Filthy Dirt Sucker

A couple weeks back, I got a phone call that changed my outlook on life forever.  You see, I was a real skeptic before this call.  When offered anything of value with no perceived commitment or required purchase, I'd assume it was a scam and blow the person off.

This archaic, unenlightened approach to life was blown away with this one short phone call.  With this divine telephonic outreach, I realized that there truly is good in the world and when someone says you've been selected to win a $500 shopping spree and a 3-day/2-night vacation at one of many destinations around the globe, just for inviting someone in your house for an easy product demo and survey, you'd be a chump to not take advantage of this naive person.

Apparently I'd answered a few "survey" questions a few weeks prior and had been entered into a completely legit "drawing" and won these fantastic prizes.  What were the survey questions about you ask?  They were hard-hitting and extremely valuable ones relating to my age, sex, and marital status.  And something about my preference regarding "Boxers vs. Briefs."

Because of my esteemed cooperation, I'd won.  I was a winner.  I hadn't won something this major since dominating a game of musical chairs and winning a lemon meringue pie back in '85 (Beth, if you're out there somewhere, I'd just like to apologize one more time for totally accidentally clothes-lining you in the neck with my boney arm, stepping on your femur (twice), and using your crumpling body as a prop to keep me from falling as I blew past you to the last remaining chair.  I sincerely hope everything has healed properly).

Still, being a skeptic, I had to do my diligence to make sure this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity was completely legitimate.  So, I turned the tables and played the role of market researcher.  Behold me unveil the facts like a seasoned CIA interrogator.

Me:  "I don't have to buy anything?"
Very Pleasant But Suspiciously Vague Woman:  "No. All you need to do to claim your prize is participate in a product demo and answer some survey questions at the end."
Me:  "Well, that sounds good.  What's the product?"
VPBSVW:  "It's a new high-end vacuum."
Me: "Interesting.  Are you guys going to try to sell me a vacuum?"
VPBSVW:  "Getting you to answer the survey questions about the product is my guy's primary concern."
Me:  "Are you sure you're not going to try to sell me a vacuum?"
VPBSVW:  "The product will be available for purchase, if you like it."

Me:  "This is market research though right?"

VPBSVW:  "Mm hmm."
Me:  "And this is not a sales call?"
VPBSVW:  "Yes."  
Me:  "Wait, yes it's not a sales call or yes it is a sales call?"
VPBSVW:  "Yes."  
Me:  "Can you be more specific."  
VPBSVW:  "No.  My legal team will not let me."  
Me:  "But I still win a $500 shopping spree without buying anything right?
VPBSVW:  "Right."  

Me:  "$500 U.S., right?"

VPBSVW:  "Yes! And don't forget the 3 day/2 night trip also!"

It's clear to me at this point that I better act fast before this idiot company goes bankrupt.  I confirm a 45 minute in-home product demo for later that afternoon and hang up the phone.  
Me:  "Heh, suckers!"

A gentleman named Mike showed up that afternoon and, after buttering us up with small talk that would embarrass a politician, launched right into his demo.   He pulled out what can best be described as a fat, blue robot.  "This," said Mike "is the Blue Thunder!"  That's obviously not the real name of the product.  No one would name their product something that silly.  I changed the name for this article to protect myself and the Blue Max vacuum company from any liability.

Mike, if that's his real name, went on to dazzle us on all 734 uses of the Blue Thunder (air freshener, leaf blower, day laborer, infant babysitter, etc.) - none of which entailed actual dirt removal.  If that wasn't enough to elicit fresh drool, he started vacuuming our rug.  This is where Mike blew his cover.

Apparently the purpose of Mike's visit wasn't to do a product demonstration.  The real reason it seems was on behalf of the National Clean As A Hospital Home Public Safety Administration (NCAAHHPSA) to deliver the message that my house was filthier than a public handrail and that it was a miracle that my wife and I had not yet died from some dirt-borne illness.  He demonstrated this through the use of vacuum filters, which he courteously laid out on our coffee table for us to look at in horror.  It took the Blue Thunder a dozen filters to make our rug look brand new again.  It took my wife a dozen martinis to keep from going into shock.        

To our defense, the Blue Thunder is a modern marvel and cleaned well beyond surface dirt.  It found particles of dirt which I'm pretty sure weren't left by us.  It appeared that the last few filters held old ancient Anasazi toe jam left at the site of my house some time shortly before Hugh Hefner was born.  This is the raw power of this little blue drum of steel.

Believe it or not though, the supernatural cleaning power of the Blue Thunder was not the real shocker.  Mike spent the next 15 minutes preparing us for the retail value of his product.  You know the drill, he began quoting prices of comparable products such as Gulf Stream IV's and mega-yachts (Blue Thunder is both capable of flying and cruising the high seas).  Mike finally revealed the price silently via paper.  This vacuum was roughly the cost of a new home.  Okay, I'm exaggerating a bit.  It was roughly the cost of a used home.  In the distance I could hear my bank account shriek before closing shop faster than a sphincter at the proctologist.

Although this was technically still a product demonstration for the purpose of market research, Mike spent the next 45 minutes trying to get us to buy one.  He even went as far as to cut the price in half after we employed the hardball negotiation tactic of, "we don't have that kind of money."  Even after the "discount" my wife and I would have rather taken on ownership of the national debt than commit financial suicide by making this purchase.

As for the prizes, Mike was seemingly legally obligated to hand us the certificates on his way out.  Upon scrutiny, the $500 shopping spree was for esteemed products (such as an inflatable patio table) worth no more than $0.47 and a buyer-covered shipping cost per item of on average $10.  So essentially, in order to claim $500 worth of products, I'd have to spend $750 in shipping for items that were worth in aggregate $20.  The trip prize was okay.  It boiled down to two free nights at a hotel - we're still unsure whether that requires our presence at a timeshare meeting.

With the price of the Blue Thunder, one sold vacuum alone could cover roughly (let's see, move the decimal over, carry the one, forget the remainder) . . . 347 trips and a number too large to actually fit within this post of shopping sprees of "quality" products.  So continuing the mathematical problem solving above, with four sales at retail price, the Blue Thunder vacuum company would make the gross earnings of the entire Fortune 100 combined look like those of an 8 year-old's lemonade stand in the middle of winter.

The moral of the story, besides me having the marketing savvy of a macaroon?  Don't do market research, it will just end up crushing your false sense of cleanliness and dig up ghosts of your past - literally.  Besides, my wife is pressuring me to buy this amazing product and once we do, I won't have enough money to cover the shipping on the amazing ultra-utility Flashlight/Compass/Water Pick/HD Sunglasses product.  At least I'll have someone to throw the Frisbee for my dog while I'm at work.  Let's see if I can get a Blue Max for less than the GDP of the Dominican Republic.

Jet Blue-Balled

Steven Slater sure knows how to make an exit.  The 38 year-old (ex)flight attendant stuck it to the man in a fashion suitable for the big-screen.  Slater quit his job in a sequence of events that would make a Judd Apatow screenplay turn tricks for a typewriter just to get this scene down on paper.  

What did he do?  If you haven't heard this popular news story already, you either spent the last 72 hours in the "hole" at the local "Super Max," or you're like me and have the short-term memory of rock salt.    

On a Jet Blue flight from Pittsburgh to New York on Monday, Slater got into a little tiff with a female passenger who apparently told him to go pleasure himself in so many words.  In return, our bashful flight attendant went to the PA system and publicly returned the favor.  He proceeded to grab a couple beers from the beverage cart - well that kills the insanity argument, he's obviously thinking clearly - and then deployed the airplane's emergency slide for a quick getaway.  Passengers could hear a fading "Yippee Ki-Yay M***** F***ers!" as Slater slid into the sunset.   

This guy emits more drama than Broadway.  He's going to need it too if he's to beat the rap in court.  Needless to say, he's been "Blue-Balled" by Jet Blue - their term, not mine . . . maybe.   

Quite frankly, I'm surprised a complete meltdown from a flight attendant hasn't happened sooner.  They should be given medals for surviving a certain amount of time with Joe Public - say every 5 minutes.  This isn't just normal public either; it's the dreaded "Traveling Public."  You know, the folks who wouldn't think twice about "shanking" a fellow traveler if they thought it would get them to their gate 5 seconds earlier.  

I can't even make it 3 minutes at the grocery store without feeling like I need to stick my head into the deli section's chicken rotisserie (roast until golden-brown), let alone deal with Satan incarnate - aka "Travelers."  For the good of society, and my non-roasted melon, I should really just stay at home.   

If I ran an airliner, my employee recognition program for flight attendants and crew would be similar to that to Alcoholics Anonymous.  The annual awards banquet might go something like this:

President of Airline (me, of course):  "Ladies and male flight attendants of Wingless Air ("We Fly In Straight Lines"), we've given out our prestigious tokens to those of you that have hit the one-minute, ten-minute, and thirty-minute periods of maintaining a fake smile.  Congratulations to the four of you.  And now it's time to give out the most coveted prize of the year.  The benchmark and goal of our customer service mission statement . . . the ROUND TRIPPER Token!"

[Mass applause and rambunctious cheers from 401K invested employees and spouses or significant others in attendance]

PoA:  "We actually have a winner this year!"

[More of the same from audience unable to contain their excitement]

PoA:  "For resisting the urge to perform unnecessary tracheostomies on passengers with a plastic spork, for an entire round trip flight between Houston and Austin, our winner this year is . . . (. . . . . drumroll . . . . . ) . . . Sandy B. Hines!  Come on up Sandy and tell us how you did it."

[In their elevated height of excitement, the crowd begins throwing chairs and removing various articles of clothing in their frenzied scramble to get closer to the stage]

Sandy B. Hines:  "Well, oh my gosh, I'm so excited.  I can't believe I really actually won.  How did I do it?  Well, my secret is to take one minute and one passenger at a time.  That, and totally legal prescription medications.  Lots of them . . . together . . . and all throughout the day."

Now, let's slowly back away from my little fantasy and recap this post (aka "Two minutes you'll never get back").  Steven Slater may be out of a job, but the good news is he's gotten his 15 minutes of fame and is almost guaranteed a book deal and/or reality show.  Also, for those of you looking for a job that offers career advancement via slide, I hear Jet Blue has an opening.

If you need me, I'll be in the basement watching Judd Apatow movies.  There seems to be less Public down there.  

Coronal Mass Ejection

I don't want to alarm any of you out there, but according to this story, a massive solar flare - dubbed "cosmic tsunami" - which may or may not have marked the end of times last night and/or in the next five minutes, is heading directly towards Earth, if not already here.

The Sun's surface erupted early Sunday morning, shooting a wall of ionized atoms directly at Earth, scientists say.  "This eruption is directed right at us and is expected to get here early in the day on Aug. 4," said Leon Golub of the Harvard-Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics.

The article continues to describe these eruptions as "coronal mass ejections," which sounds suspiciously like what happens after a long night of drinking cervezas at Senor Frogs - also known as a good time.  So what does this mean for us exactly?

When a coronal mass ejection reaches Earth, solar particles stream down our planet's magnetic field lines toward the poles. In the process, the particles collide with atoms of nitrogen and oxygen in the Earth's atmosphere, which then glow, creating an effect similar to miniature neon signs.

Numerous reports have been received that solar particles have already affected liquor stores and "man-caves" across the country.

As for the solar eruption's arrival, if the Sun's transportation industry is anything like ours, the flares should arrive several hours late, hungry (their ticket price did not include a meal), and with a full bladder.  Citizens are urged to avoid airport bars and public restrooms - this PSA has absolutely nothing to do with the solar flares.

Speaking of airlines, pilots and passengers may be at the most risk for exposure to radiation, described in this report as "levels akin to getting an X-ray."  So, if you are fortunate enough to be flying today, it is highly recommended that you call your dentist immediately upon arrival and schedule a regular appointment, so that he/she can examine your glowing roots from the convenience of their office while you're still in the parking lot - and you can avoid the expense of losing your lunch due to gag reflex when the dental assistant jams those lunchbox-sized film holders into the back of your mouth, roughly 3 inches from your large intestine.  Getting X-rayed at the dentist is about as much fun as trying to fit Shaq's fist in your mouth, but with a little more discomfort.

Dental Assistant:  "Okay, just a few more pictures of your molars now.  I'm just going to use this ski pole to push the film back in place.  [prod][poke][jam]  There.  How's that?"

You:  "Aglglgllglagll." [drool]

Dental Assistant:  Good.  Don't move . . .
     
NASA scientists are also concerned about the negative effects of these electric pulses on our country's electricity grids.  They fear our electricity infrastructure could be crippled for years.  Upon hearing this warning, the House of Representatives, in a rare show of bipartisanship, leapt into action and passed a 750 trillion dollar "emergency" bill to cover our power stations in microwaveable plastic wrap.  The 50,000 page bill has been named the "Tsunamic-sized And Robust Pillaging" program or "TARP III" aka "Return of the TARP," which has many returning actors from the first two installments.  

No reports of outages have been received yet from cities across the nation, but Detroit seems to be especially quiet on the matter, which is believed to be due to the absence of - for lack of a better term - infrastructure.  Also, the cordless bulldozers leveling the city are assumed to be a modified version of the battery-operated Chevy Volt, whose 40-mile range has been deemed "more than enough" and "of no concern" by union officials if such a power failure is to occur.  Although cheaper to produce than a Chevy Volt, traditional bulldozers were scrapped last month because of their rumored "efficiency" in moving things.  This problem is not anticipated with the $41,000 Volt.    
Authorities are asking anyone who experiences power outages, radiation poisoning, or a tan - quote "darker than George Hamilton" - to report it immediately to Congress so that they can cast you in TARP IV - Jason Vs. Freddy.  

On a final note, if you need me I'll be at the bar and/or the polls for some much needed coronal mass ejection.

Pre-Game Coverage

Well gang, another new sports season is almost upon us.  Can you smell it in the air?  It's the smell of blood, that special ingredient missing from baseball that keeps it a sport only worth watching on a hot, lazy summer afternoon as you doze off on the couch.  Blood is definitely not missing from this fall sport.  No it's ruthlessly splashed by the fried chicken bucket loads - along with vulgar insults, dirty tricks, below-the-belt attacks, broken bones, and fingers to the eyes and other exposed orifices.   

That's right, the 2010 midterm elections are almost here.  

The political season brings out individuals more bloodthirsty than a vegan vampire.  Speaking of vampires, this one-day event is preceded by 90 days of non-stop coverage by the media (Slogan: "We can make a turnip seem like breaking news."), where one can gain invaluable insight into ongoing debates on important issues such as immigration reform, renewable energy sources, and what Sarah Palin will be wearing.  

More importantly, through reasoned and civil discussion, but mostly anonymous TV ads, we'll learn who to blame for our problems.  From the oil spill in the gulf, to the state of the economy, to Justin Bieber's fame.  Nothing will be kept secret. 

So dear readers, we have a civic duty to tune into the cable news networks and stare at our television screens and monitors until we are fully informed on the issues and/or our IQ has dropped to that of a cast member of the Jersey Shore.  One unnamed political party is actually rooting for the latter - you know, new voters.    

Listen up folks, this is our big chance to vote out those old, corrupt, morally bankrupt, elitist blowhards and replace them with young, more energetic corrupt, morally bankrupt, elitist blowhards.  If our country is going to be run by people who exercise the common sense of an olive (I would have compared them to my dog Gunner, but that'd be unfair - even he knows when his food bowl is empty), then it's going to be MY picks taking office.    

The conclusion of the midterm elections in November also kicks-off the highly anticipated "700 days of even more grotesque coverage", i.e. the 2012 Presidential race, where you and I will play an integral part in who becomes the next "Most Hated American!"  It's like So You Think You Can Dance, but with an age minimum of 50, an Ivy League prerequisite, and contestants are dancing around issues, not the floor.  No word yet from Simon Cowell's people on whether he'll moderate televised debates.   

"That was a terrible idea, I mean just awful.  My advice would be if you want to pursue a career in politics, don't."  

Speaking of debates, one of topics that will undoubtedly dominate the midterms will be the high unemployment rate, or as a politician will never put it, "a deficit in jobs."  However, there's some good news out there according to a news story by Ellen Wulfhorst (loose translation:  Horse Dog) titled North Dakota, Alaska Lead U.S. Job Creation, Study Says. 

A study I'm sure any incumbent with the common sense of an olive will be quick to point out and try to take credit for - possibly even the politicians from these two states.  The article details that North Dakota and Alaska have added the most jobs in the last five years at a combined 31,400, which is oddly close to their combined populations.  

So, if you're looking for work, why not pack up your family and give one of these two foreign lands a try?  Here's a brief profile of each state to further entice you:

North Dakota

State Motto:  "If you want to kill yourself out of boredom on the drive out here, you're halfway there!" and "No, we're not the one with Mount Rushmore."

Home of the:  "Fleischkuekle" - a deep fried entree of fleisch covered in dough.

State Mascot:  "Pavey" the desolate highway.

Alaska

State Motto:  "Making Canadians look tan since 1867!" and "[sound of chattering teeth]"

Home of the:  Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race and the universally renowned Alaska Hummingbird Festival

State Mascot:  "Steven Seagal" for reminding the "lower states" that Alaska still existed in his 1994 film On Deadly Ground, which took place and was filmed within the state (rumors abound that Mr. Seagal's ponytail died of frostbite during filming and has been replaced by hair extensions ever since).

As you can see, the stakes are high.  We hold our very destinies with our votes and it's crucial we make the right decisions.  Lest we be forced to move to North Dakota and drown our country's sorrows with martinis - hold the olives.

The Granny Panty Bandit

I'm sure you've all grown tired of the coverage of the "Barefoot Bandit."  You know, that teenager from Washington with freakishly oversized feet.  Judging by the chalk outlines he left behind in many of his Bahamian robberies, I'd guesstimate those ground-pounders to be about 30 inches long, or roughly what you'd expect from the love child of King-Kong and Big Foot, which is totally plausible considering we all know that Big Foot resides in the mountains of Washington and that the Washington coastline is closest to Skull Island - birthplace of King-Kong.  It was really only a matter of time before those two monkeys engaged in an elaborate mating ritual involving the climbing of tall buildings and scaring intoxicated, toothless hunters.

Where was I?  Oh yes, of course - the Barefoot Bandit.  Clearly this was a case of a child drowning in the Lake Huron sized shadow of his follicly-saturated parents.  Cast in this light, it's no wonder he both hid from and egged-on the authorities, doing his best to garner a larger following of Facebook friends than the P-units.

This story is over and we are definitely moving on, but what we may have not seen coming is the inspirational effect this lad's toe jam has had on other criminals in the underground bandit world.

In the spirit of Jesse James (not the tattoo gunslinging one), I present you the first awesome copy cat of the Barefoot Bandit - and I'm not making this up - the "Granny Panty Bandit."

At 3 AM last Tuesday morning, a 51 year-old woman robbed a McDonalds in Oklahoma wearing a "white stretch girdle" around her face as a mask.  Don't believe me?  Here's a link to the story and a picture (disclaimer: any damage to property or bodily harm caused by violent convulsions and/or spitting of liquids brought on by this image is purely on purpose and you can thank me later).          

Now, anyone who's ever seen an episode of Cops - or lives in certain parts of Florida - knows that white stretch girdles are actually granny panties (not that there's anything wrong with that), hence the name.

It's been rumored (by me) that this robber stated, "stick'em up, or I'll put these things on" during the attempt.  Money was exchanged faster than an octogenarian can say, "Bingo!"

The list of unorthodox bandits doesn't end here.  The next on the list - and again, I am NOT making this up - is the "Bouquet Bandit."  From the article at Reuters:

Dubbed the "bouquet bandit" by local news media, Pemberton is accused of pulling out a note demanding money -- first from under a potted plant and then from inside a bouquet of flowers -- and handing it to the bank tellers.

This bandit tried gold jewelry on his first attempts, but quickly found out the banks were getting the better deal.   He then tried boxes of chocolate, but had a hard time making the exchange with female tellers who were on diets, which naturally led him to employ flowers.

Ladies and gentlemen of the internet jury, I give you Evidence C:

The Force was with a man when he robbed a bank wearing a Darth Vader mask and a cape.

Armed with a gun instead of a light saber, the man entered a Chase bank branch in Setauket, New York, about 50 miles east of New York City, on Thursday and demanded cash from a teller, police said.

This particular bandit has been branded - you guessed it - the "This Is No Halloween Costume It's A Lifestyle 40 Year-old Virgin Living With Mom Bandit."  There's no proof, but this writer would bet a dozen still-in-their-original-packages Princess Leia figurines that this guy's only friend Skip was waiting in an '83 Honda hatchback in full Storm Trooper gear.

Next up for public adoration?  The "Trout Shin Guard Bandit." I may or may not have court recognized proof of the actual existence of this criminal (I'm sure it's only a matter of time).  Inspired by the recent conclusion of the World Cup and for his love of fishing, this bandit affixed fresh rainbow trout to his shins in the hopes of thwarting any attempts at slide-tackling him during his getaway.  Estimated Facebook fans: 1,438,330.

Gee, this horrible economy is getting terribly entertaining.  It's a good thing we have so many heroes to cheer on.

Maniac Drivers

If you’re like me and have an attention span greater than a standard keyboard, you also have probably noticed that there are a lot of bad drivers out there.  Luckily for us, I’m a trained journalist and have done some research.  By trained I mean I’ve become proficient with Google search. 

There are three kinds of drivers in this world: 1.) Drivers who go too fast, 2.) drivers who go too slow, and 3.) drivers who are completely insane, devoid of any rationality, and probably on the juice (anabolic and/or apple).  

You and I both know that we are always going the perfect speed for any given situation and we’re never the “jerk” out there.  So, this leaves us with only two possibilities for those who cut us off without using a turn signal, swerve across four lanes of highway to make an exit, or tailgate us doing 80 only to violently peel out from behind our car, drive beside us and flip us a spiny, calcium carbonate covered arm.

This culprit could possibly be someone from Green Peace, but they drive solar-powered vehicles made from hollowed-out trees incapable of going faster than a slug, so that leaves us with only one conceivable option – a Starfish.

You see, these oceanic creatures are not like you and me.  When we drive we generally recognize the existence of traffic law.  Oh sure, we don’t always adhere to the less significant laws such as stopping for red lights, but overall we’re courteous to one another.  Not the starfish.  The starfish’s sole purpose in life is to lie on the ocean floor and wait to be eaten and/or bullied by much stronger species – like the sea cucumber. 

So, it comes as no surprise that when washed up on the beach, these five-armed bandits jump at the opportunity for some action.  With a pocket full of sand dollars, they hot-wire the nearest car and set out in search of the closest casino to be reunited with their distant, four-times removed, cousin – the one-armed bandit.  It’s not all fun and games.  If the starfish fails to find a casino that comps drinks, they dry-out and die – hence the urgency and suicidal speed on the road.  The starfish’s favorite drink is a gin and tonic.           

Oh sure they look cute nestled in a tide pool, but get them behind the wheel of an F-350 and it's a totally different story.  Take it from me, twisted metal and dismembered crustaceans is not a pretty sight.  So when you see one of these drivers out there, lock up your lobsters and get to a safe place - such as your local aquarium - immediately.  

Why an aquarium?  I feel silly explaining this, because it seems so obvious.  Aquariums are correctional facilities for all sea-faring criminals and the last place any self-respecting Echinoderm would want to be.   

"But Cynicus, what if my town doesn't have an aquarium?"  

A town without an aquarium is a lawless outpost where a lemon shark named Sparky calls all the shots.  In this place, the Sushi holds the knives and the chef’s special is Turf and Turf.  In other words, not a place you want to call home. 

Be safe out there friends.  You never know when you’ll get in between a starfish and his favorite gaming destination.

Some of you may be wondering about other dangerous distractions with drivers.  A recent Pew research study found that nine in ten 34-45 year-olds drive and talk on their cell phones at the same time – very unnerving indeed.

My response to the survey is two-fold.  First, wow, I didn’t know starfish lived that long and, secondly, how do they get their appendages to dial such tiny keys?

Ho Ho Ho, Green Giant

While strolling about the backyard for an early morning walkabout (sometimes I wake up in the same place I went to sleep and it disturbs me, so I just need to get out of the house to clear my head), something caught my eye in the corner of the yard.  Actually, "caught my eye" is probably the wrong phrase.  "Blocked the rising sun" is more accurate.

"Holy Mother of Papa Smurf! What in Heidi Montag's name is that?"

"That wasn't here last night," I thought.

Here's what I saw:

Notice the one gallon gasoline container I put beside the growth, so that you too could fully appreciate the sheer enormity of this beast.  I pragmatically chose the gas just in case I need to quickly douse and burn this bad boy if it ever threatens to overtake my house.  I could have used a plastic toy soldier to exaggerate its height, but I'm not one to employ the deceitful trick of exaggeration.

Now, I'm no botanist, but I know a stalk of sweet corn when I see one.  It's either that or a Redwood.  It can't be anything else, because I Googled both "massively tall sequoia" and "tall skinny vegetable stalk grown in the Midwest" and only could connect this life-form growing in my backyard with these two species and an SUV the size of Pittsburgh.  I do remember hearing something about Redwoods only growing on the West Coast, but then again we have had a lot rain this season.  I mean, if a large animal like the Ostrich can fly, anything is possible.

Some other possibilities were found, but drawing any correlations would be stretching it.  A true scientist never stretches, with exception to picking up a dropped beaker.  A true scientist also never eats a large meal prior to swimming.

While taking this majestic sight in, my dog Gunner trotted over and peed on it, so it must be a good thing.  He only pees on objects valuable to my family, like our raspberry bushes, the sofa, or his sister Piper.  Rest assured, if this was some kind of Amazonian Yard Weed he would have steered clear.  God knows if it were broccoli he would've eaten it.

To determine the real value of my Sweet Redwood Corn Tree I looked up the records for height on both corn and Redwoods.  The record for corn is 16 ft. according to Guinness.  The tallest Redwood on record is 379 ft.

I'm going for it.  Here's my logic.  The corn record is going to be cake.  In a mere twelve hours my prized crop grew 3 and a half feet.  That's 42 green inches total, or 7 feet per day for you math aficionados out there (What's that on your shirt? Ah ha! Made you look Urkel!).  According to Texas Instruments this little big guy will surpass the Redwood record in approximately 54 days.  

So in a couple months, I'm having the neighborhood over and I'm lighting this sucker up for a celebration that will make Burning Man look like a bunch of kids hovered around an Easy-Bake Oven.  You bring the movie and I'll provide the popcorn.

Adios Futbol, Hello Starbucks

Hola amigos.  You feel a little different today don't you?  Perhaps a little less care free and no longer in harmony with your brethren around the planet.

As you should, Americans across the country are feeling hung-over (four shots of whiskey, six beers, and a baker's dozen Yagermeister night caps, hung-over).  The effects from our month-long binge into universal culture have caught up to us.  With Spain's victory over the Netherlands, our European inspired global holiday has come to an end.

Do you hear that?  I don't either.  It's silence.  We may never hear the soothing sounds of the vuvuzela ever again.  Thanks to their Gulfstream IV jet engine equivalent sound pressure, we might not hear anything else either.  But, that would be a blessing.  What earthly sound could ever replace those heavenly horns, the screams of intoxicated, Harry Potter scarf wearing fans, or grown men's cries of Shakespearian agony as they plummet 27 inches down to the unforgiving, grassy surface below?  Anything else would leave us feeling empty and longing for the good old days when soccer was futbol and a 32 year-old heterosexual American male need not feel shame in ordering a pint of Birra Moretti.

So, my dear friends, the sun has set on our utopian paradise.  Our freakish tans from shotgun-like sun block application juxtaposed with our "jealous of Caucasian" skin are fading.  Please turn in your Universal Citizenship cards at your departure gates.  It's time to put that Adidas track suit back in the closet until Halloween, stop using that fake British accent to impress the girls at the pub, start using that fake Australian accent to pick up the ladies at the bar, and do what the Greeks won't do - go to work.  And if you want to make good on your promise to perm your hair like Carles Puyol, that's your call, but don't expect me to be your wingman.  I already have plans that year.

Until 2014, we must don the cloak of Americanism and press on, pretending not to pine for the world's acceptance and resigning ourselves to watch other "sports" with much less drama.  I’m referring games that brutishly score much more than once within a 190 minute period.  As unsophisticated as baseball and American futbol may seem, we must break open a case of Coors and fool one another into thinking we are having a better time than the rest of the world, one inflammable hot wing-flavored belch at a time.   

What's that?  Yeah, I know we have a professional league here, but let's face it; Dick’s Sporting Goods Park in Commerce City, Colorado lacks the international zest of a Nelson Mandela Bay Stadium in Port Elizabeth, South Africa.  It also lacks the vuvuzelas. 

The World Cup is like the Olympics - a competition between sovereign nations every four years.  When national pride - and potentially nuclear war - is at stake, anything can be interesting, like Ping Pong.  

The MLS is the equivalent of a U.S. Gymnastics League, if such a league existed.  Would you really want to watch the Topeka Springers take on the Chattanooga Chalks in a regular season Pommel Horse match?  I didn't think so, but throw in Kim Jong-Il and a sponsorship from South Korean based Samsung, and hot-shit we got ourselves a battle.  I'll go grab the red, white, and blue tights and you get the hand wraps - we wouldn't want to sprain our wrists slamming down the pints.        

  

In A League Of Their Own

Ladies and Gentlemen, I bring you your headline of the week:
Tired Gay succumbs to Dix in 200 meters

Poor old chap just couldn't go the distance.  

The money shot, er, I mean quote:

"It wasn't bad, but I was a little fatigued toward the end," Gay said. "I tried to stay relaxed and bring it home, but it wasn't enough.

 This "race" is part of the Prefontaine Classic Diamond League - an annual track-and-field styled competition started in the late 80's to foster camaraderie and recognition within the Gay/Lesbian/Bi-Sexual/Transgendered/Transexual/TransAm community.

Other events  include the 100 Meter Redneck Hurdles, 50 Store Shopping Sprint, Women's Log Saw, Faux-China Discus, and everyone's favorite team competition, the One Square Block Residential Renovation Relay where the fastest team not only wins the gold, but sees their property values skyrocket.

New events slated for the 2011 competition being held in South Beach are the Triple-Ribboned Triple Jump, Interpretative Pole Vault,  and in the All Competitors class, the highly-anticipated Best Mustache.

Dirty Laundry

I'm sure most of you with any penchant for watching the news, reading the paper, surfing the net, or breathing have heard the big news story this week.  You know the one about the big name celebrity whining in and out of court, making a big fuss, getting a prison sentence related to their past drug problems, and just being an all around diva queen.

Of course, I'm speaking of Manuel Noriega.

Some of you may be asking, "Who?" and you'd be right.  Manny, as his homies call him, hasn't been walking the streets of Panama City since around the time Reagan was handing George "The City Slicker" Bush Sr. the keys to the oval office.

Some of you may be asking, "Reagan who?" and I'd say, yes he did say that once.

Seriously, if you don't know who our 14th President was, do what I did and "Wiki" him.  Or just learn about U.S. Presidents like everyone else and wait for Reagan's face to appear on currency.  The Million Dollar bill is slated to release sometime in late 2011, for which - thanks to Washington's budgetary policies - you could use to purchase a Ford Fiesta.  Or, after accounting for the upcoming Sugar Tax, a 32 Oz. Slurpee®.  And your 8th grade math teacher said you'd never be a millionaire.  The joke's on you Mr. Abernathy!  You can take that Quadratic Equation and stick it where the Pythagorean Theorem doesn't equal C squared!  

Back to our pal Manny.

Noriega had served twenty years in a Florida Prison for drug trafficking before being extradited to France earlier this year, where he was sentenced this week for using French wineries to launder money - more on that in a minute.  Apparently, back in the day Manny was doing business with the infamous Medellin (pronounced May - Day - YEEEN!) cocaine cartel.  For the Entourage fans out there, you know how menacing Pablo Escobar is thanks to Vincent Chase's portrayal of him in the fictionally fictional film, Medellin.  Those dimples could wet the britches of even the bravest diaper-wearing Colombian orphans.

As for the money laundering, I know what you're thinking.  You're thinking "Don" Noriega paid off some winemakers to filter the cash through their businesses to legitimize the revenues as coming from wine sales.

Unfortunately, you're embarrassingly wrong.  No, it's a long protected secret that French Chardonnay has certain properties that kill bacteria and remove stains from natural surfaces.  Believe me, I read it on Wikipedia.  The discovery of these acidic qualities lend credibility to the rumor that Chardonnay is the magic ingredient in OxiClean®.  You see, Manual Antonio Noriega is afflicted with OCD, which manifests itself in his obsession with germs.  Manny literally needed his money to be clean.  

You, the discerning reader, is probably by now screaming, "But what was Billy Mays' involvement with the May-Day-YEEEN cartel?"

Sadly, we'll probably never know.  However, what we have discovered is the answer to the age old question of why the French have such a bad attitude.  Answer:  their wine smells like sweat and tastes like hand grease from all those laundered bills.  To get that bad taste out of my mouth I'd smoke effeminate looking cigarettes and eat 7 year-old cheese too.

It's clear that Manual Noriega is the fall guy here and his 7 year sentence is to keep France's seedy secret from getting out.  Well, thanks to my superior search engine investigation skills, the secret is now out to approximately 12 more people.        

Goregasm - The Tale of the Adductored Masseuse

Well no wonder the world is warming.  Al Gore (Al is short for Almost, as in Almost President, Almost cool, and Almost sane) is getting hotter than a Penthouse Forum letter.

Here's an excerpt from the Washington Examiner setting the mood on his latest publicized escapade:

The police report of the masseuse's complaint is 73 pages long and extremely detailed. According to the document, she got a call from the front desk of the trendy Hotel Lucia on the night of Oct. 24, 2006. The hotel had a special guest. Could she come at 10:30 p.m.?

She went to Gore's room carrying a folding massage table and other equipment.

Nothing preheats my oven better than a good police report.  Other equipment?  My interest is officially piqued if you know what I mean.  Wink, wink.

Gore, whom she had never met, greeted her with a warm embrace. 

Ooh la la, things are starting to steam up and fast, just the way I like it.  Nothing's worse than these forum letters that try to pretend they're a real story with plot, character dynamics, and all that other horse shit.

Gore.  What a sexy, powerful name - like Cher.  He should seriously drop Almost and go with it.

"The hug went on a bit long, and I was taken just a bit aback by it," the masseuse told police. 

You coy little kitten you.  Trying to play hard to get, eh?  Cynicus likey.

But she went along because Gore "was a VIP and a powerful individual and the Hotel Lucia had made it clear to me by inference that they were giving him 'the royal treatment.'"

Nothing less for the man who guides the galaxy's celestial bodies.  You know, if it weren't for our Sun God sacrificing his wealth to preach the noble tenets of climate change, we'd be lopping off frost bitten digits in the Keys and feebly attempting to reattach melting faces in Minnesota.   All hail the mighty Goracle!

Gore said he was tired from travel and described in detail the massage he wanted. It included work on the adductor muscles, which are on the inside of the thighs. "I mentally noted that a request for adductor work is a bit unusual," the masseuse told police, because it can be "a precursor to inappropriate behavior by a male client."

Awww yeah, the temperature's rising higher than a million unused carbon credits burning in the desert!  Bring on the inappropriate, you naughty little oil vixen.

Gore also requested work on his abdomen. When that began, "He became somewhat vocal with muffled moans, etc.," the masseuse recounted. Gore then "demand[ed] that I go lower." When she remained focused on a "safe, nonsexual" area, Gore grew "angry, becoming verbally sharp and loud."

Tension?  Hmmm. I'm not sure where they're going with this, but I'll go along.  I mean the "muffled moans" from an AARP member in good standing is enough to send any hot blooded American woman into a sexual tizzy.  Am I right ladies?

The masseuse asked Gore what he wanted. "He grabbed my right hand, shoved it down under the sheet to his pubic hair area, my fingers brushing against his penis," she recalled, "and said to me, 'There!' in a very sharp, loud, angry-sounding tone." When she pulled back, Gore "angrily raged" and "bellowed" at her.

What?  Is she serious?  Now she's gone and made "The Gore" angry.  Talk about a mood killer.  Nice one lady.

Then, abruptly, the former vice president changed tone. It was "as though he had very suddenly switched personalities," she recalled, "and began in a pleading tone, pleading for release of his second chakra there."

No woman can resist the legendary Second Chakra (second only to the First Chakra, which is reserved for official Presidents).  It's a good thing this woman is dealing with a spiritual shaman.  Any common man would have given up on the encounter right then.

She wanted to end the session, but Gore "wrapped me in an inescapable embrace" and "caressed my back and buttocks and breasts." She tried to get away -- in the process calling Gore a "crazed sex poodle" -- but the former vice president was too strong for her.

Get away?  I'm starting to think this woman may be a lesbian.  But even then, it IS Algore and sexual identity shouldn't come into play.

"Crazed sex poodle?"  No ma'am, that's no poodle.  That's Man Bear Pig himself.

The accuser said Gore maneuvered her into the bedroom. His iPod docking station was there, he told her, and he wanted her to listen to "Dear Mr. President," a lachrymose attack on George W. Bush by the singer Pink.

Nice play Mr. Almost President.  Only a true Master of Foreplay would know that bringing your most intimate fixations into the bedroom is more entrancing than a thousand candles.

"As soon as he had it playing, he . . . pleaded, grabbed me, engulfed me in embrace, tongue kissed me, massaged me, groped by breasts and painfully squeezed my nipples through my clothing, pressed his pelvis against mine, rubbed my buttocks with his hands and fingers and rubbed himself against my crotch, saying, 'You know you want to do it.'"

I know this is a fantasy and I'm supposed to be turned on by all of this, but not once have I read erotica or watched porn where the lead said, "you know you want to do it."  It seems like the woman should be a willing participant.  Also, this description is a bit violent, kind of like a rape scene.  I'm going to give this story two thumbs down for not including enough romance.

Byron York really missed the mark on this piece.  He should go back to just covering politics.

And Citizen Gore should just go back to his mansion, where he'll continue concocting mad schemes of bilking the world of its wealth, like a morally bankrupt old man, incapable of love and desperate for the days when he thought he mattered.    

"Rosebud."

Dogs: A Comparative Study in Intelligence

I have two dogs and I love them both the same, but as far as intelligence goes, they're on opposite ends of the standardized test percentiles.

Here's Piper:

Notice she's alert, focused, creeping, and has a look that seems to say: "I know your every move before you do, who's the bitch now?"


Here's Gunner:

Gunner has Ball.


Now let's take a quick peak at each animal's profile before we move on to analysis.

Piper 
Breed:  Purebred Beagle - known for their craftiness and problem solving.
Height:  13"
Weight:  26 lbs.
Favorite Food:  sharp cheddar cheese (shredded), grilled chicken, and a spot of Earl Grey on an overcast morning.
Favorite Activities:  stalking and hunting enemy animals, sudoku
Recognized Vocabulary:  fluent in English, some Portuguese and Russian
Favorite Phrase:  "Piper, stare at me while I yell at you to come inside."
Specialty:  Telepathic
Highest Level of Training:  B+ in Advanced Algebra  
Least Proud Moment:  Got caught breaking into Petco at 3 in the morning.

Gunner

Breed:  Mutt

Height:  30"

Weight:  90 lbs.

Favorite Food:  grass, toilet paper, and broccoli 

Favorite Activities:  Ball, humping large men

Recognized Vocabulary:  Ball, Bug (we're not sure he actually knows the difference between these two)

Favorite Phrase:  "Get Ball."

Specialty:  Ball

Highest Level of Training:   NA

Least Proud Moment:  Licked the inside of a fully heated oven.

Alright, now that we have a good overview of each animal, let's dive into some of the intellectual differences shall we?  

1.  Vet Visits:  

Gunner loves the Vet - it's like a new adventure every time.  Piper is still plotting revenge for the time four years ago when the Vet took away her capacity to make babies.  I caught her just a week ago outside building a mock-up of the Vet Hospital out of twigs and bark mulch.  I think she's planning an assault.

2.  Mind Reading:  

Gunner - not even a little.  Piper is telepathic.  How do I know this?  Because every morning when the first conscious thought enters my brain (still haven't as much as moved in bed, mind you) Piper cries out, "I know you're awake jerk-off, now come get me out of this crate."  Every morning.  First thought.  

For this reason it's entirely impossible to trick Piper into doing something - she resents the fact that we think we can pull one over on her.  Medicine wrapped in cheese?  Oh yeah, that really ticks her off.  

3.  Guilt:

Piper could drop a deuce in Gunner's food bowl with me watching on and deny any culpability with a wag of her tail as I scream "Bad Dog!"  Meanwhile, Gunner tucks his tail between his legs and drops to the floor in submission, because he's really sorry someone took a dump in his dish.  

4.  Hunting:

Piper takes a very reasoned and methodical approach to hunting: track, stalk, attack.  Gunner had no idea there was a squirrel 3 feet behind him - he was busy playing Ball - until Piper sprints past him.  By the time he catches on, the squirrel is a few houses down enjoying a nice peanut brunch, but Gunner insists on continuing to jump up on and bark at the nearest tree.  Piper's already stalking a bird on the other side of the yard.    

5.  Bugs:

This is actually were Gunner has the advantage in pragmatism.  He responds to the distress call - "Gunner!  Bug!" - locates, identifies, and kills.  One strike, one kill, one snack.  Efficient.  

Piper's into torture I'm afraid.  Oh sure, she responds, locates, and identifies, but the kill part is a larger production for her.  She likes to take a snip at a wing here, a little nibble at a leg there.  A swat of the paw is often employed.  You see, the thing you have to understand with Piper is that she takes a bug in the house personally.  It's her house and a strict code of etiquette has been breached.  She wants the intruder to have time to think about what they've done as they clumsily slink off on their two remaining legs to their drawn-out and excruciating deaths. 

Conclusion:  Going through this little exercise has helped me understand the differences between my two beloved dogs and how this has no bearing on preference - I like them both a lot.  I think I understand now how people can love their stupid children as much as their smart ones, because dumb kids can “catch bugs” too.  Very eye opening indeed.  

Black Holes Are Racist Whores, Says NAACP

by Cynicus Sarcasmos - Staff Reporter


(CynicusNewsWire) June 12 - The day started off tranquil, pleasant, and "a little boring" according to Leon Jenkins of the Los Angeles chapter of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP).

"It was a morning that began like any other for me.  I ate my breakfast while I read the paper, scanning the stories for any racial injustices towards colored people.  I remember planning to go to the store to pick up a new battery for my hearing aid."

Mr. Jenkins never would make it to the store for that new battery.  What occurred next changed his plans and injected new meaning into his day, perhaps even the entire week.

"My wife came into the room and threw a greeting card down on the kitchen table and said, 'sign it.'  It was for our grandson who just graduated college."

Jenkins continued, "I was shocked.  I didn't think he stood a chance with all those White Devils running academics at that hotbed of racism and inequality called UC Berkeley.  They're not exactly known for tolerance you know."

The real shocker for Jenkins wouldn't come from his grandson's diploma.  The real "heart-stopper" came in the form of a seemingly innocuous greeting card meant to convey the heart-felt congratulations for a well-deserved academic achievement.

"I couldn't believe my ears.  The card seemed to be making light of Black Holes."

So, what's the issue with Black Holes?  The definition as stated in the highly reputable encyclopedia site Wikipedia, states:

A black hole, according to the general theory of relativity, is a region of space from which nothing, including light, can escape. 

 
"Black holes are always sucking on things and destroying stars' lives.  They're the whores of the universe and something every graduate should take seriously.  One back-seat ride through the galaxy could ruin a young man's reputation.  They're racist too.  Why do they have to be black?  Because a white scientist in a white lab coat said so?  How in the hell does he know? Is he the Black Hole's cosmic pimp?" asked Jenkins.

"This card can't be allowed to push it's corrupt message on the black youths of America.  Only God knows how much damage it has already done to young people thinking that Black Holes are good company."
  
Mr. Jenkins took this dire situation to the media, where he knew he'd get the word out.  ABC7.com has full coverage and the remaining story in the following video, including sound bites from the outlandish and wholly inappropriate greeting card.



Cynicus' Take

This type of paranoia and overreach just makes the Los Angeles chapter of the NAACP look less relevant and more racist than ex-White House correspondent Helen Thomas.

Speaking of Helen Thomas - the dried-out windbag - did you know she started out her career covering sports? That's right, she covered the Ullamaliztli Ballgame Championship of 1442 A.D., and incidentally is when she lost her virginity - to the entire losing team as punishment ("a fate worse than death" as referenced by Aztec leader, Itzcoatl) for their shameful performance.

Back to the matter at hand.  The card's audio clearly says "hole" and not whore.  In a rational world this would be a non-story.  The press conference and sound bites from the video make me seriously wonder if the NAACP would have given two shits if there was such thing as a White Hole and they thought the card referenced a white "whore."

Even so, what's wrong with warning young people on the dangers of prostitutes?  Like Black Holes, they really can destroy a star's career, just ask Jesse James.

Perhaps to avoid future confusion we should shorten Black Hole to "Black Ho."  No one will ever confuse "ho" with "whore."

Go Compound Sand

by Cynicus Sarcasmos - Staff Reporter

June 9 (CynicusNewsWire) - Today in economic news, the United States' national debt has been projected to hit $19.6 Trillion by 2015.  The country's debt was at $7.5 Trillion just last year.   

When an anonymous source close to the White House was asked to comment on the compounding figure he said, "Yes, this is all by design.  We're really doing our best to keep setting more records than the rising price of gold."

When informed that the national debt sets a new record every second, our source said, "Yes, well, we're very good at growing money.  Some of us have economic degrees from Harvard you know."

After having the fact pointed out that "debt" is the opposite of "growing money" the anonymous source was quoted as saying, "what, are you sure?" 

Yes, very much so. 

"Oh, [fudge]."

Yes, indeed, oh fudge. 

"Um, uh, don't worry.  We have it all under control.  We'll just print more money and, you know, uh, tax the shit out of business people.  To liberally quote our President, we'll 'kick some ass.'"

When offered that a reduction in government spending could play a major role in the overall solution, the White House source reportedly burst out in laughter which continued for several minutes until he fashioned a cigar out of one hundred dollar bills, lit it with a gold-plated zippo, smoked it, and then used the tip of his A. Testoni Italian leather shoe to crush the ashes out on the pavement.

"Don't be silly," the source said, the last wisp of green smoke drafting out through his stained front teeth.  "The people need us.  They'd starve without our generosity." 

Our confidential source was then picked up by a limo and dropped off at his office 15 feet down the street.

The American Diamondback was unavailable for comment, but his rattle could be heard echoing throughout the country.

Van Der Sloot For President!

. . . of Satan's Lair.

Seriously, this waste of carbon is evil incarnate.  He makes Saddam Hussein look like Sacha Baron Cohen (pic).

Think I'm being a little dramatic?  Hold your judgement until after we explore this article at Fox News detailing his recent confession:

Dutchman Joran van der Sloot, long the prime suspect in the 2005 disappearance of a U.S. teen in Aruba, has confessed to killing a young Peruvian woman in his Lima hotel room last week, a police spokesman said.

Peru's chief police spokesman, Col. Abel Gamarra, told The Associated Press that Van der Sloot admitted under police questioning Monday that he killed 21-year-old Stephany Flores on May 30.

According to La Republica newspaper, Van der Sloot told officials he broke Flores' neck in a rage after he discovered she had used his notebook computer without permission and learned he was involved in the disappearance of Holloway.
"I did not want to do it," La Republica quoted him as saying. "The girl intruded into my private life."

Yes, because that's exactly how a man boy syphilis-infested primate wrongly accused of murder would react.  Who can blame him really?  He spent the last five years containing a scantily publicized accusation of culpability for a missing teenager, no doubt for which he is innocent, from going global and ruining his good family's name forever.  This poor Peruvian girl could have blown the lid on his then pristine public persona.  What better way to keep the public from thinking your a murderer by, well, murdering?

If you think about it, it's a complete fluke that Van Der Sluut got caught.  To demonstrate how much of a criminal savant this guy is, let's go through sequence of events.  I've been watching a lot of Dexter lately, so I know what I'm talking about.  

First, let's discuss Joran's profile.  As mentioned above, he's very low-profile outside of his home island of Aruba.  He's also Dutch and 6'3", so he blends in with the people of Peru better than rum in a daquiri. 

So, he meets a girl at a Peruvian casino.  Note that this was at a South American casino and not Vegas, so instead of cameras every 7 inches of ceiling, it's more like every 2-3 feet.  That's a huge difference working in Mr. Van Der Sluut's favor. 

Okay, so who's the girl?  She's the daughter of a prominent businessman who once ran for President.  So, in other words, a total anonymous target and probably not identifiable by more than 1 in 2 within the community.
 
Next, he takes the girl back to a hotel, well, because he's done that in the past, so it's best not to change any patterns and raise red flags.  The hotel is not like the ones he's used to in Aruba, so security cameras are a bit of a long-shot.

After doing the evil deed, Joran (pronounced Whoran), fled the country as fast as he could.  No suspicious activity there.  If you don't stick around, they can't blame you for it right?

Now that I've proven this guy should be running Mensa, let's take a look at his unblemished character.   

A fixture on true crime shows and in tabloids after Holloway's disappearance, he gained a reputation for lying -- even admitting a penchant for it -- and also exhibited a volatile temper. In one Dutch television interview he threw a glass of wine in a reporter's eyes. In another, he smashed a glass of water against a wall in a fury.

That's nothing, show me someone who hasn't wanted to throw something at a journalist?

There were indications Van der Sloot may have been traveling on money gained through extortion.  The day of his arrest in Chile, Van der Sloot was charged in the United States with trying to extort $250,000 from Holloway's family in exchange for disclosing the location of her body and describing how she died.

Extortion is a misdemeanor right?

The crime reporter, Peter de Vries -- the victim of the wine-throwing incident -- reported later in 2008 that Van der Sloot was recruiting Thai women in Bangkok for sex work in the Netherlands.

Ah, an entrepreneur.  As you can see, the label "good samaritan" doesn't do this magnanimous creature justice.  So what's he facing anyway?

Murder convictions carry a maximum of 35 years in prison in Peru and it was not immediately clear if a confession could lead to a reduced sentence.

Wonderful.  It's a shame he picked a country whose penal system makes the U.S.'s look like a Nicaraquan prison in comparison.