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Friday, December 29, 2006
 
Wizznutzz will soon return from holiday detention this weekend and are gathering incites around our ankles like they were NBA babies (HAppy BDAY IZela!) or NBA Pants (What is this rash Greg Ballard??).

mEANTIME the Wizards R burning faster that a gasoline-soaked monk! If they beat OLand tonite, they will be first DC team in 1st place this late in seazon since that lumbering campionship Meander-thal: the 78-79 Bullets!!!

With division crown wizards get home court advantage = Damon Jones drowned face down in the Tidal Basin!!!

Also last few days to get 20% discount Tees at the maybe not glitchyanymore MOTHERINGHUT!! Tees flying out the door!!!
Send us action fotos of you in your new shirts! SOmebody even bought a"foreskin" shirt! send us a foto! Of shirt AND foreskin (for mothering hut "skins of fame" wall!)

Nowe playing at CIrcuit City:

Gilbert Dime Mag ( u know its DIme cuz they makin Gil look all angry!) foto shoot set to tru warior sounds of "Working The Pole"!

Agent Zero hi-lites set to sounds of MY HERO ZERO (available now of God shammgods mix tape)

Caron talks about his new chef "Christopher" who used to simmer down baked beans for Patrick Ewing during ":The Year of Magical Thinking" aka Ewings stint as assistanmt coach of Les Boullez! We love C-BUTZ and we cannot lie! he sdays he eats "things out of the water" in his new "regime"!!

While we are quietly eating holiday yule meats, Intern Auguist Strindberg never rests.
Here is a Letter to City Paper that they refused to run!!!




Attention:
Editor
Washington City Paper

December 17, 2006


Sirs,

I write to bitterly protest the suggestion, as tendered in the (12/15) "Cheap Seats" column of your forsaken periodical, that I am not real. I assure you that this is, however regrettably, a damned feint. I am real, and I do not require the florid confirmations of your penny dreadful to make it so. I am as real as the astringent sting of absinthe in my throat. I am as real as the waking fatigue that reminds me once more of the woeful stalemate that is my godless enterprise. And I am as real as the desiccated crumbs of breakfast egg that decorate my fetid overcoat. Your charge, on the other hand, is as phony as hope's romance. Your principal source, "James Morris", is a fraud and a rank liar. He claims a lifelong allegiance to Washington's Bullets and its New World Wizards. But I have met this man James, and I have stared into his eyes, and I did not see suffering. And if any man knows suffering, it is either a Swedish man, or a man who barracks for the theatre of cruelty that is our local basketball franchise. Alas, I can count both these whores as my bed-mates. In the care of your halfwit scribe David McKenna, any remaining truths find themselves in the hands of an eager masseuse. And as the late Red Auerbach pressed: "A man can knead all the buttocks he wants, but he's never going to work out the aches of his shame."

Ruefully,

August Strindberg
Playwright
Intern, Wizznutzz.com

Wheaton, MD

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