The Retro Review, No. 1

Originally from a guest blogging session at The Gamester video game blog for the Contra Costa Times and The Oakland Tribune.

Die-hard Madden fans, prepare to be blown away. A new football game debuts this week, and gamers across the InterWebs are abuzz in anticipation of what could be the most realistic sports game ever produced: Tecmo Bowl, for the 8-bit Nintendo Entertainment System.

The game features three, count ’em, three modes: single player, multiplayer and coach. The coach game mode is perhaps the most innovative feature of “Tecmo Bowl.” Fans who enjoy making decisions but don’t like being in control of those decisions can summon their inner Bill Belichick and choose from one of four — yes, four — game-changing plays.

Prepare to scrutinize the idiosyncrasies of this encyclopedic playbook, mixing a run play with a pass play with a run play with a pass play. Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen, this is going to be four quarters of in-your-face gamesmanship.

As if the abundance of game modes and plays weren’t enough, Tecmo Bowl features today’s most exciting athletes. From cagey veterans to modern-day stars to explosive rookies fresh from the college gridiron, Tecmo Bowl has it all.

Quarterbacks such as Dave Krieg, Bernie Kosar, Phil Simms and Joe Montana throw to today’s hottest, most sure-handed receivers, Willie Gault, Steve Largent, Mark Clayton and Mark Bavaro.

A young crop of running backs has changed the way NFL football is played, and it’s obvious Tecmo Bowl wouldn’t leave out these game-breakers. You’ll have the power to control Eric Dickerson, Tony Dorsett, Bo Jackson and Walter Payton, who will cut, slash and move forward with blazing simplicity. No hurdles, broken tackles or stiff arms here; just up, down, left and right to juke the jock straps of the defense. And don’t forget: You have A and B buttons.

Contemporary athletes aside, this game is all about the graphics. Each of the 12 teams features uniforms that are different colors. That’s right: The Redskins’ uniforms are red. Yes!
The field is a bright green and gamers can easily read the score, play clock and player’s names, which impresses even the most critical player.

Step aside fans of Madden, Blitz, NCAA and 10-Yard Fight, there’s a new gridiron beefcake in town. Tecmo Bowl sets the standard in gameplay, graphics and postmodernism. In a word, Tecmo Bowl is now.

Peep Dis, No. 8

Meathead At The Bar

Last night, I was hanging out at my favorite dive bar in Santa Barbara, The Sportsman, drinking some Bud Lights and throwing away an opportunity for no-strings-attached sex with a knockout blonde. All in all, a pretty standard weekend night. Standard, that is, until a meathead showed up.

I was minding my own business, sipping and staring at a TV. This guy, this total meathead, comes up to the bar and yells, "Hey, can I get a drink or what!"

The bartender finished pouring what he was pouring and walked over. "About time," the meathead said.

After getting his drink, this guy started talking to his buddy about kicking somebody's ass. He was wearing a shiny long-sleeve striped shirt, with the cuffs rolled up one fold. His jeans had a sheen to them. His shirt was unbuttoned to mid-torso. He looked ridiculous.

The meathead was talking to a buddy, another college-age guy dressed like he was trying to look like the biggest douchebag in the county. In a loud voice, the meathead said, "So I said to him, 'Look, asshole, I'm going to knock you out like Chuck Liddell if you keep looking at me like that, you fucking pussy!' Can you believe that shit, dude?"

I went to the bathroom to piss, though I wanted to throw up. When I got back, this meathead was being restrained by his friend and yelling at the bartender, something about not making his drink strong enough. The bouncer, a nice guy, started asking the meathead to leave. The meathead started yelling at him. The bouncer asked him to leave again, this time lightly pushing him toward the door. The meathead took off his shirt.

Ten minutes later, this meathead was in the middle of the street, sans shirt, yelling at the top of his lungs about killing everyone in the bar.

Click here to see this sad, sad meathead.

The Rant, No. 1

Nicotine Gum

For millions of Americans, nicotine is the one addiction they will never be able to completely kick. Some of the addicted millions smoke 50 cigarettes a day; others haven’t smoked in decades. But we’re all addicted, and will be until that last tobacco-free breath is taken, save for the few lucky ones who will have the pleasure of dying while exhaling a smooth, refreshing plume of cancer-causing goodness.

But many nicotine-addicted Americans have kicked the habit, at least in the eyes of the outside world. These individuals might not actively ingest nicotine, but, somewhere in the deep recesses of their minds, they still crave that indefinable rush. Of these strong, brave Americans, many have done this by supplanting their tobacco fixation with a few weeks or months of reliance on stop-smoking aids, such as the patch, the gum or the heroin. OK, maybe the last one doesn’t work so well.

For those of us who have used nicotine patches or nicotine gum to wean ourselves off sweet, sweet tobacco, one question continues to burrow into the rational areas of our minds:

If the surgeon general and the healthcare industry and our parents and friends and significant others and strangers who hurl angry looks at us when we’re smoking 25 feet away in the rain all want us to quit, then why the fuck are these stop-smoking aids so expensive?

A box of 100 pieces of candy-coated, 4-milligram (the hard stuff) Nicorette costs around $50. If you’re a heavy smoker (25 or more smokes a day), Nicorette recommends chewing a piece every one to two hours. So let’s say, on average, you’re chewing 12 pieces a day for the first month, before you drop the dosage down. That means you’ll be buying your second box of 100 delicious nicotine-infused pieces of gum eight days later, your third eight days after that, your fourth eight days after that. If you do the math, that’s $250 for the first month (OK, OK, 32 days, but whatever).

But you’re not done, you pathetic son of a bitch. In between cravings, I hope you have time for a second job, because you rely on this goddamn gum and this goddamn gum is goddamn expensive, and you have two more months of chew-chew-chewing before you’ve completely weaned yourself off nicotine. Take a swim, bitch.

If you follow the Nicorette instructions — which you spineless pussies probably will — you’ll be chewing for two more months, and you’re in for another $300, at least. That means it costs you at least $550 to quit smoking, given you actually have the willpower not to lift rut to mouth after six beers.

To state the obvious: If this depressing, fucked-up country really gave a shit about those of us helplessly and forever addicted to this state-sponsored drug, they’d be giving stop-smoking aids to every inhaling scumbag on the street. Hipsters too lame for their own good would be inundated with nicotine gum every time they lit up in front of too-hip coffee shops. Hapless noontime drunks would get a free mini-pack of Nicorette with their third white Russian of the morning. Denis Leary, Colin Farrell, Sean Penn, Mickey Rourke and John Wayne's corpse would be locked in igloos made of the new cinnamon flavor.

Let’s come together and demand stop-smoking aids drop to the reasonable, commonsensical price of free. Chew on this, you fucking government cocksuckers.

The Axis of Evil, No. 7

College Sports Mascots In The Axis Of Evil, And The Reason Why

The Ohio State University's Brutus the Buckeye:

A bad seed.

Syracuse University's Orangeman:
Nothing rhymes with him.

Oregon State University's Benny Beaver:
Insert female genitalia joke here.

Temple University's Hooter the Owl:
Who?
University of Notre Dame's Leprechaun:
The Irish are a dirty, dirty people.

Oklahoma State University's Pistol Pete:
Wanted on pedophilia charges in three Southern states.

Stanford University's Tree:
Smart school, dumb mascot.
Florida State University's Chief Osceola:
A racist who demeans an entire people when, at his bowling league, he paints face white and declares himself Bob the Cracker.
Dartmouth College's Keggy the Keg:
Although not a sanctioned mascot, Keggy qualifies. Loses respect for hanging out with pals Spliffy the Joint, Needly the Needle and
Pilly the Valium.
Clark College's Oswalt the Penguin:
Has a habit of wearing tacky ties.

The Evergreen State College's Geoduck:
At 1 to 3 feet long, a "geoduck" is the world's largest burrowing clam. Enough said.
Saint Mary's College of California's Gael Force One:
A pun that's worse than any you'll find on this blog,
which is saying something.
University of Oregon's Donald Duck:
Disciplined in September 2007 for beating up the University of Houston's mascot, Shasta the Cougar. The video was viewed on YouTube millions of times. Go Ducks.
Western Kentucky's Big Red:
With game on the line, will always succumb to mortal enemy:
the tampon.

The Terrible Cartoon, No. 1

The List, No. 17

“Kama Sutra” Positions Left Out For Good Reason,
With Descriptions

The Drunken Monkey:
Man lies on top of woman. Woman doesn’t like it. Man snores.

The Sitting Duck:
Man sits cross-legged on floor with back against wall, arms in front of him. Woman is nowhere to be found. Man remembers he has a video game to play.

The Reverse Discrimination:
Man gets on knees. Woman positions herself behind man.

Woman pays man 72 percent of what she would make.

The Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon:
Man and woman stand close together. Man and woman fly through the air in unrealistic ways. At first, man and woman think it is pleasurable. Then, man and woman become bored and realize the position wasn’t that good to begin with.

The Folded Crane:
Man sits on floor. Woman lies on bed. Man folds napkin into origami crane. Woman puts on shoes and leaves.

The Entry-Level Position:
Man or woman: doesn’t matter. Everyone gets screwed.

The Lunar Eclipse:
Man and woman lie on sides, woman’s back facing man’s chest.
Man enters woman. Woman comes about once a year.

The Blogging Hippo:
Man and woman have sex. No one reads about it.

The Toof, No. 11

Unfolding The Laundry

It was raining in Eugene, Ore., as it usually was. It was Sunday, laundry day, and for appearances sake, that was a good thing. I shuffled my clothes from my apartment in Chase Village — near Chevy Chase Drive — to the complex’s laundry room, which was a few hundred feet away.

Naturally, I drove.

Once inside the laundry room, I went about the usual routine, separating the clothes into piles: whites, darks, stains, Speedos, one-piece undergarments, keyboard neckties, the panties my mother laid out for me.

As I separated the clothes, I came across a tube sock bunched up and inside-out, the way socks get. I grabbed the sock, and flung it in a downward motion — shoulder to knee — to try to unbunch the bunch.

On the third fling, the bunch partially came undone. The toe of the sock stayed in a bunch, but the middle of the sock extended a few inches.

On the fourth fling, I nearly knocked myself unconscious. With the force of a baseball swing, I flung the sock downward, and hit myself square in the nuts with the bunch. I immediately dropped to my knees and grabbed my crotch with both hands. I opened my mouth to yell, but nothing came out. I stayed in that position for at least three minutes, steadily regaining my breath, composure and self-respect.

Outside, a blonde named Jenny saw the rear view of the entire incident, but couldn’t see the sock through the rain-blotted windows. She asked me later that afternoon why I prayed in an apartment complex laundry room.

MySpace Fun, No. 3

Responses To MySpace Friend Requests

Anyone with a MySpace profile has received a friend request from someone they recognize. Much of the time, a familiar friend request is a good thing, a reconnection between two people who were once close and who will now be able to communicate if the desire arises.

But a friend request doesn’t always bring feelings of joy. Sometimes, it’s enough to ruin a day.

Use the following friend-request catalogue the next time someone tries to wedge his or her way into your life. Just cut and paste the appropriate response, and send it in a message to the “friend” who’s “requesting” to join your MySpace network. They’ll get the point, and, soon enough, cancel the intrusion into your life.

The One-Hello: Few things are more intrusive than meeting someone, say, at your sister’s roommate’s quinceñera, knowing you’ll never meet again, yet getting a friend request from them the next afternoon.

Response: Yeah, it was awesome meeting you, too. We should definitely pretend as if we’re going to stay in touch, if only to have a window into each other’s lives. That way, we’ll always have each other’s intimate details a few clicks away. We’re on the same wavelength, for sure. I’m totally going to grab a 12-pack, have over a few buddies and plop down in front of the CPU for a hour of so of jokes at your expense, you weirdo I’ll never see again in person. Thanks for the friend request. Never ttyl.

The Old Acquaintance, New Band: You spoke a few times in high school, but now this guy or gal is pursuing a part-time music career. They send you a MySpace Music friend request from a profile with one scratchy song playing.

Response: Wow. This shit is hot. You’re going to be huge. Send me an update when the album drops in 2026. By that time, let’s hope we’re both over it.

The One-Nighter: Awkwardness in the digital age, you have been personified. You hook up with some skank or scab one night after a brutal time at the bars. A few days later, you get a friend request from someone who looks somewhat familiar. You look and look, then release — gasp — you swapped body fluids with this person.

Response: Let’s be honest. You’re an adult; I’m an adult. We do plenty of intelligent things every day. Our lone interaction was not one of these things. I’m ashamed; you’re ashamed. Let’s just leave it as a mistake we try to forget as soon as possible, before our friends find out and ridicule us for years.

… more to come

Peep Dis, No. 7

My View Of Santa Barbara

It’s known as the American Riviera. It’s a playground for the rich and famous. Its Mediterranean climate has been called the best year-round weather in the country. Beaches stretch along its western boundaries; its eastern border is a picturesque mountain range.

This paradise is Santa Barbara, the jewel of California’s Central Coast.

I’m lucky enough to live in Santa Barbara. I can smell the salty ocean breeze as I type. White-sand beaches are a few blocks away. For miles, idyllic palm trees frame every glance. The sunsets here are a deep glowing purple, stretching over the diamond-glistening sheet of the Pacific Ocean.

The buildings are white stucco with red tile roofs, as per city ordinance. The city’s Spanish revival architecture is a throwback to simpler times. The scars of consumerism — billboards, neon signs, above-ground wires — are outlawed, and nowhere to be found. A writer once said of Santa Barbara, “God made it sing, and, for once, humans only made it better.”

A few feet from my window is State Street, the main thoroughfare of downtown Santa Barbara; a downtown called the country’s most beautiful. Attractive people breeze in and out of this area 20 hours a day, their tan, tight bodies covered with as little clothing as 75 degrees and a slight breeze allow.

Beaches, palm trees, awe-inspiring architecture, beautiful people, the world’s largest ocean, a mountain range rising 4,000 feet into the sky: Santa Barbara is a wonder to look upon, to say the least.

Enjoy the view out my kitchen window on a warm summer day.

The Axis of Evil, No. 6

Recent Presidents In The Axis Of Evil, And The Reason Why

John F. Kennedy:
The Irish are a dirty, dirty people.

Lyndon B. Johnson:
Was married to Lady Bird. Named son "Chicken Wing."

Richard M. Nixon:

Dick

Gerald Ford:
Drove a Chevy
Jimmy Carter:
Was a peanut farmer. Stinks of pistachios.

Ronald Reagan:
Actually chiseled from stone.
George H.W. Bush:
Raised an idiot, a buffoon, a liar and a fool.
And that's just the president.

Bill Clinton:
Touched us all, many literally.

George W. Bush:
How long ya got?

The Toof, No. 10

Gangster Shit

As an undergraduate student at Saint Mary’s College, I was not a gangster. That’s not to say I didn’t do things gangsters do. I drank 40s in brown bags; I listened to hardcore Bay Area rap music; I used towels for drapes and socks for wash cloths; I smoked big blunts with the brothas down the hall. Word.

But I wasn’t a gangster. I never held up a 7-11. I never participated in a drive-by. I never sucked on a pacifier because it was cool.

If those reasons weren’t enough, here’s one more reason I wasn’t a gangster in college.

My friend Clay and I were driving between my frat-house-minus-the-frat and my parents’ house in Clayton, the No. 5 walking city in America and the 57th best place to live in the country (“Walking” magazine, April 2004; “Money” magazine, August 2007).

On the way, I had to stop at my friend Zach’s frat-house-minus-the-frat. Why? Zach and I had to discuss the underlying reasons for our generation’s disregard of its responsibility to create a new, forward-thinking brand of liberalism, and this collective, unconscious decision’s effect on the then current state of international politics. Plus, he had a bong.

So Clay and I stopped by. I drove my luxury automobile — a 1999 Toyota Solara with peeling paint — up the quarter-mile, bending dirt driveway. I went inside for a few minutes, “discussed” the important stuff, while Clay stayed in the ride.

I finished, walked outside, threw on sunglasses, turned up the stereo and flipped the ignition, baby. The Geto Boys' “Damn It Feels Good To Be A Gangster” started blaring through the Solara’s speakers. Yes, the song from “Office Space.”

I started bobbing my head to the beat. Clay stared at me for a few moments, shook his head, said “Jesus” and looked out the window. I turned it up and started mouthing the song, while moving closer and closer to his face. Clay called me an idiot, rolled down the window and lit a smoke. I followed suit. Damn, I felt good. Damn, I felt like a gangster.

I started backing the Solara down the driveway. This process usually took around a minute. I maneuvered a boulder and a few stumps. I bobbed my head to The Geto Boys. I swung the Solara around a bend. I started singing the chorus, “Damn, it feels good to be a gangster.”

Ba-doom-boom-srccgggccckkk-krrrrugggzzzghghghgh.

The front tires were spinning. The front of the car was at a 45-degree angle in the air. The Solara was halfway in a giant ditch. “Damn It Feels Good To Be A Gangster” was blaring.

“Wow,” I said.

“Wow,” Clay said. “You’re no gangster.”

We looked at each other, gravity pushing us back against our seats. We started laughing, and didn’t stop for a few minutes, when tears were dripping under our sunglasses.

We forced the doors open and slid out. We tried to put logs under the tires for traction, but it was no use. I called AAA. Twenty minutes later, the tow truck guy showed up and pulled the car out of the gigantic ditch.

“How’d you manage this?” the AAA guy asked.

“Um, I have no idea,” I said.

“Horkers and rap music,” Clay said.

I shook Mr. AAA’s hand and thanked him. Clay and I started on our way to Clayton, an hour late. I turned up the music, and — because why the fuck not — put “Damn It Feels Good To Be A Gangster” back on. Shit yeah, foo.

Just then, my cell phone rang. It was Mr. AAA. I left my card with him, and had to meet him at a gas station to pick it up.

Damn it feels bad to be a moron.

The News, No. 4

Newspapers Will Be Relevant

In More Than 100 Years, Study Concludes

HELSINKI, Finland — A three-year study hot off the presses brings good news for newspapers.

The study, conducted by Finnish researchers and released today in the trade journal Communication, concludes newspapers will continue to be relevant for quite some time.

The results come as a shock to industry experts, as circulation numbers have been dropping for years. The numbers, coupled with a growing reliance by all demographics on the Internet and other technologies, seem to spell the end of newspapers within a few decades.

“The argument can be made that people will always want to hold a paper in their hands,” said Nicholas Lemann, dean of the Columbia School of Journalism. “But if you pay attention to the numbers and the facts, you have to deduce that what we know as newspapers will soon vanish.”

The results of the Finnish study contradict this thinking. Newspapers will not only be used in 20 years time, the study states, but they’ll still be used in 80 years, in 100 years, and in 140 years.

In 140 years, around 2150, the study by physicists based in Helsinki concludes a suitable packing material will be invented that will rival newspapers in its affordability, compactibility and squishiness.

At that time, when newspapers will no longer be needed for packing material, they will become irrelevant, the study states.

Some mid-size papers have already responded to leaked reports of the study. Northern California’s Redding Record Searchlight and Nebraska’s Lincoln Journal-Star printed editions today with only advertisements for moving companies.

“Articles be damned,” Journal-Star Editor in Chief Fred Meander said. “I think we’re better suited for packing material than for the news, anyway. I mean, who gets their news from newspapers anymore? I don’t.”

The Definition, No. 5

Jihaddy

Jihaddy: /gee hot-ee/ noun (pl.) –ddies (1) an attractive woman who is also a Muslim extremist and has declared a jihad against the United States

Attractive women come in all shapes and sizes. Attractive women believe many things. And, obviously, attractive women wear many types of clothing.

Because these things are true, it should come as no surprise that of the women out there who hate America and cover their entire bodies — including their faces — in dark cloth, some of these women are smokin’ hot pieces of tail. These women — women who believe in the prophet Mohammed, who wear burkas when they’re in public, who have declared a holy war against America — are for now and forever known as jihaddies.

A jihaddy (pronounced gee-hotty) might be a member of a group that hates everything you stand for, but your member will stand for a group of these jihaddies. Even behind the face-pillowcase, it’s obvious when a woman is a jihaddy.

A jihaddy’s eyes are piercing, even though you can’t tell what color they are. Her smile is radiant, even though you can’t tell whether she’s smiling. Her body is curvaceous, even though she looks more like a Goodyear than a human being.

Next time you’re in the Middle East, keep an eye out for jihaddies. Because the next time you see a jihaddy, you might declare a holy war all over the inside of your pants.

Peep Dis, No. 6

White-On-White Crime

There's no question black-on-black crime is a serious issue in all communities, regardless of race. The argument can be made, however, that the most important and saddest type of community crime is neighbor-on-neighbor crime, which has nothing to do with the color of a person's skin. Race simply gets caught up in the mix, because of America's obsession with labeling people based on what they look like.

But since so much is made of black-on-black crime, the question needs to be asked: Should the media start distinguishing when a crime is a white-on-white crime?

Every minute of every day, terrible things happen to white people, and these things are done by white people. Hundreds of times a day in America, white people across class lines are stolen from, assaulted, raped and murdered. Gruesome crimes take place, things so horrible most people think of them only when watching shock-value horror films.

White-on-white crime can be horrific. Click here to see a shocking example of white-on-white crime. Then, you decide if the media should use white-on-white when describing a crime committed by a white person, against a white person.

The Toof, No. 9

A Deadly One-Night Stand

It all started innocently enough. Well, actually, it started with a blackout, a bowling alley and a one-night stand — a deadly concoction, to be sure.

My friend, let’s call him Fish, was tying one on at Clayton Valley Bowl, in Concord, Calif. This bowling alley is known around town for its overabundance of white trash, numerous stabbings and the occasional angry, shirtless Russian looking for Vasili. Besides the locally famous Clayton Club, the bowling alley is the only bar in a two-mile radius. That means it’s hot. So hot.

As he continues to drink, and drink, and drink, Fish makes the (brilliant) decision that he must take a woman home. Any woman will do; tact and proper hygiene unnecessary. In his words: “I just needed a streak-breaker.” Smart move.

Now, as you might think, the pickings at Clayton Valley Bowl are a bit slim, unless you have a fetish for scab-faced cranksters or shirtless Russians looking for someone named Vasili.

Well, this guy we’ll call Fish set his sights on a trashy woman at the bar we’ll call Beth. She wasn’t a classic beauty. In fact, she looked more like Sloth Fratelli, left, than Sophia Loren. But Beth had that wonderful quality so many men look for in their women: She was loose.

Fish and Beth flirted. They whispered and giggled. They blacked out and boned back at her place. Fish figured that was that. The embarrassment of a drunken romp, he thought, should hasten the end of the relationship. But oh no, Beth wanted more.

Fish explained he wasn’t looking for a girlfriend. He was a loner, baby — a rebel. No bulldog-faced broad was gonna tie him down, no sir.

Beth e-mailed Fish a few times, but, after a week or two of ignoring her, Fish had dodged a relationship.

Or so he thought.

Fish put the sloppy drunk sex behind him, and went about his life as a paramedic living and laughing in Contra Costa County.

On a Saturday night a few weeks later, Fish was out on a call when another came over the radio: “Suicide attempt. Female. 28. Bancroft Apartments, number 70.”

As he would find out later, this suicide attempt wasn’t the proverbial cry for help. This woman wanted to die, to the tune of a big bottle of cheap bourbon and 200 Tylenol PMs. Yes, 200 Tylenol PMs. No, she didn’t die. Yes, her headache was cured.

Fish and his fellow paramedics got going and headed to the apartment complex. Even for seasoned paramedics, this was a serious call.

As they got closer and closer to the woman’s apartment, something started to dawn on Fish. Things were beginning to look familiar. Yes, he thought, I remember that street. And that sign. And those bushes. And this apartment complex. And that apartment.

“I can’t go on this call,” Fish told the lead paramedic. “I think I know this girl.”

He didn’t explain it to his coworkers then, but the woman who had attempted suicide was Beth, the woman he took home from the bowling alley a few weeks before. While the paramedics worked to resuscitate her, Fish waited in the truck. He called his friend from the ambulance. “You’ll never guess where I am again,” Fish said.

While Beth was being wheeled out on a gurney, the police showed up and told the paramedics she had sent a suicide e-mail to her boyfriend — you have to love the Information Age. The rest of his shift, the only thing Fish thought about was whether he’d have a MySpace message waiting for him when he got home. He didn’t, but she had been dating her boyfriend when Fish gave her the business.

In the weeks — check that — in the months that followed, Fish took a lot of shit from his coworkers. Regardless of the ribbing, one thing is true: You can’t cure the hangover brought on by a night with Fish — not even with 200 Tylenol and a fifth of bourbon.

The Definition, No. 4

Trout Mouth

Trout mouth: /traut mouth/ noun (1) the never-pleasant stench of rot emitted from someone’s mouth after eating fish

Everyone has smelled it. Those of us who eat our slippery gill-breathing friends have all had it. It’s trout mouth, the grossest kind of bad breath one can share with the world.

The term trout mouth was coined on a trip to White Fish, Mont. — you read that right, White Fish. It’s no coincidence that trout month came to be on the fourth day of a cross-country drive from the slums of Hartford, Conn., through the bright lights of New York City, past the Golden Dome in Notre Dame, Ind., through the Windy City, to the banks of the Mighty Mississip to the oasis of Cheyenne, Wyo., through the barren lands of northern Wyoming and southern and central Montana, into picturesque Glacier National Park, and, finally, to a restaurant that served fresh-caught trout, even to two misplaced California brothers who still had to drive through Washington state, the City of Roses and into Peace Town, Eugene, Ore.

Trout mouth is breath so funky, so stank, it smells of rotting fish even in a town named after a fish. Trout mouth must have the power to disgust a grown man from at least 11 feet away. It has to be a smell so powerful, it makes you want to bathe your mouth in tomato juice for a week, and then shower in Listerine.

Kissing, obviously, is out of the question, as is riding in an automobile with other living things, including plants and small animals. In fact, once trout mouth is identified, the offending person should be quarantined, preferably inside a giant piece of gum.

If you or anyone you know contracts trout mouth, please call the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention at (404) 639-3311.