Here are some of the dos and don’ts when driving around the Phoenix area

1. First, learn to pronounce the city name properly; it’s FEE-NICKS. There are other names to learn such as Awatukee (Ah-wa-Too-Kee) but that will be included in the advanced (Core-ss).

The hysterical lawsuit letter you are about to read is very real, but let’s begin our tale here: in the late sixties, my earliest memories of recorded music involved 45s and albums on an ancient record player, one that my tech savvy brother-in-law managed to hook up to my brother’s accordion amp. Mono Led Zeppelin, lots of bass, who wus better’n me?

In retrospect, as I watched the Circus Minimus, a.k.a. the debt ceiling debacle, my mind started to wander, as it is prone to do without Ritalin. Can there really be this many ideologically enslaved people all in one place? Do they really think we believe the talking points anymore? Then it all came into raging clarity as I watched Blazing Saddles for the 367th time last night. I don’t mean to offend with this culturally insensitive material. It’s Mel Brooks’ fault, honest. If you want to really be offended, check out one of my regular features.

As I sit here at my place of employment, gazing out at what has become the biggest fiasco-slash-cluster fuck of any city utility improvement project ever, I can’t help but think, wow, there really are more incompetent people than at the dailydiscord.com.  Hey, if you hyperlink to where you already are does that create a virtual wormhole?  Try it.

This short lived mobile meat phenomenon brought new meaning to the phrase Las Vegas Strip.  The article in today’s Las Vegas Review Journal ‘Mobile Strippers Derailed’ has me both gladdened and sadden.  It is nice to see Sin City has its limits, but on the other hand Live Mobile Strippers!  Damn, I’m sorry to see them go-go.  As a Las Vegas cabbie, I can tell you, the last few weeks the meter wasn’t the only thing going up.  These mobile pleasure palaces brought myself—as well as other cab drivers, pedestrians, tourists, and everyone else in Vegas for that matter—to near Nirvana and to near death experiences.

A friend and fellow Discordian, who would like to remain Mickless, recommended we all register on Facebook, and I hate him for it.  I opened an account, a public one, no less, and thanks to Pierce Winslow’s great idea to use public accolades instead of our real names, well…let’s just say I’ve gotten about what I deserve.  NOTHING. ABSOULTELY NOTHING.  Facebook, or no, the expected herds of adoring fans have yet to materialize.  The sexy blonde female stalkers have not overwhelmed my home page.  In fact, I haven’t even had any hate mail.  Nothing, nada, nichts.   Worse yet, despite the endless spam ads assaulting my web searches, the awful truth is: there are absolutely no hot single women in my area waiting to talk to me!  None!  It’s all a lie!  AHHHHhhhhhhhh! Distraught and disenchanted, I turned to the internet to search for my true popularity.  Wikipedia’s search results for Dave Atsals are as follows...

Dear Whomever The Fuck (DWTF),

Greetings and salutations. Like I did for your buddy Sergio, let me congratulate you on assuming only the best parts of an iconic American company for free, at the taxpayer’s expense, of course, while doing the crabwalk around all the “bad” stuff. You know, like the bondholders, and companies you forced out of business by not paying for shit you bought. Great country America, isn’t it?

The announcement that Michael Jackson died on June 25, 2009, has taken this country and the entire world by storm. However, the Discord’s own Cokie McGrath has uncovered evidence that Michael Jackson really died in a pyrotechnic accident while filming a Pepsi commercial way back in 1984. Apparently the character we have been seeing is really an animatronic facsimile of the pop star now dead for 25 years.

Did the people of California actually vote for Pelosi and Feinstein?  God, I hope our democracy is just hopelessly broken.  Someone rigged the election, yeah, that’s it.  A good old fashioned election rigging would restore my faith in the…ahhh, broken system.

What exactly is Goat Weed, let alone Horny Goat Weed?  Moving west has taught me many valuable life lessons, like the importance of staying east.  In the dank underbelly of some seedy Nevada truck stop, I found myself enthralled with a urinal condom machine (it wasn’t the first time).  On this metal cultural microcosm of western wanking were emblazoned the words "enhance your sex life with Horny Goat Weed".  Below were the words "Proven Effective".  Proven, not just "studies suggest", or "emerging research indicates", but "proven" to help me in an area that can always, always be kicked up a notch.  What the heck?  I’m not beyond enhancing my sex-life through 75 cent restroom novelty items.  Who is?  But what exactly is Horny Goat Weed?

It is common knowledge that President-Elect Barack Obama has promised his children that they may get a dog once they are settled into the Whitehouse. What isn't so commonly known is that the Obamas' selection of a new Whitehouse pet has created quite a furvor, and could potentially threaten his 2012 re-election bid before he is even inaugurated.

A cultural parasite festers within the taverns and barrooms of America. Machinery grinds at our souls and sucks at our wallets. When the internet jukebox first hit the scene, we were lured by the unlimited access to songs and the improved sound quality.

Not since Bobby Kennedy’s tragic drive to the White House in 1968, when he ran out of gas on I-95, has so much excitement surrounded a candidate as presidential hopeful Barak OBama.  To find an explanation for the O’bama phenomena, I traveled to the heartland of this great country.

The global computer model supports the notion of an array of “natural” factors contributing to climate change, such as solar fluctuations, fluctuations in the earth’s magnetic field, fluctuations in volcanic activity, and flatulations in a little understood process of planetary gas emissions known as Earth Fart (www.ProjectEarthFart.org). For more on this subject see my beer-reviewed journal article entitled Earth, Earth, the Magical Fruit.