My money’s on that vast rightwing conspiracy. It can be so ornery before it’s had its coffee…

Chapter 2: Love At First Sight Go to Chapter 1.      A few years back I met a girl named Elizabeth Seidel. She was a pretty girl with long, coffee-brown hair and willowy arms and legs, the kind of girl whose solid trunk could lure a squirrel out of its tree or give a family of blackbirds reason to relocate. Her eyes were enormous and green — every bit as welcoming

protein wisdom in 3-D? Okay, but you’d better wear safety goggles people. Seriously, I’m strapped like bull elk. It’s a curse.

So, whaddya think was the last thing that went through his head before he kicked? I’m going with his sandals. Or maybe his shin bones. Because those missiles don’t fuck around. Anyway, here’s a fitting eulogy, if you’re into such things. Oh, and sleep tight, Yasser.

Chapter 1: Of wine and Razors      First, picture this: a sixty-nine-year old bearded man, bespeckled and unnaturally pink in color, sits in a frayed wicker chair in the kitchen of his cabin somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. Sixty-nine years old is old, he realizes, though he doesn’t particularly feel old. Just call it a hunch.      In one hand he holds a bottle of Boone’s Farm wine, strawberry.      In the other,

From the cutting room floor, ABC News, continued: 20/20’s Barbara Walters: “A fresh controversy surrounds your husband’s campaign, Teresa, but this time it involves you — and specifically, your refusal to release your tax returns to the press.” Teresa Heinz Kerry: “Yes.” Barbara Walters: “Your husband very publicly called for a full financial disclosure from President and Mrs. Bush, who have since complied. Does it worry you, then, that your

Q: What do you get when you cross Michael Moore and a one-legged monkey on a tricycle? A: Fuck Michael Moore.

Well. It turns out one of the side effects of Zestril is feeling incredibly stoned all of a sudden — which can be cool, provided you’ve just taken a few hits of primo herb from the hole you bored in an apple and can put the whole Peanut Butter Conspiracy mindscramble into some sort of workable context. When the feeling comes on abruptly and you’re not expecting it, however, it’s

Q: How many “progressives” does it take to change a lightbulb? A: How dare you question our patriotism! **** [update: Bill Quick weighs in].