God, it’s hot as balls out. I’m up here in NY’s armpit, and it’s like a billion. I can’t imagine how hot it is south of the Mason-Dixon. But, guess what, I can’t turn on my freaking air conditioner because my electric bill is literally 300 dollars a month. 300 dollars! It’s not like I’m running ten kidney dialysis machines or something. Who sets the price of power anyway?

Now, I have a couple of degrees from colleges and stuff, but what is power measured in? A joule? An amp? A kilowatt? What am I paying for? I mean, I have to leave my computer on all the time so I can steal tons of music and talk to little boys on Instant Messenger, but that shouldn’t cost more than like 50 cents a month. Plus, my nite-light has to stay on cause the dark scares me, and I have a spare refrigerator for my bacon, but that can’t be too expensive.

And what is going on with gas prices? I drive a Ford Expensive, and I get like 4 miles per gallon, but that’s no excuse to screw me on the price of gas, too. Gas and electricity, crap we need to survive, absorbs all of my driving range paycheck.

I’m going Amish. Look at the advantages: fresh butter, cool ZZ-Top beards, and no gas or electric bills. Hmm, but no PS2, no Saved by the Bell DVD’s, and no sex with any attractive women ever again. Have you ever seen an Amish chick in Playboy? Plus, the only thing Pennsylvania has going for it is the cheese steak. Ah, forget it, its Syracuse; I don’t know why I’m complaining about the heat. It’s going to be snowing in a week anyway.

Television – by Jim

Ok, so I’ve had this column for a week and I’m already behind. Sorry folks, but I was worried Vinnie Chase wasn’t going to get Aquaman, so now that my world is back in order, I can write.

Which reminds me, what is with this fixation people have on television shows? Why is it people are so worried about what’s going to happen to Ross, or Elaine, or Mr. Kotter that they forget about their own lives? Garry Shandling isn’t going to pay your water bill. McGuyver isn’t going to mow your lawn. (But I did watch him C-section a baby out with an old lotto ticket and some maracas!)

I would have to blame parents, because I always have to blame someone, and by parents never really bought me enough candy. Rather than emphasizing the importance of making friends when children are young, too many parents plop their kids in front of ‘the babysitter’ and concentrate on their own lives. Thus, kids develop relationships with that gay Teletubby, or Mr. Wizard, maybe even Bob Ross.

So, I put it to all three of you that have read this far in the article: go make a new friend. Talk to the smelly lady on the subway and go play catch or something. Go to a movie with that foreign guy that hangs out where you get your gelatto. I dunno, I’m not your psychologist. Just quit talking to yourself. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Hogan Knows Best is on…

Greetings and salutations folks! I’m Jimmy Smith, contributing writer to the vast media machine that is www.pmoa.net. I’ll be here with you each week, or whenever I can fit time to write between reruns of “Blossom” and trips to Old Country Buffet. I’m here today to tackle the heart of the southern diet: grits, or I as I like to call them, K-mart Cream of Wheat.

I made a trip down south many months ago with a local rock band on a dilapidated airport shuttle, and the only thing I have to show for it, besides some crotch fungus and off-center nipple rings, is a taste for grits. I first sampled this southern delight outside of Charlotte, with a ham steak and some coffee, and boy were they tasty. Served in a bowl bigger than the ones Ricky Williams smokes from, they were light, buttery, and filling as all hell. But, they reminded me of my childhood, and I didn’t place the connection until now.

When I was young, my father would serve me something called Cream of Wheat for breakfast. It was a hot, creamy cereal that I’d eat with milk and tons of sugar. Grits and Cream of Wheat are basically the exact same thing, though served differently. This identity thieving is not my main problem with grits, though.

My problem with grits is they have this connotation of representing the south. You’ve seen “My Cousin Vinny,” you know what I’m talking about. The Southern Belle takes much care in preparing her grits, whereas the Yankee gentleman throws some C-O-W in some boiling water and mows down.

All in all, grits aren’t what they are cracked up to be. They make you fat and make you talk funny. But, there is one thing, like Cream of Wheat, that they got going for them; at least they ain’t fuckin’ oatmeal.