he charmingly sleepy, stagnant, racist, hellishly unlivable, economically depressed backwater town of Pensacola, Florida was rocked by controversy this week when one of its native sons was nearly euthanized by his own shepherd-mix puppy, a development that locals are calling “tragically hilarious� and “fuckin’ weird.�

The man, local sad sack Jerry Allen Bradford, 37, was teaching his litter of puppies about gun safety when the most devious of the brood, an impish pup known as “Chuckles,� wrestled control of the revolver and shot Bradford in the wrist. Neighbors took Bradford to a nearby hospital after calling everyone they knew to share the funny story.

While those who know Bradford were not surprised, and many related a common story about Bradford being pushed off a cliff by chipmunks at the age of seven, the event has renewed a heated debate about euthanasia and humane relations between Americans and our 139 million pets nationwide.

“It’s the simple sad fact of the matter, there are just way more prospective puppy owners out there than there are puppies, and it’s a hard goddamned fact of life that sometimes the owners have to be put down,� explained Humane Society spokesperson Walter Egan, who warns the commune that he’s currently in therapy for inappropriate swearing. “That’s really hard to explain to kids, especially the children of puppy owners whom we’ve had to destroy. It’s a real kick in the tits.�

Though controversial, pet-owner euthanasia has been a part of American life since frontier times, when horse owners often had to be shot after a broken leg rendered them incapable of feeding or caring for their horses appropriately. Many cite this fact as Henry Ford’s prime motivation for inventing the automobile, as a young Ford was driven by memories of his own father being put to sleep after spraining his ankle during a backyard game of touch football.

In 2002, a Minnesota man named Michael Murray made national news after being shotgunned to death by his English Setter while on a hunting trip. While many criticized the dog’s actions and called for legal recourse, a grand jury found the dog’s actions to be humane due to Murray’s declining health and lackluster outlook on life in the years before he was put down. Though the dog was fined for failing to provide a valid gun license, no further legal action was pursued.

“Sometimes you’ve got to be fuckin’ cruel to be kind,� explained Egan, wincing as he realized there were children present. “Sure, it would be great if we could all live happy lives until we grew old and went to run around on a farm somewhere, and that’s what we tell kids, but the reality is that if you’ve got three kids and only two puppies, somebody’s got to go. Life’s a real cunt-licker that way.�

Bradford is currently recovering in a Pensacola-area hospital, after which he will likely be placed with a more suitable pet by the Humane Society. Speaking from his hospital bed, Bradford expressed an interest in finding a pet that can’t operate firearms, possibly a goldfish or a picture of a canary. Meanwhile, Bradford’s six shepherd-mix puppies have already been placed with various local families, saving the lives of five children and an elderly woman who had been scheduled for disposal.

malignant throat cancer in the body of Rolling Stones drummer Charlie Watts took a turn for the worse this week—the worse for the cancer, that is, as Charlie Watts and his bandmates whupped the shit out of the tumor.

Most of it is speculation right now, leaked to the press from band lead singer Mick Jagger, who declared Watts' cancer "fucked up beyond all recognition." The cancer beat-down follows six weeks of chemo-therapy for Watts, after a biopsy revealed the growth's malignancy four months ago.

Early reports indicate, after seeing their friend in dire straits from the chemical treatments, the Stones gathered together and went straight to Watts' cancer, treating the volatile collection of cells like a hotel room. By the time it was over, the growth was a nauseating sight for doctors and well-wishers alike.

"I guess we showed that cancer that us old shits can really…," said Keith Richards, puffing on a cigarette and looking skeletal, before degenerating into manic laughter and indistinguishable cockney.

While doctors wouldn't comment on Watts' treatment, stupid doctors, they did say that Watts is in a weakened condition from the chemo-therapy, but mostly from partying with his bandmates as they trashed the tumor. They also said, unofficially, they declared Keith Richards dead while he was visiting his friend, but didn't have the nerve to tell him.

"What matters now," Mick Jagger told The Daily Mirror, "is that Charlie is all better. People accuse us all the time of being big softies, but that's what a band does—we look out for one another. And it was a good business decision. We're just about ready to begin recording another album, then we're out on tour. We're not paying to put up cancer in its own room, and we're sure not sharing any of our groupies with it."

Curious for more information about cancer remissions, the commune visited the Johns Hopkins Cancer Research Institute, specifically Dr. Christopher Haig, a leading expert on cancer and cancer recovery. However, he wouldn't see us, so we went to see one of those New Age whackos in the building across the street.

"What people don't realize is that cancer has feelings, just like any of us," said the whacko, Jenella Wisp, wearing pastel scarves and enough bracelets to kill a gypsy. "Consuming other cells and converting them against the body is just the cancer's way of saying, 'I'm lonely. Let's be friends.' But cancer doesn't know it's doing damage to us, invoking a negative Chi. Cancer doesn't know much—cancer knows jack and shit and jack just left town, if you know what I mean. Cancer didn't get a very good education, and consequently, a lot of the damage it does is lashing out over feeling of insecurity. We went to high school together, actually, me and cancer. Want to see a picture of cancer's yearbook picture?"

By this time, we realized the commune was in way over its head, and stopped recording the conversation, though it took us another seven hours to make a plausible excuse and escape.

Watts, however, returned our phone call and said he is in much better spirits since the alleged cancer-trashing. However, he did think we were Ornette Coleman, and wasn't happy to find out about the deception.

"You down wit OCD?"

"Hold on, I'm washing my hands!"

Ah yes, here we find ourselves again, another day, another Dolf Lundgren. I sit here, striking a dashing pose, young restaurateur (that means brave, right?) with a devil-may-care grimace and a flinty stare that reminds many of the unbridled Amazonian beauty of Larry Flint himself. You, I can just picture you there, commune readers. Sitting in class (not to mention in school), dreamily scratching your rump in a way that reminds many onlookers of Katherine Hepburn, when her ass itched. These are the draconian days of our lives.

"You down wit Oppenheimer Pension Plan?"

"Yes, you are familiar with my customary mode of behavior."

If I could save time in a bottle, I'd probably forget to poke holes in the lid and it would end up dying, its lifeless corpse lying there, feet up, staring accusatorily for weeks until I remembered that oh yeah, I saved time in a bottle, and went to check on how it was doing. That's probably why you can't do it.

Some of God's greatest gifts are unanswered conference calls. Some hillrod told me that once.

BTW, I've come to be mildly obsessed by the term "hillrod" lately. Since moving to New Mexico my speech is frequently punctuated with phrases like "Hillrods! Twelve o'clock!" and "Arrr, there be hillrods afoot." The hillrods down in shipping are busy making voodoo dolls out of mud and chocolate, they don't find this sort of thing the slightest bit amusing. They also say "nuclear" funny.

I went to a day spa the other day, I thought it was a brothel but they waxed my Mason-Dixon line instead. That's between your toes, commune readers, you sick and physiologically challenged individuals. I'd hoped deep in the deepest recesses of my elementary school education that the place's design ("De sign, boss! De sign!" "That's right, Tattoo, my troll-like friend. It says 'Keep your midgets leashed'." "I no like puns, boss!") was merely a novel backdrop for exotic Korean handjobs, but by the time the big hand said six and the little hand said six too I had to give up the ghost on that expensive little fantasy and swallow the hard truth that I'd just dropped a hundred bucks to have my face wrapped in avocado and bacon.

When that bill comes due, you'll come over and find me perched on top of the coffee table, floating in a sea of tears that has nothing at all to do with the fact that I tried to flush a cowboy hat down the toilet. I look forward to it; I'll be waiting with Belgians.

Did I mention my apartment is also serving as a half-way house for mice? Even in the desert, you'd think I would have scorpions or Spaniards or something instead. My landlord may be a Spaniard, there's no question he's a worthless turd, which rhymes, sort of. He still doesn't believe I have mice, in spite of the perfect arc-shaped hole at the base of the wall in my kitchen, the "Home Sweet Home" mat which sits just outside that hole, and also the cat-face-shaped dent in my big frying pan.

I've been trying to smoke the little bastard out by blowing second-hand cigarette smoke into the hole every time I remember to do so. At this point it may just be a race to see which one of us gets cancer first, but I heard something about second-hand smoke being more deadly, so I think Vegas should favor my odds. Plus with his small size I'd have to be smoking like one of the Golden Girls to get the same cancer-causing effect per capita.

Truth be told, I'm not sure how many mice are in there, or how I'll even know if they've passed on to Mousehalla. When I go to the bathroom in the middle of the night I swear I can hear them scattering in the kitchen, yelling "SHIT! IT'S THE FARMER'S WIFE!" in their little high-pitched voices. Could that really just be a dream? Maybe I dreamt it all; maybe I don't really have any mice.

Badgers, on the other hand. We're thick with badgers.

All right commune readers, it's time for Stu Umbrage to duck off into the belfry to lunch upon sweet artichoke-hearts and New-Mexican-grown peaches. The Democratic Party keeps calling in an attempt to get me out to the polls this year, and I no longer feel safe downstairs. Could this be yet another sly ploy to get me under a tuna net? We shall see...

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