t was another surprise ending for The Bachelor, though this one was a little more Crying Game and a little less America’s Sweethearts. The question had been hanging in the air like a flatulent eagle all week: Would bachelor Andrew Firestone choose spunky Kirsten, whose ass he’d been blatantly checking out since the beginning of the season and who jealous former contestants gossiped was carrying his baby? Or would it be Jen, the slightly less stunning drama queen favored by the show’s viewers and the 23 catty former contestants who lay slain on the battlefield of bogusly contrived romance? Oh shit, dog.

When the answer finally came, it was with the bang of 25 pancake-makeupped jaws hitting the floor in unison. In an unprecedented and possibly illegal move, Firestone passed up both Kirsten and Jen to give his final rose, and we guess a marriage proposal, to former Bachelor star Aaron Buerge.

Asked on-camera what he was thinking when he made such an unorthodox choice, Andrew smiled to the audience and beamed proudly.

“Are you kidding, all those bitches is crazy!�

At that point viewers at home went berserk, throwing chairs and Kleenex boxes around like disappointed apes. In the background, Jen and Kristen held each other’s hair back as they vomited in tandem into a bucket of champagne.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not gay. I just couldn’t handle hanging out with those crazy bitches any longer,� Firestone confided. “If I hear one more girl talk about what font she’d use on wedding invitations, I swear to God I’m going to go all American Psycho on everybody. Shit! Anyway, I met Aaron backstage one night when he was cruising for some rejected bachelorette skank, and we really hit it off. We talked about handguns and the Red Sox, and not once did he bring up floral arrangements. It was the best time I’ve had in months.

“That’s when I realized marrying any girl desperate enough to let a gameshow determine her mate for life would be a huge boner. Woo, dodged a bullet with that one!� Firestone exclaimed, exchanging a high-five with Buerge. “Talk about ‘Until me wrapping my lips around a shotgun barrel does us part’! Damn!�

Buerge, star of The Bachelor season two, ended up not getting married to that season’s winner Helene Eksterowicz, invalidating the gift certificate to Crate & Barrel that was provided courtesy of the show.

“Yeah, things with me and Helene didn’t work out. After the excitement of the show had worn off, I realized all the bright lights and pressure made her seem better than she was. Kind of like on the old Wheel of Fortune when the winner would have all that money to spend, and they’d get the bedroom set with the porcelain Dalmatians. It seems like a good idea at the time. But when you get home, what in the hell are you going to do with a set of life-sized porcelain Dalmatians?�

Irate viewers expecting to see one woman’s heart crushed on national television, not two, flooded ABC’s switchboards with complaints, but Firestone insists it was all for the best.

“Are you kidding me? Aaron saved my life back there. I felt like I was headed down a dark tunnel with no way to turn around. Then Aaron pulled up in a sweet convertible, or whatever the analogy is, and saved my ass. I could kiss that dude. Not literally though, just ‘cuz he wears my ring doesn’t mean nothing but we’re buds. I go strictly for the easy poontang, as the last six weeks should have made clear.�

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OH MY GOD SNOW

On a recent trip to the little man's room I came across a sign on the floor. It featured a stick man breakdancing on a yellow background above text which read as follows: "Cuidado: Piso Mojado". That's right, Spanish. And as every bi American knows, that's Spanish for "Look Out: I Pissed on the Floor". And that got me thinking, and I thought this: "Goddammit, how come everything's got to be in Spanish?" Quickly after that my thought changed to "Wait a minute, who's pissing on the floor?" but then after a moment of confusion it switched back to the Spanish thing. And I think I may be on to something here.

Since when do we as Ameyhicans have to bow to the whims of the Spanish-speaking minority? Personally I'm tired of it, and I think it's time I made a stand. The next time I pull up to the Taco Bell drive thru, you won't hear me ordering a "Burrito Supreme, Nachos and a Chalupacabra", I'm going to proudly demand a "Big-Assed Bean Sheath, Some Chips with Shit on Them, and One of Them Scary Fuckers From the X-Files". That's my right as an American. And they'd better not underfold it so the bottom blows out on my bean-sheath, either.

I was feeling rather proud of this resolution as I tried to decipher a pornographic limerick scratched into the bathroom stall (Anybody who knows the one about Swedes and weenies, email me at deeznuts@thecommune.com), when suddenly my thoughts began to change again. Once more, they drifted to the Cuidado sign, like closeted gays to a Ricky Martin concert. And as I pondered the sign's message, it occurred to me that this little sign says a lot about America today. How many times in a day does someone, in effect, tell you to Look Out, because they just pissed on your floor? Today I counted 87.

Now keep in mind, gentle reader, that I'm not talking about literal pissing here. And that non-literal pissing wasn't necessarily done on your literal floor, either. I'm talking about the constant letdowns of everyday life, the times when those who we count on fail us miserably and just shrug it off because it's become expected. Every time the Concorde slams into a baby farm outside of Paris or that kid at Wendy's gives you Iced Tea when you specifically asked for Lowenbrau, it's Cuidado: Piso Mojado. Any time a cop pulls you over because he thought you were black and makes you late to the six o'clock showing of "Charlie's Angels", Cuidado: Piso Mojado. Whether it's an alligator getting loose at the zoo and eating a clown or the Democrats barfing up Dukakis as their candidate in '88, it's all Cuidado: Piso Mojado.

Well I'm here to tell you one thing: that Omar Bricks' floor was not made for pissing. You can piss your own floor all the live-long day, and you won't see me trying to stop you. I believe it's even covered under the religious practices protection laws in some Southwestern states. But my floor is a strict no-pissing zone, and anyone who forgets that is liable to get a mop-handle up his ass with very little warning. Figuratively speaking, of course.

I implore you to take a similar stand. The next time you're on hold waiting to talk to a customer service representative, and have just listened to 32 straight minutes of Christmas carols on the classical guitar, only to have the system disconnect you just as you reach the head of the phone queue, don't just shrug and head for the mop. Demand accountability. Maybe you should send that company a package of unstable C4 blanketed in roofing nails. Will that get you more prompt service on the customer support line? Probably not, since the service reps will most likely have been reduced to hamburger and strewn over a quarter-mile of real estate immediately following the explosion. But someone, somewhere will take notice. Maybe the next pizza you order won't come in the box upside-down. Maybe those daycare kids will stop chanting "Stinky Butt! Stinky Butt!" when you walk by. Or maybe the mailman will stop crumpling your mail into a ball before he stuffs it into your mailbox. You'll never know until you try.

º Last Column: Why "My Friend Polio"?
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Before you hear it from anyone else, I killed like six cats this week. Three of them I hit all at once, but still, that's pretty unusual.

I didn't kill any of them on purpose, but try convincing everyone else of that. I can't really blame anyone. If the police picked up a serial killer and he said the whole thing was a big misunderstanding, I probably wouldn't believe him. But then again, I don't know why I'd have access to a newly-arrested serial killer at all. Forget it. No more analogies for me.

I hit the first cat on the way to work Monday. I was late for a few photographs for that comic book I'm on the cover of, Metallichick. And this ain't even a talking gig, it's not like they couldn't find some hot skank hanging out on the stoop and get her to fill in. That's how they discovered Marlena Dietrich, my mom said. So I'm driving extra fast and this cat totally leaps out in front of me. The cat is probably dead and these kids are crying nearby, so I feel like an ass for even stopping. So I pick up the cat and tell the kids I'm taking it to the Vet. So they'll shut up. Then I went to the shoot.

Well, the cat's dead by the time I get out, and my car stinks like some kind of "Tell-Tale Dead Cat" movie. I'm really pissed off, but it was probably dead before I even got the Metallichick breasts to stay on. Probably. But now I feel all bad and crap.

I go and buy the kids a new cat at this what-do-you-call-it place. Pet store. And the guy tells me this is the best cat they got, it's a coleco, and the little shit begins throwing up all over the car when I take it out of park. So I put it in the trunk, just for the ride over. The car already smells like dead cat, I'm not going to have puddles of cat vomit on the floorboards, too.

I had to drive around the neighborhood about 30 minutes before I saw the kids playing on a basketball court. I tell them I got a surprise in my trunk, and I do—a dead cat. Those little bastards screamed until I thought the police would show up. If I had to guess, it either died from the heat or that choking thing, ass-fix something. But I tell them he's going to be alright, that I'll rush him to the emergency room. Then son of a bitch if I don't hit three more cats just standing out in the middle of the street, like they're forming some kind of feline chain of protest against me. I didn't even see the pricks.

I decided to cut my losses and not go back to that neighborhood—those kids had to learn about death sometime anyway. That still didn't stop my cat-killing karma because one of those fuckers is screaming out my window all night Thursday. So I'm starting to freak out because when I'm in a normal state of mind I know cats can't really talk to each other, no matter how many good movies are based on that idea, but I'm all wound up about cat killing and think he's calling together an army to attack me.

It's all too fresh in my mind and I don't want to talk about it, but like I told the cops, it really was supposed to be a warning shot. I never fired the gun before outside of the target range and I swear I've never hit anything with the first try. I figured aiming dead at him was the best way to make sure I didn't hit him. Once in a lifetime shot, like one of the police guys said.

If you're one of those PETA people, please stop calling me—I get it. I'm an asshole. My mother's a cat-lover and she'd agree with you. I promise if you all stop throwing pig's blood or whatever it is at me on the streets and spray-painting my car I'll make a donation to some kind of cat-saving group of yours. Just lay off.

º Last Column: Crammed in the Closet
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