You can't fire me because I quit

Horatio Sanz is off "Saturday Night Live" -- on his own accord.

Possible future career options:

• Drinking
• ?
• _

We made The Stranger

Horatiosanzserif – well, Horationsanzserif – well, Horationsanzserif’s Lover – made Last Days, a column in the Sept. 7 issue of Seattle’s The Stranger:

A more legible version:

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 30 The week continues with one of the more amazing Hot Tips Last Days has ever received, courtesy of Hot Tipper Horationsanzserif's Lover, who begins by explaining the lay of the land: "Near my house is an ongoing public-utilities project that often reroutes two-way traffic down a narrow side street. Around rush hour today, I noticed two cars—a newer SUV heading south and an older Oldsmobile heading north—in an apparent standoff, with neither letting the other pass. Actually, what I saw was the SUV driver—a Gordon Gecko type—shrieking every possible 'bitch'-related phrase at the driver of the Oldsmobile, a hippie guy who sat motionless in his vehicle. Soon, the SUV driver was joined in his torrent by an equally shrieky blond woman, who pulled up behind the hippie in the Olds, thus spurring the SUV guy to return to his vehicle and accelerate full-throttle into the Olds' front bumper. Here's where it gets AWESOME: The SUV driver then got out of his car to retrieve something from the back seat. A rifle? A tire iron? No—his INFANT SON, whom the man handed to the blond woman (did they know each other?) for a better view of Daddy's next act: jumping up and down on the Oldsmobile's hood, after which the man retrieved his son, backed up his SUV, and went home." Deep thanks to Hot Tipper HL for watching and writing, and congratulations to the hippie in the Olds for winning the standoff.

Grammar geeks: Note the misplaced clause beginning with “after which.” It's modifying “hood!” Snort!

YouTube for the righteously indignant voter

As thrilled as we were to see BusinessWeek's Jon Fine run out a post with the unexpectedly delicious title of "The Silent Pain of 'America's Funniest Home Videos'" a few weeks back, we were even more excited to learn that The Washington Post and friends had created a video database of this year's political-campaign ads.

The Post's package is called Mixed Messages, and it's delightfully easy to navigate.

Find it here.

Of note:

• 30 ads are labeled as "attack" messages
• 9 ads feature a soldier or military imagery
• 6 ads reference Sept. 11
• 0 ads feature farm animals

Why no campaigns based on animal-related rhetoric? Well, folks, Rick Santorum has moved on. Why can't you?

Bailemos en el cielo

Like eunuchs in a whorehouse, we have heretofore approached the "BLOGOSPHERE" with trepidation, fueled by seemingly unending analysis of its anthemic uselessness.

The "BLOGOSPHERE," after all, appears to have its share of flaws. Like bloggers themselves. And their use of the word "BLOGOSPHERE." And the lack of editors.

As editors by trade, we bristled. It didn't seem like a fit.

But back in The Day (March 21, 2006), we wanted to be a part of it. We wanted to spread peace, love and a blinding light of laptop-generated consciousness. We needed to write. Specifically, we needed to write about our passions:

• Typography and esoteric grammar rules
  
• Funny fat men (aka, men of size with to-be-debated comical skills)

Soon, it became clear that our panache for random text links also could play a large role.

Yesterday, that focus came back into ... focus. For at Seattle's Bumbershoot festival, we witnessed the funny fat man from whom we gleaned our name perform in a skit about grammar with the Upright Citizens Brigade. Clouds parted. An epiphany stared us in the eyes. We blinked.

Then we giggled like schoolgirls and shot undercover photos with our cell phone (right). (ed. note: We put said phone back into our pants when a UCB cast member stuck his finger in Horatio Sanz's crack and smelled it -- stating to us, the audience of fine arts, "I smell poop! [add German accent].")

Thus, a new country in the "BLOGOSPHERE" was born. This is it. Make no mistake where you are.