They call me an icon. Whew boy I have big fun. All I have to do is act human even though I'm a big pumpkin-looking sack-looking thing that's supposed to be a baseball--see, my body is my head my head is my body. Look, I'm wearing a big huge Mets cap, though it's not like the one the boys, my friends, the Mets wear; I'm pretty old; inside me stinks. But anyway, I'm filling in today for my friend thegrowlingwolf. I've never ridin' on a bus; I'm too big to get on a bus, I'm like a Mr. Five by Five-type icon. I got legs. You know how those baseball dudes talk about a pitcher's fast ball having legs--well, I got legs and I'm a ball--a human-baseball hybrid. I'm cute. Girls like me and hug me. Dogs hump my legs, too. Did I tell ya I got legs? I'm proud of my legs. I got a face--yep, most of my head and body, which are the same, is my face. I'm cute. Don't you think?
But, anyway, Mr. Wolf is riding on a bus that's named after a dog, but a fast dog, as I understand dogs. I'm scared of dogs; aren't you scared of dogs. Dogs mean me no good, I can tell you that right now, folks. But, like I said, anyway, Mr. Wolf is riding on a bus and as I again understand it, his bus is lost in a snowstorm up in a place called northern N D Anna. I had a girlfriend once--a lady softball--and her name was Anna--she was an icon for a team called the Powder Puffs. Ah, my little Anna, except since Anna was a softball she was one big mamma, let me tell you. She called me "her little pill." That's cute; isn't it?
So Mr. Wolf is hiding out that's what he's doing in a snowstorm in this N D Anna and he says he ain't gonna write today--and you see, boys and girls, Mr. Met knows "ain't gonna" ain't good Ing-Lish, so after you brush your teeth tonight, learn some gramma, boys and girls.
I'm a little scared, boys and girls. Even if the Mets lose tonight to those St. Louis Catholics--I'm sorry, folks, but Mr. Met don't know that much about religion or ornithology, then they'll come back to Shea Stadium where I live and it'll be holy Hell for Mr. Met if they don't win. They kick and punch me in the bullpen and then when I go up in the stands to do my little act, some of the boys and girls blame me for the crappy way the Mets are playing and they come and pour soda pop and beer on me or they kick me--one kid one time stabbed me with his Mr. Met flag on a stick. So, come on, folks, join Mr. Met...Let's Go Mets! Yeehaw. Let's God Mets!.
Ladies and gentlemen, we thought it'd be a kind'a joke to let Mr. Met use one of our computers. He said he could write. What the hell, we don't get that many celebrities up here at a fabulous penthouse offices in basement of Ground Zero, so when Mr. Met came in and ask if he could knock out a piece for us, we said, have at it, Mr. Met. We are letting it stand as it is. Either it makes sense or it doesn't--hey, it's a celebrity guest writing for The Daily Growler.
A Daily Growler Hero: Lynndie England
The following is a 6-part series called A Soldier's Tale that's running in Marie Claire the che-che magazine--but it's an interview with a Daily Growler hero--a poor lady who took a fall for the big boys, including our worthless Georgie Porgie, our unelected and only president ever to be appointed to office by the Supreme Court, who is the big criminal in all this Iraq mess and should be serving this 36-month sentence instead of Lynndie; read this and weep, we did: