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In This Issue

• Latvia, Land of Style and Lip-Hair, Too
• Liquids Banned
• Coke: Who Snorts What
• Hate for the Hate Squad
• Tales of the Inexpressible - Part I
• Al Franken Talks, Frankly
• Eggs Run with Claims of Cracker Nazis
• A Spears-Federline Manifesto
• What Goes on in my Head While I Get Paid to Pick Pine Needles out of the Gravel at my Local Country Club
• Hairless Man
• University to Fund Loan Elimination by Selling Drugs
• Proclamations from the Desk of Most Glorious Marshal Lee Bollinger
• Poland Ruined Everything
• Prez-Bo
• Tales of the Inexpressible - Part II
• Da Vinci Code Confirms Church Can't Tell Fiction From Non-Fiction
• On My Early Fame
• Able to Fuck My Anus in a Single Pound
• THEY WATCH

Good day to you, nation. I, Sean Preston Spears Federline, reaching mon premier anniversaire this week, have been going through a period of rigorous existential self-evaluation and candid analytical self-exploration. After weeks of fruitful labor, I have come to an important conclusion; there is no room in this world for another Spears-Federline child. Do you hear me, Sutton? I am the scion of this dynasty, not you. I have spent a terrifying 12 months being left on top of cars, forgotten in shopping carts, and wedged in Mother's Gucci purse, and my suffering shall not have been in vain. I have earned the spoils, Sutton. Those teats are mine. The vodka-and-Red Bull flavored milk in those teats is mine, too. I have enough of a problem with those confounded implants getting in my way; I don't need you making it even harder. So get your mouth off my nipples. That goes for you too, Dad, you impossible lout!

Yes, the patriarch of this clan is yet another threat to my power. The fact that we share DNA makes me want to soil myself; oh, wait, I just did. That loathsome layabout has no vocational training, save the art of seducing rosy-cheeked harlots and wide-eyed exotic dancers. If those prostitutes find my father's filth so utterly intoxicating, then I have some used diapers that they might consider marrying. My God, am I to learn toilet training from this man, or is he to learn it from me?

But I digress. The greatest threat is not my father, but that usurper Sutton. First, he steals the apple of Mother's eye.  Is he going to take Suri Cruise away from me next? I'm going to be turned down at the door of the PlaySkool mansion, and he will just stroll right in?

The truth of the matter is that Hollywood is obsessed with youth, and he has it and I don't.  This means war. I'm going to my plastic surgeon to get some Botox, but when I get back, I'm going to teethe the hell out of that usurper! Let it not be said that he has not been given fair warning....