olite society was rocked this week when a Kansas man was arrested for unleashing a five-minute tirade of profanity after the clumsy fucker fell out of canoe in a public park, sparking a nationwide controversy over foul language. According to shocked bystanders, recent immigrant dickhead Lataf Smokel shouted “whoops!� “shucks!� and other similar salty words after displaying his canoeptitude, running afoul of a little-known and controversial Kansas state statute outlawing indecent public speech.

“This motherfucker was guilty as shit,� explained officer Turk Winchel, who witnessed the crime. “I heard that asshole go off on his tirade like a cock-teasing bitch with her credit card taken away, with my own fucking ears. There were fucking kids around and everything. Un-fuckingbelievable.�

The event reminds many of the Michigan conviction of Timothy Boomer in 1998, who swore up a storm like Yosemite Sam on swearing pills after a similar canoe mishap on the Rifle River, only to have his conviction overturned by the ACLU after the fucking judge pussied out.

While many legal groups consider such laws to be total bullshit, local citizens have made it clear they’re fucking sick of inconsiderate motherfuckers exposing their children to irresponsible language in public places, and have shown their support for throwing the goddamned book at the homos.

“If there’s one thing I hate, it’s cocksuckers who don’t know how to watch their goddamned mouths in front of children,� explained Rote resident Archdeacon Mavis Plum, over tea. “The world’s not your own personal playground, shithead. And just because some cunt shit you out of her man-trap when you were a baby doesn’t mean you’re entitled to fuck up our children, dickface.�

“Some slut farting you out of her cooch doesn’t make you God’s own miracle, dickwad,� added Reverend Alan Thornburg, in reiteration.

Even normal people were in agreement.

“What kind of dickless honkeys would talk like that in front of our kids?� asked Maybel Cummings, a local PTA leader. “Talk about your real sacks of monkey shit.�

While many journalists reporting the story found Smokel’s language too fucking objectionable to print, since the commune only officially exists in the Cayman Islands this reporter is free to hint at the true extent of their offensive nature. Beyond such merely-scandalous epithets such as “golly,� “hoo-boy� and “Heavens to Betsy,� Smokel was also quoted as dropping several pants-shitting unmentionables. The most unpublishable of the man’s crimes against decency is spelled like “shit� and rhymes with “hoot,� if you catch our inference. Irresponsible rumor also points to the word “eff-hockey stick-eye-pee� being heard, though spontaneously blocked from the memories of several present in a subconscious act of self-defense.

Some anonymously supportive locals have suggested that Smokel may just be unfamiliar with American customs, since wherever he’s from, words like “he*k� and “d*rn� may be perfectly acceptable language in mixed company. But most Rote residents find that pretty fucking unlikely.

ollowing on the success of the over 3 million drug-related arrests made on April 25th’s Bring Your Drugs to Work Day, law enforcement officers continued to step up their campaign to bring in more illegal drug users. The most notable accomplishment was the successful placement by Bernalillo County, New Mexico police of a two-year-old undercover agent who aided in the arrest of his drug-dealing foster parent and co-conspirators.

The underage agent, on loan from the Drug Enforcement Agency, whose name has been withheld both because his minor status and because he’s already working another case, was the key figure in locating 1,700 pounds of marijuana and the apprehension of 4 unidentified drug traffickers. Besides the adults, an unidentified big sister has been held for questioning and suspicion of administering an Indian burn to a police officer.

The arrests have spawned rumors that other juvenile undercover agents are currently operating with major drug players across the country, a rumor confirmed by our source inside the DEA. The placement of underage special agents was the brainchild of none other than the man responsible for the successful Bring Your Drugs to Work Day, DEA wunderkind Dickie Milkweed.

"You see, you can’t attack drugs on the street alone—that’s why the drug war has always failed, just going after the dealers," said Milkweed, sharing a pitcher of beer with a bunch of his DEA buddies while this reporting apparition haunted the corner of the booth. "We’ve got a new way at the DEA—the Milkweed way. And it works. You attack drugs with a three-pronged attack."

Milkweed formed his hand into a three-pronged claw to illustrate, and asked us to ignore his fourth finger and thumb.

"Prong one—that’s deception," said Milkweed. "We lure the dealers and the users into the open. That was what Bring Your Drugs to Work Day was all about. Prong two—that’s the placement of undetectable undercover narcotics officers. People who will never be asked to do drugs or show their loyalties—because dealers think, ’Hey, there’s no way any sane law enforcement group would use a 2-year-old.’ Prong two, although it could go under prong one as a sub-prong, if we needed to, with deception. But then we are missing a vital second prong. Prong three? That’s a secret. I can’t tell you."

Milkweed insists all of the juvenile undercover agents are in no danger, since most are under five, they have never been formally trained and are, in fact, "natural" in their roles as the children of the targets they are assigned to. The agent who assisted in the New Mexico arrest has been in his role with the target family since his birth, and became such a part of the machinery of the drug family he became a trusted member, a long-time goal for any undercover agent. The down side, according to Milkweed, is that wires and listening devices cannot be worn by the agents because they often found during diaper changes.

"People ask me, is putting a 2-year-old agent in the custody of a drug dealer worth the risk to win the drug war?" Milkweed rhetorically asked. "To which I say, have you ever seen a crackhead? I have. On TV. And I never want to see one in real life. We must do everything we can to stop drugs. Maybe if you buy the next pitcher I’ll let you in on prong three."

This reporter did indeed purchase the next rounds of spirits, but the betrayal of mortals showed itself, and I got dick about prong three.

I've got to admit something: Sometimes, in the past, for the sake of my career, I've done stuff that didn't exactly make me feel like a big-time actress. I told this to my shrink once (whoops, 'nother secret out of the bag) and she said, "You mean like Who's Your Daddy?" So I didn't talk to her for the rest of the hour. Big waste of money, but I showed her she can't talk to me like that. Of course I'm proud of Who's Your Daddy?, and all the shows and movies I've done. Stuff like Ho's! is the highlight of my career.

I'm talking about some of the less classy stuff I've done, both to keep the money flowing and to keep my name out there—sometimes that's more important than the money. There's some of the infomercials. I'll tell you, if anyone ever mentions the Waffle Messiah thing to me again, I'm going to have yet another scandal on my hands. But there's not much dignity in infomercials, you might know. Then there's the Metallichick comic book, dressing up for those covers. Not that I have anything against a metal bikini. But it's not the best way to make your big comeback.

Everything's changed now, though. I've got the best idea I've ever had—even better than the idea to write my own screenplay (But I'm still working on that, Nancy, so quit chapping my ass). Picture this: Child Star Fantasy Camp. That's right, a special place where kids of all ages (no one over 18) can come to pretend to be special, like the real child stars. Watched over by the world's greatest child star expert, me, Clarissa Coleman. And some various partners, whoever I can find to put up the scratch.

That's the only real complication right now. It's an otherwise perfect idea. It's not going to start without money, though, which means I've got to find some major investors right away. I'm making calls all the time to former child stars, trying to get them all signed on to appear at the camp. Guest speakers, maybe make some counselors out of the lesser stars—DeGrassi Junior High actors and stuff, or the kids from Witch Mountain. None of that solves the money problem at all. You know how child stars are with their money—I might as well be asking Orion Pictures for the moolah.

I've got big plans for this thing. My first big idea was that we get all really big people for the camp, so all the guests, adult or children or whatever (big stupid kids are welcome) will feel 4 feet tall. We've also got tutors for everyone, who hang out on the set and just sort of stare at you while you're on the phone to your agent. Did I mention everyone gets an agent? It's all one guy, so that part will be cheap. But you always feel like you're his favorite client, even if you're one of 200 kids at the camp.

No kidding, this camp will have it all down. We have three different trailers for each kid, and as your ratings climb higher, you can demand a bigger and bigger trailer. Plus all the amenities. M&Ms (blue only), small finger sandwiches, vodka (kids 8 & older only), a personal masseuse, physical trainer, your own personal entourage and a gangsta rapper (every kid needs a bad influence). If you're a really big star (if you paid the really big star fee) you can even get on our simulated Conan O'Brien show, with Eric Roberts as everyone's favorite not-Craig Kilborne talk show host.

After that peak, the real fun starts. The ratings start to dip. The liquor turns into hard drugs, which turns into homemade drugs and crack-mixed-with-heroin (crackoin). And then… cancellation. That means you leave camp—you don't have to go into syndication, but you can't stay here.

I suppose we could build on a whole "level 2" fantasy camp thing, but that would start to be spooky. Like my real life. What happens when you get to the part where you open your own fantasy camp? Reality would probably eat itself, that's what.

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