merica's least popular gunslingers since Young Guns 2, John Allen Muhammad and Lee Boyd Malvo, shocked an unshockable nation Friday, showing up in court looking like a couple of bagboys from an underperforming Food Lion in dumpy orange jumpsuits marked by a palpable lack of panache. Teased by weeks of anticipation and speculation, and frankly expecting more, America scrunched up its nose at the sight of these two decidedly un-dapper Dillingers.

"I have to admit I was a little disappointed," admitted Manassas housewife Thelma Russel. "I thought they might show up in some snazzy three-piece suits with silk handkerchiefs in the pocket, you know. Like Al Capone in that commercial for condoms. Something stylish that suggests they're above it all, you know? The kinds of guys you love to hate, but admire in spite of yourself. But these guys? Sheesh. I wouldn't even leave the house looking like that. Didn't they know they were going to be on TV? I guess it just says something about the state of our criminals these days. Pretty sad."

Muhammad, the supposed mastermind behind the duo's shooting spree, looked like he had failed to master the bathroom mirror that morning, sporting a nappy hairdo to make Kobe Bryant proud. A shaving kit had apparently also eluded him, as well as the fundamental principles of beauty rest. Too many nights spent on the lamb had left his eyes sporting more bags than a Tony Bennett concert, and this reporter suspects the county hoosegow must have been fresh out of cucumber wraps that week.

Muhammad's one "E" for effort came in the posture department, a welcome relief from his partner Malvo's parade of slouches. While Muhammad often looked like he had just sat on a fireplace poker, Malvo had more slouches on display than the 2002 Mets. This reporter had heard it said that Muhammad was able to dominate the young Malvo thanks to the latter's lack of a spine, yet I had no idea they meant it in the strictest clinical sense. This is one boy I wouldn't want to face in the Twister world championships, and not just because he'd probably shoot my ass if I won. I'm surprised they didn't have to cart him into the courtroom in a wheelbarrow.

Malvo's mauve jumpsuit was a welcome contrast to the teeth-clenching Hazmat orange of Muhammad's ensemble, but any chance the teen had of pulling off a courtroom fashion coup ala the lovely Ms. Winona Ryder was dashed by his grotesquely shambolic addition of gigantic white bunny slippers to complete the outfit. I don't know how he managed to sneak those past the prison guards, but they definitely should have put the fear of Mr. Blackwell into that young man, like they're paid to do.

Malvo seems more than happy to provide the much-needed comic relief in this trial, between his footwear choices, hilarious fake Jamaican accent and last month's slapstick falling-through-the-ceiling escape attempt, which was straight out of National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. Though if this trial is going to be remembered as anything more than yet another case of "Gun-Crazy Loon and His Funny Teenage Sex Slave," they're going to need to dig up another accomplice.

And preferably one who knows that Armani's not a branch of the Italian military.

stronomers at Michigan’s Northern Peninsula Basalt College went public today with observations made near the cloudy heart of the Milky Way Galaxy, which have indicated with near certainty the existence of a massive central space burrito, a theoretical Mexican entrée that had previously eluded detection.

"I was staying late in the lab one night, after everybody else had gone home," stated the lab’s head astronomer, Bruce Coltrane. "And I was getting pretty tired and hungry so I was about to shut off the telescopes and get some late-night BBQ when I caught sight of something on the screen that didn’t seem quite right."

"At first I thought somebody must’ve taped another one of those pictures cut out of a Maxim to the screen, since the guys are pretty funny about that kind of stuff. I could tell you stories about the time we thought we found Carmen Electra orbiting Chiron. What a crazy week! But this time, when I checked closer, it couldn’t be denied. We were dealing with the genuine article here. I caught my breath, looked closer, and fuck a duck, man! That thing’s a giant burrito!"

"And then I laughed, ’cause, man, what a crazy thing to say! Shiiit."

"Bruce is the man. If he said he saw a gigantic burrito 500 times the size of the sun out in the middle of the Milky Way, then that’s good enough for me," said fellow astronomer and goatee advocate Mark Fitch. "Sign me up for the Burrito Cult or whatever the deal’s going to be now. I’ll put on the velcro sneakers and drink the blue Kool-Aid when the burrito swings by the earth to pick up the true believers. Fuck it, man, whatever."

Since having its state funding cut in 1994, Northern Peninsula Basalt College’s astronomy program has led the nation in startling astronomical discoveries. Among those include Animal Planet, Orion’s Tits and the St. Bernard of Delta 7.

When asked what he thinks of the astronomy community’s opinion of the Northern Peninsula Basalt astronomy department, Fitch was philsophical. "Eh, fuck ’em. What do they know, with their giant telescopes and their fancy degrees and all that noise? Without street smarts, all that shit is useless anyway."

"As far as I know, this is the first time someone’s found anything like this," offered Coltrane. "I mean, they’ve probably found Mexican food out in space before, but this big? Tacquitos, maybe. And what if they found one like a million years ago, before anybody knew what a burrito was? What would they call it? A space tube? And back then they didn’t have big-assed telescopes like we’ve got now. They might have mistaken it for a Chimichanga. Maybe? Make that probably."

"It might be difficult for the layman to understand how such a thing could exist. But trust me when I say that the universe is full of all kinds of strange and mysterious shwag," continued Coltrane, backed by a poster of Copernicus smoking the moon in a water bong.

Fitch and Coltrane were wary of careless speculation, but both agreed that a manned mission to explore the burrito was practically inevitable.

"Who knows what mysteries could be wrapped up in that tortilla?" pondered Coltrane. "Like, how many layers has that thing got? And does it have guacamole? I hate guacamole. But who made it, and why haven’t they eaten it yet? That’s one to blow your mind. But even just on the practical level, we’ve got to get some guys up there. We’re talking beans the size of foreign cars. Poor people could live in those things, and then eat their houses."

Fitch agreed, as he licked his lips and distractedly eyed the heavens.

Here is a tale, well-learned, well-told,
about a girl of fifteen years old.
A girl nearly so old she could drive
with pretty brown skin and a look in her eye.
Between that and how she called the corn "maize"
everyone thought her and Indian babe.

Much props was she given, more than her share
for her leatherstocking dress and well-braided hair.
We thought her a mystic with powers bizarre
that she traveled by horse instead of a car;
wise and well-bred, with roots in the earth,
who knew what the wind and the rain were all worth;
that a teardrop would fall from one eye of brown
when someone tossed their litter around.

Maybe, someone said, she lived in a teepee
that's perfect for her, if not ideal for me.
It's possible someone has traded for deeds
this land all around for a necklace of beads.

So flooded with angst and white liberal guilt
we apologized for genocide and buildings we built,
but we found out later it was all for noit
and it turns out she actually came from Detroit!
She's black, not a Native, and now we have no doubt
a million other things to feel guilty about.

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