I'll take the river down to Stillwater and ride a pack of dogs

Here are the awards that didn't make the starting line up.

Favorite song title I made up but have no use for award:

"Give the Cookie to the Cookie". Ah, it rolls off the tongue, it does, but what does it mean? Who cares? Establishing meaning has hardly ever been a prerequisite in songwriting. In fact, some of the best songs, like "I am the Walrus" are great because they make no sense. So, why don't I go ahead and make "Give the Cookie to the Cookie" a hit? You know, now that I think of it, maybe I will. I have a feeling it will put "Who Let the Dogs Out" to shame.

Worst and oddest Chinese food experience award:

One night, I ordered from a place in town---can't remember the name, which is probably for the best---and as soon as I hung up, I walked over to the White Hen to use the ATM. They had told me it would take at least 45 minutes for the food to arrive, so the round trip 10 minute walk to the Hen would not prevent me from being at the house when the food came, especially as I left IMMEDIATELY after I hung up. I went to the Hen---didn't dilly or dally---and when I came home, I saw the delivery guy at my door. What the Hell? He looked pissed and said he had been waiting for a while. How was that possible? I was only gone ten minutes. How did he arrive so quickly? I didn't know, and at that point, I was mainly concerned with paying the guy and eating my food. When I got around to eating the food, it was so bad, I threw it away. Let me repeat that: It was so bad I threw it away. Never in my life have I had Chinese food that was trash- worthy. Sure, I've had some nasty experiences with it, but nothing I couldn't handle. This time, though, I couldn't do it. It was that bad. The boneless ribs were drowned in about a half gallon of foul red jelly that was so sticky it took a monumental effort to separate the pieces. And the crab rangoons were filled with a white liquid. That's right, a liquid. When I bit into a piece, it squirted all over my face. Good thing it wasn't terribly hot. Anyway, stay away from that place, whatever it's name is.

Best street urchin award:

The guy who comes into work everyday on his bike. He comes in and either shakes your hand or does the Wonder Twins fist-connecting bit. And if you shake his hand with any pressure at all, he'll howl in pain. That's why I like to do the Wonder Twins bit; no howling. And then he says "You're the man", to which I reply "No, you're the man", to which he replies "No, you're the man, to which.........you see where this is going.

Worst street urchin award:

The guy who hangs out by the park and yells at everyone. Hey, buddy, we hear you; I'll listen to what you have to say, but keep it down, already. Jesus Christ!

Best spin by the media award:

When the kid got tasered at a Kerry lecture, that should have raised the hackles of anyone who is interested in living in a free society and should have provoked a debate over when or if force should be used in questionable situations. Instead, the focus was placed on the kid's "catch phrase", which was "Don't tase me, bro", and his s0-called attempt, like the "Leave Britney Alone guy", to grab at 15 minutes of fame. What a nut, provoking the Naz........, er, I mean our boys and girls in blue, into plugging 50,ooo volts of electricity into his fame-seeking frame. Anyway, now that I think of it, it is a pretty cool catch phrase, so maybe what he did was worth the pain. "Don't tase me, bro!". I love it! Maybe I'll try to provoke the cops into shooting me in the face while I scream "Don't shoot me in the face, bro!". That'll show 'em.

The countdown to Britney-ville award:

Bindy Irwin. For reals, I hope she emerges unscathed from the child star machine, but somehow I doubt it. Even though she bothers me with all the rapping and singing and the frozen smile ( you know, the one that never makes it to the eyes), I still think she's a sweet kid. There's still time to save her. Which brings me to the next award.

Best musical that is still in the developmental stage award:

Here's the story: A child with a famous, crocodile-hunting father, gets thrust into the spotlight after her father gets eaten by a pack of Koala bears. The child uses her celebrity to numb the pain of her father's passing, but she soon discovers that she's a prisoner of the fame machine. After releasing four hip-hop albums, a book, two films, six aerobic videos, five music videos, and fifteen episodes of her animal-laden TV show, she experiences a melt down. She plots her demise, thinking a dive into the jaws of a croc will be a poetic and apt ending to her short life. All of a sudden, her father's ghost appears in her bedroom and talks her out of suicide. He brings her to the forest and convinces her to live with the Koalas that killed him. How could she live with her father's assassins, she wonders aloud? Her father goes on and on, using some hokey spiritual karmic reasoning to explain why she must, and she's convinced. So, she ends up living with the Koalas. The end. Oh, and there will be a shitload of singing and what not.

Ok, I'm done with part 2. No, there won't be a part 3. I think I've done enough damage already.

Happy New Year!