Coverage of the Vampire
The Vampire lives the life of a vampire. Born and raised in the Miami area, he now has an apartment in Transylvania, has learned Hungarian, sleeps during the day in a coffin, and drinks blood. However, he only drinks a cup of it per day, and he purchases it. Also (most disappointing), he cannot turn into a bat.

In sum, there was little in the way of real anecdotal value in his 1,622 Hungarian words, other than that people do strange things, the price of coffins is astounding, and occasionally our man cuts the blood with club soda.

Next vampire, please. And if you cannot turn into a bat, please do not apply.


Administrative Notes:

Rance will post in the very near future. In response to a reader query as to whether Rance and the Administrative Staff are one, Rance will neither confirm nor deny it. He added that, similarly, he will neither confirm nor deny that he is Rance.

Vampire/Rance Update
The Vampire's essay, which arrived during the night, is in (we think) Hungarian. We are reluctant to post it until we have some idea of what it says.

In the meantime, Gus Openshaw has agreed to pinch hit. The initial entries from his "Whale-Killing Journal" are below. We are pleased to share them with you.

Lastly, at some point in the near future, Rance will write in on the significance of Rocky and [Withheld]'s entries, and share his hopes for the future of this blog.

Have a nice weekend,

The Administrative Staff


GUS OPENSHAW'S WHALE-KILLING JOURNAL


Friday, 11 June 2004: I Got A Fish To Kill

Don't make me relive the details just now. The short of it: a whale ate my wife, kid and right arm. And he got away. For the time being.

Now, there are these Indians in the state of Washington. They have one of those licenses you can get--because of a special religious dispensation or whatever--to kill one whale a year. For probation agreement reasons that I can't get into, I had to get myself one of these licenses before I could go back out on the water--let alone set a toe on a dock--without getting shot at by the damn Coast Guard. So I went up to Washington to pow-wow with those Indians.

Prior to the incident, I worked on the line at a cat food cannery. Literally the worst stinking job you can get. Point is, I was earning just north of squat. But I'd married way better than I deserved. And when she died, I was worth--including everything from the house to my boxer shorts--$515,200. Oddly, the Indian Chief priced the license at $515,000, take it or leave it. I took it, gladly. I later learned that my lawyer had "coincidentally" done some "legal work" for the same Indians that same day, getting him a check $51,500. But I was too busy readying my boat to care about the lawyer. My thoughts were on getting to the neck of the Caribbean where a particularly fat sperm whale had been sighted.

I bought an old wooden cabin cruiser from a geezer in Port Helslop, Washington for $20. Wood boats are a bitch is why. Takes a good couple hundred hours to scrape and paint the hulls every year. Invention of fiberglass made wood boats' asses obsolete. So folks with wood boats they don't use no more are left with this dilemma: "Do I keep paying two grand a year to keep this sucker in dry dock, or do I pay some guy twice that much to come over, chain saw my family heirloom apart and haul it to the dump?" So the price for these craft is zip. The twenty bucks was for the gas in her. And it was a good fifty bucks worth of gas.

A few days later, a few leagues north of the Equator, I upgraded to a 180-foot superyacht that came with this computer I'm blogging on now. I'll get to that next time I blog. Now I got to hit the head.


Saturday, 12 June 2004: For Once, I Get Lucky

A few leagues north of the Equator, I was dozing at the controls. Had been sitting there like a statue for three straight days. Suddenly, I looked up and realized I was about to broadside a 180-foot superyacht.

I grabbed the wheel and spun for all I was worth. Unfortunately, my damn body keeps forgetting that, thanks to the bastard, I got no right arm no more. So I wasn't worth much. It was enough though to swerve just in time to miss clipping the stern.

It was odd the yacht hadn't so much as honked. No one seemed to be aboard. Doubtful everyone on a boat that big'd be below deck at one time. No lifeboats lowered. Copter still on the helipad. No swimmers in sight. She seemed empty and adrift.

I tossed up a line and climbed aboard. My panting from the two-story climb (having forgot I only had one damn arm again) was the only sound on the whole craft. I nosed around. Most of the staterooms had people's clothes and crap in them. Dinner for a dozen or so--three-day-old steak and flat-as-my-first-wife champagne--was sitting on a dining table the foredeck. A bunch of clothes were splayed out on the quarter. Weird as fuck, huh?

Here's what I think happened: There's an old maritime tradition that when you cross the equator on a new boat, everyone--passengers, crew, chihuahuas, whoever--jumps in. This champagned-up bunch evidently stripped down and hopped over the rail without realizing they had no way to re-board. These sleek superyachts got no ladders and crap like that. Hull's too sheer to climb up unless you got suction cups up and down your limbs. So they drowned. Poor bastards, I thought. Truth is though, I always feel a bit better when people are stupider or have worse luck than me.

There's another old maritime tradition. It goes something like, "Lost at sea, belongs to me." It basically means if you're enough of an idiot to lose your boat, you don't deserve it, and whoever's the finder is the rightful keeper. I doubt that would stand up in court. And if it gets even within a whiff of court, I'll probably take the rap for the missing passengers and crew. But I've got bigger fish to kill. With that in mind I cut loose my S.S. Piece of Crap cabin cruiser, which at that point was only afloat cause the termites were holding hands, and took the helm of my new superyacht. Unlike the cabin cruiser, she'll be able to keep pace with the bastard (sperm whales can do 30 mph). Then turn him into cold cuts.

I anchored her off St. Kitts. I rowed ashore and pawned a bunch of Rolexes and crap I'd found aboard. Netted $44,500 in cash. I then tried to hire some crew. Found a couple old guys with harpoon experience. Best I could get otherwise was a couple drug addicts who might have waited around the rest of their lives without getting another berth. When you go into a fish-stinking island seamen's bar and offer cash for a mystery job on a boat you won't name, the best and the brightest sailors don't usually line up. Gotta log off now because one of my new hires just came into the captain's quarters and wants to kill me.

Monday, 14 June 2004: The Cook Tries To Filet Me
http://blubberybastard.tripod.com/blog/index.blog?from=20040614

Ken's Wooloomooloo Story
If Rance were to agree to every offer received from porn sites, escort services and the like of free samples in exchange for promoting their sites, he would be blind, if still alive. That said, we are not opposed to promoting some prostitutes. Accordingly, we give you the following story from reader favorite Ken (ken@eyecreate.net):


I am not applying to be Rance nor wanting to be Rance. This blog is a tremendous amount of work for no financial reward. I may apply if an Administrative Support Staff position opens.

Several years ago I lived in a hostel in a part of Sydney Australia called Wooloomooloo. We had many backpackers from all walks of life pass through this hostel. The hostel was situated halfway between the busy downtown core of Sydney and an even busier red light district called the King's Cross. The downtown was connected to the Cross with a busy arterial road called Williams street that was filled with prostitutes once the sun dipped below the horizon. Williams Street was a great place to buy a Rolls Royce, Ferrari, Bentley or Jaguar. It was quite a sight to see prostitutes dressed in frilly knickers lit up at night by the lights displaying expensive cars. The Cross was littered with junkies, sex shops, travellers, restaurants and nightclubs. As you walked through the Cross, you would be greeted by greasy looking characters dressed in faux tuxedos trying to sell you a seat to a peak show. One of the clubs had staff wear t-shirts emblazened with "We don't call police" on the chest. The Cross was a slice of humanity that most people would never see or really want to see. I went to the Cross to people watch and eat. I can tell you there is never a boring moment there and that I loved the place.

One traveller who came to stay at the hostel was a military guy from the U.K. on leave named Simon. He was a nice clean cut soft spoken guy who shared my enthusiasm for people watching. After work we would go up to the Cross and get a bite to eat and watch the locals at the park. Sometimes we would play pool with the Samoan's at the "We don't call police" club. Simon had a gift of going up to people and introducing himself. He didn't appear to care who he talked to, which was fine by me.

On the way back to the hostel one night, Simon suggested that we take the other side of the road back. I never went down this side of the road to get back to the hostel. The side of Williams street that I walked always had prostitutes dressed for the warm weather which meant for an entertaining stroll to the Cross and back. The other side of the street was populated with people in various stages of a sex change or trannies. I didn't have a problem with the people across the street, it just wasn't my cup of tea. As we were walking along, we see a large Fijian woman sitting on a bench. Simon walks up to her and says "Hi Rosie, I want to introduce you to a friend of mine, Ken". Rosie and I shake hands. Simon tells me that Rosie gives the best blow jobs in all of Wooloomooloo. I wondered how she would fit that on her resume, but way-to-go Rosie. While we were standing there chatting, a tattoo covered merchant marine approaches her. They work out a deal and then disappear behind the building. Rosie knows this customer and tells us she won't be long. When she returns, we talk for a few more minutes and then say goodbye. Rosie is the only woman that works that side of the street and has worked out her territory with the people down the street.

As we stroll along, we meet up with a large breasted prostitute whose new name was Sheila. Simon strikes up a conversation with her and is very curious about her new breasts and what her name was before she changed it to Sheila. It was unusual for me to see a woman with a deep voice and an adams apple. She didn't see us as a threat and told us her birth name was Bruce and was saving up money to complete her transformation. Words didn't appear to be enough for my friend and he asked Sheila if he could feel her boobs to see how real they felt. Sheila was more that happy to oblige and thrust her chest out and Simon began to squeeze in earnest. He remarked on how real they felt and was quite impressed with the consistency. In his enthusiasm, he looked over his shoulder to me and said "Hey Ken, these are fantastic! check 'em out" and with that waved me over. Sheila was enjoying the attention and waved me over too. In fact, a small crowd started to form and I was feeling pressured. They could see that I was feeling a little awkward as it isn't everyday that you are invited to feel the consistency of someone's breasts on a street corner and have an audience. They tried to assure me that they felt real which led me to think "uh, how many boobs have you squeezed?" The air felt electric while they were waiting for me to decide. I stood there realising that this was just about the oddest situation that I had ever been in. I am not the shy type but I just couldn't bring myself to check 'em out. After a moment of silence, I declined their more than generous offer to moans of disappointment. I said "Sorry ladies, I was brought up a gentleman and I just can't do it."



Administrative Note:

The vampire is promising us something by the end of the week.

Rocky Rebuts
Over the weekend, Rocky wrote:

"I told the same story to a bunch of people on the last tour and they pretty much all laughed. I guess I know who to fire now. Thanks to you guys for the honest feedback. I guess I learned my words play better with instruments at a ton of decibels, lights and smoke behind them. One last thing: a Dodge Viper is a Hyundai compared to a couple of my cars, so go blog yourselves."



Administrative Notes:

Rubber Duckie: You're a hit. If you haven't already been pulled off the road and whisked away by publishing companies, please write again.

Bubba: If you've got a yarn, don't be shy.

We are currently in negotiations with the vampire to put something onto paper (or keyboard, to be literal) for us.

Rubber Duckie's Story
We're afraid even the sample of comments we posted may drive yesterday's Rance applicant, "Rocky," to O.D. Here instead of the tentatively scheduled entry written by the another Rance applicant, the vampire (who, as one reader put it, "sucked" anyway) is Rubber Duckie's story, preceded by a brief introductory note from the author:



As my pseudo partin' gift, here is....the rest of the story. I've copied and pasted it all here so's it's an easier read, especially for the new comers. Ya'll stay busy now, you hear! I want lots of tales and stories to read when I get back.

**********



As you all know, I drive a big rig, and thru the end evers of my hard work I meet lots of...shall we say interestin', yes interestin', folk. I have a regular drive-by acquaintance who has had the opportunity to ride with me on more than one occasion. She definitely walks to the beat of a different drum, but not a more genuine person will you meet. The following is a story told to me by her. I will refer to her from here on out as "drive-by". It is repeated purely for your entertainment value as I found it highly intriguin'. The name of any person mentioned herein is merely for the tellin' of this tale. They are innocent as far as I know and in no way have been connected to the crime at hand.

Okay. Here goes....

Back durin' the Beltway Sniper days "drive-by" was a cable news network addict. Since 9-11 she rarely changed the channel to even catch her local news. She was on permanent stand-by awaitin' the next big attack. I'm sure this was from a combination of PTSD and OCD, but regardless, the woman spent every waking moment watchin' cable news networks.

She flipped around from CNN to FOX to MSNBC.

On October 11th, 2002 drive-by was tuned in to MSNBC as they were givin' live coverage of a sniper hit that mornin'. Chris Jansing was on live with the 'manager' of the gas station where this latest attack had occurred. The exchange of the interview was as follows:

CHRIS JANSING: I have on the phone Michael Scenna, he is the manager of the Exxon station where the shooting occured. Michael, thank you for joining us.

MICHAEL SCENNA: Yes, I'm here.

CHRIS JANSING: What can you tell us about what happened this morning, where were you, what, what did you see and hear?

MICHAEL SCENNA: I'm the manager here and I was working when, when, when this all went down this morning, and uh, basically this gentleman, he comes into the store everyday, and he's very well known, and everybody likes him, and it was just horrible to be, um, what had happened to him.

CHRIS JANSING: Did you see anything? Did you hear anything? We know that there has been one guy who works across the street who reported seeing this white van, um, but what did you see?

MICHAEL SCENNA: I saw the man, um, being snowballed by Howard Stern.

Obviously, it was a prank call. How he ever got past the staff at MSNBC to be live on the air is beyond me. It just goes to show you how desperate the competition was to one-up the other. They didn't even verify this guy was who he said he was.

Regardless, drive-by was bothered by this whole scene, mainly because she had no idea what the term "snowballed" meant. She is a detective at heart and she began to scour the internet lookin' for a definition or explanation of "snowballed". She looked and she looked and she looked, all to no avail. (BTW, if any of you know exactly what this term means she'd be indebted to you for life. It's been a thorn in her side ever since.) She did, however, luck upon a blog where a poster had commented on the interview with a play by play of what was said. To this day, that post is still there and as proof of the authenticity of this story, here is a link to it.

http://www.inarguendo.blogspot.com/2002_10_06_inarguendo_archive.html

As drive-by re-read the words spoken by the prankster, somethin' stuck out to her....the name he had used....Michael Scenna. Now remember, I told you drive-by was a sleuth through and through and her wheels started spinnin' right about now. Michael Scenna....Michael Scenna...What was the significance of that name?

As I have said, Drive-by polkaed to her own accordion, the likes of which none of us will EVER be able to hear, regrettably so. She had paid painfully close attention to every drip of information regardin' the sniper. She was bankin' on the theory that it was a new form of terrorism bein' played out in our country's capital...or is that capitol? Oh WTH, you know what I mean. She had written notes on the backs of envelopes, magazines, napkins, ANYTHING that was handy at the time a vital piece of information came across the waves and she kept them all on her bedside table. In her mind, this kept her in control of the situation and it was somethin' she could do to be proactive against the terror that literally kept her a prisoner in her own home, in her own bedroom, in her own bed, in front of the TV 24/7 watchin' cable news.

As she read the name Michael Scenna a bee started buzzin' in her bonnet. She gathered her bedside notes and laid them out on the bed like a ladder. She purposefully climbed thru the stack a knowin' what she was lookin' for. Ah ha! There it was! The name she had been lookin' for. Was it Michael Scenna you ask? Well no, it wasn't.

It was Michael's Craft Store. "Now what in tarnation does one have to do with the other?" you ask me, and to that my only reply is... "polka".

By this time Drive-by had a "wanted" poster of the twisted perp in her mind's eye that was drawn in great detail by the numerous "experts" framed within her boob tube. They theorized and hypothesized and espoused that the sniper, without a doubt, had to be a white, middle-aged male with military experience, possibly former CIA. They went on to say that by this time (11 shootings had occurred at this point with 8 deaths) the killer would most likely try to insinuate himself into the investigation by either callin' in a tip or hangin' around the crime scene, etc. He was smart. He was calculatin'. He was sadistic.

Drive-by was now beginnin' to formulate a theory of her own. She drug out her road maps and pulled up her Yahoo and began to plot. By the time she was done she had drawn out every major road in the tri-state area. And even though she never so much as set a foot East of the Mississippi 'ceptin for that one trip to New York, she now knew the Beltway like the back of her hand so's she could navigate it blindfolded at rush hour if she had to.

Now, the only thing left for her to do was to test her theory out. Would it fly or would it flop?

Could he be so brazen? So bold? Was the fiend attemptin' to nationally reveal himself under the cloak of his own name, all the while thumbin' his nose at the fuzz and G-men? Really, if you thought about it, it was flippin' brilliant! What better way for a disgruntled ex-goverment, possibly CIA employee to get revenge upon his malevolent peers than to make them all look like fools?

Drive-by's heart was beatin faster than a bee's wings and her stomach was boilin' up a brew. She marked them off one by one.

Scene #1 - 13850 Georgia Ave., Aspen Hill, Maryland. The exact location: Michael's Craft Store.

Scene #2 - 2201 Randolph Road, Wheaton, Maryland. The nearest Michae'ls Craft Store was 2.8 miles at a straight shot.

Scene #3 - 11411 Rockville Pike, Rockville, Maryland. The nearest Michael's Craft Store is 1509 Rockville Pike, 2.2 miles at a straight shot.

Scene #4 - The intersection of Aspen Hill Rd. and Connecticut Ave., Aspen Hill, Maryland. The nearest Michael's Craft Store is 0.1 mile at 13850 Georgia Ave, just around the corner.

Scene #5 - 3701 Rossmoor Blvd., Silver Spring, Maryland. The nearest Michael's Craft Store is 1.6 miles at a straight shot.

Scene #6 - This shootin' did not support her theory.

Scene #7 - This shootin' did not support her theory.

Scene #8 - The exact location was Michael's Craft Store in Fredericksburg, Virginia.

Scene #9 - The location was Bowie Middle School in Maryland. At the time Drive-by believes there was a Michael's Craft Store within a mile of the school. The current data from Michael's shows a store within 2 miles, just across the interstate from the school.

***It should be noted that by this time, according to news reports, employees of Michael's Craft Stores were floodin' the tip lines wonderin' if the shooter could be a disgruntled ex-employee of Michael's.***

Scene #10 - 7203 Sudley Road in Manassis, Virginia. The nearest Michael's Craft Store is 0.9 mile at a straight shot up the road.

Scene #11 - This shootin' did not support her theory.

Scene #11 brought her back to the present day, October 11th, and she sat back and surveilled the roads and dots and notes before her. It was an awesome amount of information. I figure Drive-by had more data compiled on her Vellux comforter than Chief Moose ever had lyin' on his desk.

Now, what to do....what to do? She felt she needed another shootin' for confirmation before feelin' confident enough to call the police. At this point they'd just write her off as a crazy loon, and she was right. Hell, it turned out even the dayum snipers couldn't get thru on the tip line for bein' written off as crazies. They got hung up on twice.

Yes, Drive-by had to sit back, be patient and wait....

In case any of you out there are still cogitatin' as to what, exactly, Drive-by's theory was, I'll elaborate. Drive-by had summized that the sniper had placed himself directly underneath the noses of the Feds. He was so close, in fact, that had they only inhaled they would have smelled the audacity emanatin' from his egotistical pores. He had wittingly outed himself on national television under the guise of anonymity. No prankster would call in a prank usin' their real name....or would they? As I said, if you thought about it long enough you'd soon see the genius of it all. The sniper had gotten himself on TV talkin' about his very own doin's, usin' his own VERY REAL name, and mockin every single one of them and his victim, all under the supposition of pretense. (Did I just say that? I hope you all know what it means...If you do, clarify please.)

And if all of that wasn't a bag of bubble gum and a pack of candy cigarettes, then hear this. She had also deduced that he, Michael, was leavin' a flashin' neon sign at every crime scene pointin' right at him, all to the unawares of the cops.

But as I said, she would wait with clammy hands and baited (anchovies to be exact) breath until the next shootin'. By her calculations she had narrowed down the possibilities of the next crime scene to three locations and if he struck at any one of 'em she was dialin' the fuzz.

As some of you may or may not know, Drive-by didn't have to wait for long. It was a mere three days later and the sniper had struck again. This time his victim was an FBI agent in the parkin' lot of The Home Depot in Church Falls, Virginia. "And where," might you ask, "would the nearest Michael's Craft Store be?" "Well," I'd say, "right next door, of course!"

This was it. The turnin' point. Drive-by knew what she had to do. She had to call the tip line.

She gathered her papers together and organized them by date and then went to Yahoo to print out the page that had started this snowball a rollin' in the first place. But by now, you see, Drive-by had been so overwhelmed with the drama that she no longer remembered where exactly this had all began. But YOU remember, don't you.

"Snowballed".

When she had first stumbled upon the transcript this was the word she had put in the search box that led her to find it, however, this time she would not. (Not not find it, but not use that word.)

(Now I realize some of you are thinkin' right this very minute that Drive-by was off her rocker. But I have to say that up until this point in the story I viewed her as walkin' a thin line between genius and insanity and I couldn't quite make up my mind which way she was leanin'. But the events to follow would make me a believer and I do believe that I heard an accordion a playin' in the distance, if only for a short while...)

You see, for some reason it had never popped into Drive-by's noggin to do a name search for a Michael Scenna. She had been so entangled in the mappin' and the waitin' that it had never crossed her mind. As fate would have it, instead of typin' in "snowballed" to find her site she typed in the name "Michael Scenna".As expected, the blog site popped up awaitin' her mouse's click when Drive-by's eye was drawn to the link below it. It was a web site by the name of namebase.org.

Now for those of you who don't know what namebase.org is, let me give you the run down/low-down/pertinent info...Namebase.org is a website that contains a " cumulative index of books and clippings containing citations to names of individuals and groups involving :
-assassinations, organized crime, and scandals
-Wall Street and transnational corporations
-foreign policy and media establishments
-political elites from the Right and Left
-Cold War history and intelligence

My understandin' is that it is funded and ran by a group known as Public Information Research, Inc. and basically their goal is to make everything that is "classified" unclassified. Anything they can or have gotten their hands on they make public.

Drive-by's mouse clicked away in a flash. She tore at her hair and prayed it wasn't an outdated cache and then what to her wonderin' eyes did appear.... You're thinkin' what, a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer?

Helllll no!

It was that name again, only it read as follows:

SCENNA MICHAEL A
Tanzania 1974-1976 Belgium 1978-1983

Anti-CIA Club of Diplomats. Spooks in U.S. Foreign Service. 1983 (8)
Ray,E... Dirty Work 2. 1979 (456-7)
State Dept. Biographic Register. 1977
Win Magazine 1976-06-17 (6)

In case you don't understand what all this means, once more, I'll explain. What this information was sayin' is that Michael A. Scenna had served in Tanzania from '74 to 76 and in Belgium from '78 to '83 as a spook. In Enlish, he was a CIA officer. If you want, you can copy and paste this link http://www.namebase.org/cgi-bin/nb01?_SCENNA_MICHAEL_Aand check it out for yourselves. If you click on each book title they give you a brief synopsis and if you subscribe you will actually get to read the info. on the person you're lookin' at.

Needless to say, Drive-by's jaw had hit the floor upon readin' same. Her hands were shakin' and her mouth had gone dry and she was thiiiiiiiis close to peein' her pants. This was just too much. Too much! She immediately did a People Search and no longer to her surprise, she found a Michael Scenna, middle-aged, living very near to the Washington DC Metropolitan area. I'm not gonna elaborate here as you can always look this tid bit up for yourself.

So, now we know the followin':

A Michael Scenna phoned in a prank to MSNBC regardin' a sniper shootin'.

Several of the shootin's had been at a Michael's Craft Store, and all were relatively close in distance to a Michael's Craft Store.

A Michael Scenna had served as a CIA officer in the 70's and 80's. He was now middle-aged and would be presumably retired.

A Michael Scenna lived near the Washington area.

Drive-by sucked in a deep breath and dialed the numbers. It goes without sayin' that she was scared crapless and the hairs were standin' up on her head. It was 2:30 a.m. Eastern time. Hopefully they weren't too busy to answer her call.

A man's voice was heard on the other line and Drive-by let it all out in one super sonic, run-on, never takin' a breath sentence. When she had spat it all out she came to a screachin' halt, a waitin' for what was to come next. She expected humiliation but all she heard was silence. Then a man's voice nicely asked her if she would mind holdin' on for a minute.

They put her on hold! Drive-by stood there and shook like a stop sign in the winds of a hurricane. They left her on hold for at least five minutes, I'm sure all the while settin' up their tape recorders and tracin' the call. When he came back on line he asked her to repeat everythin' she'd just said, only a little slower this time. She recounted her story just like I've told you. They thanked her, took her name, number and address and bid her adieu.

Now Drive-by was just waitin' for the news to announce the arrest of one Michael Scenna. And she waited...and she waited...and she waited. Until one day the story broke that the sniper, no, make that the SNIPERS, had been arrested and neither of them were white or ex-CIA or had the name of Michael.

I must say for the longest time Drive-by believed it all to be a cover-up. That the government had orchestrated the arrest of these two men to cover-up their own stupidity of not knowin' who the real sniper was bein' he had said his name on national TV and ever' crime scene was pointin' to the name "Michael". Had they arrested her man and her story got out as to how SHE 'solved' the Beltway Sniper case a lot of heads would roll and no one was willin' to take the fall for justice. Instead, they created a big fat cover-up. It was....a conspiracy.

The years have passed and Drive-by reluctantly accepts that it was all circumstantial evidence and her theory was the victim of coincidence...and the fact that Michael's Craft Stores in the East are like hookers in Vegas...one on every corner. Probably the only thing her hardwork earned her was a case of paranoia....and a place for her name on a government watchlist for conspiracy theorists....



Administrative Notes:

Thank you, RD. Have a good trip and feel free to send a postcard.

Other prospective New Rances, Part-Time Rances or even One-Shot Rances: We're looking forward to hearing from you too.

Have a nice weekend,

The Administrative Staff

Candidate: Rocky
An entry from the journal of "Rocky," who is under consideration for a job as a "part-time Rance":


Dateline: Early one morning at a hotel on the road in the USA somewhere

She somehow climbed up the back of our tour bus, which was parked right next to the hotel, then up a fire ladder or whatever you call it hanging from the second floor, then crawled along the ledge there. She was looking for me, or possibly one of the other idiots. She saw me first, anyway, through my room's window. I was on the can. I was weirded out a bit. I have had girls show up at my room before but not while I was in the middle of taking care of business. She was a little embarassed, but not enough to stop from yanking off her sweatshirt then and there (and it was like 30 out), pressing her impressive (like the rest of her) store-boughts against the glass, and saying she loved me. I'll say this. It was first thing in the morning, so her timing was good. So I speed-wiped and let her in through the window. I waited for a couple minutes or so for her to take a shower (advisable in these situations) then we hit the BR. "Best ten minutes of my life," she said later. I gave her a beer from the minbar fridge. I would've gotten her breakfast or something from roomservice but my girlfriend was coming. I'd like to comment about what this says about society and all that but I'd be a hypocrite and I guess it's self evident anyway.

New Rance Search Update
We tried to acquire Nomar Garciaparra to be the New Rance, but the Chicago Cubs beat us to him (with an eight-player deal Saturday).

Other applicants thus far have been, for the most part, either too inexperienced or too intelligent, but we are still working hard on this--an Administrative Staffer went so far as to solicit an actual (or so she claims) vampire and got into some trouble resulting in a phone number change and now wearing turtlenecks every day despite the heat.

For the time being, unless Rubber Duckie comes forth with a changed mind or Gus Openshaw gets his revenge against the whale and finds himself back at his cat food canning job missing blogging, the quest continues.

Regards,

The Administrative Staff

True Tales Of Revenge, Volume II!
1. by Wheeler Jones

A 'friend' of mine... let's call him Peeler Flones, worked for a big corporation. As such, one of the small perks was internet access... one day though he was written up for accessing sites not deemed work productive... and the head of I.T. wrote him up personally.

The 'gentleman' we'll call IT-boy was a real piece of work... considered himself not only a genius, but also a rebel. He decided the best way to show this would be to doff a trademark cowboy hat he wore to work one morning... proudly. This hat also had his name beautifully stitched into the inside of the hat... obviously because, well, you decide. I don't like all the blanks filled in...

Anyway, Peeler, after being written up, decided that this hot-shot needed a little medicine.

Revenge was exacted.

Shortly after the revenge, IT-boy announced that he was very ill... that in fact, he could possibly have a brain tumor. When his boss asked why It-boy made such a conclusion, IT-boy explained that every Tuesday and Thursday, his head would swell significantly. Asked how he knew this, It-boy grabbed his cowboy hat, and attempted to put it on. Too small. MUCH too small.

The next day the hat fit fine though.

After a trip to a very well-known neurologist (in their circles anyway) all tests proved that there was nothing wrong with IT-boy.

As suddenly as the brain-swelling began, it ended, though why it did such on Tuesdays and Thursdays IT-boy never did find out, though he had gone through the laborious process of tracking his diet and everything else that could possibly be unique to those days of the week.

As I said, it passed finally.

Of course, this revenge cost Peeler a trip to the hat shop, weeks earlier where he bought an exact reproduction of IT-boy's hat... with IT-boy's name sewn in as well... only 2 sizes smaller that IT-boy's original hat...

And if you ask nicely, to this day, Peeler might even show you that hat....


2. by Ken
URL: http://www.eyecreate.net/
E-Mail: ken@eyecreate.net

Several years ago I discovered my ex-wife in a compromising position with another woman. For many men reading this, I am sure you are thinking, "Dude! suggest a Kenny sandwich". For the most part I would be game for that kind of action but trust would have to be paramount in that type of situation. Unfortunately, that event started the breakdown of my marriage and also the beginning of a nasty divorce. My ex would stop at nothing to make me look like a crazed lunatic. I found myself separated from my sons due to her lies. I have to give my ex credit for she is a talented drama queen worthy of an Oscar. She can turn on the taps with the blink of an eye. She built up a web of lies that involved the police and the courts. Each time I went to court resulted in a victory for me. For each lie she told, I stood my ground and held my head high. She forced me out of my home, left me with a ton of debt and slagged me off to my sons. With all of her attempts to make me out to the person I am not, I never once responded in kind. My time would come. I always reminded her that I did not want any part of an adversarial system that pitts former couples against each other and the best route for us and the boys would be a 50/50 split, you go your way and I go mine and discuss the children only. After we split, I met a wonderful woman and found a different life that wasn't full of drama. I ran into the woman who helped my ex out when we split a while ago. Upon seeing me, she burst into tears and gave me a hug and told me she regretted all that had gone on. She also confessed that she and my ex were no longer speaking.

I had all kinds of revenge fantasies. Some real beauts too, like planting a little stash of pot in her bag when she flew to England to see her family, calling her father and telling him that his daughter was unfaithful, putting sugar in the gas tank, creating one of those faux mastercard ads that would really embarrass her and circulate it on the internet, sign her up on one of those dating web sites that involve farm animals, etc. While I was having these nicely entertaining revenge fantasies, my life was improving. I moved into a bigger house with my girlfriend, moved my business to my home, made more money and had more of a social life. Essentially I am much happier than I have ever been. My sons prefer to be with me because I am an overgrown kid and I listen to them and never speak ill of their mother. I found the happier I got in my life, the more miserable and jealous she became. I can say from experience that happiness is the best revenge.

Ken

p.s. I promise to return to being an interesting rambling lunatic soon.


3. by Cottingley Fairy

"Go to the middle of the tracks and stop!" My Driver's Education teacher kept shouting this to me when I stopped the Oldsmobile full of other students at the flashing red signal lights at the railroad tracks. He always tried to trip up students - telling us to head the wrong way on a one-way street, ignore Stop signs because "no one's looking", drive faster because we needed to get back to school- then he'd bellow and mark down the grade if we did it. So I refused and reminded him there was a train coming. He got louder, I refused louder, he glared and shouted, and I just stubbornly gripped the wheel and mashed the brake harder, and kept glancing at the oncoming freight train through the passenger-side window, then to the popping eyes of the instructor, then to the train, then to his eyes.

Enough time passed I realized the train was moving slowly. I also knew he would fail me if I crossed the tracks with a train in sight and already bleating its whistle at the stopped cars. But I had also had enough of the instructor yelling "Go to the middle of the tracks and stop!" at me. He meant for me to stop the car between the two sets of railroad tracks so he could see if a train was really coming but I did not realize it at the time. I finally let go the brake, stomped on the gas and the big Olds leapt forward, and then I mashed the brake again, plopping that fat car across the first set of tracks, the one that happened to be occupied by a heavy oncoming freight train. "LOOK!" I yelled. "I TOLD YOU A TRAIN WAS COMING!" The train engineer freaked and hit the whistle, no doubt visualizing the headlines of multiple student driver deaths. The teacher turned in his seat, saw the train for the first time, and after leaving a nice set of eyeball prints on the window glass, shrieked, "Move the car! Move the car!" but I just sat, calmly explaining that I had seen the train coming and he'd better not mark me off for crossing the tracks. He flipped out completely, no doubt visualizing a more personally-related headline plus an obituary.

Point made, I shifted into gear and we rolled off the tracks and headed back to the high school while the teacher was literally pouring pills into his hand and gobbling them down. With the addition of all his overly dramatic hand-quivering, brow-mopping, body-sagging, and stammering, I soon became quite annoyed with his histrionics. I later heard (from EVERYONE) it was the worst fright of his entire life and the pills were real. But I'd bet that he does not try to trick driver's ed students any more.



Administrative Notes:

To the commenter "laughing hysterically": Your comment Friday was intriguing, but not entirely clear (Particularly the part about "Catholic pillowtalk"). If you could re-post, maybe with smaller words for the slow, it would be appreciated.

To Travis Mac, the Ralph Nader (I mean from Nader's consumer advocate days, before he went nuts) of this blog: A lawyer friend says he hopes you aren't a lawyer. He also strongly hopes on behalf of your loved ones (if you have any) that you are not taking content you've found on the internet and running with it per your understanding of public domain. As to your other comments, you're not wrong and I'll address them later in the week. In the interim, we always prefer constructive criticism (i.e. rather than saying simply that this sucks, say it sucks and suggest how it might suck less).

True Tales of Revenge!
Name: Shiva
E-Mail: sheeeva7@hotmail.com

My ex-husband, when he was my husband, was discovered (by me) canoodling with a big haired type female at a local bar. When I confronted him, at the bar, he decided that violence was the best option and dragged me out of the bar by my hair. My husband was in the Navy. It is illegal to commit adultery in the Navy - not to mention the caveman impersonation. So, I let the Navy press charges and he spent a month living in the barracks on "restriction", which meant he could only go to work. During this time, I ran up his bills and didn't pay them. I also went to the grocery store and bought all the foods he hated and stocked up the refrigerator. When he was released from his restriction, I left him. He was left with large bills, bad credit and a refrigerator full of clams.


Name: Rob Sterling
E-Mail: rob_sterling@yahoo.com

When I was a senior in high school, I felt that I had been substantially mistreated on several occasions by the high school principal - whom we'll refer to as "Fred". At some point following the offending incidents, I accidentally discovered that he was fucking the vice-principal - "Janine" - on a regular basis. I don't believe anyone else knew. My discovery was a one-in-a-million fluke. (I've got a 300-word limit here, so I'll skip the details.)

There were two deranged teachers who loathed Principal Fred - one taught shop, the other phys. ed. So I took the two aside one day and told them what I'd learned about Fred playing hide the salami with Janine. One school night not long after, the two crazy teachers spraypainted "FRED DOES JANINE" on the school in giant letters - facing the schoolbus driveway. When Janine arrived the next morning, she flipped out on the lawn, just as all the buses were pulling in. Nearly a thousand kids were able to enjoy the spectacle of her emotional collapse - that was the cherry on top of my dish served cold. Both their lives went into the shitbox for a while after that - each got a divorce from their spouse and (I assume) a gentle push from the local board of education to find work elsewhere. Janine left almost immediately, Fred ended his twelve-year tenure after the completion of the school year.

I expected that the deranged teachers would do something destructive with the information, but I must admit the outcome exceeded my wildest expectations. People in town still talk about it.


Name: ARealSpitFire
E-Mail: ARealxSpitFire@aol.com

My story is about karmic revenge. A few years ago I became engaged to a very nice person. I, being a woman of a certain age, became engaged for all the wrong reasons. SERIOUSLY wrong reasons! I figured that he might very well be my last chance for marriage so naturally when he asked I said yes. Mind you, we had only been dating for about a month. This person did everything in the world for me. He supported me emotional and financially. He loved me unconditionally and with all his heart. Of course, being the nicest person in the world he was also a complete drag. No fun! BORING! Long story short, I broke off our engagement, cancelled the wedding, and sent him packing. He ended up in a rehab center the day after we broke up. Yes, I know I am a complete bitch. Now here comes the revenge part. Soon after said person went to the crazy house I met THE boy. This boy was everything I ever wanted. He was exciting and smart and funny and beautiful. I loved him unconditionally and with all my heart. We had 3 years of a complete roller coaster ride. On/off, on/off, etc etc. The boy finally moved away but the plan was for me to eventually join him and for the boy to become my husband. Needless to say, some bitch is now married to my husband and she is living in MY house and swimming in MY pool. I'm truly convinced that I am a victim of karmic revenge. I treated ______ badly so I got mine back by the boy marrying someone else. I truly believe what goes around comes around. So here is the question... how do I get my husband back?


Administrative Notes:

C. Fairy, Ken@eyecreate and Wheeler Jonees, if you would be so kind as to re-post your revenge stories (computer ate them, sorry), they will consitute "True Tales of Revenge, Vol. II!" Please free to add a couple hundred words.

Re: several questions, Dodge Viper Points are not being awarded for these stories, revenge being its own reward. We are, however, now awarding knighthoods where applicable. For meritorious contribution, Bard S is hereby selected as the first member of the Noble Order of the Tripod Comment Feature. We're working on a Latin slogan and a coat of arms jpeg. In the interim, all bow toward the place on your monitor where it says "Bard S."

Have a swell Saturni dies et Solis dies,

R

A Short(y) followed by a Double Feature
Below are the two more winners in the Angelina Jolie As President and Eleanor Roosevelt movie pitch essay contests. Pitchers Rick Suvalle and seakrits each receive ten DVPs (Dodge Viper Points) redeemable towards either a brand new Dodge Viper or (a new blog feature!) a keg. Congrats, Rick and seakrits.

First, from vacation in New Jersey:

"The stuff I'm up to list"

by Shorty

1 Hoagie Haven fo cheesesteaks
2 The Bronx to deliver some souvenirs from the Netherlands
3 Check out a few (strip)clubs in NYC
4 Drink as many mixed drinks as I can handle (I'll probably pass out)
5 Shop til I drop
6 See if the NY men are really that qute

More sugestions are welcome.....

Shorty

And now the featured attractions....
HAIL TO THE QUEEF

by Rick Suvalle
E-Mail: hansolo@earthlink.net

We open in an America on the heels of Judgment Day - terrorism is rampant, gas prices are through the roof, Roe vs. Wade is on the verge of being overturned and television and radio broadcasts are forced to implement a fifteen second delay in the event SpongeBob SquarePants decides to show a little too much sponge for the Right's liking...

Enter Angelina Jolie, a stripper with a heart of gold (I know, is there any other kind?) Since the cost of showing her breasts on screen would be prohibitive we'd license footage from that lesbian model flick she did and deftly insert a few money shots. Anyway...

As fate would have it, it's an election year and the Democratic candidate for President has a penchant for strip clubs. To make a long story 250 words or less, our candidate has a heart attack in the midst of one of Angelina's famous $14 lapdances. Now the Democratic National Committee must scramble to find a new candidate. With America in such a state of moral confusion someone in the DNC jokes that they should nominate the stripper. It gets a chuckle, but hey, this close to the election they're gonna lose anyway, so why the hell not?

Cut to six months later: Angelina kicks the incumbent's ass to become the first female President. Granted incumby did start a war and run up the national debt. But to Angelina's credit, she did offer her voters two-for-one lapdances if elected.

******

UNTITLED ELEANOR ROOSEVELT PROJECT

By seakrits
E-Mail: dontthinkillgiveyoumy@emailaddress.com

As I know virtually nothing about Eleanor Roosevelt except for the fact that she was a closeted lesbian, I propose the following summer blockbuster (keep in mind while reading that I am lacking in the creativity department):

Eleanor Roosevelt is a well-known phlebotomist, but not-so-well-known time traveler. The bullet that shot Abraham Lincoln was actually intended for Mary Todd (Booth was Mary's drug dealer), but Eleanor held a grudge against Abe for having an affair with her best friend's sister's daughter's boyfriend's aunt, "Elizabeth", and for creating Mary Todd into an opium addict. She went back in time and knocked Booth's elbow while he wasn't looking and Abe suffered the gunshot wound instead of Mary Todd. (this is a subplot in the greater script.)
Enter Angelina Jolie as Hepzibah Scrufflefeathers, a dear friend of Eleanor's and also a crime-fighting machine. When she finds out what Eleanor is up to, she confronts her and warns against using her powers to her advantage and changing the course of history. Eleanor doesn't listen and Hepzibah is forced to have a showdown with her dear friend, ending in a long drawn-out girl-on-girl fight scene where there is a lot of hair-pulling and shirt-tearing and Eleanor bites it in the end. So sad. Lots of sniffles and wailing ensues.

Ends with the music video for Gwar's cover of "My Heart Will Go On."