rian Nichols, the world's most rightfully-imprisoned black man, appeared Friday in the same courthouse where he killed three people on March 11 in Fulton County, Georgia. Asked to enter his plea by a very timid judge, surrounded by trigger-happy bailiffs and police, Nichols pleaded "déjà vu" in his case.

While his attorneys very politely reminded him he could only plead "guilty" or "not guilty," though "not guilty" seemed an extremely unlikely choice, Nichols laughed off his odd feeling of having been through it all before.

"Sorry," the very large former linebacker told the court, as they listened with wide eyes and trembling lips. "It's just like, wow, I feel like I've been here before in some way. I have this whole memory of struggles with officers and gunfire and—anyway… guess we should get to trial and stuff. So, who's the misguided people who are going to testify against me?"

The judge, who asked not to be identified or even revealed to the suspect, addressed the court from inside a large crate he or she had hauled up behind the bench, and suggested they put off the proceedings and gave the prosecutors a chance to build up a rock-solid case against the defendant—who, the judge acknowledged, certainly may very well not be guilty, for all we know.

A little more than a month ago, the gigantic nasty African-American Hannibal Lecter wrestled out of custody of court officers, secured a gun, and shot three people, including a judge, before making his way outside for a spree of carjackings and hostage-taking that eventually ended in his arrest. Numerous charges were added to Nichols' already long list, which included rape, aggravated sodomy, and false imprisonment, the charges of the previous trial where the convicted badass attacked the court. It was the second trial on the charges for Nichols, after the first trial ended when the jury couldn't come to a decisive verdict.

"Boy, I feel like quite the ass now," admitted one of the holdout jurors from the first trial, who asked to remain anonymous out of embarrassment and fear of possibly being killed. "I owe a few of my fellow jurors some apologies now, that's for sure. Back then I sure didn't think him capable of rape and kidnapping, but now that I think about it, I was worried about him leaping into the jury box and bludgeoning me to death. I just assumed the two were mutually exclusive."

Court officials took no chances with Nichols this time, bringing the besuited behemoth into court in leg irons, shackles, and wearing a global positioning device on his ankle that would self-destruct upon walking out of the courthouse area. For extra safety measures, the gray suit Nichols wore was also packed with gunpowder by deputies and a twenty-foot fuse trailed behind him, just in case he tried to make another break for it.

Bailiff Vigo Metzel was in charge of Nichols' secure transportation to and from the courthouse.

"Some of us wanted to give him one of those half-hockey masks to keep him from eating people, but we thought that just made him look even more terrifying. No one would want to be on the security detail then. Besides, no one would volunteer to put the mask on him."

When questioned as to why anyone would want to defend a client with so much stacked against them, including verifiable security footage from the very court where he's going to be tried, Nichols' attorneys, who also asked not to be identified, said that even though it was unlikely Nichols would go free, they wanted Nichols to know definitively whose side they had been on in the event he ever breaks out again.

In the meanwhile, Nichols has privately told his attorneys and the prosecution that he only made his escape attempt from the courthouse in March so he could find the real perpetrators of the crimes of which he was accused. If he had found them, Nichols said, he certainly would have killed them, too.

t took congressional involvement to break the dyke, but baseball commissioner Bud “Charisma� Selig finally admitted to reporters this week that Major League Baseball has a serious problem with Gatorade. The performance-enhancing beverage, known in baseball circles as “The Juice,� has been giving modern ballplayers an unfair advantage over their historical counterparts for years, due to its advanced electrolyte-replacing technology and deliciously thirst-quenching lemon-lime flavor.

“Who knows how many home runs Babe Ruth could have hit if he wasn’t thirsty all the time?� questioned baseball historian and still living at home middle-aged guy Roger Bankercruff. “The number would have been astronomical. With all the hot dogs that guy ate, plus the fact that he never, ever drank anything but highly-dehydrating beer, even during games or when brushing his teeth, the evidence points to Ruth leaning heavily on death’s door for most of his playing career. Which makes the man’s accomplishments obviously all the more impressive. If he hadn’t been near-fatally dehydrated, not to mention completely bereft of vital electrolytes, for the whole of his adult life, we’d be talking about the one time he didn’t hit a home run, and how Barry Bonds isn’t fit to sniff the Babe’s grotesquely stained tidy whiteys.�

Pressed for an imaginary number of home runs Babe Ruth would have hit if we could go back in time with a case of Gatorade and convince the Babe that it was futuristic green beer, Bankercruff struggled with a calculator and his counting fingers for several minutes before deciding “10,000 home runs is not an unreasonable estimate,� had Ruth been hopped up on Gatorade during his playing days. Such a total would leave Bonds roughly 9,300 short in his quest to become baseball’s all-time home run leader, a number the Giants slugger may not reach without further developments in human growth hormone, Teflon knees, or Bonds’ head being re-attached to some kind of mechanical hitting machine.

Active home run leader Bonds, as well as notorious Michelin men Mark McGwire, Sammy Sosa and Jason Giambi, have all come under fire in recent months for their performance and inhumanly well-hydrated appearances. A recent congressional hearing saw fan favorite McGwire dodge the issue of his Gatorade use like a ninja frog, virtually confirming fan suspicions that Big Mac had been “hydrating� for years. McGwire’s suspiciously non-parched speaking voice did nothing to dispel these concerns, in spite of the slugger’s claims that he had only used questionable but unbanned beverages such as Red Bull and Diet Rock Star. Baseball stars Rafael Palmeiro, Sammy Sosa and Curt Schilling conspicuously drank large quantities of water during the hearings, drawing attention to their obvious lack of artificial hydration.

In response, Major League Baseball has instituted a new Gatorade testing policy and tougher new rules, including a ten-minute talking-to for fifth-time offenders. Critics, however, have been calling the penalties too lenient and point to the new pink passionfruit Gatorade flavor that is rumored to be undetectable during drug screenings, and the use of other beverages such as Mountain Dew as a masking agent.

So far, the only player punished for Gatorade use has been Tampa Bay salary moocher Alex Sanchez, who was singled out after league officials noticed the green sweat on his jersey, which Sanchez blamed on his intense diet regiment of wheat grass and lime Play-Doh.

Other suspected hydrators have offered up similarly lame excuses, including Gary Sheffield of the Yankees, who admitted to performance-enhancing beverage use during an interview earlier this year. Sheffield explained that he had used Red Bull accidentally after it was given to him by Barry Bonds’ trainer, who told him it was baby aspirin.

“It didn’t help me, though,� explained Sheffield. “I mean, it made my headache go away, but I couldn’t hit a fastball any better. And I was up for two days scrubbing the grout in my bathroom. That shit was nasty dirty.�

Red Bull and Jolt Cola are both currently legal under Major League Baseball’s rules, but have been banned by the Olympics for years due to their hyperactive benefits, starting when 230-pound pipe-fitter Mark Tungley of Ohio won the Tour De France accidentally in 1998.

“Iwasjustonvacation, outforabikeridetoblowoffsomesteam,� explained Tungley, speaking at a high rate of speed and sweating like a beer glass in spite of the cool weather. “Jesus,thisRedBull stufftasteslikecandy, Ican’tdrinkenough. Yourememberthose sweettartscandies? Thisislikedrinkingsweettarts, exceptwithout allthechewing. It’sawesome.�

If I die in the next 72 hours, I'm screwed. Bottom line, no exaggeration, no way around it. Until the DHL guy shows up on my doorstep with my crate from Angola, I am officially minus a living will. And I'm still pissed my old one died.

And to add itch to the burn, now I've got some "legal expert" on the phone telling me that a living will has nothing to do with shaving your last will and testament onto the back of an anteater and keeping the damned thing in your coat closet. I said okay, smart guy, then what do you say a living will is? He said my name, but I didn't understand anything he said after that.

So now I've got to be careful like a Quaker until Wednesday night: no juggling with knives, no base-jumping, freebasing, or bass guitar. No street luge. No homemade neon signs, no karate-boxing with kangaroos, and no pissing on bikers while they're sleeping.

I'm keeping myself locked in the bathroom until I hear that DHL knock on the front door. In case that sounds weird to you, don't get excited. I'm not stupid. I installed a listening tube and ran it through the attic into the bathroom. I could hear a mouse fart on my front doorstep. And I have.

In the mean time, I've started to do some long-term planning. I'm not entirely certain what the lifespan of an African anteater is supposed to be. This last one certainly didn't set the world on fire with his longevity. No Dick Clark of the anteater world, this one. So I've started to think I should find myself a living will candidate that lives longer than three months, so I don't have to go through this bullshit every time I forget to throw some steaks in the coat closet for a few weeks. Oh, and it should be some kind of animal that eats dog food, because those steaks stink up the hallway pretty awful. Fucking picky anteaters.

Some asshole Jehovah's Witness that I was talking to through the listening tube earlier today had the balls to ask me why I couldn't just do a regular will on paper, like a normal person. Shit, like this guy knows normal from a Martian dick-tickler. I explained, in my most patient and mannered tone, that he needed to pull his head out of his mother's ass. The dude still had questions, so I explained further the should-be-obvious point that in a house fire, your normal paper will isn't going to do a damned thing but fuel the fire, laughing a crackling little laugh in your face as all your hard work goes up in smoke. But a living will, well, pretty much every creature under God's green earth runs away from the kinds of four-alarm infernos we have regularly on my block. And afterward once you find the right anteater, the one that's wearing the neckerchief you put on it, bingo, you've got your living will back, you no-birthday-having gimp.

So, anybody out there know of anything that lives longer than anteaters? Tortoises, for sure, but you try shaving any amount of text into the back of one of those suckers and get back to me. It's got to be something with hair, and a reasonable amount of back space. I suppose a Sasquatch would do, since those babies have back like nobody's business, but you tell me where I find one of those at nine o'clock on a Sunday night and I'll christen you Captain Fuckin'-A Amazing.

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