n the wake of the catastrophic flooding that hit New Atlantis/New Orleans this week following Hurricane Katrina, tens of thousands of refugees have been evacuated from their submerged homes and treated to an exciting whirlwind tour of America’s domed sporting facilities.

“Don’t worry, the government will take care of you all,� explained President Bush, who drastically cut funding for levee upgrades in order to pay for a war in Iraq, so terrorists wouldn’t be able to destroy a major American city like New Orleans. “We’re sending water wings and crossword puzzle books on the double.�

Upon being plucked from their rooftops and attics after breeched levees on Lake Pontchartrain submerged the city in up to twenty feet of water, thousands of New Orleans residents were transported to the Superdome, home of the NFL’s New Orleans Saints, for emergency lodging, beer, and giant cheese-filled pretzels.

“I really appreciated that they opened the Superdome to us,� expressed flooding victim LaTrevor Wynn. “But I gotta say they gouged the fuck out of us for boat parking at the stadium. I was saying we should park a few blocks away and swim to the stadium, but there was some guy in a wheel chair who wanted us to just pony up the money. I guess he was rich or something.�

Good spirits quickly turned foul, however, when the stadium’s power and sewage systems both failed, and they ran out of souvenir air horns. Before long, deteriorating conditions and asshole Saints fans forced the evacuation of the Superdome, which by then smelled strongly of poor people.

Refugees from the Superdome, which is now almost completely under water, were moved by bus to the Astrodome in Houston, formerly home to over 30 years of bad baseball courtesy of the National League’s Houson Astros, as well as the catastrophic 1992 Republican National Convention that offered America one last chance to listen to Ronald Reagan flapping his cheek meat.

Relief efforts at the Astrodome were short-lived however, as over 100 refugees suffered knee injuries from the stadium’s unforgiving Astroturf playing surface. Several reported serious cases of rugburn as well.

Re-refugees from the Astrodome were then bussed to Minneapolis, Minnesota, where a disappointing summer performance by the local Twins has left plenty of empty seats in the Metrodome.

“This place blows,� complained disaster victim and dome expert Marvin Milk. “It has all the ambiance of a bus station and the hot dogs are gross.�

Fellow refugees agreed about the hot dogs, but gave high marks to the stadium’s nacho hats, a popular refugee staple. Problems arose at the Metrodome, however, after some disenfranchised dickcheese left the stadium’s back door open, allowing all the air to escape and collapsing the dome’s pressurized roof. Some blame the mishap on the Metrodome’s short-sighted no-smoking policy.

The remaining refugees who didn’t take to wading through Minneapolis’ many metropolitan lakes out of sheer habit were shipped to either the Skydome in Toronto, Canada, or the Tacomadome in Tacoma, Washington.

“Man, this sucks. I knew we were going to get the Tacomadome,� bitched flooding victim Marcy Flobere of New Orleans.

A few lucky victims were bussed instead to Tropicana Field in St. Petersberg, Florida, which has a part time gig as the home of baseball’s Tampa Bay Devil Rays in-between housing refugees from the region’s monthly hurricane disasters.

Tropicana Field has not been without its share of problems, however, ranging from occasional hurricane damage to the roof and overcrowded bathrooms to the stinky, lousy baseball taking place on-field.

“This has been a disaster. I’ve had to watch four Devil Rays’ games this week,� groused Tropicana Field refugee Homer Angus. “This is worse than the hurricane.�

Government officials have assured the tired, huddled masses that they will be allowed to return to their homes in New Orleans as soon as disaster-relief workers can find the city.

n the midst of one of the most embarrassing seasons in baseball history, the lowly Kansas City Royals saved some face this week, defeating the defending champions from Willemstad, Curacao in a stunning upset to claim their first Little League World Series title.

Kansas City took the game 7-6 on first baseman Matt Stairs’ takeout of Curacao catcher Willie Rifaela during a collision at the plate in the bottom of the 11th inning. Rifaela held onto the ball, but Stairs was ruled safe since Rifaela flew off the playing field at the moment of impact.

“Willie gave it a hell of an effort,� praised Curacao manager Vernon Isabella. “Especially considering he was outweighed by nearly 200 pounds in the collision. If he hadn’t come out of his shoes like that when the American hit him, I think we could have held on to win the game.�

Kansas City immediately basked in the sweetness of the victory, a rare experience for Royals players this season.

“In your face, Billy!� screamed Royals reliever Mike MacDougal, shoving a young boy’s cap down over his eyes.

Kansas City catcher John Buck credited his team’s success with the fact that the Curacao pitchers were too young to throw curveballs yet. Largely thanks to the elusive curve, Buck is hitting .220 this season against adult competition.

After finishing off baseball’s longest losing streak in 17 years, Kansas City manager Buddy Bell thought it would be a good idea to boost his team’s confidence by taking a break from their regular schedule to face some less-challenging competition. After making a few calls, Bell was able to enlist the AAA Topeka Ding Dogs to fill in on Kansas City’s recent road trip through Boston and New York.

“Nobody even noticed,� sniffed third baseman Mark Teahen. “I’d take that as an insult if I wasn’t so high off of spanking those little Curacan punks.�

Bell was then able to buy off the North American finalists from Ewa Beach in West Oahu with a case of PSP gaming consoles and a pornographic magazine, allowing the Royals to enter the title game in their stead.

For the first several innings it looked like even this game might not go Kansas City’s way, as 11-year-old Curacao pitcher Cookie DelRay dazzled the Royals hitters with his 67-mile-an-hour fastball and a changeup that failed to register on the radar gun.

“That kid was throwing BBs,� complimented a humbled Angel Berroa. “He also hid the ball really well for someone four feet tall.�

But the Royals stuck to their plan of exploiting their size advantage and the fact that the regulation Little League field is quite a bit smaller than major league standards.

“Come back when you got hair on your balls, little man!� gloated Royals outfielder Ruben Gotay, after drawing a walk and stealing all three bases to score in the sixth inning, thanks to the regulation field’s 60-foot base paths.

“You can’t touch this heat, little bitch!� bragged a proud D.J. Carrasco, after striking out 10-year-old Jurickson Profar of Curacao on a pitch many felt was inside.

After Rifaela was fished out of a nearby tree and carted off the field, the Royals were presented with their Little League World Champions trophy and coupons for sundaes at a local Baskin Robbins.

“I think this really could be the turning point for our season,� announced a wistful Terrence Long, high off the thrill of dominating elementary-school competition.

Kansas City returned to the majors on Monday, losing five of their next seven games.

I am royally bummed, good people. I can say that without fear of contradiction. For one, because anyone can verify how true it is, and two, because I'm simply not afraid of contradictions anymore. The therapy is working. I can't control when someone else disagrees, so I just have to let it go and move on with my life.

But back to business—my bummed nature. It's nothing too severe, but I'm quite disappointed that I've exhausted my supply of Haitian cigarettes. I knew they wouldn't last forever, but I had no idea they would go so fast. It seems no sooner had I stepped off the plane than I completely emptied my little baggy full. What a shame.

I should explain myself, since I haven't informed you of my wonderful find yet. On vacation in Haiti with the Mrs., my Mrs., just in case you wondered, I discovered the one high-quality product they make in Haiti: cigarettes. If you think you've smoked wonderful, mind-blowing tobacco before, good people, you haven't smoked anything like Haitian tobacco. It makes your mind come alive with possibilities, and suddenly everything becomes funnier and more important than it previously had been. Now that's good tobacco.

In truth, I had intended to do more on my honeymoon—parasail, scuba dive, leave the hotel in some fashion, but I had to let Mrs. Finger run off by herself, because I so enjoyed sitting in my room, smoking Haitian tobacco and watching cartoons on television. It is that good, my friends. You can bet I packed a healthy supply of handrolled—they're all handrolled down there—cigarettes before I came back to the States.

I worried about having trouble with them on the plane, if you know what I mean—smoking's prohibited. Well, of course, I knew it would be difficult to resist the fine, fresh flavor of Haitian tobacco for the entire plane ride, so I taped all my cigarettes under my armpits before departing for home. The customs official gave me an odd look when he searched me, and I was worried he might jostle them loose and, well, I'd start smoking all 635 of them right away, right there in the airport. Ha! What a sight that would have been. But he didn't even touch them, really. So I got back to our fine country with all my cigarettes intact.

But, alas, they're all gone now. I've never been much of a smoker, really, even though I like to try new things and I always do what people on TV do. These are good, though, I smelled them at a party the first night I was in the country and knew I had to try them. Still, as I said, they're gone now. I finished the last one two days ago and have been, how you might say, "jonesing" for a new one ever since. I've tried regular cigarettes in their stead, but none of them have that smooth, uplifting feeling of real Haitian tobacco.

I'm not saying I'm desperate or anything, but I have taken to driving around bad neighborhoods, looking for Haitians who can hook me up, give me just a little "fix"—since I do feel like I need a tune-up that only satisfying Haitian tobacco can give me. When I see a Haitian, I roll down the window and yell, "Smoke, smoke!" I hope I'm not underestimating their language skills, they may even speak English, but how am I to know that? I'm just anxious to get my hands on some of their nifty cigarettes, and don't have time for lengthy conversation.

Lee says he knows a fellow in some sort of "joint" that knows a guy who can get me Haitian tobacco. Not that I don't believe him, but I worry he's holding out on me, in some fashion. I told him I have the money, or I will by the time I get my next paycheck, or I get paid for the TV that I sold to the neighbor. Right now I need just a little taste—the taste of fine Haitian tobacco.

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