Editor's note: o. campbellson was recently subject to a house arrest,
and
substantial fine from the International Tribunal, and coincidentally,
the
International House of Pancakes, due to an outstanding bill of 35
cents.
Although reliable information has been difficult to obtain we in the
front
office received the following Weekly Update postmarked from Lima, Peru.
Our crack staff of editors and team psychotherapists have worked
diligently
for over thirty minutes (with a union approved coffee break) trying to
piece together this rambling diatribe in an effort to help keep you,
the
buying public, informed of the team's progress. What you are about to
read
is an excerpt from that very letter. Please, by all means, understand
the
opinions and views about to be expressed are not even close, we mean,
like
miles away man, from being anything we believe, or hold true. Also,
we
believe these writings to be so volatile, morally bankrupt, and
anxiously
wrathful, we are pleading with you, on our knees, mind you, not to let
your family dog read this; it'll just kill him. Now, the cat-- well,
that's another matter. Also, make note at this time, that the front
office
of this ball club cannot condone nor support the actions taken by the
coach, any of the players, or their fans, and we wish to state for the
record that we, in the front office, are a good bunch of swell folks
who
don't need to be sued, and who don't have any real liquid assets, or
stock
options. All we got is an old sofa hide-a-bed, a toaster that only
browns
on one side, and a dorm fridge, with, maybe like, a diet Pepsi inside.
Editor's note note: An attachment to the Weekly Update stated Mr.
campbellson is alive and well, and has a part-time job selling
gas-powered
mouse traps as part of his community service and restitution payment
process.
Thank you for being a Sports Supporter, Eddie Van Halen.
Weekly Update:
From the Stebs Auto Salvage Yard and Victoria Secret Consignment
Shoppe,
A reading of the book:
"Of Mice and Menace"
By Bob Guccione III, Illustrated by P. T. Barnum,
Bedford Falls Publishing, 1,450 pages, $45.oo Beg, $23.5o Borrow, $1.95
Steal.
It has taken some time.
Maybe I have spent the summer in denial; fettered away from the
realization
that "Old Man Potter" is buying up the Hill, one cracked cement block
at a
time. Maybe I worry that hope is a finite commodity, and it too will
be
sold to the highest bidder. Maybe within us all there lies a little
Potter, waiting to snatch up the new red bike from our neighbor's
backyard,
or hock the family crest to a pack of drifters from the Carolinas for a
couple of bucks. What is the intent that is buried deep?
Intentions, what is ours, noble, righteous? Can we justify our deeds
when
we look in a mirror? My guess is that Old Man Potter does not have any
mirrors in his quarters, he has no use for them. Considering the fact
that
he cast no shadows, and has no reflection, what would he need with one,
to
check on his future?
"Mirror, mirror, above the bed,
was it something that I said?"
Old Man Potter's aim is as crystal clear as the water he spikes his
whisky
bottles with.
Same as the runt-like mad scientist from the "Underdog" cartoon series,
Potter's plan is to someday "rule the world", and force others to
follow in
his wiener-size foot steps, such as listening to his sleazy Euro-trash
music, and dressing like the pimp from Starsky and Hutch. "Huggy
Bear,
were for art thou, Huggy Bear?"
The team has had a difficult time concentrating on that small round
object
this summer with visions of arson dancing in our heads. *Actually,
that is
an exaggeration, a brash statement made with the intent of shocking and
inciting humorous emotions from you, the gentle reader; unlike all the
normal and serious assertions made here.
*One of the team's lawyers, Stan D. Offish, instructed the front office
to
force, er, ask me politely to put that little disclaimer in there, no
hard
feelings, right?
The truth, if there ever was such a thing in the first place, goes by a
different name these days. Fire is not the objective here, but rather
fluorescent-white shoe polish. You know, the kind from a hand-held
applicator bottle, the kind I've got on a shelf in my bathroom. The
kind
that finds itself smeared on the old bar's windows decrying:
"TONY SUCKS SHIT".
Truthfully speaking, that is the kind of stuff that's been running
around
up in the attic these past few weeks. I mean, we are a team without a
bar,
a team without a sponsor. That's like being a people without a land.
We
have been floating aimlessly in space, with a clear view of earth
below,
The Great Wall of China the only man-made object visible from where we
are.
Lost in space, lost in a sea of stars, lost for all time.
But maybe, just maybe the passing of time will help cool things off a
bit.
Even stars that fall from the heavens need time to cool down, right? I
mean, earlier in the season things were kinda hot around the sow's pin.
We
were squealing, and nipping at passersby. It is a good thing something
really, really, really stupid didn't happen. A sow going off
half-cocked
has always been a character flaw, if you want to call busting a chair
over
some punk's head a flaw. Of course the clown had it coming. But Mark
said
he promises never to do it again, mostly because we are running out of
chairs. And, I suppose, I should move on, too. That horse has passed
away,
and it's time to get off it. And anyway, I should just leave all
these
ideas of graffiti, and soaping up bar windows with cuss words to the
pros,
I am referring to the boys over in Marketing, naturally.
Oh, wait, look there, on the side of the Wall. What's this? A picture
of
Richard Nixon? No, it's not Nixon in China, there's writing on the
Wall,
it's a Billboard advertisement.
It says:
"Coming Soon, New Ownership, Old Man Potter's Disco and Crack House".
Well, how about those road apples. Old Man Potter just went and bought
something else for us to mark on. Better get more shoe polish, I'm
almost
out.
And lastly, a big thank you goes out to all the sow fans, you are the
best
fans anywhere, except Alaska, Utah, and parts of Oingo Boingo. Also,
to
the teams spell checker, Missy, you'or thi bset chiker wee got, tanks a
buncks.
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