s Pepsi’s heavily marketed new nasty blue cola starts hitting store shelves this week, Coke is putting the finishing touches on its own new soda: Pepsi Coke. The new cola, subject of heated rumors for months and developed under the code name Cokesi, is a Pepsi-flavored version of its Coca-Cola Classic brand, and will appear in regional markets in August.

The apparent coincidence of the two launches is a familiar trick in the ruthless cola wars, in which the business world’s two most famous and petty rivals are forever scheming to one-up and stink-finger each other. Pepsi is hoping that its own blind stab in the dark, Pepsi Blue, a berry-flavored cola described as “what it would taste like if fruit could scream,� will be the aorta-spurting death blow it has been hoping to deal to rival Coke for decades. Naturally, Coke wants its hunk of the spotlight as well, and has little interest in “being stomped into asshole powder,� by rival Pepsi, as the industry jargon goes. With the release of new Pepsi Coke, Coca-Cola hopes to hit Pepsi right where it lives, namely in producing Pepsi-flavored sodas for the national market.

Coke’s tactics are not new in the industry. The last time Pepsi tried to re-invent the wheel by making it a different color, Coke responded quicker than the producers of the 1988 comedy Vice Versa. Pepsi’s Crystal Pepsi, a clear cola that tasted like a robot had pissed on a box of Nerds candy, was quickly one-upped in 1992 with Tab Invisible from Coke, a move that confused consumers and sent them back to drinking water.

Hoping to not only match Pepsi, but match them twice, Coke is also hedging its bets by releasing its own new berry-flavored blue drink, Fanta Berry, ensuring that Pepsi Blue won’t be lonely during its short slide into pop-culture trivia obscurity.

Stan Villanowski, a Coke spokesman and terrific liar, denied that Fanta Berry is being launched in response to Pepsi Blue. “Pssssh. Who told you that? What an imagination. Fanta is the No. 1 fruit-flavored soft drink in the world,� he said. “Plus, it comes in those cool cascading dispensers that make it look like Fanta is already being digested. Fanta Berry is a logical extension for the Fanta brand, bringing balance to the Fanta Univerise.� Besides, the drink will also be more of a cobalt blue rather than the “dirty antifreeze blue� of Pepsi’s new cola, he added.

Fanta, sold in over 70 flavors at failing fast-food chains in over 188 countries, was relaunched this spring as a national brand in the U.S. and is sold in four flavors: orange, strawberry, grapple and pineappleberry.

Pepsi appears to give less than two shits about the new Coke brand. “It seems our idea ‘blue’ them away,� said a Pepsi spokesman, Harvey Pearsons, pausing expectantly for a laugh that never came.

If we’re going to have to choke down blue Fanta when the fifteen year-old vegetable behind the counter puts it in our Icee cup on accident, then will we at least have the consolation of seeing how they work in a blue Fantana — a new member of the fruit rock group created for Fanta’s ad campaign?

“There is a Fantana that represents the four major flavors of the Fanta brand,� Mr. Villanowski said. “They’re not the only ones on the island of Fantana, however, so it wouldn’t surprise me if a berry Fanta eventually joined the Fantanas here in the U.S. for their New Year’s jam with the Cokeanistas and TABBA,� Villanowski continued, getting a paranoid look in his eye. “I’m buying up all the tickets I can so I can scalp them when the time of the concert grows nigh. Then, with that money I can finally quit this lousy job and move to New Zealand, where the Fantanas would never think to look. And I’m bringing lots of bottled water.� Mr. Villanowski continued much like this for about three-quarters of an hour, cutting patterns into his tie with a pair of scissors as the commune news gradually inched its way closer and closer to the door.

ew infrared images from NASA's Mars Odyssey orbiter featuring the long-debated formation known as the "Face on Mars" have sent shockwaves through the shut-in and conspiracy geek communities. Anxious and unbathed web surfers who expected the infrared pictures to provide new revelations about the features voiced their disappointment, saying the new images are bullshit because they don't show any kind of recognizable face at all, just a couple of bumps in the dirt.

NASA claims this is because there never was a face, stupid, only a trick of light and shadow fueled by desperate weirdoes who haven't worked in years. Fans of the face contend that it was only the lack of "night-vision" imagery that failed to expose the Sphinxlike visage they have come to know and love. NASA responded with a patronizing smile and a hand gesture indicating "okaaay."

The debate over the Face has simmered for the last twenty-five years, since NASA's Viking orbiters transmitted pictures of the Cydonia region that appeared to show a half-shadowed, helmeted face staring up from the planet's surface like some kind of cross between Kermit the Frog and Han Solo. Since then, additional formations have been identified as the "Alien Conspiracy Pyramid," "the Mounds of Xena" and so forth — and fans of the Face have argued that the formations showed evidence of a vast Martian civilization populated by breathtaking huge-breasted women incapable of resisting the charms of virginal 30 year-old earth men.

In the past five years, sharper imagery from NASA's Mars Global Surveyor orbiter popped a big-ol' hole in that over-inflated fantasy balloon, confirming the mainstream view that the Face and the other formations were nothing more than a whole lot of wind-eroded dirt, much like everything else on Mars. But die-hard fans of the Face refused to give up hope, disregarding the newer photos as hoaxes and propaganda, and confusing everyone in their apartment buildings by going as "The Face" for Halloween.

The new Mars Odyssey images are unique in that they were taken using infrared light, unlike the visible light used for the Viking and Global Surveyor images of Cydonias. This allowed for day or night photography unhindered by shadows. Many fans of the Face, however, took issue with NASA's methodology.

"We got gypped," griped Thomas Reinhold of Jackson, Miss. "They totally lead us to believe they were going to be doing some nighttime infrared imagery, not just daytime. What if the face only comes out at night? Didn't think of that, did you, NASA?"

"He said what?" questioned Tony Rice, a member of the Arizona State University imaging team that worked with NASA on the project. "Jesus. Thanks to AOL, every kind of mook can get on the net now."

The Arizona State imaging research team denied any unique features belonging to the mesas that make up the Face. "What do we have to do, draw you people a map?" Rice questioned. "Oh, wait, that's right. We already did that. Morons."

No stranger to being called morons, the Face fans press on with their hunt for the truth.

"Those white-coated government lackeys over at NASA can conspiratize all they want, but we know the truth," boasted Elmer Noonan of Vine Grove, KY. "We've seen the pictures. The first picture, anyway. All the other ones after that were bullshit. A total governmental cover-up, straight out of the handbook. If it hadn't been for that Libertarian dude working at NASA back in '76, we never would have got to see that original image of the face. I bet those NASA guys have been kicking themselves every day since they released that thing. Ha. Jerks."

"We're putting new stuff out there every day for the public to look at," Rice said while playing with a hole in the bottom of his shoe. "I don't know what their problem is. Oh, right. The conspiracy. I almost forgot. Well, you're going to have to excuse me while I conspire to drive my shitty little Tercel over to Arby's and eat a roast beef sandwich for lunch."

A common question crosses many people's minds when they're scowling at credit card slips in dimly lit restaurants or digging deep into their trouser pockets for a few bills, some spare change and a condom wrapper to toss onto the table at the completion of their meal. Why, for God's sake, did I just tip the guy who brought me the wrong drink twice and left a chunk of his dreadlock skirting around in the bottom of my bowl of soup? And come to think of it, why do I tip waiters at all? I certainly didn't tip the guy who unclogged my toilet with his bare hands or the guy who fucks my horrifically obese wife for me, so why get all philanthropic on somebody for carrying your Diet Slice fifteen feet? A perplexing question, indeed.

The custom of tipping dates back to the Roman Empire, a time that truly represented the Dark Ages of food service. Waiters were surly, sub-literate and prone to having volatile tempers. Diners frequently ate entire meals they did not order out of fear of raising the waiter's ire. The situation came to a head when the Roman Emperor Claudius requested a saltshaker when dining one night and the waiter responded by vomiting down the Emperor's shirt. Claudius had all of the waiters in Rome beheaded that night, and that incident inspired the Roman populace to spontaneously begin tipping their servers out of fear over what kind of scoundrels had been dug up to replace the executed national wait staff. At the time, a small bribe to one's server was seen as a favorable alternative to possibly losing an eye.

The practice of tipping died off with the decline of the Roman Empire, but was born anew in England during the Middle Ages. Feudal lords would throw bits of gold to the meanest-looking peasants as they traveled through the streets, as a way to decrease the chances of the unwashed masses rising up and overtaking their carriages, tearing them limb from feudal limb, and stretching their hides to make ceremonial drums. The feudal lords would tell stories of the cannibalistic masses to their children, who grew up to be generous tippers themselves.

By the 16th century, men of social status were so paranoid about offending potentially murderous members of the working class that they began the tradition of tipping servers in restaurants. The gratuity was meant as an invitation for the server to have a drink on them, and to alleviate their guilt over not having to work a day in their lives while everybody else toiled seven days a week, slaving over sow's ears trying to make silk purses and whatnot. But before long the servers became spoiled and every pub in the land featured a tip jar, inscribed with the words "To Insure Promptitude," which basically meant that if you don't cough up some cash for the jar, you're going to grow donkey antlers before you get a drink, bub. No one is sure where they got the word "promptitude" from, but the most popular theory is that, like today, many of the servers were college grad students who found their degrees useless in the harsh Medieval economy.

The custom of tipping most likely would have faded out on it's own during the Renaissance, were it not for the famed Italian wise-ass, Pico della Petrarka. Petrarka coined the joke "Q. What did the leper say to the prostitute? A. Keep the tip." which has had remarkable staying power over the ages. Many times when the practice of tipping might have faded into the annals of history naturally, it was brought back when someone had to explain the punch line of that joke, which made everyone feel guilty about not tipping and brought back the practice yet again.

Tipping spread to America in the early 1900's, when tourists picked up the custom in Europe and started practicing it back home just to show off how swanky their shit really was. However, like every other time the practice was introduced, servers soon came to expect the tips and actual food service quality remained as lousy and impersonal as ever.

With no fears of proletarian cannibalism to fuel the custom today, modern parents have turned to telling their children fairy tales about how tips guarantee quality service in the future and help out the unfortunates stuck in low-paying food service jobs. Especially bright children who question why we subsidize one unskilled, low-paying profession and not the hundreds of others are sent to bed without a tootsie pop.

Today, tipping has become so ingrained and expected that waiters consider tips below 15% not to be tips at all, but rather personal insults deserving of true contempt, and anyone anywhere who even has to smell the public expects to be tipped, including paperboys and librarians. Some economists argue that tipping provides cost-effective incentives for superior service, but in actual practice, most Americans are reminded of another joke:

A man walks into a restaurant, sits down, and orders a three-course meal. After a time, the waiter comes back with his soup, but the man notices that the waiter has his thumb stuck inside the bowl. Thinking it an odd but honest mistake, the man says nothing. But when his pasta dish comes and the waiter's thumb is stuck into that, too, the man is truly baffled. Not wanting to cause a stir, he says nothing. He merely finishes his meal and waits for desert. Finally, his hot fudge brownie comes, and the waiter's thumb is stuck in that as well! The man has had more than enough, and he demands to know why the waiter is sticking his thumb in all of the food. The waiter explains that he has a nasty fungal infection under his thumbnail, and that doctor's orders require him to keep his thumb in a warm and moist place at all times. Exasperated, the man blurts out: "Well, why don't you just stick it up your ass, then?!?" The waiter pauses briefly, then calmly replies: "Where do you think I had it while I was in the kitchen?" º Last Column: The Trojan Horse º more columns