and had gotten it lodged in the president's esophagus, which is what caused him to black out. That was one big mess, I'll tell you!"

"Of course," Dr. Splay added with a chuckle, "Chris's case is nothing compared to those Fox News guys. We must do five or six fecalectomies a week for each one of them. O'Reilly and Hannity are the worst. I mean, you should see the poundage of stuff we take off of them nearly every day. The other doctors and I were joking recently that we should start our own fertilizer business on the side. Heh, maybe we should change the name of this place to Bandini Memorial!"

Mr. Matthews was unavailable for comment. His lips moved, but no sound came out. A number of nearby dogs began barking furiously, however, so it's possible that he was actually saying something, though not of any consequence.

Lost Scout Earns Coveted “Distract the National Media” Badge

House Democrats Uneasy During Rare Trip Outside

Big Ratings Prompts ABC to Seek More Dancing Handicapped Shows

Strychnine Dog Food: Where Can You Buy It?

As many of you good people may know, I am a small man, but I am overfilled with confidence. I move with a sureness many others in the world lack—whether justified or not, I am secure in every single thing I do and have ever done. Of course, like most people, I may have a few regrets here and there, but what is important at heart is I don’t regret anything I’ve ever done. Perfect? No, I’m afraid not. But I come damn close. All except one gargantuan elephant-in-the-room exception: My appearance.

Yes, whether it’s my miniscule, stocky body or the train wreck sitting on my shoulders that is mockingly called my face, I am a hideous man. Or, as my ex-wife Arvelyn used to say, before the divorce, I am insecure about my looks. Since the divorce she calls me Leatherface. So I prefer to remember before the divorce. And you know, I thought—she’s right. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with my features, at least not individually, even if they make a nauseating mess in the specific way they’re compiled. I merely lack the confidence in my looks to enjoy them.

It’s not my fault I feel bad about the way I look. Years of screams and crying children have made me believe I am not easy on the eyes. Like whiny women complain, I have been held up to unrealistic images presented in the media, or in my case, everyone else in the world surrounding me. If it were not for the people standing by, silently declaring differently, I would be quite a handsome man. Well, that may be going too far, but I at least wouldn’t notice I frighten animals. I might even be able to destroy all the world’s mirrors and reflective surfaces and forget the plight covering my skull.

But enough of this sad-sack moping, I thought. I have spent too many years assuming the worst about my mug, and it was high time I proved the world at large wrong. The opportunity came with a cable that runs right into my house. Yes, since moving back to these United States, we have acquired the Inter-Net in my house. If you haven’t received it yet, you should really look into it. Ask your doctor, or whoever needs to be asked about getting it. In addition to receiving great offers for mortgages at reduced interest rates and exciting new pornography, the Inter-Net is a great source of information. In my case, I can post my pictures on websites and find out how I rate on the "Hot/Not Hot" scale. I didn’t even know there was such a scale until a routine search for Tabasco products enlightened me.

What a tool! That’s how the Inter-Net installer Mitch referred to it. Or possibly to me, the specificity was quite uncertain. But I agree, with the former. The Inter-Net finally allows anonymous strangers to tell each other they completely conform to society’s expectations. No more needless posturing about the substance of a person. We can now know instantly whether or not we’re desirable in ways that people really care about. Some disagreeable people—hippies—might tell us the inner beauty of a person really matters. Get real. How many sites on the Inter-Net rate your personality? I don’t care. I’m not interested. All Rok Finger needed to know was: Hot or Not?

Well, I’m not. Not hot. Not at all. Quite amazingly non-hot, according to the numerical ratings. Some of the weaker-stomach sites refused to even post my pictures. The "thong of the day" site filed a lawsuit just for my mailing Polaroids.

It’s a hard, brutal truth, like a White Castle hamburger, very difficult to swallow. But I’m tough, and forget many things quickly. I’ll find a way to suck up my misery and get past it. In fact, I think as a treat to myself I’ll order that Inter-Net that everyone’s been talking about.

º Last Column: Camembert in Love
º more columns

There was a midget named Fidget and a carcass named Marcus and when it rained the two would sluice through the juice that ran down from the hills and take all the pills they found on windowsills. They would tell each other stories of Reginald Voorhees and the liquor he'd sick up when the moon's in full bloom. And in a rented room they'd zoom zoom zoom around the bed on bicycles and tricycles and roller skates that were Michael's. But since they were two and their feet were few they had to switch off and swap off and top off and trip off to keep it all in motion like a Laotian promotion. Sometimes they would crash and from his bubble bath a doctor named Proctor would shout all about it. He'd bang on the wall and make the Velcro balls fall and threaten to wet them with disappearing solution that would make them go away like a bay on the day the ocean turned to lotion.

But he never did.

On the twelfth day of May, which was May eleventh because of a quirk in the work of the calendar constructor and the fickle heart of a tart the day after he'd… uhm, plucked her. But on the twelfth day an elf may or may not have got sick with elf rot and feeling all hot and brimming with snot stumbled and bumbled and flopped in their room, spelling the doom of their womb of zoom zoom. So, forgetting to groom in the gloom like a tomb, Fidget and Marcus packed up their belongings with no wish of prolonging this awkward encounter, Fidget's Geiger counter going off like sentient meat at the meat counter, because it was broken, just a token from Hoboken. But in their rush and bluster and fluster, they packed up the elf and an old feather duster from up on the shelf that had been sitting there for twelve years all by itself.

And they were off like a shot, but a shot shot quite slowly, all tumbling and rolling like the gun was too oily, like watched water boiling or temp workers toiling or a sloth bent on soiling your favorite bandana. And man, Marcus ate a banana like Princess Diana driving to Montana—it took forever, so you know he didn't do anything quickly. So sickly as the elf may have been, and prickly as Fidget was when wearing all tin (and forget that side-note, it's too long a story and hoary and the end's much to gory and it cribs half of Glory, so just accept he's dressed in tin), they still got going like throwing a Boeing: Way slow.

But once they got moving the UV rays worked in their favor and they savored the flavor of a kiwi Life Saver they passed all around the car and the trunk, but the taste was all sunk after the elf got his chunk. So they pulled right straight over and kicked the elf to the curb, thinking a blurb in the paper better than this Elvin bedwetter, but he bounced! Not just once, and not twice, he bounced like rubber dice or like mice on dry ice, up the street, up the block and off of the clock and the dock and a rock and a Varsity jock as he tried to talk to a girl named Burl and the world began to unfurl as the elf binged and bopped off the top of a cop and a chop shop and a mop and a sign that said STOP but the elf did not stop. He dinged off the wing of a bird and a spring and a turd and a smear of milk curd that had spelled the word nerd.

The elf continued to zip and volley off the side of a trolley and the tip of a collie and your sister Molly. He bounced and he smashed off six tons of trash and an ounce of pounce decanted from a cat. And a hat and a rat were smashed just like that as the elf let out a yelph that he couldn't help himself. And yonder and way by the end of the day the whole damned world was broken and curled and beat-up and crimped and neutered and wimped and a high-flying blimp was the only thing skipped.

And that's where I sit as I write about it on the scraps of a strap that used to wrap maps. But our gas it has passed and our blimp is wrinkled and limp so won't you give us a hand or a small scrap of land or a righteous ska band? On second though, skip the ska band, we should probably just land.

º Last Column: The Legendary Spot of Coco Hobari McSteve
º more columns