Soccer Player Killed in Iraq Receives Two Shits

n a brief ceremony Saturday, American soccer player Nathan Horne, killed in action during March in Iraq, was posthumously decorated with the Two Shits medal by a ranking Pentagon officer, Gen. Wilbur Finletter.

The Pentagon had received some criticism from soccer fans in light of recent accolades given former NFL player Pat Tillman, also killed in action, and celebrated as a god among men and all around nifty human being for giving up football to fight in a war otherwise disapproved by the public at large. Critics charged the U.S. military and national media with anti-soccer bias for its worship of Tillman while Horne went unrecognized for his valiant service and awesome death.

Horne's father, Reggie, summed up the position: "Nathan left a potentially-lucrative, at least it would have been overseas, career in soccer to serve his country. The fact he was killed in action should mean something, at least since he was a well-known athlete and not just one of the other faceless war dead."

A starting kicker or something for the Dallas Burn, which is apparently a real national league soccer team, Horne met his death when his convoy was attacked outside Baghdad March 26. Witnesses believe Horne tried to save the lives of his fellow soldiers, jumping into the air and attempting to deflect an incoming RPG with his head. Horne and the other soldiers received some posthumous awards, but Horne's father says none of them count since they weren't covered by the media and no one was invited to the ceremony.

Gen. Finletter tried to amend the error with a small ceremony in a mostly empty high school gym in Horne's hometown of Avacado, Texas. A medal known as the Two Shits, and reserved for those killed in action who appear much more important upon reflection, was reportedly not made up just for the ceremony. Finletter gave the award to Horne's widow, Iris, and two minutes of silence (one for each Shit) followed, except for the sound of freshmen playing dodge ball on the other side of the gym.

"If it didn't seem like we cared when you died, sorry and all," said Finletter, clearing his throat with a slight cough. "Let our presence here today, as well as the frumpy little medal we handed out, signify that we really do give two shits. Amen."

The reexamination of Horne's death hit everyone hard. A former assistant coach for the Burn, Kyle Hooper, was distraught upon remembering the news.

"I always knew Nathan was a pretty good guy, fun to get shit-faced with," said Hooper, "but I didn't think he was a hero until recently. When all this stuff happened with Pat Tillman, I realized hey, Nathan didn't have to go over there and defend our freedom. Or defend the Iraqi's freedom, or whatever. I know freedom was involved. He could have stayed here. Hell, he was getting axed from the Burn next season anyway, but it doesn't mean he couldn't have stayed here. He didn't have to go to Iraq, like all those guys who are in the army now. He could have went on living for plenty more years and not gotten himself killed in an unjust war. But that's the kind of guy he was—never really considering his decisions."

Donations in Horne's memory, in lieu of flowers, are requested to be sent directly to his widow and family, who will otherwise have no way to support themselves. For those who would like to do more to honor his memory, the family requests you attend a little rally with a store-bought sign exclaiming how much you support the troops.

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Oh, jiminy! Thanks for whatever good thoughts you sent me, folks! And if you didn't, I wish you all a long burning eternity in hell. Somebody must have been on my side because I got the part! Yippie! Perhaps you couldn't read it in this small, mocking font.

I GOT THE PART!!! I GOT THE PART!!! I GOT THE PART!!!

Just to verify, in case you just read that part and think you accidentally went to Rok Finger's column on some spiel about penile implants, the part I got was of Shelly, the resourceful and somewhat ingenious desert island castaway on the new action show Archipelago Law.

None of it should come as much of a surprise, seeing as how I mentioned I had the audition and felt pretty good about it last go-round. Of course I didn't mention the show title—what, like I'm going to advertise to a bunch of wanna-bes the location of the next big audition? Forget it, I like keeping the competition reasonable. But let's just say once I gave them my Bilbo Baggins monologue from The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Rings, there really wasn't any competition. Producer Matt Viggoschultz had a feeling that I was the one for the job, he wasn't disappointed by my performance, or not significantly disappointed anyway; a little disappointment is normal.

I've met some of the other actors already and they are extremely talented, a great bunch to work with. Sure, there are a few of them I'll have to whip into shape, give them some quick lessons in the entertainment biz I've picked up over the years the hard way, but I can see them being around for years. Especially with infomercials going stronger than ever.

I'm not normally drawn to drama, I've been a natural for comedy since I was 6, but I was intrigued by the challenge, as well as the prospect of getting paid for work. Between the exotic locale—Vancouver—and the great writing, not to mention the sexy costumes, it's a can't-miss show. Not like my can-and-will-miss shows over the years like Cat Cop and That 1870's Show.

This show is banking in no small part on my talent, I can tell you that. The main star is John Flomp as Sheriff Burger, but the next biggest character after THAT… well, it's Nuge, the Kooshkoosh Tribal Leader; but after THAT, it's Kiko, the Bendari Tribal Leader. Then it's Dr. Cope, the medicine person, then the inventor Professor Hannibal, the sexy lawyer Vicki Scarlet, then the twins, then the nameless, mysterious mute character, but after THAT, it's all Clarissa Coleman.

And I got a fantastic contract when my agent negotiated for the role—say what you will about Dusty, or read some of my past columns and let all that stuff stand, but he's a shark underneath that very frail, fragile exterior. I didn't get any more money, really, and points on merchandising or syndication rights were right out, but I did get an "and" before my name. And I'm listed last, folks—after the first credit there's no more important credit for a regular than "and Clarissa Coleman." Unless that's not your name, but your name is what I mean. Don't be stupid.

Yep, Hollywood has come back to me, begging and pleading, after all these years. I know I practically shit confidence, but in complete honesty there's always been some part of me, as I think is the case with most former child stars, that whispers the question, "What if you're a one-hit wonder?"

I can now say with utmost certainty: The world is about to see I'm a two-hit wonder.

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The gaudiest fad of the 1950's had to be the 3D movie. The early 50's were a desperate time for Hollywood studios, as audiences were staying at home on their big fat asses in record numbers and movies were faring poorly in competition with television and communist witch hunts. Studio execs were willing to try anything to get more people into the theaters, even toying with the notion of making films that weren't big fetid balls of dung. But before they could go that far, the studio heads at Universal discovered that they'd accidentally made the same movie twice.

Universal had bankrolled The Hungry Jungle, which featured a young Charles Bronson running like hell away from man-eating tigers for two hours, and at the same time they had inadvertently financed D.A. Steuben's cannibal tiger picture Run Like Blood. Rather than shelling out promotional funds for both films to wastefully compete against each other, the studio decided to play both of them, simultaneously, on the same screen. That way they could cover up their gaffe while boasting twice as many stars running away from twice as many man-eating tigers in one movie. Like I said, these were desperate times and it should be noted that back then, guys couldn't hold their liquor.

Unfortunately the "movie" didn't make any sense when played this way, but this was only a minor setback. A young Universal intern soon discovered that thanks to poor quality control each of the films was tinted a slightly different color, and if you watched the composite film while wearing a pair of the red and blue "Wacky Glasses" given away free in boxes Oat Shmote kids' cereal, it came out kind of sort-of in 3D. The intern was thanked for his input, then immediately fired since he was obviously stealing from the studio to be able to afford drugs that good.

The idea stuck though, and the composite film Hung Like a Jungle was released in 3D as a promotional gimmick in 1952. The movie was a gigantic hit, with the 3D technology making audiences sicker than a dog on a Ferris wheel, an experience many filmgoers petrified by the boring 1950's seemed to enjoy. All summer long, audiences suffered through a kind of nausea they wouldn't experience again until The English Patient was released in 1996. The trend caught on like wildfire, and fifteen more films were released in 3D during the next three days, most of them soft-core pornos. Unfortunately for Hollywood, 3D movies were soon banned since public health officials couldn't be convinced that hundreds of moviegoers spending two hours drenched in their own vomit was just good clean fun.

Deprived of 3D cheesecake by The Man's uptight cronies, American youths in the 50's were eager for a new thing to come along and waste their time. Thanks to Australian DUI king Chuckie Dubing, they didn't have to wait long. Dubing discovered the boomerang while pulling the body of a dead aborigine off the hood of his car during a drunken one-man rally race through the outback one night in 1953. The strange crooked stick struck Dubing's fancy, and he extrapolated that it must be a hunting stick used to kill wild game birds in the bush. Dubing further extrapolated that its crooked design must allow the stick to curve in the air and return to its thrower, and this is the concept he sold to Wham-o later that year. In actuality, the aborigine was just carrying it because he wanted to show his family the funny crooked stick he had found under a tree.

Regardless, Wham-o mass-produced copies of the stick as a children's toy, and within a year millions of "boomerangs" (the name came from Dubing's approximation of the sound the aborigine made hitting his car) had been sold despite the fact that nobody anywhere had ever had one fly back to them after being thrown. Wham-o deserves a great deal of credit, however, for recognizing that few would risk appearing physically inept by claiming that the boomerang just flew kind of lopsided and herky-jerky into your neighbor's bay window every time you threw it.

Probably the only 1950's fad that ended up being worth three-quarters of a damn was the PEZ dispenser. The candies themselves had been around in Europe for twenty years, sold hilariously to American tourists who didn't know PEZ was the German word for piss. It wasn't until 1952, however, that Germany got revenge on America for kicking their evil little asses by marketing the PEZ candy in irresistible dispensers with the heads of popular political figures on top. Before long, Americans couldn't help themselves but eat candy out of Franklin Roosevelt's neck, making true Hitler's cryptic vow from 1941 that nobody had understood at the time. Eventually over the years, political bitterness died down and American children were eating candy out of Henry Winkler and Kermit the Frog's necks as well, continuing a bizarre tradition that rivals any of the crazy shit the Orient ever dreamt up.

That'll have to do for the 50's, although I wanted to go into how they pulled the first batch of Silly Putty out of a Yak's ass; there just isn't time. Keep an eye peeled for future columns, when we'll take a look at how other generations wasted their time between wars and the occasional worthwhile dance craze.

º Last Column: You Look Like An Asshole: The History of Fads Vol. 1
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