Rambling Rhodes

Who Was Dion McGregor, And Why Should You Care?

Via today's Bleat, I learned about the fascinating story of Dion McGregor. Simply put, McGregor was a sleep talker. No, more accurately, McGregor was the most lucid, articulate and loud sleep talker ever to grace this blue marble of a planet. And, thankfully, his roommate was astute enough to record McGregor's nocturnal ruminations for about a period of seven years during the 1960s. Three albums have since been made, consisting entirely of his sleep talking adventures (such as they were), complete with background New York traffic noise. McGregor has since left this world, but his "work" lives on.

Obviously, this being an area that I just knew I'd lose control of my bowels laughing over, I simply HAD to find some of McGregor's recordings somewhere on the Web.

I had some success. "The Food What To Do With It" and "What A Woman" are so gaspingly funny, it's almost painful. What makes "What A Woman" even more blastingly funny is the traffic noise. McGregor says a woman's hips are so wide, you could drive a truck through them, and almost on cue, a truck horn beeps twice outside. I lost it. I mean, I literally lost it. God it's just so funny!

And then I had some more success.

I am SO going to buy all three albums. Hell, they'd make great Christmas stocking stuffers for some people I know.

The Current State Of Political Discourse

I couldn't believe I actually found myself reading this post and the ensuing comment thread. WTF, people? I mean, Jesus. The thing is. . . I should say the REALLY CREEPY thing is just how seriously everyone takes themselves over there, on both sides. That blog has become a characiture of itself.

Not that my ThunderJournal is any better. I'm just sayin'.

Or at least show pictures of Jenna Morasca. I mean, seriously, Jenna Morasca is hot.

Google Sattelite Images are the shit

I don't know how many of you mess around with Google satellite images, but let me tell you, they freakin' rock. I spent an unhealthy time last night looking at sattelite images of Tokyo, locating all sorts of places I lived at and visited there. I can literally follow the train tracks and streets of all my old haunts. It's sad, in a nostalgic sort of way, but also really cool.

The Humor Is Payment Enough

I may not have ever seen a check from Google after over two years of sporting Google Ads but, you know, seeing ads for "Limbaugh Ringtone" next to "Why Mommy is a Democrat" is worth about $4 million in comedic value.

Weekend Recap

As I said, I spent last weekend in upstate New York, in a little tourist town called Lake George, attending the wedding of a good friend of mine, Marc.

What I was not informed about, regarding upstate New York this time of year, particularly as you drive from Albany to the foothill community of Lake George, is that it rains. A LOT. A cold, hard, driving rain that limits visibility to about a quarter mile. And that's IF you can get your wipers working.

Did I mention I was in a rental car? A Jeep Liberty. Decent ride. Hidden wiper ignition. I always feel moronically conspicuous in a rental car. I don't know where anything is, and the ride feels completely foreign and unweildy. If your own familiar car is like your lover, I imagine a rental car is the equivalent of a boozed up bar hookup. You try to perform the acts that normally work, and she ends up barfing on your chest. Er, not that I know any of this from firsthand experience or anything. I'm just using analogies. Yeah, that's the ticket!

It's always the same; I have to pull over before I even get out of the rental office parking lot, and familiarize myself with the newfangled rental. What's this do? What's this do? What's this. . . ooh, I shouldn't have done that. After about 15 minutes of crash course familiarization, I'm usually ready to hit the open road.

Something I noticed about upstate New York: speed limit signs are treated as gentle suggestions. I thought I was pushing things going nine miles over the limit, and I was getting passed as if I was still parked in the rental lot trying to figure out the vehicle. I mean, these people were travelling at insane rates of speed, in a torrential downpour. For awhile, I was wondering if they knew something I didn't, and that I should maybe hit the gas to escape whatever was behind me.

There was a surprising amount of foliage still left on the trees, particularly compared to the zero amount of foliage back in Minnesota. So, I'm sure the drive would have been quite pretty, had visibility not been limited to about my windshield. Thankfully, the next day, the wedding day, there were clear skies, which I was told was the first clear day in about two weeks. So, lucky wedding couple!

Oh, by the way. Lake George? Freaking gorgeous. Not as gorgeous as I looked in my groomsman tuxedo, but Mother Nature can only compete with me soooooo far.

The wedding was in a Catholic church, but thankfully it wasn't one of those marathon Catholic-style weddings we've all come to know and dread. On the contrary, it was actually quite short, and the groomsmen even got to sit, which was new in my experience.

The priest was a freakin' hoot. He's officially retired, but he wanted to perform the ceremony because the bride (my co-worker) used to go to that church, and her parents still do. Before the wedding, the priest joked with us groomsman, telling us how great retirement is, because cruise ships offer him free cruises all the time so they can have a priest on board. "It's great," he told us. "I get a free cruise, free food, free booze, and I can stand around the pool and watch all the women."

We groomsmen liked the priest immensely.

The wedding went off without a hitch, and the reception was a blast. The next morning, unfortunately, I had to get up at 6 a.m. for the drive back to Albany which, if you know me at all, you know that that time of morning doesn't exist, or at least it shouldn't.

The flight home went smoothly until I hit Chicago. It looked like things were going to go fine. We taxied onto the tarmac just fine, and we were next in line for take-off, when the pilot came on and informed us there was a problem with the luggage count. I don't know what that meant, but there was something ominous-sounding about it; kind of like, "excuse me, sir, but why is your bag ticking?" So, we had to taxi back to the terminal, where we sat for 50 minutes while they unloaded and reloaded luggage. Nothing untoward was found, apparently, so we taxied back on the tarmac, and we were next in line for take-off, when the pilot came on and informed us that an air conditioning unit was malfuntioning. And, while we could fly without said AC unit, we still had to taxi back to the terminal for another 50 minutes while the appropriate paperwork was filled out. I could have sworn I saw one of the ground crew waving a placard that read "Welcome Back!" but that could have just been my imagination.

Back onto the tarmac we went, and incredulous passengers let out a few exasperated "Yeah, rights" when the pilot told us we'd be taking off shortly. But, true to his word, we actually did take to the air on the third try, and the lift-off was greeted with thunderous passenger applause. Of course, delayed as we were, when we arrived in Minneapolis, our gate was taken by another plane, so we had to wait about 30 minutes for that fucker to taxi out of the way. Bitter? Me? Nah.

So, that was my weekend. I'm sure you've all been dying to learn what I was up to.

Just so we're clear

No, I'm not smearing feces on trains.

But, it's a hell of a great idea.

UPDATE: Trained Feces would be a great name for a rock band.

Not Dead, Just Busy

I was in up-state New York over the weekend, attending a wedding, so I obviously was away from my ThunderJournal. I'll get back to it in a bit. I promise.

Maybe.

Your Internet Guide To Political Name-Calling

If there's one thing Al Gore invented the Internet for, it was Internet porn. If there's ANOTHER thing Al Gore invented the Internet for, it was meaningless political bickering. Over the years, we've witnessed hordes of bored workplace and college slackers spouting their political opinions and aligning themselves with the Right and Left like protons and electrons.

As a side-effect of all this political alignment, we've also seen the emergence of newfangled political name-calling, a development that has grown so confusing, I've decided to take it upon myself to build a compendium of these degrading political barbs. Let's begin, shall we?

Rethuglicans -- Simply play with the word "Republicans," and you can come up with a plethora of demeaning terms. Rethuglicans is in popular use right now, as it conjures images of baseball bat weilding, dark alley lurking, mid-level enforcers of the conservative creed.

Democraps -- When you first hear this term, you may think it refers to show floor model feces. Well, you'd be wrong! This demeaning political term is meant to highlight how Democrats are poopy heads, or something like that. So long as you somehow come away equating Democrats with dung, this term has served its purpose.

Wingnuts -- This dastardly cruel zinger is aimed at anyone who leans right of center. Whereas this term was once used to define useful threaded nut-like metal fasteners--or being slightly grazed across the testicles--this term is now the de facto standard by which to refer to right-thinking individuals.

Moonbats -- If "Wingnuts" were matter, "Moonbats" would be its anti-matter. Do you tend to think left of center? Well, congratulations! You're a raving moonbat! This knock out slam immediately writes off any leftist dogma as the domain of the howlingly insane. For a visual representation of moonbats, please see this image.

Repugs -- This isn't a new breed of an ugly dog. No, this is the popular way to express how you think Republicans are. . . REPUGNANT! Now you, too, can express your disdain for the conservative platform with just two simple syllables! It's that easy! And it's FREE!

Libtards -- True, this would make a great name for a candy, but it's also the Web-based term for labeling the liberal agenda as debilitatingly stupid. Are you for universal healthcare through a revamped socialist-style tax code? Hey! You! Don't be such a libtard!

There's much, much more available on the Web. This is just a sampling. But, I feel it's a pretty representative sampling.

Pssst.

Vote for Ryan, not Pedro or Summer.

Just Getting This Off My Chest

Work SUUUUUUUUCCCCCKKKKKKSSSSSSSSSSSssssssssssssssssss!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Friday the 13th!

Sorry for that, if you had a seizure. Ifyou still want to see it, it's here.

Via.

In case you haven't already

Be sure to see Little Miss Sunshine. Sweet Mother Mary, I laughed so hard I nearly ruptured my spleen.

Never Fails

I knew I was calling down the gods of braggert smiting when I wrote about my increased ThunderJournal traffic last week. Remember kinds, should you brag and strut, be prepared to be thusly smoted. My traffic is now wayyyyyyy down from what it was just last week. Granted, I'm still getting around 1,600 visits a day, but that's down from nearly 3,000 a day not that long ago. DON'T BRAG AND STRUT!

Brag and Strut would be a great cartoon duo, except they'd be so in your face, you could only watch them for two minutes.

Now, in a bid to boost my site traffic, I'm going to repeat the name Hanna Montana a few times. Hanna Montana. Hanna Montana. Hanna Montana. Hanna Montana. Hanna Montana. Hanna Montana. Oh, and Amanda Overmeyer. Amanda Overmeyer. Amanda Overmeyer. Evanna Lynch. Evanna Lynch. Evanna Lynch.

I'll Be Damned

The Star-Tribune actually printed something I agree with.

*looking for the horsemen of the apocalypse*

Call it what it is: The Munchies Meal

Over the weekend, I stopped in at a Taco Bell for a quick lunch, and I noticed their FourthMeal advertising campaign. As if we pudgified Americans NEEDED another meal, the FourthMeal is touted as "The Meal Between Dinner and Breakfast," and Taco Bell has extended its hours into the wee morning hours.

Now, I've been out of college now for eight years, but I still remember many of my bar-hopping extra-curricular activities, and any stop in at a fast food joint after midnight was all about satiating the munchies, and had nothing to do with plugging a Fourth Meal into the day.

Does anybody else just cringe simply by SAYING FourthMeal? Don't you think Taco Bell should just admit that they're catering to the drunk/stoned after bar hour crowd? Would you be more inclined to pop in for a Munchies Meal, or maybe a Sober-Up Sojourn?

Instead of "The Meal Between Dinner and Breakfast," I'd be far more direct. My marketing slogans would be somewhere along the lines of: "Drunk? Have a Taco!" or "Try Our Stoner's Special!"

ForthMeal, man, how stupid is that?

Winner?

Check out seed's submission for this PhotoShop contest.

Rambling Rhodes ThunderJournal Economy Booming

Investors Who Stuck It Out Through the Tough Times Now Rolling In Cash

Rochester, MN (Rhodes Media Services)--Just under a year ago, the blog economy of Rambling Rhodes was in steep decline, and critics were proclaiming the death of the little upstart blog.

Ryan Rhodes himself, Rambling Rhodes CEO/president/marketing director/promoter/spokesman/chief accountant/ink cartridge replacer/porn surfer/toilet cleaning guy, was in a desperate state, but he was determined to see his blog succeed no matter what hardships he encountered.

Early investors in Rambling Rhodes abandoned the project in droves, refusing to sink one more non-dollar into an obviously losing venture. Those who stayed on thanks to their unwaivering support of Ryan Rhodes, who they believe to be the greatest person in the world, are now blowing raspberries at those who fled, from the comfort and luxury of their brand new Lear jets.

The past few months have seen an astounding change in fortune at Rambling Rhodes, with the number of visitors going from less than 10,000 for the month of June, to nearly 65,000 for the month of September.

"Rambling Rhodes is back, bitches!" said a triumphant Rhodes during a press conference on Thursday. Rhodes, dressed in what can only be called "pimp-like attire," stood at a podium smoking a Cuban cigar and taking pulls off a $1,500 bottle of Cognac.

"To all you pussy-assed non-believers from a year ago, all I can say is. . . SUCK IT!" said Rhodes. "Suck it long and suck it hard!"

Rhodes, when he wasn't drunkenly railing at his critics, explained that the resurgence of his blog was due to a shake up in Rambling Rhodes management, and some inspired marketing dreamt up by Rhodes himself.

"Don't call it a blog, you shitheads!" said Rhodes. "It's a ThunderJournal! I brilliantly repackaged the name of my site so it didn't sound so stupid! It's called market research, cock-knobs! It's SCIENCE!"

*sigh*

"By working with schools and industry to implement these guidelines, we are helping to give parents peace of mind that their kids will be able to make healthier choices at school," said Dr. Raymond Gibbons, president of the heart association.

Yep, they'll be able to make healthier choices at school because, well. . . they're being FORCED to. More forced choices, please!

Man, if I was back in high school right now, I'd be bringing in a cooler full of junk food and soda every day and selling it at ridiculously marked up prices. I hope some entrepreneurial high school students recognize and capitalize on this money-making idea.

Quick Question

My girlfriend has a friend who, along with her husband, is in the process of adopting a Mexican baby. As part of the adoption process, they're required to attend Spanish classes to ensure the child retains its cultural roots.

Am I the only one who thinks that's a complete and utter bunch of BS?

The Not-So-Hidden Lessons of the Four Way Stop

As a marginally humorous ThunderJournalist, with an influential readership numbering at least one or two, I occasionally take the opportunity to abuse my position of ThunderJournal power to get stuff off my chest that's been bothering me for awhile.

For example, way back when, I wrote about the importance of using your turn signal at intersections which, judging by the continued lack of turn signaling I've observed since that time, very few people took my ThunderJournal advice to heart.

Undeterred, and because I can't think of anything else to write about, I thought I'd point out another dereliction of driving duty that apparently plagues Minnesota.

There's really no way to pretty this up, so I'll just come out blunt and say it:

For the love of Zeus, people, learn the common driving rules regarding intersections with four-way stop signs. I simply can't believe how many times each day I encounter motorists who apparently don't have the first clue what to do when they find themselves at a four-way stop intersection.

It's really quite simple. In fact, it's probably one of the simplest rules of driving, second only to: "gas pedal make car go; brake make car stop."

But, here it is again, for those of you in the back of the class playing with your spit bubbles:

At a four-way stop intersection, you take turns when it comes to proceeding through the intersection, based on the time-honored "first come, first served" basis. If you're the first motorist to reach the intersection, then you're the first one who gets to proceed. If there's a tie, then the motorist to your right gets the advantage. See how easy that is?

Having now established the rules of the four-way stop intersection, let me just expand on some of the non-rules I've observed—much to my irritation—being practiced by my fellow motorists.

The Mannerly Wave-Through: I can't tell you how many times I've been second or third to an intersection and waited for just shy of an eternity, only to have the other motorists—who clearly were there before me—wave me through. People, this is not a good manners game. This is driving. This is not about who gets to have the last slice of pizza or cake. If you're there first, you get to go. Let's not waste everybody's time with a "aww, shucks, you get a move-on l'll pardner" wave of the hand.

The Uncertain Stop–N–Go: Admittedly, sometimes it's tough to judge who, exactly, gets to an intersection first. Even baseball umpires would have a difficult time making some four-way stop calls. Still, if you're going to take the initiative to go through the intersection. . . COMMIT TO IT. Don't do one of those uncertain stutter-steps into the intersection, then start again, then stop, then start again, then stop. It's the equivalent of two people trying to walk around each other but they keep choosing the same direction until someone jokingly says "care to dance?" You're in a car, for crying out loud; make the executive decision and go through the intersection, regardless of your lingering doubts.

The "Chance To Do Something Else" Brain Fart: If you're the loser when it comes to arriving at an intersection (meaning you're the fourth one), don't take it as an opportunity to get something else done while you wait. You'd be surprised how fast an orderly four-way stop intersection can proceed, so it's best to stay alert. Which means, don't take the time to fiddle with the radio, or apply lipstick, or read the paper. Your turn will come up sooner than you think, so it's best to be prepared. If you're not paying attention, you'll miss your turn, and that throws everyone else who arrived at the intersection after you completely out of whack. Suddenly, you'll have a perfect storm of four-way stop non-rules happening at the same time. You'll see all sorts of irritated Mannerly Wave-Throughs and a plethora of Uncertain Stop–N–Gos, all because of your ill-advised "Chance To Do Something Else" Brain Fart. PAY ATTENTION!

Thank you for reading this week's installment of "Driving for Dummies." Tune in next time when I take on the issue of "Pedestrian Right of Way."

My Life In A Sound Clip

It's Ryan Rhodes' life!

Half a mil

If all goes according to my evil plan, I should surpass 500,000 ThunderJournal visitors before the end of the hour.

Man I wish I made a $1 for every visitor. *sniffle*

Your Mission, Should You Choose to Accept it

In response to my previous post, commenter DG wrote:

You know how I know this is fiction? Nobody likes your ass. It's more like a trainwreck, where you don't want to look but you just can't look away. Hawt? No. Horrifying? Yes.

I fear DG may be correct. So, to rectify my horrifying rectum, I thought that maybe a PhotoShop contest may be in order. If you're up to the Herculean task, try to make my ass look pretty. You can either drop a link in the comment box, or e-mail me your work at yossarian9@hotmail.com. I'll post any and all submissions, if there even are any, which there may not be.

UPDATE: As I had hoped, Jimmo came through with a fine Butticelli (his pun, not mine):

In the spirit of my ThunderJournal *lightning strike,* Rob delivered an electrifying submission:

A good God submission from Rob.

An annonymous submitter provides a nice, er, SOMETHING.

My Mark Foley IM Transcript

Maf54: hey, what's up?

Assman: Um, not much. Who are you?

Maf54: Tht's nt mportant. Wt's mportant is that I saw a pic of yr ass.

Assman: Yeah, that's kind of become my signature on the Internet.

Maf54: I like yr ass.

Assman: Uh, thanks, I guess.

Maf54: I'm a U.S. representative.

Assman: That's good to know.

Maf54: From Florida.

Assman: That's a nice state.

Maf54: I represent Florida.

Assman: Yeah, I got that. Good for you.

Maf54: I rly like yr ass alot.

Assman: That's good. Look, do you have a point?

Maf54: Jst that I like yr ass, you stud.

Assman: Okay, I'm going to stop responding to your IMs now, because you're starting to creep me out.

Maf54: Can I still look at yr ass?

Assman: Sure, go ahead. Print it out. Tack it to your wall. Dance around it like a wild Indian. I don't fucking care, just leave me alone.

Maf54: LOL I'll dance around yr ass pic like a wld indian! That's hawt!

Assman: Great! I'm blocking you now.

I, For One, Welcome Our New Overlords

The human race has lost. Long live the Japanese beetles and box elder bugs!

Seriously, they're everywhere!

You Could Almost Set Your Watch To It

So, last week, it was announced that the 2008 Republican National Convention would be held in St. Paul. You could almost hear the TICK. . . TOCK countdown of the impending Nick Coleman column bomb.

The GOP National Convention will hit the Twin Cities 701 days from today.

I'm sure Nick can interject some sort of unrelated nonsense right here.

Which means that, unlike New Orleans with Hurricane Katrina, we have plenty of warning. Folks who are still in town on Sept. 1, 2008, will have only themselves to blame.

Well, the tone for this column is pretty much set. We have Coleman equating a Republican convention with Hurricane Katrina. Nick has never been known for his subtlety. Or his logic. Or his intelligence. Or his writing ability. Or his personal hygiene.

I say this without meaning to cast aspersions on Republicans, although there are plenty to cast.

I don't mean to call your mother, Ashley Tisdale, a whore, but man she gets screwed a lot. Just sayin'.

It takes chutzpah for them to come to these blue cities after spending years trying to choke off the Democratic inner ring and dig a moat between it and the Republican suburbs.

Uhhhhh, come again? Republicans opting to live outside of the Cities are somehow trying to choke off the Democratic inner ring? Rrrrright, Nick.

But I don't want the dang Democrats here, either. The U.S. Democratic Party is too stupid to live.

Hey! Nick got something right! *insert appropriate "sun shining on a dog's ass" saying*

While the Democratic brass dithered, negotiating hotel rates and checking limousine ashtrays to make sure their fat cats would approve, the Republicans did what they do best: outsmarted the Democrats.

So, let me see if I understand this. Nick doesn't want the Democrats holding a convention in the Cities because they were outmaneuvered by the Republicans. So, Nick, by logical extension, we can assume that, if the Democrats acted first, you would have welcomed them with open arms. Oh, of course he wouldn't have! In the interests of trying to appear un-biased, Nick would have scrawled an entirely different poopy column about how he didn't want the Democrats coming to town because they're fat cats that are too fat and cat-like.

They jumped on the Twin Cities' offer like a mallard on a spring peeper and knocked the Dems into the ditch.

*blink, blink* A mallard on a spring peeper. Well, at least we can see Nick's writing skills have maintained their life support level.

Outmaneuvered for the millionth time in a row, the Democrats abandoned any attempt to win the center by staging a convention in the center of the country and lurched again (it seems certain) for Manhattan.

Good God. Even for the Moping Grumpinator-in-Chief, this column is a doozy. You can almost imagine Nick staring into his monitor, his lower lip jutting out like a hotel balcony, quivering angrily with just a hint of slobber about to drop down like a suicide jumper. See? I can do pathetic metaphors, too! Hayden Panettiere.

If they had a brain, they would come to Minnesota even if they had to sleep in tents and meet at the Bloomington Knights of Columbus. But they don't.

Gee, those dang brainless Democrats don't want to sleep in tents and meet at the K of C. Those brainless, brain-dead, brain-deaded, brainless, no-brained, Demo-brains.

They gave up without a fight. They are getting good at it.

Those brainless, brain-dead, brain-deaded, brainless, no-brained, Demo-brains.

Still, the news that the Democrats had cut and run was a crushing blow to our star-struck Minnesota Democrats.

Democrats and "cut and run?" Perish the thought. Oh, and it was such a crushing blow. You could hear the crush and the blow reverberating all the way down here in Rochester. First we heard the crush. Then we heard the blow. Or, did I see a crow, and then blush? I honestly can't remember. I do remember that I didn't care much one way or the other about the news. Some people reacted differently.

They include our photogenic mayors, who imagined themselves delivering stirring welcomes and inviting delegates to partake of the many joys of Minneapolis and St. Paul.

Try our light rail!

Okay, from all that nonsense to this telling bit:

Now, they will be left to pay the police overtime

Really, Nick? Why would that be? Are you saying police wouldn't be necessary during a Democratic convention? Why, it's almost like you're saying that police overtime would be necessary because Republicans would be in danger or something. Nah, that can't be what you're implying.

while Norm Coleman, Tim Pawlenty and Trent Lott take the bows. Oh, the ignominy. I'm guessing that First Muslim Congressman Keith Ellison, who will be running for reelection, won't get within miles of the place.

The ignominy? Keep in mind, this column is penned by a guy who maintains he has no party affiliation, that he's "nobody's monkey." He couldn't be more of a tool if he was shaped like a hammer.

He should get out of town. Most of us should.

Fine. Leave. Begone. Depart. Egress. Disappear. Vamoose.

There will be no big financial reward.

Really? None at all? And Nick has all sorts of numbers and research to back up such a bold statement, right? Of course not. It's all plopped out of Nick's little mind, which we're supposed to accept as the authority on everything.

There will be security threats, traffic snarls and inconvenience. If we are cursed, there is even a chance St. Paul 2008 will look like Chicago 1968: An ugly convention of the ruling party to pick a new president in the midst of an unpopular war that may be raging out of control.

There WILL be security threats. So says Nick, so shall it be! But now Coleman ramps it up and REALLY focuses his wild conjecture beam.

We might even be the perfect laboratory for Air Force Secretary Michael Wynne. He recently suggested that new, supposedly nonlethal weapons being built by the United States -- including a high-powered microwave that can make people feel like a bag of microwave popcorn -- should be used against unruly American citizens before being deployed to overseas battlefields.

You got that right, folks. Nick has taken a tirade against the Republican National Convention, and wrapped within it a tirade against non-lethal technologies. He has no basis on which to make this segue. It's just one of those patented "Oh, by they way, this is totally unrelated to anything, but it's something that bothers me, so I'll drop it in here" liberties Coleman takes with practically every single column.

We're honored. Zap us first.

You know what's missing here? I'll tell you what's missing here. What's missing here is one of Nick's signature history lessons. Oh, wait, here it is.

I have been against this craziness since it came up. We don't need to be on anyone's map, and we don't need another convention. The Republicans came to Minneapolis in 1892 and it was disastrous: They ate beans for a week, and the town nearly exploded like the Hindenburg.

Oh, the humanity.

Now, after all that moaning and whining and crying and Nick-Coleman-ing, we get:

Still, we must be gracious.

Republicans helped build these beautiful cities, of which we are so proud. Contrary to the propaganda, Democrats have not always ruled here. Only one Democrat (Rudy Perpich) has been governor in the past 30 years. And when I came to the Minneapolis Tribune to cover City Hall in 1973, the Minneapolis City Council was controlled by Republicans.

I liked them.

Gee, how gracious, Nick.

Yes, lads. I remember when Republicans wandered freely on the streets of Minneapolis and mothers did not cover the eyes of their children.

Oh, Christ! What a bunch of twaddle. The Bush/Cheney ticket garnered almost 48 percent of the vote in 2004. So, Nick, there's a pretty good chance you're looking at a whole hell of a lot of Republicans when you deign to walk amongst your fellow Minnesotan plebes.

Minnesota Republicans long served their party without warring on the cities. I hope their national brethren appreciate that. Then we can offer some sincere words when the Republicans come to see the Twin Cities in 2008:

Welcome back.

Just when you think Coleman couldn't possibly write a worse column, he goes and tops himself. Next time I suspect he'll write about how he's upset that the Twins won their division. There's nothing the man can't complain about--or just make shit up about, for that matter.

Dark Knight. Heath Ledger. Batman. The Joker. Dark Knight. Heath Ledger. Batman. The Joker. Dark Knight. Heath Ledger. Batman. The Joker.