Desi Driver sends this:

Any larger-than-life figure is bound to have epic personality traits and prodigious talents; certainly Iowahawk fits that bill. He can drink you under the table, drive like James Taylor in “Two Lane Blacktop,” change a tire with the speed of a NASCAR pit crew on Jolt Cola. Yeah, I’m talkin’ ’bout Dave.

But the thing that stands out in my mind, the thing that really gets me about him and makes me all choked-up and misty-eyed is his philanthropy, his deep and fundamental decency as a human being. He completes me. He makes me want to be a better person. “That’s not a hot-rod, that’s an Audrey Hepburn movie” kind of thing. I still remember the night he decided to found his Ministry to Troubled Women, popularly known as “Hoosegow Honeys.”

I was driving my yellow Road Runner, and Dave was riding shotgun. Actually, we were doing shotguns, you know, where you put the lit end of the joint in your mouth and then blow a big stream of smoke into your partner’s mouth while they inhale deeply. Dave burned his tongue, and as the raised-letter tires crunched across the gravel parking lot of the Caribbean Club in Key Largo, he was spitting ash and cursing a blue streak. I was laughing my ass off.

Inside, I could tell something was going on in that magnanimous mind of his. He wasn’t talking, and at first I didn’t think that was too odd, since he had just burned his tongue on a red-hot doober. But he just sat there at the bar trying to balance his Ballentine coaster on its edge, over and over, until he finally flung it away in frustration like some mini-frisbee. Then he took a big swig from his mug, and just sat there with beer foam covering his mustache. Now, you have to understand, Dave never does this. Never. He has a very long tongue, and a very elaborate routine for cleaning beer foam from his facial hair. He sticks his tongue out the right side of his mouth first, and then very slowly and deliberately moves it from right to left across his face, thoroughly removing every last trace of foam. Like a big red windshield wiper.

Not this time. He just sat there with his mustache covered with beer foam, looking like John Bolton, or the “Got Milk?” billboards. I chalked it up again to the burnt tongue, but then he blurted out “I want to help incartherated women.” He was lisping a bit, due to the dime-sized blister on the tip of his tongue, but I got the drift. “How many do you think there are?” I asked, glad to see him emerge from his pensive silence. He just shook his head moodily and looked down at the bar rail through those enormous aviator glasses. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice breaking a little….”but I think it’th tho thad.”

On that night, Iowahawk added “Community Organizer” to his Buckeroo Banzai-like resume: Writer, racer, mechanic, musician, helper of troubled women. He called his program “Hoosegow Honeys”—(well, he called it “Hoothgow Honeyth” at first, because of the blister), and it has since helped scores of attractive, troubled young women gain exposure around the world—a sort of “Craig’s List for Criminals.” Many of these troubled young women have gone on to gainful employment in such places as Amsterdam, Thailand, and the Arab Emirates. Bravo, Dave, bravo. Happy Iowahawk Day….you deserve it more than anyone else.

Tricia Pass Grannis:

Mr. Collins,
I am an “intartubes” neophyte and just not clever enough to come up with a rhyme, song or haiku in a matter of minutes. However, I can simply tell my story and hope that is sufficient.
I first heard about Iowahawk when I was listening to Rush read his now famous piece about T. Coddington Van Vorhees VII. Now I can’t get enough! It was so perfectly funny that I was moved to send him an email with my appreciation. I NEVER do that! He also responded with an excellent mixture of satire and gratitude for my “patronage”. His talent provides me a much needed laugh during these crazy times. Cheers to Iowahawk and cheers to you for cordinating this tribute!

Jim Treacher:

Iowahawk
Has a big cock

As usual, good old Stace is the life of the soiree! Really, the chap’s incorrigible!

Another one from Treacher:

Roses are red
Violets ain’t
Burge slings knowledge
Like Picasso slung paint