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In This Issue

• Jem and the Holograms Suck Major Holo-Ass
• Students Get Involved, Eat Pizza
• Kids Aren't Worth It
• Can You Tell Me How To Get, How to Get to HIV
• Corporation Brightens Otherwise Bleak Childhood
• B'nai Mitzvot of Yore
• Cap'n Planet Saves World, Gouges You
• Bad Street Brawler Jerks Off Crime Off the Streets
• Science Proves America's Youth Turning Japanese
• On the Glorious Afterschool Special
• Chicken Soup for the Athletically Inept Soul
• A Researched Dildography
• Rider Strong Gets Stalked, Interviewed, Married
• Furry is the Way to Be

At age five, all kids are pretty much essentially devoid of any individuality. Stick them all at a table to finger paint, and everyone can make a really fabulous blob of the primary colors. Have them all play Candy Land, and each one has a great chance of getting to Gummy Gum Drop Land first. However, when it comes to sports at that age, disparities start to emerge in the ranks despite what some parents might like to believe. The parents hope that through these early athletic endeavors, their children will create some life-long bonds and memories. However, even at the young age of five or six, not every kid can kick that ball into the goal, or hit the ball on the tee. Then the shameful question is: What can you do with athletically retarded kids?

You can't not enroll the kids in the first place. Parents are oblivious to this idea, and if they did that, they would miss out on the opportunity to form superficial, gossip-based relationships with other parents. It doesn't matter that some of these kids are destined to be pot heads, jocks, or artists; they are still all forced as a homogenous unit to take the field with the rest of the ankle biters.

So now, regardless of the kids' athletic capabilities, it is up to the coach to find a loophole in the game that lets the athletic retards participate, yet not to a point where their participation is at all apparent. With tee-ball it's easy: all you have to do is point the kid straight to the out field, and tell him to walk as far out as possible, basically until he hits the part of the field where the gardener stopped mowing, somewhere between where the local homeless set up camp and the city trash dump.

Now for soccer, it gets a little tricky: the field isn't as vast. There, it's harder to place the kid in a position where they disappear into the fields of Bumblefuck. In soccer, you can try placing the kid on the side as a defender, hoping that every line of defense will stop the other team before it gets to the scared kid who is only there to be trampled by the other kids. Even worse, you can place this kid in goal. Not only will he avoid the ball with eyes shut tight and hands over his head for protection, but the other kids have the luxury of having the fuck-up to ostracize for their loss at the end of the game.

But hey, it doesn't matter in the end. The distribution of Capri-Suns and orange slices has nothing to do with whether you scored the winning goal or lost it for the entire team. Whatever your athletic capabilities were, you could always bet your little green-stained ass that you'd receive that plastic trophy with the politically correct unisex gold-painted athlete on top at the end of the season.