DANFORTH: Welcome to the 1944 Olympics! We’re coming to you live from the Olympics that no one thought would ever happen. While most of the World’s more impressive atheletes are currently vaulting over landmines, kayaking past enemy positions, and Greco-Roman wrestling Fascism, we’ve managed to bring together the best of the rest.

CLARK: That’s right, Danforth. We’ll never know where the idea of a worldwide battle for the glory of country got started, but it hasn’t stopped the Olympics.

DANFORTH: Well-said, Clark. And now the atheletes are marching into the arena under their flags. The Americans, British, and Canadians are storming the field.

CLARK: Interesting fact, Danforth: in fifty years no one in America will remember that the Canadians were involved, despite the vital role they played in defending the left flank.

DANFORTH: Of the atheletes.

CLARK: Of the atheletes, right.

DANFORTH: Now the Germans are entering the field. Oh, and the first bit of drama has erupted as the Polish team members have slipped away from the Germans and united under their own flag! They’re cheering and… oh… looks like the Russian team has just absorbed them.

CLARK: Definitely a moment to remember. Bringing up the rear is the Israeli team, marching proudly into the stands where they’ll be for the next four years until they get their own country.

DANFORTH: Coming up is our first event, the 400 meter relay. They’re lining up… and they’re off. It’s the German team with an early lead, followed by the Italians on a leash, and the British team badly trailing despite the Americans giving PowerBars to them. The Americans are trying to stick to the outside but OHHHHHH… the Japanese have come out from nowhere and clotheslined them!

CLARK: The Japanese were pretty clearly on the move. You have to wonder if the American coach saw that one coming, Danforth.

DANFORTH: Well, it’s really motivated the Americans, as they’re moving up to first.. neck and neck with the Germans… and the Russian team is a steady third despite having only one leg between them and wearing turnips for shoes… we’re approaching the finish line… it’s going to be close.. and YES! THE COSTA RICAN TEAM HAS COME OUT OF NOWHERE TO WIN!

CLARK: That really reminds you that this is a contest of individual atheletes, and not an elaborate metaphor for world events.

DANFORTH: Next up is the 200 meter dash. It’s Jesse Owens versus yet another batch of big blonde Aryan guys…. and Owens has utterly left them in the dust.

CLARK: Having already made his point about racial stereotypes in the 1936 Olympics, it’s hard to deny that Owens is just rubbing it in at this point.

DANFORTH: That’s it for today. Come back tomorrow for men’s gymnastics, which will be performed by women for the duration of the war.

CLARK: I’m sure they’re looking forward to baking pot roasts again instead of baking powerful symbols for women’s empowerment, eh Danforth?

DANFORTH: You’ve got that right Clark. See you tomorrow, world!

Something tells me my dog wants to kill himself. Recently his behavior has been getting worse and worse.

I got home one day and he had slit his doggie wrists. “Bad dog!” I yelled at him. “It’s down the road, not across the street.” Then I bandaged his wrists, but not before rubbing his nose in the pool he left on the couch. Luckily, it’s a red couch. I guess I should be pretty impressed that he found any wrists at all, him being a dog.

Another time I caught him on the 10th floor of Evans, weakly pawing at the new Plexiglass barriers. I would’ve let him out, but he’d been outside all night, barking at the edge of the Golden Gate bridge.

He also likes to bury things. Stuff like his inhaler. I once caught him burying his Cure albums, which is strange because he listens to them all the time.

Just yesterday he was chewing on a bottle of aspirin when I came back. It was a childproof bottle so he never really had a chance at it. It’s even more pathetic when he tries to turn the oven on.

I caught him going out at night and having unprotected humping with all sorts of beagles. That’s not really suicidal, I guess, because there is no Doggie AIDS or anything, but it’s a sure sign of low self-esteem.

I’ve also been finding a lot of really bad doggy poetry all over the place. “Arf arf… arf arf? Woof woof arf bark bark.” I know it sounds really cute to you and me but I’ll bet it means “Here is the knife that’ll end my life” in dog.

He never communicates with me anymore. He doesn’t want to chase a ball or roll around on the grass. All he ever does is sit in his Dogloo updating his LiveJournal under his user name “Canis Doloris.”

There’s another sign, too. Playing fetch shouldn’t involve that many highway crossings.

Finally, he’s really begun hanging out with youngsters I don’t like, especially that Harrison boy down the street. His parents just bought him a yellow Trans-Am and he’s been nothing but a little hellraiser ever since.