Hey, kids, Jimmy the Fetus here, your guide to moral values in the Midwest, helping everyone see that what we learned in Sunday school really matters.
Mom and Dad said they had a plan for financing my first semester at K-State. But it turns out their "plan" was sending a whole lot of cash to the TV preacher who said it would come back "thricefold" in a heavenly blessing. Well, God's scholarship money is late. Got any advice?
Remember what the Bible tells us: "Then all the Midianites and the Amalekites and the people of the East came together, and crossing the Jordan they encamped in the Valley of Jezreel."
In other words, Scott, with parents like yours, your chances of enrolling at K-State are about the same as an Amalekite winning a Pell grant. Not too hot, junior.
Watch out for preachers who claim that prayer can lead to prosperity. Any Bible scholar will tell you the secret to wealth lies not in personal prayer but in a complex decoding of certain books of the Bible. This information is arcane and difficult to master, but even a gill-breathing beginner like me was able to stumble across it after diligent study. I'd fill you in, but there just isn't room in this small space. For $20 and a self-addressed stamped envelope, however, I'd be happy to reveal the holy word's amazing plan for personal wealth. Don't delay!
Got a moral quandary? E-mail Jimmy at email@example.com.
Off the rack and on the town.
Parking lot near 41st Street and State Line Road, 5p.m. Thursday.
Cutting between buildings in the Volker neighborhood, Bud, the Pitch's fashion expert, spots an androgynous yuppiemobile -- a yellow 2002 Ford Escape with tinted windows, a roof rack and KU license-plate holders. He says he can determine the car owner's gender from about 20 yards away. Definitely a guy. How can he be so sure? Beneath the custom plates dangles an 8-inch pair of yellow rubber testicles.
The long reign of the urinating-Calvin window sticker is over, Bud says. The male obsession with cars as sex icons has reached a bawdy new level. "This is the new proclamation of badass, but badass with humor," Bud says. "It's totally funny and totally whimsical." The visual equivalent of a you-might-be-a-redneck joke.
In Bud's continuing effort to understand why people do the things they do, he starts knocking on doors, determined to find the driver.
At a second-story apartment, Bud meets the owner, Monty Bishop, a 35-year-old nurse decked in blue scrubs and a pair of thick gold earrings. Bishop shares the vehicle with his roommate, Ron, a 45-year-old chef at an Italian restaurant in midtown, who comes to the door a minute later. Bishop became infatuated with the idea after being exposed to the pair on his neighbor's F-350 pickup. After a chat with the neighbor, Ron looked at Yournutz.com, where he learned there were molded plastic testes for sale in every imaginable size and color. Founded in 1997 by 47-year-old San Diego off-roader David Ham, a former termite inspector, the company sells around 40,000 ball sacs every year. Half the proceeds go toward testicular-cancer research. "It's just like the Lance Armstrong bracelets," Ron says. And, like the Armstrong fund-raisers, Bishop's nutsac is bright yellow, a gift from Ron, who paid $26 for the ornament.
Since adding the man-sac, the roommates love running errands. "I spend time watching in the rearview mirror," Bishop says. "People wave and laugh back." At a shopping center in Merriam, the swinging package seemed to hypnotize a couple coming out of Old Navy. At a wheel rotation at a Shawnee Mission service center, mechanics jacked up the vehicle and did a double take. Bikers outside Johnny Dare's cheered. Friends at Buddies rushed out to cop a feel. When Bishop recently met his mom at a Payola watering hole, she jokingly complained that two bikers were outside fondling his balls. Again.
"Every bar I go to, people have to touch them," he says.
When Ron got pulled over for speeding on Interstate 70 the other day, the cop simply ignored his decoration. So far, the only critic has been an older woman who shouted inanities while walking with her husband on the Plaza.
"I said, 'I hope your husband does not get testicular cancer,'" Ron says.
With Bishop's permission, Bud descends the stairs and kneels for an up-close inspection. He notes that the novelty is anatomically correct -- one ball slightly lower than the other -- and practically unblemished. Bishop says they never scrape pavement. "I don't think they hang that low," he says. "But I'm careful when I wash them."
Notes from KC's blogosphere.
Taco Bell needs to forget all these gimmicky promos for new tacos and junk and reintroduce the public to the Meximelt. With some time to kill between things this evening, I went to a Taco Bell on Barry Road. I ordered a burrito supreme, a soft taco supreme and a Meximelt. This kid behind me asks me what a Meximelt is, and, baffled, I say, "It's heaven." Not only do they melt the cheese, it also includes pico de gallo and fresh cilantro. It frightens me to think that there are high school kids that don't know what a Meximelt is.
From "Clouds and Poop," the online diary of a local sportswriter.