The safe in our hearts is only big enough for one top secret document.

RYAN: Plain and simple, the Coca-Cola formula is the most closely guarded secret in the history of the entire world. More so than the Opus Dei, the Illuminati, or any other ancient group conjured up by Dan Brown. Nuclear launch codes are less protected than the Coca-Cola formula. It’s said that only two people in the whole world know the secret formula, and for liability purposes, neither of them know it in its entirety. I for one am not buying it. Frankly, I doubt that anyone really knows the true secret formula. The creation of Coca-Cola is probably done by robots to remove even the slightest risk of it falling into the wrong hands. It sounds a bit absurd, but after an employee tried to sell the formula and confidential documents to Pepsi in 2006, what other choice did Coca-Cola have? Thankfully no harm was done. The employee and her accomplices were promptly arrested, and, more than likely, killed. To protect the secret, but also to send a message: fuck with Coca-Cola and you’ll get fucked.

SHAWN: Your theory about Coca-Cola’s secret formula is all well and good, except for one fatal flaw: nobody wants it. Yeah, Coke tastes like brown piss and nobody—not even robots—care to preserve the formula. They only call it a secret to make it sound more desirable, like when you tried to show me your “secret underpants” or have me touch your “mysterious balls”. Now, how about something that’s secret for a good reason—nah, a grease-soaked, 11 herbs-and-spices good reason? KFC’s secret recipe is the true epitome of clandestine fast food formulas. When Colonel Sanders devised it during the War of 1812, he needed food for his troops—food that would be so well-preserved that it would last for years upon years, even in an underground bunker, clearly once nuclear disaster struck and the Sanders Troop 518 were the only survivors. Thus, the recipe was meticulously crafted. “But, sir,” asked one gentle soldier, “I’d like more taste and more crispy.” To which Sanders replied, “Done!” Not only is KFC’s secret recipe on lockdown for good reason, but they’re not trying to keep it from evolving to be extra tasty crispy, grilled, or popcorn-ified. Meanwhile, the Coke formula sits untouched, unwanted.

Don't worry folks. It's in an attache case.

RYAN: Did you just admit to drinking piss? I’m no legal expert, but I imagine it’d be hard to claim something tastes like “brown piss” without having tasted piss before. Hmmmm. Interesting development. That definitely makes me question your claims of KFC being tasty and delicious. Sure, it could still be true, but you don’t really have a lot of credibility right now do you, you little piss drinker. But I do wonder how fantastic the Colonel’s recipe can be if he’s always changing it around. Seems to me you only change things when they’re not done right the first time around. Makes sense then why the Coke formula is nearly the same as the day it was first created. Unwanted? I highly doubt that, considering its worldwide popularity (only rivaled by this blog). Untouched?. You’re damn straight. After all these years, Coke is just as delicious and refreshing with the same unique flavor. Coke is so good it brings polar bears and penguins together. I don’t see them putting aside their differences over a bucket of chicken legs.

SHAWN: You only change things when they’re not done right the first time around? I’m sorry, sir, but are you saying there’s something wrong with AMERICA? This dear country of mine, of yours? So was every constitutional amendment a sign of weakness? Or would you prefer that only white men can vote and that your daughter—Little Sharonda—could walk right up to a liquor counter and purchase a forty even though she’s two-and-a-half? Perfection is about changing with the times. As KFC grew, so did its customers: customers that realized they liked their chicken a little tastier, a little crispier—and some even decided they liked them in strip form. Yes, KFC consistently stays perfect by giving the people what they want. People complain about the way KFC used to sodomize and decapitate the chickens before you devour them? No longer! It’s like closing Gitmo! It’s the American way! As for Britain—I mean, Coke—don’t be all smug, pretending you haven’t TRIED to change with the times. Cough, cough, New Coke, cough, C2, cough, cough, Diet Coke Plus, cough, Passover Coke, cough. And the only thing that brought that polar bear and penguin together was an upcoming feast of happy feet.

Someone's going to get the mauling of a lifetime.

RYAN: Why would anyone change something when it’s already perfect? That’s complete nonsense. I have no problem changing things when they’re not right. A baby’s diaper. My Facebook profile picture. A country’s Constitution. America’s great cause with an amendment here and ratification there, we can make those needed changes. Despite your ridiculous claims, perfection is not changing with the times. The point of change is to reach perfection, no? So if KFC’s recipe is as great, as perfect as you say it is, why would they even bother changing it around? Why change it if it’s already perfect? Coke may come out with the occasional bastardized version of it’s original namesake, but the Coca-Cola itself remains true to its original formula. Cherry Coke, Coke Zero, Coke II, whatever you want to bring up, it doesn’t matter. the Coke formula is timeless and it always will be. Cause unlike that lazy colonel of yours who half-assed things, they got it right the first time around. But as usual, you’ve gone completely off topic in attempt to cover up the glaring question: Did you just admit to drinking piss?

SHAWN: Fine, fine, I’ll finally address the question that’s been plaguing you so mercilessly: KFC’s recipe is so great BECAUSE it can be altered. As you so fittingly pointed out with your fast-paced typo-ridden response, “America’s great” because we can make “needed changes”. But you know what? I’ll take that a step further. It’s not as much about “changes”—the original Constitution’s just as vintage as the Colonel’s original recipe—but about the little tweaks that make it new and fresh again. The Colonel never took away his secret recipe, he just offered it up a little different and America LOVED it every time. Besides the accidental discovery of Cherry Coke, Coca-Cola has to grab a hold of its “secret formula” because it hasn’t made anything worthwhile since. Not only is Coke hiding the formula to pretend it’s important, but because it’s all they have. That, and that Grand Theft Auto commercial. The Colonel got it right the first time—and keeps getting it right. Over and over again. Just like America.

[ad]

Obligatory title comment goes here.

SHAWN: Weeeeeeeeeee!!! That’s the noise of me having a blast because I’m playing with my novelty flying disc. Hell, if you want to join me we could break into a game of ultimate novelty flying disc. Either way, this novelty flying disc might quite possibly be the greatest invention in history. With a little spin, a little skill, and a lotta heart, it flies through the air—like a wild horse—just waiting to be caught and thrown again. In this day and age, isn’t it extra special to find something that’s even more fun to play outside? But don’t worry, fatty, you don’t have to move THAT much, especially if you’re good. So put down your Wii Novelty Flying Disc game and head outside for action. I understand it’s not a sport for everyone—some of you may prefer staying at home with the flu. Sounds like fun. And, please, enjoy your generic facial tissue. I’ll be romping with my dog—Mr. Puppyswrinkle—tossing around the old novelty flying disc and catching it in our mouths.

RYAN: Oh, curse this lousy flu of mine! Thankfully these generic facial tissues can provide me some relief, if only temporarily. I’ve been using them for everything—blowing my nose, drying my tears, wiping my nose, wiping my mouth, cleaning my ears, wiping my eyes. Everything. Best of all, generic facial tissues come in convenient travel-sized packs, so if I ever regain the strength to leave my race car bed, I won’t be caught empty handed when I feel a good cr—sniffle coming on.  Generic facial tissues admittedly don’t have the glitz and glamor of novelty flying discs. There’s no bright colors and shiny stickers to draw people in. But they feel way better on my face. So soft and smooth on my sensitive skin. The last time I got a novelty flying disc to my face, everyone just laughed at me. And it didn’t even come close to soaking up any of my tears of embarrassment. But hey, go have fun playing ultimate novelty flying disc. Maybe you could head out to the “quad” and “hang” with all the potheads who like to “chill” there all day.

Get a job!

SHAWN: You know what? Maybe I will go to the quad and hang out with my pothead friends. Is that such a bad life? You know—hanging out, doing nothing, tossing around the old novelty flying disc, finding the best way to block the crack under your door with bath towels. Not a bad life at all. Surely better than, oh, being horribly ill. But I’m not sure if you can blame your illness for sucking at novelty flying disc. It hit your face? Maybe you shouldn’t be outside at all, Ray Charles. Maybe you should stay inside, tending to your orange juice, Days of Our Lives, and your race car bed. Baby. Stupid baby. And don’t be all high and mighty, pretending your generic facial tissues aren’t about glitz and/or glamour: generic facial tissue soft, generic facial tissue 3-ply, generic facial tissue kids with Disney designs? Yeah, looks like someone wishes they were a novelty flying disc.

RYAN: Soft, 3-ply, Disney designs—that’s just making a functional product even more functionaler. I don’t see anyone making the novelty flying disc any better. Cause it topped out without having actually done anything. Oh, whoopity do, they fly through the air for a few seconds like magic. So do plates, records, and babies. Novelty flying discs make no bigger contribution to the world than the Cheeches and Chongs like you who play with them all day. Go head. Cover the cracks with bath towels and try to hide from the real world, but there’s one thing you can’t hide from: germs. They’re everywhere. On that bean bag chair you’re sitting on. On that bong you’re taking a hit from. On the bottom of your dirty, shoeless foot. At least generic facial tissues make the world a healthier, more sanitary place. No more carrying around a snot-covered handkerchief in your pocket. No more blowing your nose on the ground like some kind of savage. So what if you still get the inevitible cold, flu, or herpes? You can count on generic facial tissues to help get you through it.

Convenient pocket packs fit in your purse or fanny pack.

SHAWN: Whoa there, Howie Mandel, could you please explain to us the function Disney designs add to generic facial tissue? Besides making them even pussier than they are? Let’s agree that both of these products cannot be improved; but let’s not agree on Disney characters. You know what designs soup up a novelty flying disc? Lightning bolts, starbursts, other action-packed-looking things! Oh, and you know what else? Lights. Yeah, they make novelty flying discs that glow as they soar through the air. Try that with a generic facial tissue. So me and my fellow novelty flying discers are out there, enjoying the world, lighting it (and other things) up, while you’re huddled in your corner scared to even step outside because of germs and swine flu and girls? At least you can add poon to the list of things generic facial tissue helps you prevent. And I don’t even want to know why you’re blowing your nose on the ground when you have a perfectly good sleeve right on your arm……..oh, God, you’re wearing your sleeveless mesh tank top again, aren’t you? Yeah, um…looking good there. Looking real good.

RYAN: Hey. When you’ve got a body like this, you’ve got to flaunt it. Thanks to the wonders of mesh, I can show off my pecs and abs without worrying about those inconvenient decency laws. I wouldn’t expect you to understand anything about that, fatty, so you’re just going to have to trust me. If you don’t want to agree on Disney characters, fine, but then you should probably explain the flying discs “souped up” with stickers of Hannah Montana, Disney Princesses, and the Mickey. But wow, look at that. A lighted novelty flying disc! Sweet. Now when the sun goes down, you can keep on not contributing to society. Huzzah! As for the generic facial tissues with Disney designs, we all know how much kids love Disney, no matter what it’s on. If Disney designs on facial tissue help kids learn good manners, then so be it. You’re really not one to criticize. Just last year your mom was holding your tissues while asking you to blow. Now look at you. You’re blowing all by yourself, and you even got that box of Kleenex right there on your nightstand. Next to the bottle of lotion and the facedown picture frame.

Next on Danger Queue: Coca-Cola’s Formula vs KFC’s Recipe—Don’t Worry, Your Secret’s Safe With Us

Share your beautiful smile with the world, including the creepy guy in the bushes.

RYAN: Oh, smiling. How I love thee. Of all my favorite things in the world, and boy, I sure do have a lot of them, smiling is easily my most favoritest. It really doesn’t get any better than smiling, mostly cause there’s always a reason to do it. Watching Elmo in Grouchland for the fifteenth time, waiting patiently in line, buying a new pair of slacks, whatever, it doesn’t matter, there’s always a smile on my face. Cause nothing makes me happier than smiling, and nothing makes me smile more than being happy. An endless cycle of smiles and happiness, that’s the life for me. It’s the life for everyone. Or at least it should be. Even the smallest hint of a smile can make the bad things good, the good things great, and the great things even greater. Energy crisis. Economic crisis. More like smile crisis! If you can’t find a reason to smile, then you’re just not looking hard enough. Cause in case you didn’t know, smiling is contagious. One person smiling turns into two people, five people, nine people, a million people! Oh, boy, I haven’t seen that many smiles since the wall at my dentist’s office!

SHAWN: Yeah, that’s right: just keep on smiling. No, no, don’t stop. Keep smiling. Ear to ear, just like that. Your smiles are especially smiley in that brown sweater and striped collared shirt. Have you been working out? No, no, don’t bother looking around like that. You won’t find me. Hey, your yard could use a trim. I mean, I know winter just ended and it’s hard to tell with the light reflecting off that white van that’s been parked outside your place for weeks now, but you should probably break out that old lawnmower—the one daddy gave you for your housewarming party a couple years back. It’s a nice lawnmower. Ah, yes, this is the life. Just watching you and sitting and sleeping and watching you some more. Plus, there’s no way this could end poorly. I get my jollies and you just keep smiling. Man, and once those new binoculars I ordered come in, we’ll be in business. I can finally tell if that’s an argyle or gingham pattern on your bedroom wall. I’ve made bets with my goldfish that it’s gingham, but he says argyle. But he’s just a stupid goldfish.

Just an inconspicuous white van. Continue taking off your clothes.

RYAN: Thanks, but I don’t need anyone to tell me to keep smiling. I can do that on my own without a problem. Especially when I’m looking super great in my favorite brown sweater. My mom gave it to me as a birthday present last year. Funny that you guessed that’s what I’m wearing, but I suppose I do wear it a lot. Wearing it just makes me so gosh darn happy. Every time I put it on, I think of my mom and it makes me smile even more than I already was. And I was smiling pretty big already! I always do every time I wake up. It’s a brand new day full of possibilities—making new friends, seeing new places—it’s all so wonderful! How could that not make anyone smile? By the end of the day, I’m so worn out I like to unwind a little bit at home by myself to keep the smile fest going. It’s a little embarrassing, but I like to turn on all the lights, turn up the volume, and… no… no… I can’t say it. I can’t. No. I’m way too embarrassed!

SHAWN: It’s nice that you smile every morning when you wake up, right before putting on those duck-pattern boxers and brushing your teeth—33 strokes, no more, no less. Nothing wrong with a little OCD, right? Those silver-plated light switches aren’t going to turn themselves on and off four times by themselves. And your secret’s safe with me: I won’t tell all our readers what you do at night to unwind. I mean, privacy is privacy, right? What kind of man would I be? Surely not the hard-working guy that delivers school lunches from an unmarked van. Smiling may make you new friends—like that Tom kid—but I have a sneaking suspicion you won’t be seeing him anymore. No, no. I think it’s more important to be loyal to the friends you have. Like the way I’m loyal to you. I mean, do you really think it was just a good Samaritan who called your office to remind you that you left your stove on? And do you think that same good Samaritan was also able to call from within your office’s network? No, sir—that’s what a friend would do. A friend who thinks you smell nice.

Somebody loves her life.

RYAN: That’s right! 33 brush strokes when I wake up in the morning and then 33 more right before I go to bed. Anyone who knows me well knows I absolutely, positively love sharing my smile with the whole entire world all day every day. So I’ve got to make sure I have a smile that makes me proud. My dentist—or as I like to call him, Dr. Smile Cleaner—always tells me 25 strokes is enough, but I figure with a few extra strokes here and there, my smile will be as as bright as the sun on hot summer day. Boy, do I ever love those summer days! It’s like the sun is smiling down on everyone from above. Woah there, sun! You keep smiling like that and you’re going to make me all red… red with jealousy! Oh, I’m only kidding. You go ahead and smile as much as you want. The same goes for all of you too! Keep smiling no matter what, that’s what I always say. Don’t let what’s getting you down turn your smile around and into a frown! Cause you never know when someone’s watching, and maybe, just maybe, a healthy, bright smile will win them over.

SHAWN: That’s right, everybody! Smile! Nothing brightens a day like a big, toothy smile. However, I’m not sure if I’m going to go as far as to say it “wins you over.” Have you thought that maybe someone’s watching you, just waiting for an opportunity to kil…hug you? Not giving a damn if you smile? Maybe they’re waiting for that moment when your wife hops in her red Passat and slowly pulls out of the driveway, thinking about driving away from you, maybe even for the last time—and then gone, in the distance, maybe for grocery shopping? Or is she getting you a new pair of shoes because those old brown penny loafers aren’t holding up anymore and all you guys do is fight about them? Who knows; that’s her business. But, hey, did you know automatic garage doors don’t go down all the way if someone tucked behind a bush puts their hand in the way when it’s trying to close? Yeah, it’s pretty cool—cool like the chicken you’re defrosting in your kitchen right now, wondering what that noise in the garage is. Don’t worry, don’t worry—it’s just the sun. Smiling down at you. And, oh, look at that, there’s the sun again! Slowly turning the door knob into your kitchen! Oh, that crazy sun. Look at how he opens the door, standing behind it with lipstick smeared across his crazy sun face. And what’s that in his hand? A knife? Wait, wait—sun? What’s going on, sun? How’d you find your way to the earth, sun, and why ARE YOU CHARGING STRAIGHT TOWARD MEHAHAHAHAHA! Oh, I kid. Smiling’s way better.

The streets will run red with hugs.

SHAWN: Oh, Hilter, up to his silly tricks again. If only there was some way to stop him. Look at that! There is! And it’s war! Okay, for the record, there are clearly some wars that weren’t good ideas (Franco-Prussian) and others that we shouldn’t even be in at all right now (Glenn Beck’s War Room), but without war we’d all be heiling God-knows-who and, lookie here, the Great Depression would have never ended. People have been liberated! Slaves have been freed! Braveheart single-handedly defeated Sauron’s army! War’s about the brave taking charge and the weak becoming brave at the last second ala every Jodie Foster role. Speaking of, without war, Saving Private Ryan would’ve sucked pretty hard. And there’d be no Band of Brothers or Chronicles of Narnia or even that little-known flashback in Curious George. Heck, people even love wussy wars. Let’s see here: Monsters vs. Aliens has already made, oh, well over $200 million, which is about 20 times the amount made by a clearly more disgusting, less entertaining, not very plucky movie from 1999 that you may have heard of. Yeah, it’s called the Adventures of Elmo in Grouchland. War! What is it good for? Yeah, a lot of shit.

RYAN: Not to rain on your military parade, but Edwin Starr doesn’t sing about war being good for “a lot of shit”. He emphatically, full-heartedly, unequivocally states—nay—shouts, it’s good for absolutely nothing. Maybe you can argue that war get results, but no one can say for certain that those same results couldn’t have been gotten other ways if someone hadn’t jumped the gun. It’s only an option for lazy people, and the first option for especially lazy people. But would something else have worked? Maybe. Maybe Hitler just wanted a BJ. Maybe the Viet Cong just wanted new hats. Nobody knows. But there’s no debate on Elmo. That furry, red puppet with an orange nose is the lifeblood of Sesame Street. Before his arrival, that show was just a hodgepodge of talking socks and mops. No heart. No message. Nothing. But then a quirky three-and-a-half-year-old named Elmo came along and brought an energy never before seen. His unbridled excitement for each and every day raised the performance of the entire cast—Big Bird, Oscar, Cookie Monster, even Hooper right before his death. It’s that reason, and that reason alone why Elmo is so damn respected in the industry. In the past 20 plus years, that same three-and-a-half-year-old Elmo has appeared on a variety of television shows. He even testified before Congress. Yeah. That’s right. Congress. That’s respect right there. Congress, on the other hand, thinks so little about war, they hardly even think about it, let alone declare it.

He's not here to talk about the past.

SHAWN: I’m sure our readers will be thrilled to discover that the Holocaust was just a cry for a blow job. Thank God no one died in vain. And even if Hitler only had the intentions of an experimental high school student, he was doing some bad shit. Would you want to be the one to go up to a man who killed millions and ask if he’s frustrated sexually? Yeah, in your happy Elmo’s World, things like cruelty and murder don’t happen, do they? Which probably explains why Elmo’s only solution to coping with crisis is giggling. Ah, that’s it! We should have GIGGLED at Hitler. My bad. Clearly, war can be necessary, but you know what’s not necessary? A hideous puppet who makes Jessica Simpson sound like a brain surgeon. So what drugs do you think Mr. Hooper used to put in his breast milk to make Elmo three-and-a-half forever? And how dare you call Big Bird, Oscar and the Count a “hodgepodge of talking socks and mops”. Sure Sesame Street didn’t have as much merchandise before Elmo, but that street was just fine without that little sack of crap. Cookie Monster just likes to relax—getting stoned and eating cookies—while Maria and the gang taught kids math and Spanish. What’s so wrong with that? Why does Elmo have to go around whoring himself out on merchandise and television shows and Congress? He’s taken away the humble, PBS-like simplicism of Sesame Street and just turned it into a rapid-fire show that could appear on any station, like Showtime.

RYAN: You just think war’s great only cause you get a raging boner every time you watch Saving Private Ryan, Braveheart, or Hart’s War. The same things happens to me with Elmo in Grouchland, but that doesn’t make Elmo great. What makes Elmo great is the fact he puts smiles on millions of faces on a daily basis. And only some of those faces belong to children. All you die-hard warhawks, clinging to your guns and religion, get off stroking that .457 that makes you feel like such a big man, but if Congress ever so happened to bring back the draft, you’d be on the first train to Toronto, memorizing the words to ‘O, Canada’. And if you’re one of those snobby purists who liked Sesame Street before everyone got hit with Elmo fever, well, tough luck. Elmo’s here, and Elmo’s here to stay. Big Bird, Bert, Ernie, Cookie Monster, and the whole lot of them better get down on their knees, or whatever they have, and thank Elmo. If it weren’t for him, Bert and Ernie wouldn’t be able to be stay-at-home lovers, Big Bird wouldn’t have his private jet “Bigger Bird”, and Cookie Monster wouldn’t be able to afford his own crippling addiction. And think of all that Elmo is teaching children. Numbers. ABCs. Tickling. If it weren’t for Elmo, who would teach children about tickling? Not me. I tried that once, and now I have to introduce myself to the neighbors every time I move.

The only gun that can penetrate the thick hide of Gary Busey.

SHAWN: Sure, I may stroke my rifle to feel like a big man, but at least I’m not getting my jollies by watching Elmo in Grouchland while tickling neighborhood children. Clearly, we both have the same bloodlust, but at least mine’s going to an important, proactive cause: ridding the world of people who look different than me. Plus, I’m like four months and counting to slipping off draft criteria, so suck it. And don’t lump my gun-clinging to religion-clinging. No one gets their arm blown clean off in church, unless their Catholic. Only the brave dare choose war. You know, brave people with knees, unlike your pussy Elmo. And maybe I am a Sesame Street purist who didn’t get Elmo fever (symptoms include reduced intelligence, internal bleeding, and being annoying as fuck), but clearly you don’t understand how the pre-Elmo world worked. Bert and Ernie still “worked” at home, Big Bird could fly so didn’t need a goddamn jet, and Cookie Monster had a steady stream of stash coming in from Hooper, who last I checked died just before this Elmo character was introduced. Coincidence? And if you’re still unsure of whether or not Elmo’s more evil than war, which of the two appeared more frequently on The Rosie O’Donnell Show? Yeah, O’Donnell never sang a duet of Do You Hear What I Hear with a B-1 Bomber.

RYAN: True, Elmo’s appearances on the Rosie O’Donnell Show look bad. Out of context. But let’s take a look at the big picture, shall we? Elmo appears on the Rosie show. As expected, he’s a huge hit and becomes a regular guest. Ratings soar. Merchandise flies off the shelves. Rosie’s popularity goes through the roof. Then what, Shawn? Hmmmmmmm? Then what? Elmo stops appearing on the show and bam! Rosie quits and announces she’s a lesbian. That’s hardly a coincidence. That’s the diabolical plan of a puppet that only acts stupid to gain people’s trust. War may have brought some good—stopping Hitler, liberating the 13 colonies, destroying the Empire, leading to a 50-year nuclear arms race, prolonging Mel Gibson’s movie-making career—but let’s show some respect for that little red puppet and the sacrifice he made. After years of hard work, Elmo completely removed Rosie O’Donnell from the national spotlight by convincing her to quit her hugely successful talk show (you’re welcome, Ellen DeGeneres). And in the process he also turned her into a lesiban (sorry, Ellen DeGeneres), single-handedly..I guess multi-handedly since he’s a puppet… lifting the weight of the world off the shoulders of single men throughout the world. Yeah. You can concede now.

Cowering in fear at an approaching death ship or cowering in fear at...WHERE'D HE GO???

RYAN: Nowadays, it seems like pirates are on everybody’s minds. Stealing ships. Hostaging people. Spontaneously breaking out into song and dance. Yes, pirates are a threat. I won’t argue that. But they’re a limited threat. They only strike fear in the open waters. Sitting here in my executive office at the Trump Tower, I don’t have much reason to worry about pirates. There’s no way their boat could fit in the elevator and even if it did, they’d still have to get past my personal assistant, Reginald. But ninjas. Ohhhhh. Ninjas. Only two other things in life paralyze me with fear like ninjas (commitment and the phrase “you know what I saw on Oprah today?”). Ninjas are the silent, invisible killers of the world. They strike fast. They strike hard. No mercy. No warning. They’re not attention whores like pirates. They work under a cloud of mystery and intrigue, in a heavy fog of invisibility, with a good chance of justice. One minute you’re sipping your coffee, reading Boxcar Children, the next minute your head is rolling across the floor of the women’s bathroom. Whenever I hear about an unsolved murder, I just chalk it up to another person who wronged a ninja. So before you start lambasting the ninja, keep in mind there could be one behind you right now with his weapon drawn. Just waiting for a reason to strike.

SHAWN: Arrr, matey, you better watch your booty. And I don’t only mean your ass, but your life savings ($15), wife, dog, home, mini-skirt collection-hell, anything that can be raped and/or pillaged will be, thanks to pirates. Scared yet? Well, fun fact, pirates may love the high seas, but they don’t have fins. They can just as easily approach you on dry land, challenge you to a duel (you will lose, as your weapon of choice will be hugs), and then bring you back out to sea to walk the plank. And, oh yeah, guess who gets a chance to fight back, even if you’re doomed to failure. Yeah, they may be mean, they may be cruel, they may be nasty, they may be bootylicious, but pirates aren’t chickens. You know what stealth is, ninjas? It’s another word for “hiding”. You know who else is good at stealth? Bin Laden. Dick Cheney. Emily Dickinson. Yeah, brave men and women like that. Fine, ninjas may have more success killing people, but at what a cost? They come out, kill, and then return to hiding like pussies. Pussies with swords. Pirates, however; oh, you’ll know when a pirate’s coming at you. And they’ll disable you, despite their own appendages falling off left and right. Oh, and with a freaking parrot squawking in their ear. They’re clunkier than ninjas, granted, but which is more impressive? A guy shooting you point blank in the head; or a one-legged, one-armed, one-eyed, one-testicled high school dropout dragging 90 pounds of chains, clothes, and parrots, and then slowly impaling you with a hook? That’s passion.

We should run. We should hide. We should kick their butts! In complete darkness!

RYAN: Oh, my god, that ninja behind you is going to give you the murdering of a lifetime. Especially for that “pussies” comment, which for the record couldn’t be any more off base. Ninjas got balls. Mad balls. I don’t know what else you call it when someone breaks into your own home completely unnoticed and then diligently waits for your return before brutally killing you. If nothing else, at least when you see a ninja, you needn’t worry about being raped. They kill you and that’s it. Tough break. Shit happens. You obviously deserved it. But pirates are bound by no moral code. Pillaging, plundering, raping. It all sounds like a grand ol’ time ’til you find out firsthand that peg leg ain’t just for walking. Let’s just call pirates what they really are: a group of unquestionably gay men. They wear bright, flamboyant clothing accessorized with hooks, pegs, sashes, earrings, and bandanas. They hang out for months on end on a boat in the middle of the ocean with a group of guys and a shitload of booze to lower their inhibitions. Walk the plank. Swab the poop deck. Shiver me timbers. That all sounds like code for gay pirate sex. Maybe you’re into that kind of thing, but I think I’ll go with the quiet honor and dignity of a ninja. And the whole no raping thing. Don’t forget the no raping.

SHAWN: Now, if YOU broke into my home and waited for my return to diligently masturbate, you would have balls. But ninjas practice and train and do all kinds of mountain yogi-style meditation or something lame before they even achieve ninja status. And that status pretty much means you’re invincible. So, yeah, real risky there-being invincible and all. You don’t have balls when you know you won’t be caught…and when you have a knife and shuriken just waiting. Real risky. Now some of you may think that whole “invincible” comment bodes well for ninjas, but what’s wrong with a flaw here and there? It totally ups the awesome factor when pillaging. Plus, you seem to be confusing regular pirates with butt pirates-and you seem to be confusing piracy with your Saturday nights. Don’t fall into the crazy Disney stereotype of pirates; they work hard for the booty. They ain’t all getting drunk and touching each other, but kidnapping American captains for ransom and fending off Navy SEALs and defeating an evil army of ghost pirates-hard fucking work. So maybe they rape (women) here and there as a reward for their hard work. Ninjas spend all of, what, a day assassinating a guy and then you’re good to go? Yeah, what’s that? About 12 seconds of hard work, most of it spent fleeing the scene? Landlubbers.

That's not what you threatened me with last night.

RYAN: You can’t criticize ninjas for being dedicated to their craft. Maybe if pirates had anything even remotely close to that type of dedication, they wouldn’t have sunk as low as they have. Look at them. They’ve gone from the champions of the high seas to annoying little bottom feeders off the coast of Africa. It’s not that I don’t believe hijacking unarmed ships and ransoming them off is hard work, it’s just that I don’t think hijacking unarmed ships and ransoming them off is hard work. Oh, by the way, good job, pirates. Fending off those Navy SEALs and stopping all those bullets with your faces. Nicely done. Maybe next time they’ll know not to leave any part of them exposed to snipers. That’s like the first lesson at ninja school. Yeah, the hiding and invisibility skills, the ones you said made ninjas giant pussies, are the very skills that could have kept those pirates alive. When was the last time you heard of a ninja dying? Never. That’s not cause they’re invincible. Common misperception. It only seems that way cause they kick so much fucking ass all the fucking time without getting fucking hurt. And when they do die, their bodies disappear like Jedi Knights. But yes, it is possible to kill a ninja, just not very likely. Even if you got lucky and did kill a ninja, I can guarantee they wouldn’t be throwing a hissy fit over it afterwards. Seriously, pirates? You’re mad we killed you for stealing a boat, taking hostages, and threatening to kill them? Grow a pair.

SHAWN: It’s pirates like them that give piracy a bad name. And, really, you should understand that we shouldn’t judge an entire occupation by a few bad apples, lest I remind you of Beverly Hills Ninja, 3 Ninjas, Robert Hamburger, Samurai Pizza Cats, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and, of course, Kung-Fu Panda. Should I assume all ninjas are bulky, anthropomorphic freaks? Last I checked, a 6-foot-tall turtle wasn’t exactly “stealthy”. So don’t judge them all by one poorly executed mission. And do ninjas die or not? You can’t seem to make up your mind. Plus, as the G.I. Joe fan, you should know more than anybody about how easy it is to kill ninjas. As for pirates: sure, they fail once in a while, but who’s to say ninjas don’t fail just as frequently, if not more? I mean, you yourself you said you never know when a ninja’s about to kill you, so you’ll also never know when a ninja fails to kill you. Pirates just like a little limelight and recognition for their work. They take initiative, unsheathe their swords from the get-go, and take on the world head-on (unless it’s another of Ryan’s pirate parties, in which they would apparently take it from behind). But, clearly, it’s evident that, despite their awesome evils, pirates still have a heart. They care when their friends are killed. Ninjas would just move on to the next mission, which may or may not involve a trip to Ryan’s office where they are currently perched in an air vent waiting for the exact time to attaGET ‘EM BOYS!!!

Next on Danger Queue: War vs. Elmo–Don’t Ask, Don’t Tickle

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Save the world, or just the Christians?

SHAWN: So you’re just driving around in your automobile, humming along to NPR and the light turns yellow and…WHAT THE FUCK! Some guy just cut you off and now a little old lady is wagging her finger at you. What do you do, punk? What do you do? Hell, I know what you do: nothing. You just keep on driving. Now what would you say if I told you your car could turn into a giant robot that would then smash that old lady and file a lawsuit for you against that guy who cut you off? Yeah, you’d say, “I want to go to there, Mr. Shawn.” Well, that’s the magic of robots in disguise–or, as they say in the industry, Transformers. Half-robot, half-other thing, all-awesome. They’ll kick ass, take names, and then win the Indy 500 all in the same day. Try getting your adorable, big-eyed, praying figurines to do that. As your little precious moment wets herself as a giant Transformer plans to stomp her, I can already guess what her plaque will read: “Where’s your God now?”

RYAN: I don’t think anyone needs to worry about your rusted over Mazda Miata turning into a Transformer. Not only cause that would be perhaps the shittiest Transformer in the world, but also cause Transformers are about as real as the illness that kept me out of work the past few days…cough cough Cubs tickets cough cough. What can I say? I have a soft spot for baseball games, ever since my pops took me to my first game. Oh, what a day that was. Peanuts, hot dogs, beers. On that day, I was the happiest, drunkest five-year-old in the world. To help commemorate that wonderful, precious moment, my dad got me a wonderful Precious Moments figurine. He did that for all the big moments in my life. From my first baseball game to my first sexual experience, it never took long for my dad to find another strangely feminine statue that perfectly captured the moment with not-so-subtle Christian overtones. Sure, Precious Moments may not have the flash and pizzazz of any of your technologically superior Transformers, but they’ve got something Transformers will never have: heart.

I'm Drawn to You...like how bullies' fists are drawn to my face.

SHAWN: So saving the world from the Decepticons isn’t heart enough for you? Sorry Optimus Prime doesn’t occasionally kneel on the ground with a prayer of thanksgiving for his new baby sister while a butterfly softly lands on his big metal ear, but he’s too busy kicking ass. And that doesn’t mean he’s not saving the world out of love. Heck, have you seen the world lately? Guns, drugs, Winehouse, peanuts, hot dogs, beers, murders, out-of-wedlock births, sexting–and yet the Transformers still bother to save it? That’s love, and you don’t need a big-headed angel baby with a teddy bear telling you the Lord is your shepherd to make that clear. The Lord may be my shepherd, but can he turn into a sheep? Or a VF-1 Valkyrie tactical bomber? The people Jesus healed aren’t the only lame ones among us. And, really, an ugly child statue is what you’re taking away from that memory of your first sexual experience with your father (NOTE: Ryan’s previous story bored me, so I only skimmed it)? That’s not heart; that’s materialism and nothing more. And certainly nothing more than meets the eye.

RYAN: Sorry to bore you with tales of my childhood. Sometimes I forget you have the attention span of a goldfish. That must be why you love Transformers so much. The second you get bored playing with that dump truck, fold this there, move that there, spin it around a bit, check the back of the box, move that back over here, and BAM! Now you’ve got a robot wearing a metal cape. With a few pieces left over too. You might not think it, but there’s a lot of fun to be had with Precious Moments figurines. As a wee, friendless boy, I would spend hours and hours admiring them through their big glass case, basking in their inspirational beauty and messages. Sure, I couldn’t exactly “play” with them, let alone touch them (YOU MUST NEVER TOUCH THEM!, my mother would gently remind me) but my diligence did not go unrewarded. To this day, all my Precious Moments figurines are in pristine condition, perhaps worth millions and millions of dollars. But how do I set up an eBay listing with the minimum bid at ‘priceless’?

This was one heck of a fight sce...romantic sce...chase sc...who directed this crap?

SHAWN: Wow, congratulations on spending your childhood not touching anything. You must’ve been a hit with the ladies. Sure, my Transformers may have a ding or a scratch or dried semen on them, but those are just fun marks–you know, the kind to show that I actually enjoyed my childhood. Clearly, I’m not alone in that–despite how nice it would be to give Spencer Breslin another film role, there’s yet to be a Precious Moments Movie. And, even if there was, I doubt it would be successful enough to encourage Precious Moments II: Revenge of the Fallen. You know where I keep my precious moments? In my heart, where they belong. I don’t need no stupid God-fearing figurine, just like I don’t need to keep my toys in a glass case to enjoy them. And have fun trying to sell your figurines for ‘priceless’ when they average, oh, $40. Yeah, and clearly that one your father gave you means a lot–what with trying to sell it on eBay. As for my Transformers, they’ll be staying with me to help me kick ass and my son kick ass and my son’s son kick ass for generations, until they make it illegal to abort children based on gender alone.

RYAN: I can’t believe you willingly brought up the Transformers movie. I’ll admit that Precious Moments figurines don’t have the storyline or characters needed to translate to the big screen, like upcoming releases Where the Wild Things Are and Cranked, but at least they don’t have the taint of Michael Bay’s dirty, CGI-loving hands all over it. At one point, Transformers were the definition of cool. Back in the 80s, the cartoon was the unrivaled king of Saturday morning, but those days are long gone. Now, thanks to Michael Bay, Transformers have been ruined–bastardized with fire decals and product tie-ins and Shia LaBeouf. But those good ol’ Precious Moments figurines, God bless ‘em, are still exactly the same. The same innocent, angelic eyes and heartfelt messages. Waddle I Do Without You, Owl Always Be Your Friend, how can you not smile after reading that??? Thankfully, we don’t need to worry about them changing with the times or getting the Michael Bay stank all over them. They’re as pure as they were the day they were released all the way back in 1977.

Next on Danger Queue: Ninjas vs. Pirates–By Land or By Sea, You Don’t Stand a Chance

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Which form of communication can lead us into the future?

RYAN: Sure, I could tell you exactly what I need to with your hoity toity, fancy shmancy words, orrrrrrrr I could act it out in an ultra-fun, action-packed game of charades. Really, who doesn’t love charades? You show me someone who doesn’t love charades and I’ll show you a freedom-hating terrorist. You aren’t a freedom-hating terrorist, are you? Good, now sit down pretzel style and join in on the fun. What? You don’t have charades? Oh, you fool. The magic of charades isn’t inside some colorful box you find on the shelves at Target for $19.99. It comes from your heart. All you need is a pen, paper, and a timer. Sure, sometimes those come packaged together in a box, but they don’t have to! And don’t make the mistake of labeling charades as a game you can only play with friends and family. Oh, what a horrible mistake that would be. It can be so much more than that. Charades can spice up those boring day-to-day interactions that plague your otherwise meaningless life. Just imagine the fun in the lunchroom: Okay. Okay! Three words. First word. Football. Throw. Throwing. Throwing. Passing. Pass. PASS! Okay. Third word. Sounds like. Sounds like. Running. Jumping. Jumping. Pole. Pole vault! Pass the pole vault? No. No. Pass the… pass the… dammit… what is it? Pass the… PASS THE SALT! Oh, okay, here you go.

SHAWN: Okay, three words. No, wait, four words. Four words. First word, first word. Sounds like. Tiger? Tiger? Lion! Sounds like lion. Fourth word. You’re squatting. What? What the fuck? Ah, got it! Douchebag! That’s a douchebag! So lion something something douchebag. I know it! RYAN IS A DOUCHEBAG! Yay!!! Yeah, that was fun. And so easy. If only there was some other opportunity to say things like that in, oh, 180 words or less and without making people guess what the hell you mean. Enter Twitter. “12:01pm@Ryanlikeslittleboys6969: Ryan is a douchebag.” That was easy! And it didn’t even take me jumping around and pretending to roar more than Gary Busey after a rave at Matthew McConaughey’s house. Twitter’s hip. Twitter’s fresh. Twitter is text messaging for a new generation—the same generation that loves text messaging. How else will we know what Ashton Kutcher’s up to? How else will we get insights into the lives of our mothers-in-law? Even Barack Obama has a Twitter. He doesn’t play charades much, though, what with having a Wii and it not being the Great Depression anymore (kinda). The only people who still play charades are the elderly and the grandchildren they force to play with them. Don’t worry, Billy, in another couple years we’ll put grandma in a home and you can play things that are fun.

Shaq could use a spell check.

RYAN: Wait, you Twitter? But you’re not a celebrity. Celebrities are the only ones that Twitter cause they’re the only ones with interesting things to write about. Or at least that’s what the media keeps telling me. Shaq, Demi Moore, Miley Cyrus, P. Diddy. I don’t know P. Diddy, but you’re no P. Diddy. Sure, your “Ryan is a douche bag” comment is technically true, but it’s not really groundbreaking. People have been saying that for years. Hence, no one cares, much like no one cares about 96% of all the “tweets” out there. See, Twitter is fun for only people like celebrities because having thousands of followers makes them feel more important than they really are. But you said yourself how fun charades is. And it really is! For everyone! Really, what can be more fun than trying to get your quirky grandma to try and act out “Who Let The Dogs Out?”. I hereby suggest nothing. Nothing could be more fun than that. Little known fact: 87% of all communications do not use words. Impressive, huh? Considering I just made that up, I’d say so. Regardless, what’s teaching people more about nonverbal communication? Charades, or tweets that can’t be more than 140 characters. Yeah, 140 characters. Not 180 words. For someone who gets off on Twitter, you sure don’t know much.

SHAWN: So maybe I don’t necessarily “tweet” myself. Maybe the only reason I’m defending Twitter is because we pick the Dangers ahead of time and you stole charades. But that’s neither here nor there. What matters is that “Ryan is a douchebag” is still far under the 140 character limit, proving that’s all the space you need to really say something important. And, yes, the media focuses on tweeting celebrities, but lest we forget the media also focuses on drinking celebrities, shopping celebrities, and celebrities simply trying to practice their Scientology in peace. The media just likes celebrities. That hasn’t stopped the 96% of us out there who don’t matter from drinking, shopping, or undergoing dianetic training to clear our analytic minds of engrams and thus become closer to our original thetan state, huh? Plus, sometimes celebrities even respond to tweets from normal people—Demi Moore saved a life—thus bringing us into that 4% even for mere seconds. Talk about fun! Charades just brings us back to the days before the printing press—the Dark Ages, you might say. Have fun with your bubonic plague. In fact, so confident am I in Twitter that my final response—yes, the one I have in no way begun devising—will be in the form of a tweet. Well, readers, let’s see if Ryan’s ballsy enough to put his final response in the form of charades. Your move.

RYAN: You want my response in the form of charades? Fine. I’ll play your game. Okay, ready?

SHAWN: 11:12 Ashton Kutcher posts pic of Demi Moore’s ass. Try portraying that with charades. Check and mate.

Next on Danger Queue: Transformers vs Precious Moments—Directed and Produced by Michael Bay

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25 cents worth of sucking or 400+ pages of sucking.

SHAWN: Sigh. I’m feeling down. Not only did I recently quit smoking, but I’m clinically depressed and my wrist slits aren’t healing nearly as quickly as they did last time. Is there anything in the world that could cheer me up? Well, you, my abstract friend, clearly have never heard of root beer-flavored Dum Dum Pops. So delicious, one dum doesn’t cover it. Combining the three greatest things in the world—roots, beer and suckers—root beer-flavored Dum Dum Pops are so good, it’s like you’re sucking on an angel’s testicle. That is on a stick. But here’s the best part: It’s humble. Sure, passing around a bag of Dum Dum Pops, you may find the mainstream flavors—cherry, cream soda, ashlynn coconut—scooped up, but there’s always some root beers floating around just for you, you lucky son of a bitch.

RYAN: You know what I like to do when I’m feeling down? Curl up in my bed. Turn down the lights a little bit. Make sure no one’s around. And then go to town reading a James Patterson novel. His books bring two or three times more happiness than any Dum Dum Pop ever could. The man is the unquestioned master of the murder-mystery formula, making his books as easy to read as they were to write. From the brilliant Alex Cross series (inspiration for not one, not two, BUT TWO movies!!) to the Women’s Murder Club (inspiration for a made-for-TV movie AND cancelled TV series!!) . What’s that? His books are for old people? Wrong! Ever heard of a little thing called Twilight? Yeah, he didn’t do that, but he’s got a series called Maximum Overdrive that’s going to be as big as that. If not bigger. How could it not? It’s about mutant teenagers who…hang on let me tab back over to Wikipedia…work to save the world from domination by mysterious figures. And how!

How can it not be good? Just look at the subtitle. School's Out—Forever!

SHAWN: So when I was little, I once froze root beer in an ice tray with toothpicks in it and made a Popsicle. It tasted like shit. The moral of the story: When it comes to candy, artificial flavoring is the way to go. However, I will not tolerate the same in books and James Patterson is the artificial flavoring of the literary world. Yeah, I went there. Every time you see a book by James Patterson and So-and-So, Mr. So-and-So did all the fucking work while Patterson slaps his name on it and goes to bed on his money pillow. You support that? You support tricking the elderly? And last I checked Maximum Overdrive’s been out for years and I haven’t seen the MO movie make gazillions. Not that Patterson actually wrote it. Oh, I’m getting worked up again. Time to subdue myself with a little delicious root beer-flavored Dum Dum Pop. Mmmmm, now we’re talking.

RYAN: Look at you. Sucking on that root beer-flavored Dum Dum Pop like its the binky your mom cruelly took away in the 5th grade. Can’t you see the evil of root beer? Kids like you grow up thinking root beer is the greatest thing since their Mickey Mouse Sandwich Maker. They get older and, big surprise, they’ve moved onto real beer. Now we’ve got a whole new generation of raging alcoholics to deal with.  What does that lead to? Drugs? Stealing? Murder? Rape? Is it rape? So help me if it’s rape! No! I won’t stand for anything—Dum Dum Pops, ice cream floats, kegs—anything that puts kids on the root beer-fueled path to self-destruction. That’s why I choose James Patterson novels. With every change in the seasons, there’s a new James Patterson book on the bestsellers list. And I know there are no risks when I choose James Patterson. He sticks with what works. And it clearly works. Millions of dollars. TV deals. Movies in production, including oh, how about that, Maximum Overdrive. Maybe someone’s just a little jealous no publishers are scrambing for his manuscript “Shawn: The Little Boy Who Grew Up To Be A Big, Strong, Handsome Man”. Non-fiction, right?

Freud would have a field day with this.

SHAWN: At least “Shawn: The Little Boy Who Grew Up to Be a Big, Strong, Handsome Man” will outsell “Ryan: The Little Girl Who Grew Up to Be Ryan”. Sucker. And speaking of suckers, did you just imply root beer-flavored Dum Dum Pops lead to rape? Rape? Really? I’ll give you stealing—tastes like that should be a right—but not rape. And you completely forgot about the half of root beer Dum Dum lovers who grow up to enjoy root instead. Either way, what’s going to make kids want to murder more? Delicious lollipops, or books about murder? Yeah, with your crazy Patterson angel-children saving the world with violence, the kids reading that should be the ones we’re worried about. And “sticks with what works” is just a cheap way to say he’s a one-hit wonder who keeps wondering the same hit. You know what’s innovative? Candy. Root beer. Together! And I can’t help but notice your lack of addressing the Patterson-doesn’t-write-his-own-stuff issue. Because of that, I think it’s time to reveal Danger Queue’s secret: Ryan is me.

RYAN: Woah. Woah. Woah. Wait. Wait. I’m you? That can’t be true. That’s just pure crazy talk. It’s crazy talk. If I were really you, then I’d be holding a root beer-flavored Dum Dum Pop… in… my… oh, dear God. This is just like Fight Club. You know, the part where we realize Meatloaf is the one playing Bob. No, it still doesn’t make any sense. What about all those times we rode a tandem bike through the park? And all those times we played Scrabble against one another? And the times we went to karaoke night to sing Afternoon Delight? That was just you? I’m shocked…but also really impressed you can ride a tandem bike on your own. No, I can’t believe it. What about your wedding nigh—oh God. Ohgodohgodohgod. This is all too complicated for me. I’m just going to go back to my James Patterson novel, shut my brain down for a few hours, and pretend this never happened. You hear me? This. Never. Happened.

Next on Danger Queue: Twitter vs. Charades—This May Go More Than 140 Characters

ITEM! Red Sox trade swingin' slugger or Pres puts booze on the fritz?

RYAN: Huzzah to the Boston Red Sox, for having the fortitude to rid themselves of the burdens that come from the blowhard Babe Ruth. The gall of that man! To ask for an increase of $20,000 in addition to the compensation of which he had already agreed upon. To someone who spurned opportunities to pitch with any semblance of regularity? For that, I say “Good day to you, sir”. Such a negative attitude is not something to be desired for our local baseball squadron. Perhaps you consider the Red Sox to be a rag tag group of players, but see here Ruth, they’re a rag tag group of players who will most assuredly win without you. Mark my words, in another 10 years, nary a soul will recall the name Babe Ruth, lest they be referring to the travesty of a career that petered out with the Yankees of New York and the glory that could have been had he continued to play as a member of the Boston Red Sox.

SHAWN: Attaboy, Red Sox, nothing says “bully for me!” like trading your best player. Although trading does imply you procured other players for his exchange, rather than a heap of cash. To forsake Boston by trading its greatest who, might I expound, recently set a home run record of 29 home runs in a single season? If someone ever comes close to beating that, I’ll be vociferating my hardiest Bronx cheer! Although, for Boston to make such an impulsive maneuver, one might deduce that they were spifflicated—or under the influence of a gin mill, to our eldest readers. The worst pieces of our humble civilization are caused by alcohol, including poor capital investments, the Molasses Flood Tank explosion (too soon?), and baseball trades. One solution: prohibition. Finally, we’ll be able to remember our parties for the jovial good time we had there, rather than the black-outs and unprotected whoopee. Now you’re on the trolley!

Some poor sap's going to pay for that bobble.

RYAN: Babe Ruth the greatest? Says you! The title of greatest is one best bestowed upon players who have earned for themselves such lavish praise. Players like the fabulous Tris Speaker and the honorable Shoeless Joe Jackson. Home runs or no home runs, tis nothing wrong with selling off an individual for copius amounts of money. For that was in fact the foundation on which our founding fathers built this great nation. At least the area that lies south of the Mason-Dixon. In due time, the Yankees will realize they did indeed overreact and overpaid Ruth for what will be nothing more than an aberration in his otherwise lackluster career. But egads! Prohibition! Me thinks this is in of itself an overreaction of epic proportions. All those wet blankets who thumb their noses at those of us who enjoy imbibing the hooch from time to time. They get me more riled up than a dame on election day. A country without liquor is a country that can not function. What will I do at night? Where will I go? How am I supposed to see some gams without the help of a little giggle water? I can’t very well go around petting myself, now can I? Ahhhh… applesauce!

SHAWN: Ahhh, applesauce yourself, you rag-a-muffin! I’ve seen you “imbibing the hooch from time to time” and when it results in you ransacking a jitney in a green flapper skirt it is no longer harmless and responsible as you so claim. Sure, some of us enjoy a healthy hair of the dog now and again, but that doesn’t mean some egg or live wire’s not going to imbibe a bit too much and—God forbid—smash their keen new Stratton Flyer into the byway! There were six deaths alone last year related to driving while inebriated and horsefeathers if we let that number reach ever higher! I’ll be damned to see a year of eight, even seven, alcohol-related deadly incidents! And it is no longer the Civil War and buying and selling people like they are penny-farthing bicycles is of the past. The Bambino should be treated with human courtesy. And where is your clairvoyance to think his career is over? He’s the real mccoy whether or not you have been too busy upchucking on the local street corner with your other drugstore cowboys to notice.

Looks like someone got his Tin Lizzie in a dilly of a pickle.

RYAN: What’s eating you? Why would you go so far as to suggest I go applesauce myself? You best watch the tone in which you speak to me. I have no qualms about bumping off someone who speaks to me with such a vulgar tongue. Perhaps that sip of the hooch you enjoy so much has emboldened you with a newfound sense of confidence and power. Hmmmm? Feeling a little fried to the hat? So why turn bluenose on the whole lot and join up with all those other sad sacks giving the booze the bum’s rush? I don’t care if six people, eight people, even as many as nine people died after getting behind the wheel of their Tin Lizzie while all zozzled up! That’s their beeswax. Not mine. Are those progressive Reubens in Washington going to put up a stink anytime any misdeed takes place? I say nay! Nay, good sir! Nay! For true, the chances of Prohibition working are slimmer than those of an Irish immigrant finding a job. Which is exactly why the “Bambino”, as you insist on calling him, should be gay to be working at all. If all he can think about is the rubes, fine–send him to New York alongside all the other harps. As we celebrate the next decade with championship after championship here in Boston, I hope Ruth can find comfort in New York with his globs and globs of dirty Yankee money.

SHAWN: You would bump me off? Yeah, sounds like the thoughtful, reasonable words of a genteel, sober fellow like yourself. What next? Threaten me with the consternation of a Second Kaiser’s War? I’d razz you as a sap for thinking another of those could ever happen after the swift resolution of the first one, but I’d rather not beat my gums for 12 lines. And some may think me a Mrs. Grundy for telling an ossified chap to scram rather than operate an automobile, but what if it were you who’s left holding the bag after your doll (or—as I suspect—daddy) was bumped off by the same zozzled chap you extol?! Whether prohibition has to put on its glad rags and pipe down or if it’s the next Bebe Daniels, my dreams will be sweeter knowing we gave it the old Harvard try. And last I checked, your swanky Red Sox were raking in the dough, so why beef about shelling out some jack for the Bambino? He’s the cat’s meow and you know it. Let’s all give a hardy “hot dawg!” for an upstanding citizen who would not even contemplate a swig of giggle water or infidelity! And how!