We knew they shopped right? I mean, you can’t buy stuffed animals & toenail clippers at the local XXX video outlet. And since we’re “blowing” the doors off these creatures & their establishments (you wouldn’t believe what I had to blow on), we now know what these sickos are up to when they sniff out the cheese aisle like goddamn hound dogs and straight bee-line it for the brie.

You know the stereotype: middle-aged, balding, scalp that looks like overcooked phyllo; let us not even mention the full length trench coat that they walk around in 364 days a year (even pedophiles know it’s not classy to show up to their family Christmas party uninvited in a creepy duster). Well, aside from having to worry about them lurking round every corner and bookshelf in the biography section at any given bus station bookstore, we now have to concern ourselves with their presence while we shop for groceries! Yes, it seems that staking-out Bar Mitzvahs and construction site port-o-potties works up quite an appetite, and so thanks to the law just recently passed by Martha Stewart Industries (a law that awards complete and total equality to anyone looking for a nice home-cooked meal), we now have to be on the lookout every time we get a craving for pork rinds and apple sauce. WTF? I for one will never feel the same about Caesar salad and for once I’m not talking croutons! Say goodbye to the days of being able to claim the zucchini as the most erotic gourd the vegetable section has to offer. Not even close.

This epidemic is sure to shock and upset our readers, but we now remind them of a similar crisis that struck several years ago: the gym teacher infestation of ’03. Surely this brings back those dark memories: bygone days wherein washed-out thirty-something gym teachers got into their very limited minds the notion that supermarkets are the place to be for picking up women. No one is quite sure how this thought-process evolved, but for months young ladies all over the country had to be on crimson alert, constantly scanning the dark recesses of the produce section and being weary of anyone with more than two watermelons in their cart. There were perverts EVERYWHERE! The silver lining of that terrible trend was the knowledge we extrapolated and applied to the current crisis: gym teachers weren’t just creepy because of their raspy peanut butter breath – there were more layers to the bunt cake. We can now inform our readers to be on the lookout for moist buggy handles, cherry reds, and…uh…well actually that’s all the Intel we gathered eight years ago.

Being evidently more concerned with its’ readers than its’ writer’s safety, the Moustache Press decided to send a reporter deep into the savage regions of a Loblaw’s in order to give an accurate profile to all those who are presently worried about the increasingly low supply of fish sticks that they have stocked up in their freezers. Unfortunately, we have not been able to make contact with our source since he/she went in three days ago, and have pretty much given up all hope spare that tartar sauce stained lapel from his/her petticoat. All we can say officially at this point is that we are trying our best to stay on top of this crisis, and will be striving around the clock to come up with a description for these grocery store menaces to make public shopping safe again. We’re recommending at this point you remain in your crawl-space until further notice.

Up next week: Drinking bleach – refreshing tummy douche or just plain good science?

Ladies and Genteel-men! Hawks and hack-saws! Bonapartes and bone-aparts! Let us all put together our warm hands in an even warmer round of applause for the Moustache Press’s newest staff member, Doctor Andrei Nikolayevich Bolkonsky!

Hailing from the untamed regions of Novaya Zemlya, and most recently from the tent he has pitched in Leon’s parking lot (under false Intel), Dr Dre Nikolayevich has been delivering the good-stuff since Tsar Bomba fell 6 blocks from his humble abode (and we’re not only talking about that good stuff). A few of our readers might now be finding themselves wondering “is this that dude from that band?” – yes, this is that dude from that band. The infamous duo Scoundrel Horse have been bringing it longer than Hugh Hefner has (practically), consistently leaving their listeners slightly exasperated and out of breath, but always wanting more. And so without further ado, we give you the outlandish Andrei Nikolayevich (Dre) and his first ever column!

Nouns, verbs, other words. How can we be in the wrong using these basic parts of speech? Yes it has finally come to this: the CRTC is trying to shut us down at the request of the Highest Minister – we’ll call her Kong. The Press offices have been overrun and every potato has been seized. I’m penning this update out to the internet on a slab of shale with my big toe. It has taken 2 months for the potatoes to absorb the clay and post it via the D-Commerce interface.

Little do these ditch pigs know, that I have fields and fields of illegal potato grow-ops. We’re going to re-tool and get this thing cracking beyond your wildest dreams. Give me this grow season (2 months of sunlight), and we’ll master your ass! Your ass? Mastered.

Stay tuned.

In the name of responsible journalism can somebody please tell us what the f#@k is in Malt Liquor? For the large majority of my life, I have been plagued with one question that I hope someday does not define my life. The question is this: what the hell could possibly be in Malt Liquor – to wit – that someone who usually drinks a fifth of Ron Diaz with their Corn Flakes without batting an eye (possibly Bob Boston), can get blackout drunk and be hungover to the point of semi-permanent paralysis and be unable to hold down dry toast until 9pm the following night simply from the neck of a Colt 45. Unfortunately, this is not an isolated event. 8% alcohol content my ass! If the Malt Liquor manufacturers that post an 8% alcohol content stamp on their bottle are NOT willing to admit that they are grossly understating the amount of alcohol in their product, then I want them to reveal the missing ingredient. In fact, I demand it!

Now I know that most you level headed, responsible, hard working Malt Liquor enthusiasts (do you exist?) think that I am spouting conspiracy theories about the missing ingredient, so I challenge you: go on the internet to find the ingredient listing because I am entirely certain it does not exist. If you do find it, please send it to us so that we can make sure Bob does not ever enter one of these ingredients (besides the alcohol) into his system ever again. I have tried to do this search myself – believe me – but considering that all of the computers in our office have been repo’d, I had to search via encyclopedia. Nonetheless, I found shit all. Luckily our good friends at www.idrink.com photostatted us their recipe to a neighbouring office so we could test it out.

This was the recipe (not a joke, please consult website):

• 1oz Gin
• 2oz Jagermeister
• 1 can of Red Bull

Hmmmmmm, does not sound like Colt 45, lets check the results.

The conclusive evidence:

It didn’t taste like carbonated horse piss for the first 7/8 of the bottle. However, it morphed into an indigestible toxic chicken rot for the remaining 1/8 (also known as the heel). It’s not smelly nor foaming in a dish soap sort of way – and after 7 of them chased with a southwest bean salad, Bob smoked 6 out of the 8 Asians¹ from software engineering at ping pong². For the record, Bob blows at ping pong. Sorry, that is NOT the recipe.

With zero luck analyzing the chemistry/alchemy of said beverage, perhaps some insight can be gleaned from an insanely brief overview of it’s storied history. You have to admit, it has come a long way. I mean a real long way.

Born in the late 1930′s, Malt Liquor looked like a promising child born out of the dog days of prohibition. The public wanted maximum potency and minimal… minimal everything else. It was marketed as a Malt Liquor Sparkling Stout with champagne aspirations and was even promoted with score cards for bridge players! Wait…..am I confusing it with today’s Malt Liquors like Steele Reserve 211 named after the police code “211” for Armed Robbery? OR the aforementioned Colt 45 which claims it was named after running back #45 Jerry Hill of the 1963 Baltimore Colts and not the gun? Riiiiggghht, that is like St. Ides saying that their 1988 billboard poster campaign endorsed by Ice Cube was meant for Vanilla Ice. However you twist it, today’s Malt Liquor company has the marketing prowess & social conscience of a Richard Simmons work out tape – maybe that’s not the right analogy. There are many truths to what Billy Dee said, it does work every time. But unlike Billy Dee, I am willing to take the chance that I might have a better time without Colt 45 than with it. Sorry Billy Dee, I don’t think anybody is associating cracking a Colt 45 with relaxation at this point.

As for my annual review, it is the same as last week: Tastes like Rancid Dog shit, but at $1.19 for instant blackout is there really any substitute?

TOTALS: 1 out of 10

Footnotes:

²After repeating the same test a day later with ¼ the amount of actual Colt 45’s, Bob was unable to complete one full game of ping pong and due to extenuating circumstances we have recently moved out of State in fear of Asian Mafia ties (keep the Ping Pong table).

It’s been a difficult month for the Press staff. After the radical decision to bring in Mekhi Phifer to consult on all monetary and poetic endeavours, all 5 members of the staff, excluding Mekhi Phifer, have been hospitalized OR worse – just straight up bit the biggie (a discontinued McRib). This by no means means we don’t have the means to remain mean and lean – it just means that I, Mekhi Phifer, will be writing, producing, and banging the biscuit until future notice. I can assure you that no foul play can be proven, nor can the source of the 10 year old McRibs be revealed.

Item one on the agenda is an eighteen part series on returning to Nubia. Don’t freak out. I’m not talking about the historical African Nubia or the Noba people. I’m talking about direct flights from Detroit to La Nubia airport where my safety deposit box is on constant video surveillance from Enrique Iglesias. What’s inside that small box Enrique? Let us get through episodes 1-17 of our extrication plan, and then we’ll consider breaking you off a piece of that sweet can-can… Ah, thought you fooled me. Looks like you might need a salty McRib to calm you down. What’s that about your blood pressure?

This is Strike Dunham signing off. That was my haul-ass character from Clockers y’all. My episode of MTV Cribs is coming up this season if they don’t shut down the franchise at the request of my lawyer for all the maple baked beans featured in that special. Need that fibre now. Well that, and the ongoing lawsuit with McDonalds and the “Million Dollar McRib” purchase of 1999. In the mortal words of Shaggy, “It wasn’t me.”