nventive sports in Madrid, Spain have made extremely trivial history by performing the tiniest writing ever done, copying the first paragraph of Cervantes' Don Quixote onto a silicon chip. The physicists, apparently fighting their own windmills in the effort, wrote the letters so small they claim the entire novel could be copied onto the tips of six human hairs, though they didn't name anyone who volunteered to do so. Whether the hair would belong to Grace Jones or David Lee Roth, they didn't offer—surely they realize hair is quite relative.

"What a fantastic feat!" exclaimed book critic and hair enthusiast Alameda Ramirez, also of Madrid. "It's an amazing step forward for people who like to copy things really small onto objects not paper."

The physicists performed the chip-writing as part of a 400th anniversary celebration of Cervantes' classic work, and those involved are very insistent no beer was involved. The group used a very expensive atomic force microscope for their frivolity. While some stuffy scientist-types were enthusiastic about the possible use of the microscope for writing more information on smaller chips and revolutionizing the computer industry, intellectual literary-types were more excited about the possibility for easier-to-store books.

"If you could fit all of Don Quixote onto six hairs, imagine how much you could write on someone's entire head?" librarian Marcos Gally thought out loud. "Assuming you didn't kill them in the process, of course. I could carry the entire annotated works of Shakespeare and all the great plays of the twentieth century, in all languages, in my hairbrush. I wouldn't necessarily be able to read them. Which is my second point—we need to get to work on microscopic bifocals right away."

His colleague, bookstacker Londo, agreed. "Yes, but sad that intellectuals like John Malkovich and Michael Stipe would get no books at all. While Pamela Anderson would have them in abundance."

Both then agreed the complete conversion from paper books to hair books should wait at least until better transplant options became available.

Most appealing about the tiny writing possibilities, according to literary historian Bernadette Fopps, is making the wealth of the world's literature available in the least expensive format ever.

"A library of every piece of printed material ever, from the Bible in Esperanto to the latest issue of Ultimate Spider-Man, could easily fit into most modern handbags. That is, if you didn't mind a purse full of hair. But of course, not everyone is going to want a copy of everything. Personally, as a fan of early twentieth century British psychological literature, I would relish the opportunity to have a complete catalogue of George Orwell's fiction on a single pubic hair. Though, maybe that's more appropriate for the work of Henry Miller—I'm not the one to make those kinds of decisions."

A few detractors weren't ready to get on board the small hair writing train just yet. Such as author Tom Clancy.

"I'm as prone to mistakes as the next guy," said the Hunt for Red October author. "If I get to page 435 and Jack Ryan is about to knock out the bad guy, and I have a few type-O's, is my editor going to be able to correct those mistakes? 'Cause I'm not going to pluck a new hair and start over. I love my craft, but there are limits, you know?"

Also reluctant to embrace the idea was Denny's waiter Christian Meams: "The last added frustration I need on my job is someone's reading a copy of the latest Michael Chabon book, they forget about it, and I get blamed for bringing them the burger with the novel in it."

ope John Paul II staunchly refused to die this weekend, in spite of numerous reports to the contrary from an impatient media. Despite showing a complete lack of vital signs and near-total rigor mortis, “the tough old bastard is still hanging on for some reason,� according to Vatican doctors.

Thousands of people gathered in St. Peter’s Square at the Vatican Friday night to pray for the pope, though it was unclear whether the assembled were praying for the pope to live forever or praying that the tired old man would finally kick it. Attempts to investigate this question further led to this reporter being rudely hushed several times and hit once with a bagel.

Anxious news organizations from around the world literally hung on the pope’s every breath last week, itching to be the first to report that the revered religious figure and patron saint of child molesters had gone on to meet his employer. Several trigger-happy reporters claimed that the pope had finally died on Saturday, exhaling a visible plume of stale pope smoke before vanishing like a Jedi Knight cut in two by an evil stunt man. The Vatican even went along with the announcement, apparently tired of providing hors d’oeuvres for the thousands of assembled reporters and candle-waving, tie-died burnouts camped out in the Vatican lobby.

But the jig was finally upped when the pope requested that the “loud music be turned down� during his own funeral mass on Sunday, and the international death-watch continued for the very small band of reporters remaining from hardscrabble news outlets such as the commune, Carob Baking Monthly and the Montana Cuntsman who either had nothing better to do or had vowed to see this story through to its true, bitter end, be that now or at some time between now and when our return trip flight vouchers expire.

Some blame the media’s impatience on the unexpectedly long death wait for American hospital patient Terri Schiavo over the previous two weeks, combined with the first signs of nice spring weather, which has reporters itching to get out of the dusty old Vatican and into some loudly-colored shorts. Others point to a growing suspicion among reporters, called paranoid by some, that the pope can’t die.

While scientists not from Italy doubt the feasibility of such claims, Pope John Paul II has already achieved a sort of longevity not seen since the currently late Strom Thurmond (R-South Carolina) refused to stay dead through the second half of the 20th century. This evidence, combined with the pope’s reportedly strong knowledge of hoodoo, has some concerned that this story could drag on for years.

“Mark my words, this is going to go on like those Friday the 13th movies, man,� prophesied pope-watcher Dennis Marbury. “You can’t kill the pope with a knife, gun, or by locking him in a tool shed and dropping it out of an airplane into the Pacific Ocean. That dude’s not going anywhere until he gets his birthday cake.�

Others wonder just why the pope is hanging on so long, considering that he’s supposed to be in so good with God and everything and probably should be happy about kicking off and clicking his heels on up to the big buffet in the sky.

Meanwhile, nervous Catholics the world over await the pope’s final words with constantly renewed baited breath, fingers crossed that the religious leader’s last utterances won’t be anything along the lines of “Psych!� or “Gotcha, suckers!�

I want to take a moment to apologize to my faithful reader body, every last loser, pimp, pervert, bum, slob and drip. I know you've all been anxiously awaiting the thrilling conclusion of "Mickey Does Vegas," and if you aren't, hey fuck you. However, there's a more pressing issue that has recently crept up the leg of American society like a date rapist with a garbage bag full of roofies. I fear that if it isn't recognized and brought to light, it will destroy the universe as we know it. Or at least the part of the universe that I like.

Now, I'm not sure what the hell happened in the 20 minutes I was on the shitter, but that's about how long it took for the whole goddamned world to go pastel baby pink on me. Every article of clothing I steal lately: baby goddamned pink. And in case none of you guys got the memo, Mickey Hanes don't truck with men's clothes in girl colors. Not since the cradle, and even that wasn't my idea. I can only hope this problem is still contained in the bizarre country of Californiaworld, and hasn't spread like the clap to the other 37 states.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but hasn't pink been the undisputed color of the chick population since the beginning of time? Why do you guys feel the need to sissy yourselves up to feel cool? Did you run out of ideas? I don't care if it's a badass leather jacket dude, it's still pink leather and you look like a fruit! What the hell is next, purses? Over my dead fuckin' body! I don't have any shoes that go with that shit. I'll walk to the nearest bell tower I can find and Lee Harvey Oswald my ass into the history books before I let that happen. If guys wearing pink is truly considered cool, then welcome Mickey Hanes as the antichrist of cool. I will be the uncoolest motherfucker you ever laid eyes on. And if you're wondering how this is going to be a change, then hey, fuck you too. Call me what you want, but I will revel in my closed-mindedness while waiting out this limp ass fad from the comfort of the Vietnamese opium parlor in the basement of my apartment building. Fuck all this noise.

When I first noticed men starting to wear pink, I thought nothing of it. Probably just another huge influx of homosexuals, you know, like the 80's or whenever Ricky Martin comes to town. Good for them. But as the ether started to wear off, the world I'd known and comfortably disgusted suddenly morphed into a Terry Gilliam-style pink nightmare.

I was so angry when I got home that I went straight to the dresser drawer where Nevil sleeps, jerked his snoring ass out of his sock and went all Cambodian style switch happy on that undergrown munchkin. Man that felt good. For me, anyway, I can never tell about Nevil since he just giggles maniacally whenever his life is threatened. When I was done with him, that midget looked like a pound of raw hamburger meat that had been rolled in broken glass and hair, then set on fire with a magnifying glass and put out with a fire extinguisher. And not the chemicals inside, but with the actual can. For a second I felt bad, until I remembered that fucking midget had been using my razor to pretend-shave the other day. Serves him right.

There are so many things that I just can't wrap my brain around. Why I was born. Why I'm still alive, and why my neighbors call me anti-Semitic names for locking Nevil in the community oven while it's turned on. He's my goddamn midget; I'll cook him until I think he's learned his lesson! But guys… fellas… men… we did not emerge as the dominant and far superior sex on this planet just to skip around and make pretty like a bunch of giggly five-year-old schoolgirls. We are the alpha males! Haven't women taken enough from us already? They're probably laughing their asses off in their secret chick societies while they hand-knit sweaters that are too big for everyone, and yet we still hand them our testicles on a pink platter. Well not these testicles! I'm not letting them out of my sight for a second, even if it means never wearing pants again.

Don't jeopardize your manhood for the whim of a fad, guys, because these kinds of things are fleeting, like a tax return check. It's sand through your fingers, or if you prefer, tiny greased pigs through your fingers. Don't compromise the strength and domineering nature of all that is man, but embrace it, cherish and protect it till the end, and then use it to oppress someone smaller and weaker than you. You know, like a real man. Now go out and lie to some chick to get her to sleep with you before you piss me off further, you prancing pack of girly chimpanzees.

If I offended anyone with this column, good. Then I didn't bake my midget in an oven for nothing. Maybe you can run home and cry yourself to sleep on your overstuffed pink throw pillow and write about how Mickey Hanes was mean to you in your faggy little journal. Don't forget the part where I compared your nads to Skittles, princess.

What's that you say? Maybe I've got this whole thing wrong? Maybe I should go get myself a frilly pink jumpsuit, pick up some flower-oil skin moisturizer while I'm at it, and plaster my walls with happy teddy bear and ducky wallpaper? Never gonna happen. I'm never going to accept or believe that being a pussy is stylin'. Just like I'll never believe that George W. can read, or that Michael Jackson is really black. You people are sick.

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