It's a nice thought, but the televised destruction of the infamous Game 6 ball won't help the Cubs in the postseason. The Cubs ownership, which has a rich history of screwing the team over, ruined the team's Series chances forever in 1945 by barring Billy Sianis' goat from entering Wrigley Field.

I've been a Cubs fan ever since baseball first came on my radar, rooted for the good teams and the bad. Call me jaded, but I've pretty much come to terms with the fact that my team will never know World Series victory. Oh, I still get my hopes up every year, and I still have little superstitions that I follow in hopes that somehow, they will work and Wrigleyville will once again, after 96 years, know the joy of a MLB championship.

I'm certainly not saying the Cubbies will never break their record losing streak. It's just that their bad fortune goes back a lot farther than last October. And it's going to take a lot more than blowing up a foul ball to un-jinx a team that's come so close so many times, only to choke just when it begins to look as if they've finally broken free of their perennial hard luck. I hope I'm wrong and they win the championship this year. If they get into the Series, I naturally plan to sell my firstborn in exchange for tickets to every game. But the whole time, I'll be braced for heartbreak. The unlucky ball isn't the only force keeping my Cubbies down, and they've got a lot more bad mojo to obliterate before I'll get my hopes too high.

I don't normally do quizzes, but ...

DownGirl-Sexy.... You are the average man's fantasy. You like sports
and action movies, toilet humor is your forte
and you love beer and red meat. His friends
all want to hang out with you, and most want to
do you. Too bad all the girls you know hate
you, but hey, who cares. You're a man's woman.
What's your brand of sexy?
brought to you by Quizilla

Just in case we needed it, here's proof that what men really want to date is themselves, only with breasts and fabulous hair. No, seriously.

Oh, guys will tell you they want a woman. But what they really want is the mind of Adam Carolla in the body of Heidi Klum. Those two points are very important. They aren't looking for the mind of Heidi Klum in the body of Heidi Klum. They certainly don't want Adam Carolla's mind in Adam Carolla's body. In fact, they don't want Adam Carolla's mind in the body of, say, Janet Reno. Because of her tragic underabundance of superficial estrogen features, poor Janet would be told she just didn't act feminine enough, while Heidi Klum, standing nearby lighting her farts on fire, would be surrounded by legions of adoring men, who would extol her for being "cool" and "down to earth."

I'll grant you, though, that being a "man's woman" has its drawbacks. Tell one too many crass jokes, or, heaven forbid, beat someone brutally in Counter-Strike or laugh at a guy for missing an easy layup, and you're forever "just like another one of the guys." Period. And you will never have sex again. (Unless it is with a woman.)

Speaking of woman-on-woman sex, lesbians are part of a similar phenomenon. Men love them ... as long as they're pretty and want to have sex with guys.

It is really difficult to figure out what guys are looking for exactly, but I think I finally have it figured out. Get this. What men actually want is to be really gorgeous women who think like Adam Corrolla and frequently have giant lesbian sex parties with each other. Guys, am I close?

In the world of corporate snack food mishaps, I'm like a the Exxon Valdez, scattering crumbs and broken pretzels in my wake. I'm not sure whether to attribute my potency as a natural disaster to the fact that I'm extremely messy or the fact that I'm extremely clumsy. Either way, when I enter the office with food or drink in hand, people cower in fear of my awesome destructive powers.

Bring in Krispy Kremes and behold how I scatter powdered sugar like a mighty windstorm, forging a path of snowy debris from the donut box to my desk!

Give me pizza and bow in reverence of my ability to cover an entire desk with greasy residue!

Observe how I can obliterate a fully-completed time card using only my elbow and a mug of Yellow Zinger!

Thrice this week alone have I unleashed my significant WMD-type capabilities upon my cubicle, making me the top contender for the #1 spot on the EPA's 2005 Toxic Release Inventory.

Let us begin with last Wednesday, the morning after our building's weekly vacuuming. It was a mere 20 minutes into my workday when I inadvertently dropped some crackers beneath my chair and crushed them beneath my mighty wheels, strewing the freshly-cleaned floor with their broken bodies.

Then, on Thursday, I was enjoying vegetables with ranch dip. My keyboard never saw it coming as I plunged a crunchy baby carrot into my T. Marzetti's and maneuvered it toward my mouth. With one mighty plop, the T and G keys were smothered in zesty dairy product.

The apex of this week's devastation occurred today not 5 minutes after my appearance at the office. It all began innocently enough. Mr. WYD was going to the breakroom and asked if I wanted anything. I put in an order for a snack-size bag of Chex Mix. O, would that time could be turned back!

As I pulled the two sides of the bag from each other, nothing happened. Then, like Mount Saint Helens releasing years of pent-up energy in an awesome display of wrath and might, my Chex Mix exploded, showering the office with a disastrous rain of pretzels, crackers and dried bagel slices. Owing to the scope of the catastrophe, the 30-second rule was extended to five minutes as I descended like an overworked Hazmat team upon the crispy, garlicky desolation.

Alas, having but two hands and no suction (using my mouth for floor cleanup purposes is not a tactic I exercise at my place of employment), I can only do so much. Teensy crumbs of ground cereal still dot the floor beneath my desk like wee flattened trailers in the aftermath of a tornado. If the cleaning crew doesn't already hate me, they will tomorrow. Another day, another watchlist. Such is my existence as Earth's most awe-inspiring force of destructive energy.

The fortune-cookie gods, in their infinite capriciousness, have smirked upon me once more. As I mentioned awhile back, my fortunes often have to do with monetary transactions and, occasionally, public recognition. But never before has a cookie presumed to unveil my innermost drives. However, when I opened my fortune at Golden Palace today, I pulled out a slip of paper that I knew was going to be saucy and impertinent even before I read it.

"You enjoy playing to a crowd," it said.

I swear Jenna Jameson is out there right now reading her fortune cookie, which says something like, "Your pursuit of knowledge leaves you with little time to enjoy your favorite activities," and scratching her head.

Apparently one of the more distinctive facets of my personality is a result not of genetics or my fabulous unique nature, but is simply a hallmark of Attention Deficit Disorder. Those few of you who find me exciting and interesting are sorely mistaken.

Yes, for 26 years I have charmed and alarmed the masses with reckless risk-taking, all along believing it was merely a natural quirk. Little did I know that it is a sign of faulty brain chemistry. When I was little and ran through hallways full-speed, oblivious to things like gymnastics bars that might be blocking the way, and later when I was in junior high and stood up on roller coasters with the lap bar pushed forward, it never occurred to anyone that I might have a screw loose.

When I was a freshman in college and wrote 12-page papers on a 6-pack of beer just to see if I'd still get an A, and when I sneaked into the guys' dorms just because, and when I partied with random people I didn't know, I had no inkling that this was merely a symptom of a common disorder.

Later, when I stood by my window and raptly watched a tornado form a few blocks south, and when I swung from the second-floor banister at a party, little did I know that my behavior was controlled by faulty neuropsychological plumbing rather than my own free will.

According to some experts, the thalamuses of people with ADD commonly don't let enough sensory input through, causing the individuals to self-medicate with their own adrenaline. These people are the ones who enjoy parasailing, misbehave in kindergarten, take unnecessary risks, listen to loud music and seek out spicy foods -- in short, people just like me. I'm not unique after all. I'm just an adrenaline junkie.

When I risked another trip to the principal's office to joyously fling an armful of autumn leaves into the air in my grade school's front foyer, it was all thanks to my stingy thalamus. Every sport I've played was tailor-made to satisfy the need created by my chemical imbalance. At church camp, when my friend Mandy and I coerced the rest of the senior girls' cabin into skinny-dipping at 2 in the afternoon, it was mostly my excitement-deprived cortex talking. And when I got bored with publishing and decided to try to get into medical school, it was just a result of a hunger for stronger sensory input. My career, my hobbies, even my tastes in music and food -- all have been molded by my brain chemistry.

Family and friends may know me as a grrl who's always up for anything, at any time. But psychotherapists know me for who I really am ... a faulty sack of organic material acting at the mercy of the chemical impulses coursing through me. Every unique thing about me is a product of my deep craving for an adrenaline rush. Forget free will, forget individuality. I am my behavioral disorder, nothing more. Nothing exciting or interesting about that at all.

When an entire football team is allowed to abuse and harass its female kicker, and when women serving overseas are subject to sexual assaults by fellow service members, it's hard not to wonder where this shit comes from.

A lot of guys will tell you, "See, this is why women shouldn't be allowed in the military," or, "Girls just don't fit in on a football team." They insist that there's just too much testosterone and women are bound to get harmed if they're thrown into a den of hormone-driven males.

I say that's bullshit. If anything, it proves that those venues are in dire need of more integration. For too long, the military and sports have been bastions of chest-thumping, exaggerated masculinity and unchecked chauvinism, and for those reasons -- rather than assault being some mystical "natural result" of exposing men to a whiff of female pheremones -- these institutions pose a threat to the few women who join. Military and athletic groups would be served well by having better anti-harassment regulation and more vigilant enforcement, rather than fewer women.

For example: Currently, I attend university classes. In the not-too-far-distant past, a university education was the demesne of males. Think of the macho, towel-snapping dorm life at a boys' school, and imagine it is the norm and that suddenly females are thrown in the mix. Surely the first women who attended institutions of higher learning were confronted with harassment and perhaps sexual assault. And yet, in the year 2004, I go to school every day, grope-free, without anyone so much hinting that I don't belong. Moreover, I have healthy relationships with my male classmates.

Would I enjoy the safety and feeling of social equality had higher learning not been completely integrated and had universities not put some rules in place regarding sexual harassment (and enforced them)? Probably not. When men are allowed in combat and women are not, when men quarterback and women are kickers, when there are eight or ten males for every female, when ghoulish behavior is ignored by the (male) leadership with a conciliatory wink and a "Well, boys will be boys," the power dynamic shifts dramatically in favor of men. Pretty soon, no doubt, some of those men feel they deserve that power. And that's when it's dangerous for women.

So don't feed us this crap about men's natural urges or how women always mess things up. What's messed up is the structure and leadership of these institutions. The Colorado kicker later walked on to play for New Mexico, whose coach, she says, sets a higher standard for players' behavior. And guess what? Nobody's bothered her. Integrate women, make some ground rules, and hold people accountable for their actions. It's that simple, folks. There's no mystical, magical property of testosterone that turns men into ogres. Men are humans. If the power dynamic were in women's favor rather than in theirs, would we abuse our advantage any less?

It's always hard to choose between two good things. Snow vs. sun; Alias vs. Sex and the City; retaining the rights to my eternal soul vs. the Cubs finally winning the Series.

That's why it's so great to have the option of not choosing. For instance, my hair color. When I highlight it blonde, I look super cute. But when I dye it brown, people treat me as a responsible person with a good head on her shoulders (one benefit of this being a 4.0 every semester my hair's been dark). Both are great, but sadly, they are mutually exclusive. Until now, that is.

Tired of agonizing over what color to dye my hair each quarter, I was struck one day by a brilliant thought -- why stick with just one hue, anyway? For years, I've been highlighting my hair with multiple colors. But what if I increased the amount of contrast between the shades? So on Saturday, my hairdresser Brenton and I came to the agreement that it would kick ass to have fun two-tone hair. Not the skanky, fake-looking two-tone hair of a few years ago, mind you (you know, the kind that must, for maximum effect, be worn with a tube top, body glitter and dozens of wee hair clippies). No, with Brenton's expert colorist's skills, we have accomplished a look that is striking yet inobvious.

Now, for the first time ever, I can garner the respect normally reserved for brunettes while enjoying sunny highlights that set off my oh-so-adorable gothic pallor. (Or at least one hopes! Using my own "logic" against myself, I suppose that, conversely, I could make horrible grades and receive poor performance reviews while looking like utter shit.)

Today, I tested out my new hair at work. Happily, the only comment I received was "Did you color your hair?" rather than, "Oh good Lord, you dyed your hair!" That alone is an improvement over the results of other experiments in hair coloring, including the time I unwittingly returned from lunch with slightly lavender tresses. I think this means that I have indeed mastered the art of having my cake and eating it too.

Pics to be posted later tonight, after I enjoy a fascinating evening of chemistry. In which I expect grades befitting my new smart-grrl hair.

Update: My usually gruff lab instructor kept telling me "Looking good, looking good" all evening. Was it my success at avoiding splashing any classmates in the eyes with boiling acid ... or was it the kicky two-tone hair? You be the judge.

Why did Barbie do it?

To dump Ken is shocking enough, but right before Valentine's Day? Rumors have flown regarding Barbie's fixation on her many careers, and mention has been made of Ken's cold feet. But I know the real reason behind Ken's pre-holiday jilting.

It has nothing to do with mathematical modeling. It's not the lesbian porno Barbie shot. And no, she hasn't left Ken for her real true love, GI Joe.

The truth behind the Ken-Barbie breakup is a reason as old as love itself: It's all about the sex. While Barbie was able to overcome Ken's early '90s sexual identity crisis, her own voracious appetite for both men and women, and even her sordid past as a German hooker, she found their sexual incompatibility insurmountable. Here she is, a perfectly-tanned and flexible beauty of improbable proportions, and she's dating a eunuch. Ken's smooth bulge not only was unable to satisfy Barbie in bed; she also came to the realization that because Ken has no genitalia, she would never be able to pass along her genetic code. (Yes, it took her 55 years to realize this -- but then, she's also an astronaut who thinks math is hard.)

It will be hard to replace Ken on the tennis court -- and even harder to replace him in bed, since GI Joe is no better endowed, as far as this blogger can tell. However, if Barbie is willing to be a single mother via sperm donor, perhaps she can get the well-hung gay fashion doll Billy to lend a hand for the cause. If that doesn't pan out, at least Mattel will make a ton off "Adoption Fantasy Barbie and Midge."

Breaking News: Bush Administration Thinks Voters Are Idiots

No, wait. That's old news. Today's release of Bush's military pay record is merely the latest example of the White House's contempt for the U.S. voter and low estimation of its constituency's collective intellect.

What the White House is trying to gull Americans into thinking is this: Bush got paid by the military, ergo he showed up for military service. Never mind that his father was a powerful politician who likely pulled quite a few strings to get Bush his cushy post in the Texas Air National Guard as it was.

The Bush administration's expectation that voters will buy their "evidence" is like expecting people to believe that because many black voters didn't appear on the rolls in Florida during the 2000 election, they were either felons or weren't registered to vote. Or that because Enron's earnings reports looked good, investors' money was still there. Or that because the glove didn't fit, the DNA evidence in the O.J. Simpson case couldn't possibly be right. Or that because a bunch of people were receiving regular paychecks from the Oklahoma health department, they were doing actual work.

Do Bush et al really think we're going to believe that, because payroll records show that a spoiled, privileged son of a prominent congressman received money from the Air Force after daddy called in a few favors to get him in the door, we have proof positive that he actually worked for every paycheck he cashed?

It takes a lot of hubris to ascribe idiocy to a nation of voters who already think you're the reckless, inerudite rube. On the other hand, it worked with the 9/11-Iraq "connection" and the yellowcake "evidence." And I've noticed my own IQ drops about 20 points each time the guy gives a State of the Union address. (Yes, folks, that's 80 points so far. Pretty soon, George W. and I will be even.) Perhaps there really is something to this "Who's the idiot now?" game the White House seems to be using as its modus operandi.

A lot of the experts say that exercise will cure whatever ails you. Got cramps? Go for a run. Feel a cold coming on? Nothing wrong with hitting the weight bench. Well, I'm here to say that's a load of crap when what ails you is a sinus infection.

I suppose it would have been all right if not for my competitive nature. Actually, for the most part, yesterday's workout was fun and exhilarating. But then came the abs.

Now ordinarily, even after last year's appendectomy, I have no problem working my abdominals. I'll get on the assisted ab board and do about 250 quick crunches, then prance merrily on to whatever muscle group is next on my list. However, when I got to the ab station, the machine next to me was occupied by a paunchy older man who looked to be at least 100 crunches in, judging from the sweat on his bench. I cranked out my 250, expecting Old Potbellied Dude to stop before I did. But no, he was still going strong, with no sign of stopping.

In no mood to be out-crunched by a sweaty, slightly overweight sexagenarian, I proceeded with my crunches. 300 ... still going. 350 ... still going. 400 ... the guy was a frikkin' machine. Being a macho little prick, and also being endowed with superduper fabulous endurance, I elevated my legs perpendicular to the bench and continued my regimen of Xtreme(TM) crunches. I did 100, at which point he finally got up and moved to another station. Thank god. I was about to die. Naturally, I crossed my ankles in the opposite direction and did an additional 100 crunches for good measure, after which I collapsed on the bench and emitted a most undignified gurgle of sheer torment.

"Now what does this have to do with a sinus infection?" some may ask. Well, the workout in and of itself had nothing at all to do with my sinusitis. I felt pretty great afterward, just like the workout-fiend experts say you will. However, the day after is another story. I'm mildly sore, which is no big deal. But since I have sinus inflammation right now, I sneeze, oh, say, once every 10 minutes. This results in a sensation not dissimilar to being kicked about the abdomen by a rather large donkey. So, six times an hour, my officemates are subjected to a demure "Achoo!" followed by an unladylike "Auughhh!" followed by a grumbly "Stupid old stealth-jock" (along with a few other choice words).

Next time I go to the gym, I'm making damn sure to find equipment where I can work out alone. Or at least make sure I'm working out alongside some aging Nichols Hills trophy wife who visits the gym only to ogle her personal trainer and pretend she's been spending a lot of time working on her body, rather than spending a lot having work done on her body. I'm definitely not judging any more old dudes by their potbellies. Obviously, that is the source of their unearthly energy. Either that, or they're freakishly competitive about being out-crunched by some short chick.

But most of all, next time I go to the gym, I'm taking it easy on my abs. Forget curing what ails you. Exercise itself can be a sickness if you take it too far.

Becky has redesigned Grrrl Meets World ... go check it out! Also, try your hand at this Flash air-hockey game.

Owing to some problems with my hosting service earlier this week, a few posts plus most of the improvements to my gallery disappeared. The gallery's been fixed, and big thanks (again) to Mr. WYD for all the time he spent tweaking Coppermine's code to my specifications.

And here's a fun little video for all you Star Wars fans who thought Luke was the biggest airhead in the Rebel Alliance.

P.S. to anyone who happened to be in Bricktown or on I-35 or the Kilpatrick Turnpike last night: I am truly and deeply sorry for any traumatic visuals to which you may have been subjected. I was not myself. Well, OK, I was myself. But my extremely drunk-on-an-empty-stomach, medicated self. And really, I blame it on irresponsible halftime programming. For those of you who remember the Electro Lounge fiasco, you will be pleased to know that I can once again show my, um, face there. Sooner than I can anywhere else in this city.

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who liked to ice skate. She would race around the rink as fast as her little legs would allow, and always jumped over the center line. But her aspiration was not to be one of the figure skaters showboating in sparkly leotards at center ice. She was nonplussed by the acrobatics of Kristy Yamaguchi and Scott Hamilton. No, this little girl wanted to don a cool pair of black hockey skates and slap a puck around with the big boys.

Each year, she begged her parents to let her join a hockey team, and each year her mom said, "No, Heather, we want you to keep all your teeth." (These were also their excuses vis a vis many fun things such as Little League, snowboarding, horseback riding, rappelling, bridge jumping, BMX motocross, and jumping down the stairs into a pile of pillows.) Her vows to always wear a mouthguard falling on deaf ears, the little girl resigned herself to "free skate," and later (when she lived far, far away from her faithless parents) settled for Rollerblade hockey and the occasional coercion of others into taking in an Oklahoma City Blazers game.

This year, Hollywood is at last indulging her hockey fixation with a real, grown-up hockey movie that does not star Emilio Estevez or anyone from Dawson's Creek. Coming to theaters this weekend, "Miracle" is the real-life story of the 1980 U.S. hockey team, and no matter how over-the-top sappy it is or how much anyone in the Sunday night movie group protests, she is going to see this movie. Maybe, if she's very lucky, Mr. WYD will accompany her to the theater. And perhaps, just perhaps, if she's really, really lucky, he will sit inside with her rather than waiting outside the screening room. Hint, hint!

Here's a sad but interesting story about a baby girl born with craniopagus parasiticus, a condition in which an undeveloped twin is joined to a fetus at the head (baby Rebeca is the first documented live birth with this condition). To help defray her medical costs, CURE International has set up a toll-free number to take up donations.

Justin Timberlake is the new Old Blue Eyes. Of course he still sings like a petulant Tiny Tim on crack. I'm talking, though, about his way with women.

I don't know what the starlets of pop see in a scrawny little castrato hoodlum like Justin Timberlake, but first the guy devirginized Britney Spears. Then, at the Brit Awards last year, Justin grabbed a handful of Kylie Minogue's heinie.

And on Sunday, the third time was a charm as Justin helped Janet Jackson get a little something off her chest.

Sure, the kid couldn't croon his way out of a paper bag. But that doesn't mean he's not Frank Sinatra reincarnated. What other singer has gotten his hands on so much sought-after celebrity skin? Even with his pasty complexion and fuzzy bedhead, Justin Timberlake is a modern day ladies' man. He's the Chairman of the Bowl.

(But no, he's still soooooo not doable.)

So I was watching the Queer Eye marathon today while I was studying, and I learned several things:

1. Carson Kressley should not be allowed to dress himself, let alone others.
2. That hair dude uses more product in a day than I do in a year.
3. Apparently plastic cups = a fate worse than death itself.
4. I am a terrible person for serving appetizers that are not carefully made by hand. (Seems that in polite circles, tortilla chips or even grocery store California rolls are not appropriate pre-dinner fare.)
5. You do not want to skimp on the important things. Important things, of course, being good shoes, clothing, liquor, decor, dinnerware, hair products and entertainment.

If it wasn't for the fact that I am not actually a straight guy, I'd ask the Fab Five to do a makeover on me. They could put some art up on my walls, do something with my hair, and find me some shoes that don't double as combat gear or porno props. Perhaps they could even teach me some basic drink-mixing skillz, or, better still, how to cook something.

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