n the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, and the currentmath of Hurricane Rita hot on Katrina’s high heels, elderly southerners who’ve been there before are offering a reassuring voice of bitter calm to troubled Americans across the South.

“Today’s hurricanes aren’t worth a hot goddamn,� groused Boca Raton resident Carter Dunlop, 88. “You all can quit your bellyaching. Back in the day, we had hurricanes to remember. I don’t recall their names or any details, but you can rest assured these latest pipsqueaks are even less noteworthy. Trust me, you’ll all hear Carter Dunlop scream like a woman when a real hurricane hits.�

“Category 5? Pssh, they’ll call any old stiff breeze a hurricane nowadays,� griped Biloxi native Ted Knuck. “Back in my day, you wouldn’t cross the street for anything less then a Category 15. And that was only because it blew you across the street.�

“And they call this a hurricane,� sniffed Elmer Controse, 76, of Wicker Falls, who had his entire house flattened by Hurricane Katrina. “Blew my house down, big whup. This is nothing. Back in ’56, Hurricane Chuck blew my house down, then re-arranged it and blew it back up again so that everything was inside-out. All my pictures were hanging on the outside of the house, and my toilet and stove were on the outside, it was like some kind of crazy doll house. But inside, everything was all aluminum siding. Creepy as hell. Now that was a hurricane.�

“Today’s hurricanes aren’t worth shit,� opined Daisy Altamont, 91, of Baton Rouge, who had her wedding ring blown up a cat’s ass by Hurricane Beauregard in 1949. “Get back to me after we’ve had the kind of hurricane that ends with you giving an enema to a housecat. But a word to the wise: if that does happen, I’d advise against telling anyone what you did. Apparently it’s illegal to enemize a cat.�

the commune was unable to verify the legal status of giving a cat an enema, but we did discover that it clearly violates American Show Cat Association guidelines, as it can apparently harm a cat’s self-image and lead to problems with bulimia.

Thus far, a consensus of scientists have been unable to confirm the elderly’s claims of mega-hurricanes from the past, arguing instead that hurricanes have been at about the same strength throughout history, and incidentally, the scale of hurricane categories has always gone from one to five, no higher.

“Bullshit,� disagreed longtime Hollywood, Florida, resident Angus Roper, 95, in spite of not having heard the previous paragraph. “When I was a boy, Hurricane Delphina blew my dog inside-out like a sock, right before it blew my grandmother through an oak tree. Not the branches, mind you, the trunk. Granny was never the same after that, chirping like a chipmunk whenever the barometer dropped. You don’t see hurricanes like that anymore.�

“Absolutely,� agreed Cape Hatteras, North Carolina’s Archie Slobertson, apparently displaying some kind of cross-state old-person telepathy. “Hurricane Dandy, now that was a… well, a dandy. Back then the hurricanes didn’t blow sideways like they do now. Nope, hurricane blew straight down. Pushed my whole town underground, no foolin’. Don’t believe me? Look on a map for North Jigglebarrow, you won’t find it! Better get yourself a shovel if you want to visit. Still folks livin’ there from what I hear tell. Yep.�

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Back in my school days I was of truest retro nature, riding a camel to school in a day when all the kids rode dromedaries, or at least Malibus. Can you pluralize Malibu? Sounds like a sickly French school bus to me.

Bas Lurman or no Bas Lurman (though of course I prefer the former), I have to say that retro anything is a good excuse to wear the clothes you get off the old couples when you do those home invasion robberies. You agree, no? Not fewer than seven times have I had the fashion-savvy passerby comment upon my depression-era negligee and feather boa. But I have to admit that even I cringe at those old high school yearbook photos, thinking as I did at the time that I was posing for a Playboy spread. Quite the challenge for a young Wisconsin boy but we're of scrappy stock and suffer for our art.

And suffer we did! The episodes with Scrappy were the hardest Scooby Doos to watch, indeed. I always thought "Scooby Doo" sounded like something you find on your windshield after you get your car out of long-term parking at the airport. But still the courts would not hear my intellectual property suit, which was a shame since its pinstripes were exquisite. Am I getting through to you?

I'm so confused... if only Alex Trebek were here to help me out in my time of need…

-dissolve-

"Welcome to the show Stu, why don't you start us off and pick a category? Your choices are: "Kidd Rock's in My Outhouse!" "High School Fashions of the Damned" "Andy Rooney's Hemorrhoid Pillow" "Things You've Eaten By Accident" and "What's In This Damn Shampoo?"."

"I'll take Vanna White for a ride, Alex!"

"That's not an option, Stu. That's not even the right show."

"Judges?"

"Goddammit Stu! Only I can question the judges! You're treading on thin ice mister!"

-jarring return to reality-

Last year I met those Hansen kids in person and I have to say, those were some cute motherfuckers. We're talking cute beyond all intelligible speech. I had to communicate through a hand puppet the whole time. If I'd had more time to prepare, it probably wouldn't have been a boxing puppet of Hitler dressed up as a nun, but it was short notice and all. I don't think they really meant what they said about my ruining of their lives and all that. Crazy kids.

But a restraining order is a restraining order, as my dad used to say. And this one, I believe, has also been ratified by NATO. That can't be right.

I was just commenting the other day: Man, Clorox sucks on cereal! Oh, wait -flips through mental file- I guess the relevant comment would actually be: I need to come up with a plan for my life. A mission, even. Do you have a mission, should I choose to accept it? Why thank you, I love Spanish architecture! Haha. That one never gets old. Seriously though, my plan:

(Read slowly, 'cause I don't write that fast.)

Five years from now, I'd like to be, for all intents and purposes, Bjork.

There you go. That is my five-year plan, though Dad tells me it shouldn't have taken five years just to come up with that. I told him to bite it, Hotsy.

Anyway, now I see a wayward soul trying to put a parking ticket on my windshield outside, I must go and act as his conscience. I did mention that I'm three inches tall, and a cricket, right?

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I'm sure you've all heard the latest news and controversy coming out of Nigeria, about how that lady was gonna get stoned because she did some dude before they got married. All I can say is if lighting up a jay is these people's idea of punishment, then get me on the next plane to Nigeria!

I'm serious, this sounds like my kind of country. What do they do if you rob a bank, give you a blowjob? I can't believe nobody told me about this place before, all those lucky Nigerian pricks have been over there living the good life and keeping it all for themselves. And for how long? As soon as I get over there, I'm gonna give those guys some serious shit while I'm looking for a married chick to score with. They could have at least sent me a postcard or something, spread the wealth and all, instead of leaving me kicking around Puritanical America like some kind of yutz.

It's about time somebody got it right, you'd think with all the dozens of countries out there eventually somebody would've come up with a set of laws that didn't suck. It makes you wonder what else they've figured out over there, like maybe instead of parking tickets they give back massages. I could live with that. Or if they catch you stealing a VCR they give you like a million VCRs until you're sick of them, like my dad did the time he caught me stealing cookies when I was five. To this day I still can't see a cookie without retching, but at the time I thought that was a pretty sweet punishment.

They're way into Islam over there, which from what I hear involves listening to a lot of Bob Marley and taking it easy. Right on. Actually, I've been doing a little reading up on Islam lately, and let me tell you it's pretty sweet. Any religion that recognizes Muhammad Ali as the supreme badass is all right in my book. It definitely puts a quick end to all those "my savior could beat up your savior" arguments, smart move on Islam's part.

The nice thing about living in a country that has religious law is that they've got way more loopholes that a dude in the know can exploit. Like if they make you get stoned for having sex with a married chick, then it only stands to reason that if they catch you smoking a doob they'll make you pick out some married hottie for a night of adulterous Muslim passion. Score! That may sound strange to our Christian ears, but that's the way it works over there, it's in their Bible thing. And all that shit goes both ways, like Elton John.

You know it's a different kind of country when their biggest national industry is an Internet chain-letter scam. Right on. Like they're gonna be able to say shit about the ten-foot-high pot plants growing in my backyard when their own government makes its dough scamming Ohio housewives out of their bingo money. Talk about dudes living in some serious glass houses. I don't know if that "stone-throwing" proverb is in their Bible too or not, but I'm sure they've at least got some kind of "pot calling the kettle black" saying, since I hear there's a lot of black guys living over there.

The black factor alone might worry some Americans, but not yours truly. It's not like I'm planning on living on the shady side of Nigeria, whichever side that is. I'm sure it's a lot like here, and once I get my bearings and figure out where the white people live I'll be golden. I might still have to cruise through "Little Chicago" or whatever they call the black part of Nigeria if there's a sale on Reeboks or something, but as long as I keep my windows rolled up it should be no problem.

Nigeria, here I come!

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