We've gotten a good response to our Overrated List . . . look for more updates to the list soon, once we can get these Filipino kids on our payroll to get their asses in gear. The list will be constantly updated from here on out, so if you have a submission, by all means, send it in!

I was on the radio yesterday . . . the station was in Hopkinsville, Kentucky. Surprisingly, it was a country station (!), and it was called the Beaver. I was promoting a show in Clarksville called D's Nuts. I called my Mom and told her that D's Nuts were on The Beaver. She promptly had a stroke. All in all, though, it was a good show, and even though I like current country music about as much as I like having my taint punctured, it seemed to turn out well. Thanks, Beav, hope to see you guys again soon.

Tuesday, I saw a couple of truly horrifying things. I was downtown for reasons that pertain only to me, and as I was ambling down the sidewalk, I saw some cops on horseback. Mister Feds, I like to call 'em. There were about 5-7 of them, and they were blowing their whistles urgently, bringing traffic to a standstill so their procession could pass. In the middle of the calvary, I saw a guy riding a horse with them. He was apparently a country singer. I could tell because he was wearing the requisite cowboy hat, boots, and leather jacket with an American flag on the back of it, plus his hair looked all feathery and processed, like one of those hot young telegenic Flavors of the Hour (or, as most people like to call them, "Gay Cowboys"). Another clue was that a guy was on another horse riding with him, wearing a baseball cap and looking about as comfortable on a horse as he would on the surface of the Sun. This HAD to be his agent.

However, that's not the weird part. The Gay Ranger was holding a long rope . . . my eyes followed it down to the ground, and it was wrapped around the neck of a little terrier that was scampering in the middle of the street, struggling to catch up and avoiding the crush of horses' hooves.

So, to sum up: Nashville's Finest are escorting a gay cowboy and his agent while they ride their horses . . . in downtown Nashville . . . so the guy could walk his dog.

As they paraded by, the cowboy tipped his hat to me with a smirk, a smirk that said, "It's okay, I'm a rich gay cowboy, they love me here." Several hours later, I was finally able to pick up my jaw and keep walking. A sight like that can only be seen in Nashville, which lends this town an aura of transcendental goofiness that I can't compare to anything else. Just amazing.

I was walking down 8th Avenue ("Proud Home of the Crackwhore!") when I walked past one of Nashville's many fine "relaxation centers," or as I like to call them, "Handjob Huts." That was when I saw a truly blessed sight.

Somebody had gone into the whirlpool place, and left their car running. Inside the car was a baby in a highchair. Ah yes, fatherhood at its finest. I desperately wanted to take the baby out of the car, and place it around the corner, just to see the person freak out when they came back out. Of course, I would have been arrested, and trust me, I don't need to go through another kidnapping trial. Believe me, those SUCK.

Ah, Nashville . . . what a town. It's an amazing combination of brilliant, creative minds and brain-dead retards. There is no middle ground. This town is like John Nash, only with more sequins and no Russell Crowe. No Russell Crowe, eh? Hm, I guess there's a silver lining to everything.

This is the MangyDog, over and out.