In true finger-pointing workplace political fashion, Tremain seems to have placed the blame for this day of poor rapport squarely on the shoulders of other people, saying multiple times, “Fuck my parents, fuck my teachers, and fuck everyone else who has ever given me advice! Fuck ‘em all, I want my dreams back.”

At this point Tremain seemed to dry-heave a half (baker’s) dozen times, then wet-heave in to his hand before continuing, “ ‘Go to college’, they say. ‘Get a degree and a good job’ they say. Fuck you. Do you know where I placed on the GRE? Fucking high, high-as-fuck! But look around me now—look at this fucking shit hole.  I might as well be selling hot dogs on a goddamn golf course!”

[Ed note: A)There is nothing wrong with selling hot dogs on a golf course with a college degree. B) Upon a standard fact check that we always run here at The Truant before we publish, we discovered that Tremain has not, in fact, taken the GRE or any comparable test, as he suggested not only in his recent bitch-ass tirade but also on his employment application which he submitted to us on toilet paper.]

Sensing another office shooting, Head Editor in Charge, Claire Chennault interjected, “Did someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed today,” presumably trying to plea-bargain the tension from a homicide down to a lesser charge of manslaughter.

“Wrong side of the bed?” yelled Tremain, from behind the nearest trashcan where he had taken cover. “Try the wrong side of the ‘fuck you!’ I woke up this morning on the wrong side of the fuck you!”

While smoking his AM cigarette on The Truant veranda with Chauncey the Bonobo and Brett the, well, our graphics guy, staff writer (and I use the term ‘writer’ very loosely here) Nixion Dickhouse said, “That mothafucka needs to chill.  He needs to sack-up and remember that success is not measured by where you work or how much you make. It’s measured by where you work and by how much you make.”

“Word,” chimed in the handsome bonobo via monkey sign language before flicking the butt of his Pall Mall [Wherever Particular People Congregate] towards Lordy’s busted-ass Nissan.

Tremain, who has been covering the oil spill in the gulf for the past 60 days, did state that his unhappiness has nothing to do with the dire situation on the coast but more so with the “goddamn world cup and the homosexuality that it’s pissing not just in Africa, but around the world.”

“Fuck the gulf,” yelled Tremain, now laying on the ground and pulling at his facial hair with the strength of five drunks. “Fuck the gulf. I don’t even like people from the south. Them goddamn bottom-feeders, just like the shrimp and crawfish they dig out of the swamp…and soccer! A bunch of goddamn faggots—all of them, every last one of them. It’s a homo pre-planned program! You score a goal, then rip your shirt off, and then do a butt-slide towards the nearest camera until your team dog piles you and covers you in kisses.  Jesus Christ! I guess all it takes these day to get Landon Donovan a good fist-fuck from a teammate is to beat Algeria by one point—one!”

Unfortunately the office tirade of self-pity didn’t stop before Rolling Stone magazine showed up to document the whole thing and release it to the public, including to Tremain’s superiors who plan on replacing him with someone a little more “tight-lipped” and a lot more “less-drunk” all of the time. Rolling Stone editor Eric Bates said that Tremain clearly knew that he was on the record, otherwise “why else would he say all of that nasty shit about his boss?”

Though the story is still unfolding, as of press time, Tremain had locked himself in the staff steam room and was still ranting like a little bitch, saying, between his sobs and deep gasps for air, that he was not going to get out of this alive.

“I don’t know what it is mane,” said See Cash while slowly opening a 40oz beer he bought with change from the local Utah State Liquor store [open noon to three, at 4^th and Main, every-other Thursday].  “Usually the weather in June allows for all types of murderous shit, but we got rain almost every day right now and I ain’t goin’ out in this shit.  It’s fuckin up my golf game too.  I wanna be under a hundred at the Riv’ [Logan River Golf Course] by the end of the summer and this ain’t helpin’.”

Sources close to the rapper/near-killer say the random spray of bullets was supposed to be aimed at rival rapper/neo-thug Yung Murda’s mother’s house, where Young Murda, 13, still lives with his parents and his two siblings.

“He [See Cash] rented a convertible Sable from Avis and all that shit,” said our snitch-source close to the rapper. “But Cash didn’t opt for the insurance so he would’ve had to pay for the water damage from the rain, know what I’m sayin? And if hood movies taught us anything, it’s that when you do a  drive-by, its gotta look fucking ill for the internets. And you know what, as a successful black man, I like golf too!”

Yung Murda, who was alerted by the press about not being killed this evening, said to the press, in regards to not being killed this evening, “See Cash? Clarence? Shiiit…I bet that bitch was just pissed about his golf game. Damn good thing he didn’t get to shootin’ me up tonight, I was just about to drop some bars to some beats that my lil’ sis [Lil’ Sis Murda] been bangin’ out on her Casio. Got her dressin’ fine as fuck too.”

Yung Murda said that he’s aware that there should be some beef between the two rappers to help with album sales, and that he does see See Cash from time to time out in these streets.  “Yeah, I saw his broke ass walking to the store just the otha day,” said Yung Murda. “It was raining so he was all wet and shit. Looked like he’d been pissed on by five dicks.”

As far as a reschedule goes, See Cash said that he’s still “fiendin’ to kill a bitch real quick”, but it’s going to have to wait until the bad weather blows over so he doesn’t need to pay for that extra insurance on the rental. “Look out for the album though,” said See Cash in closing, “It’s gonna to be bling fuckin’ bling.”

See Cash’s debut album, Ya’ll Hate Gitin’ Wet Too is set to be released by Def Jam records on July 12th, weather permitting.

Shea Anderson had been a lesbian for way too long, and after dealing with such criticism on a weekly basis from a bunch of news writers, she finally buckled to the pressure and the Bacardi Dark, and proudly had sexual intercourse, by choice, with a member of the staff man.

“It wasn’t the criticism for being gay at all,” said Anderson about her shift in genital preference. “It was the Gay Pride weekend in Salt Lake City that really pushed me over the edge. They should just call it what it really is: Gay people getting drunk and re-enforcing all of the stereotypes that keep them down.  Yeah, it’s fun and it’s a free pass to do whatever for a day, but Jesus…are naked firefighters dry-humping each other on fairy-floats what being ‘gay’ is really all about?  I’m sick of the production of it all, so I’m trying some dick for a minute. Feels pretty good.”

Sources close to Anderson’s insides said that, hot firefighters aside, maybe she just realized that man-on-woman also has its place in normal society, and her heart had been removed from that place for so long. It was sooo long.

Being that we here at The Truant are not easily pushed by liberal sources to run leftist news stories, we do recognize that said lesbian may have just been making a political statement by sleeping with us through us and using our well known ’sex-for-press’ option as a channel for her rhetoric. With that said, since when did fucking people to get what you want become so wrong?

As proof of our award-winning journalistic integrity, the staff of The Truant successfully asked Anderson to use a penis again this very morning.  And it is with this proof of fornication, that we solemnly believe, that no matter how gay your pride is, pageantry does not make the laws, regardless the number of fire trucks spraying the masses with faux-controversy for a single afternoon. It’s the vote of the people that makes the difference, and somehow, Utah America, we still aint got it.

Oh yeah, and about all of that hot firefighter stuff–no homo.

The Westboro Baptists have been gaining notoriety in recent years for their hardline stance against gays. After spending the 90s picketing the funerals of AIDS victims with signs reading “God hates fags,” the church turned its attention to soldiers’ funerals in the 00s. Now it appears that not even the Westboro Baptist Church itself is safe from the Westboro Baptist Church’s condemning signs and chants.

“I’ve picketed a lot of things,” said longtime WBC member Wesley Standerd: “A Jew church, lots of fag public schools, a fag ice hockey game, a whole buncha fag soldier’s funerals, some a those fag funerals what was dead from AIDS, and a Saab dealership because Saab cars come from fag Sweden. But I never thought I would be picketing my own church.”

Phelps explained his decision to order his followers to picket their own church, saying “you all are a bunch of fucking faggots. You are all so queer, you fight with your boyfriend in Hastings when you’re looking for a movie and accuse him of texting this hot guy he works with, in front of me and my kids.”

A few dozen church members gathered outside the Westboro Baptist Church at 11 A.M., shortly after listening to Pastor Phelps’ sermon inside. With Phelps ensconced in his personal chambers in the attic of the church, the picket began. Nearly everyone present was waving a sign, even children as young as 7, as Katie Phelps, Pastor Phelps’ daughter and the day-to-day leader of the church, shouted slogans, such as “down with the cock-sucking, ass-fucking Westboro Baptist Church.”

“I am confused,” Standerd said. “There’s no one in the building except for the good Pastor, and I only sucked his dick because he said he had $10.”

After a good hour of shouting and sign-waving, the protesters gradually dispersed, the Pastor’s message delivered. Ms. Phelps noted that unlike the usual unfriendly reception her church’s demonstrations provoke, this time passersby mostly registered approval. One such approving witness to the picket was Bevan Stacey, who said, “It’s true, they are a bunch of fucking faggots and they are going to burn in hell.”

Phelps later explained his bold stroke of leadership by saying, “The hand of the fag has crept onto the rudder of our good ship Westboro Baptist Church, metaphorically speaking, while the hand of the fag has quite literally crept into my own pants. And I’m sick of it. I’m sick of getting jerked and sucked by all these faggots, I started this church to get rid of homosexuality for fuck’s sake!”

As for Standerd’s claim, Phelps said it was “a filthy lie from the penis-sucking mouth of a known Armenian liar. Everyone knows you can’t be gay if you don’t take it. And I have definitely never taken it from Wesley Standerd, though I’ve spewed into/onto his fag face several hundred times. Which makes him the gay one several hundred times over.”

Phelps then proceeded to incontestably prove that Lordy Tremain is going to hell when he dies, using parts of Tremain’s willing anatomy that need not be mentioned here, and his hard cock.

“Oh yeah,” Phelps said while putting in work on Tremain, “how many dicks is this for you today, you queer little piglet? You disgust me. I’m going to have my goddam fag church followers picket your house so all your neighbors can find out exactly how queer you are. This is so fucking hot, I’m going to blow my load all over your back.”

There is no end in sight for the anti-Westboro Baptist Church Westboro Baptist Church demonstrations. Phelps’ fag and dyke followers say they will not stop picketing themselves until, as Standerd put it, “every single shred of gayness has been fucked out of us, and every single arcing rope of pearly white cum has been lapped up.”

“We are placing utmost pressure upon the administration to give the graduating class of 2011 a commencement speaker who will place his limbs in a configuration we approve of when the national anthem is sung,” said College Republicans president Watney Tolson.

USU Tea Party leaders agreed that the national anthem was “ruined” this year when Glover left his arms hanging by his sides. “It totally disrupted graduation,” Analise Vickers said. “If only someone hiding in the anonymity of the crowd would have been brave enough to shout at Mr. Glover during the presentation of our nation’s flag.”

For students and parents dismayed that Glover’s hand was not placed over his heart during the anthem, it quickly got worse as Glover poured out his drink all over USU Athletic Director Scott Barnes, poked USU President Stan Albrecht in the eyes, and began ravishing the young woman who performed the anthem right there on the dais, while cackling maniacally.

“You fools!” he began his commencement speech. “Now I will assault your small-town sensibilities with liberal propaganda about respect for women, and not shitting all over the planet!”

The crowd sat in stunned silence as the latter-day Himmler bombarded them for roughly 35 minutes, masturbating furiously the entire time.

“That,” said Albrecht, “I found impressive, considering he had just raped a vocal performance major. Danny Glover has incredible staying power.”

After the liberal mindwashing was over, the crowd exited with its collective head bowed, Glover’s taunts still ringing in their ears.

“I’m angry that no one had the courage to boo our university’s commencement speaker,” said Alaina Whitney, who graduated from the college of education. “Especially when he asked us for compassion for people living in unimaginable poverty, I really wish someone would have had the balls to boo him then. It’s my graduation, I don’t want to hear that.”

Tolson and Vickers may be preaching to the choir in requesting a less offensive commencement speaker next year. Albrecht stated he is already searching high and low for “a real intellectual piece of shit, with a mind so narrow it could fit through a keyhole.”

“It really got me when he pretended to care about family values,” Tolson fumed. “As if liberals love their mothers too.”

Vickers has drawn up a preliminary litmus test for future commencement speakers she hopes will help guide the selection process.

“Basically we want to hear platitudes. Platitudes about the constitution, then we want to be told we’re great because of the country we were born in. As a closer, future commencement speakers should not be afraid to hurl a little hate at ‘our enemies,’” Vickers said. “If they want, us Tea Partiers could just write the speech for them, and then we could just have a different wholesome celebrity deliver it every year.”

Tremain, who has struggled with homelessness, among other deviancies, for the bulk of his adult life, has been known to keep a very dark ‘tan’, which he says is a result of where he chooses to sleep.

Claiming that both of his parents were of “royal street decent”, Tremain says that though he doesn’t take any offense to being called a Mexican, being arrested for being “one of those filthy fuckers” is a different story.

“I was minding my own business,” said Tremain, while drinking tequila out of a ceramic jug, “minding my own business, doin’ nothing to nobody. Maybe I was helping some kids. Ya, that was it, I was helping some kids and then all of a sudden these cops showed up and asked me for my papers, the rest is what you read in the news.”

The news, more specifically, The Tucson Citizen, reported that city police responded to a call at a local Starbucks regarding an “unruly Mexican who was not wearing his papers on his outermost clothing”, and were then led to Tremain after checking out a bunch of clues.

“Ya, clues,” said Lt. Rossen of the Tucson Police. “He [Tremain] was trying to sell a bag of oranges on the bypass when we picked him up. He swore to God that he was not a Mexican, but when he couldn’t provide his papers, we had to take him down to the station. Hard.”

“You know,” chimed in Rossen’s partner, Deputy Collins, “I could tell he was a Mexican by his shoes.  Soon as I seen ‘em, yeah, I could tell.”

Tremain’s bail was lowered to amount of fellow staff writer Nixon Dickhouse’s weekly pay, due to Tremain’s “white-like” behavior, plus the fact that he is not Mexican. Inside sources (you know, inside of the jail) say that evidence of his possible whiteness stemmed from being observed through the bars of his cell while using the toilet, which he shared with a Puerto Rican named Juan who that had no clue that SB 1070 didn’t apply to him.

It was reported, that after wiping his bean-hole, Tremain proceeded to drop the soiled tissue unconsciously in the toilet bowl as appose to looking around for a trashcan to toss it in.

“That’s just something you can’t fake,” said Deputy Collins. “Nobody’s that good.”

As to what the Arizona government plans to do with the bunch of Mexicans that did look for a trashcan to throw their shit in, is yet to be seen. One suggestion was to take them to Canada, a country that doesn’t have a fucking clue what it is getting into, and let them try to sneak back in to the US through Montana.

Taking a break from mowing lawns for a living, Tremain made a statement this morning, saying that he was worried about what was going to happen next to his shiftless yet nomadic kind.

“I can’t even break the law anymore without being labeled as a Mexican,” Tremain tweeted later that day while trying to fix the tape deck in his Nissan. “It’s a crime how they are treating us.”

As of press time nobody knows where Tremain got a car or a tape deck, but we here at The Truant wish his Hispanic-ass the best. Just kidding.

I buy me a drink, it’s getting warm in here. You ask what I do and I humbly tell you how successful I am, and then I tell you not to be embarrassed about your job at the factory.  We are still laughing, I can tell you are curious but I am still taking my time. I excuse myself to go to the restroom and to give you a little time to cool down.

When I return I am relieved and we are alone. Your shirt has gotten sweaty and  shifted.  I see a small, laced strap peer out and stripe across your shoulder. At first you seem a little shy but when you realize that I’m the only one watching besides the animals on the  wall, you slide your top down and adjust your straps, your itchy, itchy straps.

While I order another drink you start whispering to your friend, probably saying something like “Look at that handsome man there, that one sifting through his pockets and staring at me.”

Back at the table, I’m lightly sweating, but I don’t wipe my brow.  I don’t wipe my brow because you are becoming uncovered and I need to help you. I reach out to try and stop your nipple from exposing itself but you won’t have it. And even in this moment of venerability, I still take my time, I’m still gentle.

They both become uncovered and are both perfect. Perfect just like someone may have imagined them while staring at you. What could possibly happen next, I wonder. What could you possibly show me?

There is a light ruckus in the bar and the bouncer tells me something that I’m not interested in hearing.  I look back towards you.

Alone again, it’s just you and I, and I think you a bit forward when you ask if I mind. “Do you mind?” you say with a slow recline and smooth widening of your knees.

I decide to whisper towards you, so I do. I whisper that I think you are a lady and that there is nothing to be afraid of, nothing that you should fear. I say that you’re only doing what’s right, you’re only following your heart.

It now appears to me that you are having trouble controlling what you do and where you touch. It’s almost like I’m doing it, but I would never do that, because by now you know how gentle I am. I realize that you need me, and out of respect toward your privacy I reach my hand forward to cover your gift, which has now become bare to see. I feel its warmth, and my hand becomes-

My train of thought is broken, I startle and look down at my palm. You’ve stormed by and spit both in my drink and in my hand. I press your wetness in to my skin with my fingers and watch the bar door slam itself.

I did it to you all so gently. You, you my dear, you were the one being the brute. I finish my beer and walk home in the rain, the slow, soft, gentle rain.

“That was one of the most lethal demonstrations of the power of the toe-hold I have ever seen in my 18 seasons covering UFC fights!” Rogan yelled, spraying bystanders with mouth-foam. The two rounds leading up to the decisive toe-hold were filled with action-packed grappling between the two MMA experts. And by grappling, we mean rolling around on the mat with their sweaty bodies pressed tightly together in all sorts of ‘fighting positions.’

After Grasskill was forced to concede defeat, the Voice of the UFC, Bruce Buffer, brought the two contestants to the center of the ring and announced, “In the first minute of the third round of the championship middleweight bout, by doing something really mean to the other guy’s toe, your winner and new middleweight champ, from Osaka, Japan, Shinji Kamazuki!!!” Kamazuki then bowed respectfully to the man whose toe he had just mistreated and accepted the champ’s belt.

“I really thought I had him late in the second,” Grasskill said, “when I had his head jammed in my armpit for the better part of the round. But just before I could choke him into submission, he was able to get me in arm bar, which I countered with a deadly Kimura hold, but the round ended. God, what a sport.”

Grasskill stated that he was going “back to the drawing board,” and would begin training to regain his belt immediately.

“No wonder all across America white kids are dropping their balls, bats and gloves and building their own backyard steel-cage octagons!” Rogan raved as he watched the replay. “Wow, look at Kamazuki bend Grasskill’s toe backward, he’s really wrenching on that toe! Look at Grasskill grimace, you can see he’s in EXTREME discomfort right before he taps out!! These fighters are pushing their toes to the ABSOLUTE LIMITS of human endurance!!! My GOD, what a sport!”

Although the toe itself and the hand pulling on it were pinned beneath the fighter’s bodies, and were thus invisible to viewers both at the live event and at home, Rogan’s vivid description of the torque Grasskill’s toe underwent in the deadly grip of Kamazuki was more than enough to keep the interest of UFC’s rabid fans, who could care less about Jujitsu but love watching men wrestle.

On the undercard, lightweights Chad Grouper and Stacey Chancellor settled a score by grappling fiercely until Grouper used a cunning leglock to subdue Chancellor. Then in a flyweight bout, a scrawny Mexican wrestled briefly with a scrawny white trailer trash kid before rolling over on top of him and battering him with elbows until referee John “Big” Sampson ended it on a TKO. The elbowing part was cool.

The fans were also treated to the amazing athleticism

of the UFC’s heavyweight division, which has been dominated in recent years by a 50 year-old man, Randy Couture, up until his defeat at the hands of former pro wrestler Brock Lesnar, and when we say “pro,” we mean it in the sense of Randy The Ram.

When neither of the highly-trained, graceful athletes

Ben Oakes or Tim Rothschild were able to knock each other out in the first 20 rage-filled seconds of the first round, things quickly degenerated into a slop-fest between two, er, athletes, who were breathing and perspiring very hard and could barely stand without leaning on the other. Oakes, who failed to wax his body pre-fight, as is the custom in the UFC, was soon able to brillo Rothschild into submission using the manly growth ‘pon his forearms and chest.

“I’m just kinda worried,” said the man with the boner. “I mean what if this is my last erection?  What if I never get an erection again and I hate myself because the final time I got a pretty hard one I didn’t use it?”

Video footage has it, that this is not the first time said man has let this worry drive him to masturbating, or according to one of his roomates “even once get some ass”.  Friends say that there are some days he will just sit around and play with himself while watching Law and Order: Special Victims Unit and “use” every boner he gets.

“I remember one really odd time in my life,” a roommate named Donell Russel said, “he got an erection when I was playing with his crotch, and he was so scared that it was going to be his last chance to use one that he wanted me to finish him off. Gay, right?”

“It use to be just him washing his hands all the time,” Russel told The Truant, “but then he got a prescription to adderall to help him with ‘whatever’, but once he started to do speed on the reg I suppose he needed something else to polish. Gay, right?

According to Ally Petz M.D., a professional in the field, distress over ‘Erectile Absence’ is a condition that effects at least one in eight men and very few women (you know, because their vagina will always be there).  Petz and her colleagues contest that there are few effective products on the market now to treat the condition and suggest that masturbation might work. Every single fucking time. Masturbation might work every single fucking time.

“I don’t know if I can hold it,” said the boner guy, just a few minutes ago. “I’m not going to waste it, I can’t. I can’t live with something like this on my conscience. Excuse me, it’s about to get real.”

As of press time, the guy with the boner enjoyed himself on an old road map of Vermont and said it was a “pretty good one”.