CURRENT ISSUE 08/26/03 Front Page Weekly Features Ain't That America? To-Do List Alaric Musing With Mitch Moth's Diary Info Archives Crap Shop Who's at Fault? Contact Us! Aye, mateys! Get you some Daily Probe booty!	Saturday 23rd August Just back from a restful vacation on Tick Island, the hot new Lyme disease epicenter, where the locals wear long pants on the hottest days, along with mesh ballcaps and Oakley shades up above the brim. They don't want you to think they're poor, for God's sake. They're not, of course, but that's a story for a different day. These days they have to bite their tongues and suffer a series of silent deaths as the tourist girls walk up and down Main Street in bikini tops, platform flip-flops, and satin beach shorts that say "Tramp" or "Flirt" on their bottoms as they stop and peek in each shop window. How someone's bottom could be a tramp or even a flirt is a question one dislikes being forced to ask oneself with the sun high in the sky. The locals are also put to the test by gadflies like me who keep dropping quarters in front of these girls with such regularity that the procession to last Saturday evening's church services was for a time delayed until these waggling billboards of low self-esteem could be ushered safely past India Street. Oh, the posterity! But I mostly lay low in my shack in the dunes where I engineered the 2000 presidential elections from afar. This will have been the last quiet summer before the next is given up to more puppeteering. I have been taking the nation's pulse for some considerable while now, and I think the time may be nigh to bring the estimable Tristan Fabriani out of seclusion at his one-up/two down Irvine Hills estate for a date with destiny. He's just the sort of upstart the country needs, and a direct contrast to the hordes of snivelling, traitorous dwarves and other booger-eating spazzes that currently clutter the political and entertainment scene. The last night before packing up, I stared up at the brilliant stars and pondered the reported deaths of 10,000 Frenchmen this summer, more than died at Waterloo, the Hundred Years War, WW1, WW2, or Euro-Disney's Court de Food combined. I have my own theories about what happened, and it has nothing to do with a heat wave. Remember Lance Armstrong, five-time winner of the Tour de France, standing on the podium in the center of Paris a very few weeks ago? The Star-Spangled Banner was played at the time, and I have little doubt that many thousand oldsters, upon hearing what they have been taught is Hell's clarion call, clutched their chests and keeled over, never to be revived, and were discovered only last week during the annual Visit A Goddamn Shut-in Day. I mentioned this theory to a Swiss woman of my acquaintance and she rolled her eyes at Armstrong's name. This was folly on her part, to be sure. My revenge may take decades, and may only end up being a quart of urine secretly fed to her prize begonias in the dead of night, but her day of judgment will come, never you fret.
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