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What’s the story with our local weathermen? Why are these dim-witted genital manipulators in a position where viewers count on them for advice on everything from what clothes to wear to what grocery items to purchase? Do the bigshot TV executives run want-ads for weathermen that read: "Wanted: mentally challenged bedwetter with the ability to predict grossly inaccurate weather forecasts. Must have fancy hair and goofy personality. Starting salary: magic beans and shiny objects. Applicants who can read this without parental supervision need not apply."   If I had a nickel for everytime one of the "News Channel Nulls" resident lint collectors predicted local snow accumulations this past winter, I’d have enough money to catch a plane to somewhere that did. Oh, and that doesn’t mean a "Light dusting of the white stuff," whatever that is.....   Is it just me or is there something inherently queer about all this wrestlemania shit? You’ve got two big butt guys in multi-colored spandex nut-huggers picking each other up by the asscheeks in a dominate/submissive dance of the sugar plum scrotum traumatizers. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that their ridiculous stunts aren’t real. Christ, every trailer-dwelling, disposable diaper reusing, grease encrusted endomorph between here and the Mason Dixon line would have me tarred and feathered for that.   No, I’m just pointing out the fact that the big sweaty guy in the silly little swimming trucks rolling around on top of the other guy in the lavender Speedo has got some serious ass poundin’, soap-droppin’, homo-fudge-a-packin’ overtones to it. And I’m not even a goddamned phobe!!.....   It takes a hearty breed of imbecile to be a NASCAR fan. Imagine standing in the sun all morning so you can sit in the sun all afternoon and watch your favorite racecar drive round and round in circles, hoping it will crash. I’m starting to wonder why I’m not a NASCAR fan.   It takes an even heartier breed of imbecile to actually drive one of those racecars at death defying speed round and round in circles in the hot sun all afternoon. Man, that kinda shit would probably make you dizzy or give you vertigo, or dyslexia, or something. I’m starting to wonder why I’m not a NASCAR driver.   But what breed of imbecile does it take to sponsor one of those death defying racecar drivers? As it turns out, not a very hearty imbecile afterall, just a rich one. Did you ever notice that it’s always the rich sponsors like the Budweiser or Gatorade car that wins the race? You never see a winning car sponsored by, "Jessups Hand Powered Manure Spreaders" or by "MInnie Pearl’s Patented Corn Husk Panty Liners," both very popular among NASCAR fans. It’s not that NASCAR fans don’t like Budweiser or Gatorade, they’d just probably prefer guzzling some corn squeezins or an ice cold sasparilly phosphate. It’s the big businesses that keep the "Mom and Pop" franchises from reaching their core audience.   Well, I’m not going to stand-by and watch this injustice, I plan on doing something about it. I will never watch a televised NASCAR race nor attend an actual racing event in person until the "little guy" is granted a sponsorship. And I swear on my indoor plumbing that it will be this way ‘til the day I die!...   And finally..... grossly mishapen potato pancake head Rosie O’Donnell was recently spotted at "The Million Mom March" at the nations capitol, though first mistaken for the Macys Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon of Fred Flintstone. Ms O’Donnell quickly doffed her tethers and took to the podium, where she pleaded for an end to the legislative muscle of the NRA, a couple boxes of Twinkies, and any woman willing to allow her to adopt her child for $500,000.   Astonished onlookers were heard to utter, "What is Fred Flintstone doing up there?," "Did he just say he’d buy a box of Twinkies for $500,000?" and "What is that ugly fatman doing at the Million Mom March, he’s not a mother?!!"...... ..........Till the next Birdbath.......... Editors note: The views of Vic Demise are soley for his own entertainment and not the views of VIER Magazine.