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.

I've been wicked lucky lately. Sorry if the column hasn't been regular enough for you, Child Star fans, but I've been working—the big "W." It does start with a W, right, it's not like a silent P? Those fucking French can really mess up the English language.

But I have been working, no matter how you spell it. Not all of it's great stuff. I sexed chickens for a while at a KFC-owned chicken house, that's interesting for about an hour, unless you really, really like chickens. I guessed on about half of them, but if we're going to eat them anyway I don't see why we need to know if it's a rooster or hen. It's not like you ever eat some chicken and say, "Tastes like a cock!" or anything. Well, I said that once, but it wasn't the same situation at all. That's why I'm not welcome at Denny's anymore.

That gig was only temporary while I lined up showbiz jobs—you know, paying off the legal bills and stuff. I modeled some, did a bulletproof bra commercial for a The Survivalists Network and worked as a stunt head in an Excedrin commercial. I would have had the lead, but they didn't like my liberal use of the word "mindfucked." I also filled in at a book store when author Kitty Kelley had to cancel a signing at the last minute, but I'm not supposed to tell anyone about that. Her picture's right on the back of the book, everybody had to know they were being fucked with, but it was cool, everybody just sort of kept the fantasy going.

Then I lucked into the pilot, which is my big news. Not that it will necessarily go to series, I've been burnt way too often to get my hopes up on that one, but it could happen. I went into the audition to deliver pizzas to the casting agency, and figured while I was there I would knock the out. The whole pizza gig was just a drug delivery front anyway, so I didn't even risk losing a real job.

And they loved me, no other way to say it. I didn't even list Who's Your Daddy? on my resume, it seems like I have a better shot at getting cast when I do that. They didn't recognize me either, so I got this one purely on talent, and maybe some of that free stuff I passed out before the audition. But they said I really knew the role, 'cause I faked it so well, and called me back a couple of times. Then I was cast.

It's called Ho's!, and it's being considered as a mid-season replacement for the WB. Just one of those excellent ideas. I've been in the business long enough to know gold when I hear it. There's the rich, snobby ho, the fat ho, the dumb ho, and the white ho—that's me. They were going to go with an Asian ho, but I didn't do a very believable accent, they said. They also have an old ho, and they were trying to get Della Reese, but they're going with an unknown instead because Reese called the script "insulting and degrading." I think she was just holding out for more money, though.

Seriously, the show will rock. It's about the four ho's and the pimp they work for, played by David Faustino. And the old ho rents the building to us. But we have arguments and funny disagreements and shit. Still, in the end, we always learn that we have to stick together, or we'll get turned out. I used to ask all the time why there weren't any shows about ho's, and my tutors could never say why. I think it's an idea whose time has come, and I'm psyched to be a part of it. Like I said, I'm not getting my hopes up—networks never have any real vision. But if the WB shoots us down, maybe we can take it to HBO. It would be like a funny Oz there. Funnier.

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