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.

loud and proud Southern California rocked the American Lung Association’s annual list of American cities with the worst air pollution yet again in 2004, with the region bringing home seven of the top ten slots in the report. Despite stiff competition from such air-polluting powerhouses as Houston, Texas and Detroit, Michigan, area residents insist their confidence never faltered that So. Cal would once again bring home the gold.

“Booya, bitch!� gloated local resident Tyrell Dipps between coughing fits. “Smog!�

Area residents were so confident that California would dominate the competition, in fact, that most of the anticipation leading up to the study concerned which part of Southern California would out-pollute all others, a matter of considerable local pride. Emotions ran high in the weeks leading up to the report’s publication, as area residents waged a war of words in this yearly competition between the various So. Cal regions, each hoping to take home the ALA’s “Black Lung� trophy for having the nation’s foulest, most unbreathable air.

“Bakersfield can suck my dick with their pansy air, man! You come down here you gonna get asthma, baby!� enthused Los Angeles resident Hector Villanova, while idling three cars simultaneously on his lawn.

Residents of the air-polluting upstart Bakersfield region relish their underdog status, dreaming of one day knocking Los Angeles off of its hazy brown perch in the national rankings.

“L.A.’s time has come and gone, man,� insisted Bakersfield resident Arlo Vipatna, reclining in a parka with his home’s air conditioning unit running full tilt. “Ain’t no way they gonna hold Bakersfield back, not with all them movie stars they got driving those little electric fag cars down there and shit.�

“Damn right,� agreed Arlo’s brother Uday, feeding from a disturbingly large bowl of chili. “I got your greenhouse gasses right here, yo.�

Numerous other Bakersfield residents were caught up in the excitement as well, spraying aerosol cans into the sky and setting fire to piles of tires in between bouts of wheezing and frequent breaks to sit down for a while.

When the rankings were finally released, Los Angeles was a familiar sight at the top of the list, with the surprise dark horse region of Visalia-Porterville sneaking in at number two. A clearly stunned Bakersfield ranked third, slightly ahead of Fresno, who didn’t know there was a contest and just has really shitty air. Houston, Texas was the lone top-five entrant from the other 49 states; a slot some think was wasted on them since Texans don’t believe in air pollution. The California cities of Merced, Sacramento and Hanford rounded out the top ten with Knoxville Tennessee and Dallas-Fort Worth, Texas, the last two Southern cities likely having some kind of BBQ cook-off the week the air quality measurements were taken.

American Lung Association officials assure the commune they plan to check in on Texas and Tennessee soon to make sure neither of the states is currently on fire, since the aberrant presence of non-Californian cities in the list’s top fifteen likely points to some kind of catastrophic Southern brushfire no one from any more-newsworthy states has yet noticed.

I'm not kidding, what a shithole. You think they'd post a sign at the state line or something, letting everybody know they're wasting their time even coming inside. I should be able to sue New Mexico for false advertising since they call it a state and from my experience in other states I didn't expect it to suck so bad. Granted, there are enough people in New Mexico that this could get real expensive real fast, which is a problem the guys in line behind me will have to deal with.

And I think they're even doing it on purpose, trying to fake people out that New Mexico's a fun place to be. In Albuquerque (known to the locals as "Albu-crack") there's a cartoon mascot called the Albuquerque Turkey on all the signs, smiling and pointing the way to helpful destinations like the methadone clinic. And I shit you not, most of these metal signs have bite-marks in them next to the bullet holes, like some cartoon-hungry asshole thought the Turkey looked delicious way up there on his perch.

My first day in Albuquerque I got hit by a drunk driver, while I was eating at an Arby's. He came out of nowhere, and that fucker ate my sandwich. The only thing I can hope is that some of the abundant broken glass in the dining area got mixed in with his Horsey Sauce and he spent the night shitting out ground asshole and cursing Arby's big-hatted name. Now whenever I go to Arby's I use the drive-up window and keep one foot on the gas.

It really makes you wonder, though, who the hell is this Arby guy? What a freaky name. And I bet he drove his wife crazy, talking about roast beef all the time. "Jesus, Arby, try some pasta for once. And no, I don't think it's legal to make a breakfast cereal out of beef ends." I'm not sure what happens when you don't vary your diet at all, but I imagine the guy crapped like one of those Play-Doh Silly Factory things.

That's a talent you don't hear much about. Every cool bastard in the movies can blow a smoke ring, but what about the guy who can clench his anus and lay out a star-shaped log? That's the dude I don't want to piss off. Not that it's a dangerous talent really, but I don't want anybody with that kind of spare time daydreaming of ways to jack me up.

I used to love daydreaming myself, until somebody told me it doesn't count if you're asleep at the time. Screw that, I can think of a lot better things to do in my office chair than staying awake. And besides, I don't know what kind of voodoo shit you have to pull off to be dreaming and awake at the same time, I'll leave that to the insane and all those lazy shaman pricks out there. Granted, it probably helps pass the time when you're stuck some place boring, but the last thing I need is to scream out "Elephants!" and piss myself right in the middle of jury duty.

That reminds me, those jury duty guys probably think I'm still on "smoke break," the gullible bastards. I'm thinking of ducking back in there in a week or two before they catch on, you know, make an appearance for a few minutes and then pause the trial so I can go "take a piss" for the rest of the month. It's a lot like high school, only the judge is real slow on the uptake with the practical jokes. I swear that guy's drank Secretariat in glue form via his coffee by now, it's amazing.

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