MONDAY, JUNE 26 Recently, One Day at A Time exposed a ring of Portland based terrorists, operating under the governmental alias of "the City Street Car Project." Their goal: to eradicate Portland's bicyclists by laying streetcar tracks, entrapping tires and causing bloody, perhaps fatal crashes. But it gets far more insidious! As it turns out, City Street Car not only intends to exterminate Portland bikers, but pizza delivery boys as well!

At the innocent hour of 11 am today, a cherub-faced delivery boy named Chip stepped out of Rocco's Pizza, arms filled with pepperoni pizzas to be delivered to some homeless grandmothers living underneath the Burnside Bridge. Suddenly, while crossing the street at SW 10th, between Oak and Stark, a giant, metal rod, weighing 50 lbs and measuring four ft in length, came crashing down--just centimeters in front of Chip's toes! The pole, used to connect the street car with the electrical wiring above, was only held in place by electrical tape, which, our experts believe, was calculated to melt and drop at the exact second Chip was crossing the street. Luckily, Chip lived to share his experience. The City Street Car's web of conspiracy may be widening; but not without the omniscient, all-seeing eye of One Day watching it's every moveTo be continued!

TUESDAY, JUNE 27 Unfortunately, the hippies are at it again. PETA took a much deserved beating today after suggesting the beloved Green Bay Packers change their name to the Green Bay "Pickers." In a letter from PETA's head lettuce lover, Bruce Friedrich, the organization scolded the football team for favoring an industry that slaughters cows. PETA recommended the pigskin-tossing team instead choose a name that celebrates carrots, cucumbers, vegetables pickers, and undocumented migrant workers. Green Bay Packer President Bob Harlan responded by telling the pushy animal-loving, ferret fondlers to "smell our dairy air."

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 28 The Supreme Court issued a decision today allowing the jingoistic, fascist military organization known as "The Boy Scouts" (henceforth referred to as "The Bigotry Scouts"), to exclude gays from serving as troop leaders to the little homophobes-in-training. In his decision, Chief Justice William Rehnquist wrote (and we paraphrase) "The Boy Scouts are God's messengers, and gay people can kiss my lily white ass." At press time, no one has volunteered. One Day can't help but wonder why the Bigotry Scouts have their panties in a bunch. After consulting our Bigotry Scout Handbook For Boys, we found several lessons a gay scoutmaster would be uniquely suited to teach: Physical Fitness, Climbing the Trail, and Waxing Delicate Places. If you ask us, this organization is just a little too enamored with the tidy little red scarf thing and cuddling in pup tents. You may have won this round, Rehnquist--but you'll never get the dykes out of the Girl Scouts!

THURSDAY, JUNE 29 Occasionally, One Day likes to put away our Mariah Carey CDs, slip on a tight Motorhead tanktop, and venture into the mysterious, pulsating world of punk rock. Tonight, we attended Satyricon to witness the musical shenanigans of Seattle's Murder City Devils--as well as all those cute tattooed boys with long chains hanging off their wallets. As is customary with the Devils, they put on a blistering performance that had Portland's mutton-chopped community hopping in delight.

However, half way into their set (surprisingly enough) violence erupted! Derek, the group's bassist, recently broke his leg on their European tour, and has been wearing a walking cast (or a "dooky shoe" as his bandmembers affectionately refer to it). When an overenthusiastic audience member tried to steal a microphone, Derek attempted to stop him. The audience member then turned on Derek by trying to forcibly remove his dooky shoe without consent! Derek let the rude gentleman know he didn't appreciate this invasion of privacy by cracking the asshole over the noggin with his guitar. Naturally, a melee ensued, and Gabe (the Devils' roadie) leapt into the audience and thrashed the cad within an inch of his sorry, tattooed life.

See, that's what I love about the punk milieu; you'd never see Mariah Carey whack an audience member with one of her red "fuck-me" pumps.

FRIDAY, JUNE 30 Police and arson investigators announced today they're looking for a man known only as "Jim," in connection with a fire that destroyed the Troutdale Comfort Inn. Several witnesses reported seeing "Jim" outside the hotel moments before the blaze. "Jim" is described as "a real friendly kind of guy who likes to talk." If you know anyone answering to the name of "Jim" who fits this description, you are urged to contact authorities immediately! "Jim" may also go by the name of "Jimmy," "James," "Jimbo," or "the Jimster." One Day also suggests that if you spot this individual, you should conduct a full body cavity search as proof of "Jim's" authenticity. If results are conclusive (traces of soot or kerosene detected in or around the anus) contact local officials--do NOT try to detain "Jim." The police are also looking for two other men, whose descriptions are not available, but are said to answer to the names "Bones" and "Spock."

SATURDAY, JULY 1 No nuclear winter this year, kids! The wildfire that swept across parts of the Hanford Nuclear Reservation has been squelched and government officials announced today everything is just fine. "Everything is just fine," said one government official, who added that the nation's largest volume of nuclear waste is completely contained and catastrophe-proof. In fact, it turns out that nuclear waste poses no threat at all! It's safe as Evian! That whole radiation problem Hanford had in the '50s that gave all those people cancer? Liberal bias in the media, darlings. They didn't have cancer. They were dancers. We were so relieved to hear this, that we immediately sold our collection of survival guides to Bill Sizemore, and used the money to replace our spermicidal lubricant with high-grade plutonium.

SUNDAY, JULY 2 This morning, while safely driving in our neighborhood, One Day was called a "bitch" by a dickhole in a tricked-out red Chevy Blazer. We were driving along a narrow street with cars parked on both sides, when this schlong-smoker going 45 in a 25 mile an hour zone became irate when we refused to let him pass. He then had the gall to call us a "bitch" and flip us off. We were so stunned we couldn't get our hunting bow out of the back seat in time to respond. The finger-smeller behind the wheel was about 19, Caucasian, with short brown hair, and dorky-ass mirrored sunglasses.

If you are acquainted with this mentally ill, mouth-breathing Top Gun reject, please tell him that One Day has found it in our heart to forgive him. We pity the fool. It's a medical fact that people who drive tricked out red Chevy Blazers are overcompensating for tiny little bitty penises, are secretly in love with their mothers, and are in possession of big, brown streaks in their underpants.

Confidential to Kurt Kemmerer: "Merc! Merc! Merc! Merc! MERC!"