As H. Ross Perot once said, "Hear that giant sucking sound?" That was the sound emanating from this very office until scant moments ago. We're sorry for being so late. As calamitous world events unfold, we find You-Know-Who in the eyes of the storms, and just as often at the helm. Assimilating the global impact, and reporting it quickly and fairly, can be overwhelming. And sometimes we just plain fuck up, as you'll see. But when we're wrong, we admit it. And boy, were we wrong. We offer this musical mea culpa to our readers (and to JOE), by one of His favorite bands, as proof of how seriously we take all this. For the record, JOE feels they got a bum deal.

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Rightly shaken to His creamy core over the recent foot-fetish allegations, JOE cut off all contact with us again while He went a-sleuthing on His own dime (actual amount spent) to unmask  the filthy cretins who would besmirch His good name. Yes, there were odd behaviors. Yes, there were bizarre and unlikely coincidences which remain unexplained. Yes, JOE employs a barely-legal Asian pedicurist. Yes, He carries an 8x10 glossy of Sandahl Bergman standing on her toes. Yes, actually, to pretty much everything we've reported on the subject so far. But there's a tragic underside to all of this which is still unraveling as we speak.

As it turns out, a shamefully misunderstood (by us) JOE has been suffering for years from a rare affliction known as Reverse Transference Psychosis. JOE's own former shrink (before He decided they were all quacks), Dr. Shtigmund X. Bedvetter, cited the crippling disorder in his 1972 book, Nutjobs Obsessed With Women's Feet: "It is essentially an inverted form of projection wherein subjects, rather than blaming their situations on others, seek to gratify desires by overwhelming said suckers with those unfulfilled cravings." In layman's terms, by lavishing His boundless love onto all those feet with such dogged intensity, JOE was merely crying out for some foot-love for Himself. We had no idea that He A) was dealing with His own painful foot ailment, B) recently underwent surgery for it, C) refused narcotic painkillers [citing Patrick Swayze's line, "Pain don't hurt," from the magnificent Road House], and D) was restricted to maximum bedrest while wearing one of those enormous, cumbersome, ortho-boot-cast things and stumbling to the bathroom with a CANE for nearly a MONTH! This explains everything. (Almost...read on.)

But we also didn't know that He'd used His convalescance to such thoughtful, creative, and typically generous ends. This is exactly why we'll always love Him. "That boot meant no booty calls," explained JOE with all the heart-tugging humility of Albert Schweitzer, without the moustache. Inspired as always by Vietnam-era idealism, JOE seized the moment. Timing was crucial. Thus, the "Occupy JOE's Bed" movement was born: "I wanted to recreate the spirit of the time, while re-beefing the concept for the new generation. And clearly, it called for a soundtrack. I wrote the whole album in 27 minutes, but I needed a like-minded female counterpart to really seal the whole "sensitive" deal. Buffy Sainte-Marie was busy, so I had myself cloned, then had the clone get a sex change. It was the only logical solution." Recording right from that snuggly bed, the finished product was shipped within the first week. Asked if any hanky-panky went down while shacked up with his new musical soulmate, JOE quickly replied, "Are you kidding? That broad's crazy!" 

Reminded that the original Bed-In was for p-e-a-c-e, He simply shrugged: "If we get some of that too, I have no problem taking credit for it." As well you shouldn't, JOE! We only hope that His next medical crisis doesn't involve hemorrhoids and He starts singing "Moon River." Even though He nails it.

But the unsettling fact remains that someone with a twisted agenda instigated this entire ordeal with the documents we revealed in our last issue. The clone has been ruled out, since she didn't exist when the story broke, although she has shown an unhealthy jealousy toward JOE's sole source of solace throughout this fiasco---His ceramic chicken soap dispenser. Creepy cut-and-paste, ransom-note style kidnap threats toward the item were left here, including one promising to kill it, even though it's not alive. But it might as well be, given the peace of mind it has brought this genuine saint of a man. The FBI is now trying to crack the case. They already cased our cracks, which yielded no results beyond extreme discomfort. Many have suggested that "Clucky," as JOE has since named him, was merely another of His elaborate, whimsical pranks, or that all this was merely a publicity stunt gone awry. So for those who need proof, here's JOE cradling Clucky in His own precious palm. The background is shrouded to thwart further location attempts. Fellow pinball enthusiasts will note His famed supple wrist, so crucial to championship play:

Regular cast members already signed include Hayley Mills, Patty Mullen (Oscar-worthy in  Frankenhooker), and Linda Blair. JOE feels that Blair, most especially, deserves the break: "She's been unfairly maligned since her stellar turn in Roller Boogie. That's all about to change." Most of the details are still under wraps, but we have learned that JOE and Hayley will duet on the song she made so famous in The Parent Trap, "Let's Get Together." JOE had offered the part to His clone, but she ran off in a snit after a custody battle over Clucky. "It's all for the best. Hayley and I make it more suggestive, of course, but without the cheeky smug thing, and certainly without the 'ick' factor the clone might have induced among more sensitive audience members." Linda sings 'You Light Up My Life' directly to me while levitating and throwing up, and in the finale, Patty provides a truly happy ending right before her head falls off. I can't believe I'm getting paid for this!" Believe it, JOE. No one has earned it more.

If all this weren't enough, the bone-crunching score will be played live, at every show, by JOE's new all-time favorite band---the one and only---Foreigner! "I considered The Beatles, but with Jacko gone and Yoko furious over the Bed-In thing, the copyright litigation would have taken years. These guys are ready to rock right now. And really, the lyrics aren't nearly as foofy. This is a street-level view into my rough-and-tumble existence that pulls no punches," spat a leather-clad JOE, puffing a guttersnipe and pointlessly slathering his shaven dome with Vitalis and pretending to comb it. While numbers like "Jukebox Hero," "Hot-Blooded," and "Dirty White Boy" are givens, feast on the sheer poetry of some of their lesser-known tracks to see why they resonate so deeply with JOE:

(From "At War With The World") Never had no need / For any military aid / And I never took charge of the light brigade / I got no castle to defend or attack / But still I seem to be picking up flack / I am the captain of this body of mine / I'll send fear into the enemy lines / On the ground, in the air or at sea / They're all pointing a finger at me / I'll fight while I can / To put an end to this misery / Nobody's capturing me...

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[WARNING: We begin on an upbeat note, but we must warn readers that late-breaking news as we went to press may not be suitable for sensitive types and similar bullshit artists.]

First up is the release of the JOE wireless phone app, which works with all the inexplicably popular overpriced gizmos. It comes with a 20,000-image photo gallery (sorry, no nudity), a selection of games including Caffeinated Psycho, which features a crudely-digitized JOE's head gobbling Dunkin' Munchkins through a maze while being chased by slimy aliens with slingshots, and a bank of ringtones with annoying Midi versions of hit tunes cleverly changed up to suit the theme---the fan favorite right now being "Hey JOE," with lyrics altered so that He's packing a Super-Soaker and heading to the penny arcade to shoot those rubber clowns in the mouth. But the real golden egg is the Personalized Outgoing Voicemail Messages function. Users can program JOE's actual voice to use their own words, in 40 languages, and 120 accents, including "Brooklynese," "Valley Girl," and "Moron From Delaware." The mix-and-match possibilities are endless. Your friends will surely shit with envy when JOE answers your phone as a Chinese waiter and says, "Me no home. You choke on wonton!"  

Next, it's the JOE workout DVD, featuring JOE and a favorite actress of His whose name He wouldn't reveal. He did tell us that the session is a 120-minute, unedited, 18-camera shoot, focusing entirely on JOE's favorite excercise, the Squat Thrust. "She'll be squatting, and I'll be thrusting, for two solid hours," He said from the gym, His ripped, rock-hard physique glistening with Vaseline and just the slightest hint of musky perspiration. "Just watching it is a workout," He added, "especially for your eyeballs. If you don't sweat, you're either blind or dead, but do buy it anyway, of course."  

Speaking of blind, Broadway is buzzing with the news of the upcoming JOE musical! As yet untitled, the multi-million dollar production will encapsulate His unique life in pathos-drenched vignettes, backed by a 64-piece orchestra, including TWO triangle players (one of JOE's favorite instruments, along with the glockenspiel). We can't give away too much, but the play opens as a depressing children's TV show, with JOE as a Pinky Lee-type host, and a younger-version body double strapped to a chair and forced to watch. The other kids are ordered to play games like "Bobbing For Rocks," the animal acts are all incontinent, and the clowns get crucified. "Not a big clown fan, as you might have gathered," He said. "This is a kid's show that kids can relate to. Have you ever heard them talk about how great the latest Captain Kangaroo was? Fuck, no! I respect their intelligence. They're starved for emotional realism, and this show has it in spades." The scene closes with "Klassikal Korner," which stars an African-American burro named Donkey Ho-Tay reading Shakespeare on his hind legs. "A little culture goes a long way," beamed a pleased-as-punch JOE. 

During the post-high school psychedelic segment, JOE dons platform glitter sneakers, garish striped bellbottoms with suspenders, and a pink afro to challenge "that deaf, dumb and blind kid" to a pinball throwdown. "Naturally, I kick his ass, not just because I'm the best, but c'mon---he's blind." Warned about a likely backlash from the visually-or-otherwise-impaired community, JOE made an especially gracious concession to His sightless followers. "From now on, every issue of our new online edition will be in Braille."

With JOE crackin' the whip to get our last issue out (understandable, given the gravity of the events), some significant facts were overlooked. Just days before discovering the "Cotton Candy Scent" body spray, JOE found another hidden treasure at that same Family Dollar outlet. Oddly misplaced amid the usual crap laid a ceramic soap dispenser, stunningly rendered in the form of a chicken, with a huge metal pump sticking out of its back. "It's not life-size, but it's larger than life," He winked, ultra-satisfied with His shrewd purchase. "It was three bucks, not one, but worth every cent. It's absolutely hideous. I swear I heard it calling my name, but you need teeth to say the 'J' in JOE, which even real chickens don't have. Plus, Eddie Money's 'Take Me Home Tonight' was playing in the store when I saw it. Like I'm gonna argue with Eddie Money and a ceramic chicken? I don't think so!"

We asked JOE if He considered His recent avalanche of good fortune to be more than a simple case of serendipity, to which He practically screamed, "I fuckin' LOVE Dippity-Do! I used it for years, but I dippity-don't since I decided to go full-on Kojak back in 2000. And that WAS a decision. Don't believe the hype. With the chiseled abs and everything, it's a lot like Mr. Clean, except I'm not gay. The gals have always loved it, the same way they love my scars from the Grenada Invasion, and now they're lined up to lick the Cotton Candy Scent clean off my noggin! Unfortunately, it only smells like cotton candy. Most of them can get around the rancid chemical taste, but a couple times, we did need barf bags. They still came back for seconds, though, so everything's cool. Between that and the chicken, I can't complain." We asked JOE if His hearing was going, or He was just being His adorably playful self. He responded by reciting the Gettysburg Address while gargling, so we suspect it's a bit of both. Either that, or He's back on the NyQuil.

But JOE certainly DID complain upon learning of recent incoming mail, which suggests that His "alleged" foot fetish (last issue) has some unsettling dark roots, if we're to believe the implications. An anonymous reader sent an article scanned from Washed-Up, Wacked-Out, Satanic Hippie Foot Fetish Times, a publication that folded shortly after its debut in 1972, and whose two known remaining copies are viewable only on microfiche under tight security at the Library Of Congress and the Research and Development Center at the Dr. Scholl Institute in Dubuke, Iowa. The entire magazine is written and edited by one Toejam Football, and its envelope is postmarked from Norwood, MA---JOE's hometown! It gets worse. The piece, entitled "Manson, My Foot!" consists mainly of an interview with someone calling himself only "Joe," who, we quote: "Yeah, man, Charlie had it all wrong. It wasn't Helter Skelter and race war, it was Piggies, and Harrison was singing directly to ME, about TOES. I played it backwards, and it clearly says 'Paint them, you groovy bastard / put the powdered sugar on / Beelzebub has a tootsie put aside for me,' stuff like that." While we're loath to speculate, we cannot ignore the startling resemblances, not only in the speech patterns and overall karmic portent, but in these photographs. Compare the recent shot on the left to the scan from the magazine. The classic nose alone leaves us dismally skeptical as to this all being coincidence:     

JOE, seemingly improvising now, said "That's the actress in the workout DVD. Big deal. It has nothing to do with the fact that she's up on her toes and that her name sounds like 'sandal,' which, YES, happens to be my favorite footwear. She's one of our finest actresses. She was in Xanadu, for God's sake! You people are fucked. I'm outta here." Regardless of what may transpire, we wish to assure readers that even JOE Himself cannot prevent us from covering His exploits. He doesn't have keys to our office, and is often deliberately incommunicado. Before storming off into the chilly September evening rain, He left us with one directive, which we're complying with despite the unbearable tension all this has caused, and since, admittedly, we don't have all the facts yet. "In honor of my ceramic chicken, I want this issue to go out on a chicken-y note with this beautiful song. The lyrics say it all. I'll be watching, you trecherous sleazeballs." YOWCH! 

NEXT ISSUE (assuming we can sneak one out under said classic nose): More stalling on the hash browns update, and hopefully, a return to relative sanity...  

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Unthinkable disasters were averted when JOE was whisked to the White House for the second time this year. In a miraculous, but no less commonplace (for JOE) confluence of events, He'd just arrived for His annual UK jaunt when the rioting broke out. "It hadn't hit the news yet that I was in town, so when I realized it wasn't about me, I figured I better blow Dodge, or however they say it. And right that second, the Feds rang," remarked a none-too-surprised JOE. "They wanted my input in the wake of that debt-ceiling hoo-hah, but getting me out safely was looking tough. Then I came up with this incognito decoy thing that kicked, like, 28 kinds of scrotum. I hated to leave, because there's nothing like standing in the rain, eating eel pie---nothing---but I'm not so selfish that I'd stick around and probably get set on fire. Besides, the peanuts on Air Force One are pretty bitchin'. So I get there, and what does that goofball, B-Rock [as the president allows JOE to call him] do? Gives me a t-shirt that says, 'It's Good To Be King,' and wants me to wear it it for the big photo-op. After the trouble I'd just gone to, I politely refused. The photo explains everything. What the fuck was he thinking?" 

But onto the important stuff, namely snack updates and JOE's ever-increasing animal magnetism. Blueberry coffee has been found, albeit sporadically and in maddeningly small amounts, thus inspiring His latest kick and new recipe, Cottage Cheese a la Schmeaux, a stunning concoction which incorporates Emerald brand "Breakfast Blend" trail mix and slices of tangerine, which He demonstrated live via webcam from the set of Chopped Chef Nightmares On Elm Street or something, waving his enormous, jewel-encrusted Bavarian spatula like, frankly, a maniac. "We're talkin' protein, fiber, vitamins, and a big whompin' bumload of deliciosity, all in one 97-ounce cup," explained the culinary cutie-pie, resplendent in His foot-tall Chef Boy-Ar-Dee hat and "Eat Me" apron. After a grueling six seconds of the required 'stirring constantly', He added, "That's the key, right there. Anthony Bourdain described the dish as 'toothsome,' but that's a snooty-ass, stupid fucking word, so DON'T print it," demanded JOE, perhaps a bit too brusquely. We chose to override His directive, to preserve the integrity of the article, and now await our individual spins on His dreaded "Wheel Of Punishment."

Then, in an online forum discussion, JOE observed the notorious Kim P. and a (cough) gentleman we'll call Peter Holt, because that's his name, discussing grilled cheese sandwiches using mayonnaise instead of butter as the browning agent. "It's not as disgusting as it sounds," JOE advised,  "but I told Mr. Holt not to skimp on what I call 'the Sultan of Seasonings', BaconSalt, and he started bitching about how it always cakes up on him. Apparently, he couldn't be bothered to shake the jar. I've known him a while, and he's got over four decades' experience in frequent, furious, repetitive hand motion, if you get my drift, so I don't know who he thinks he's kidding."

While visiting His local Family Dollar outlet (which JOE tries to do at least once a week to donate Tootsie Pops and used scratch tickets to the less fortunate), He wandered through the Long Since Expired, Potentially Fatal Canned Goods aisle, and spotted a small, solitary pink aerosol bottle of a body spray simply labelled "Cotton Candy Scent." Sensing immediately that unknown forces had conspired so that He alone would find it there, plus the fact that it was only a buck, JOE applied a quick spritz to the wrist, and decided, "This stuff reeks. But it reeks of destiny." He raced to the checkout, where the 4-foot, 200-pound Hindu clerk with the weird makeup caught a whiff, leaped clean over the counter and pinned JOE to the floor, jamming a tongue in His ear like an aardvark rooting for grubs in a rotten tree stump. "I knew then, I was onto something. Too bad it was a guy, or I might've had a go. I special-ordered enough to fully immerse myself in, and after an 8-hour soak, attended my monthly Jerry Van Dyke fan club meeting, where all eyes---and noses---were on me. The phone hasn't stopped ringing since. More tail than a fuckin' litter box, I swear to Christ." 

On a recent excursion to bucolic Webster, MA, to see JOE's close personal friends Blue Oyster Cult, a heated discussion broke out as to whether JOE is more A) footlose or fancy-free, B) hale or hearty, C) fine or dandy, and many other baffling conundrums. His gracious riding companions, the lovely and talented Pizzle Twins (who brought along enough Chester's Puffcorn to keep Him going for least five 5 minutes), were cleanly split on many issues, while a cocksure JOE insisted he was both equally, in all categories, and in staggering amounts thereof. Readers will be glad to know that we'll be hosting interactive polls of this very nature in future issues, so start making your plans to ignore them now!   

But all this raises the question, what's with JOE and feet, anyway? First it was the toenail clippings on eBay, then the pedicurist, the oddly specific donation of Tootsie Pops to the downtrodden, and now the footloose controversy. Even back when we pleaded for a more consistent publishing schedule, He said, "It keeps you all on your toes," not mentioning that while we're up on said toes, He enjoys painting them and dusting them with confectioner's sugar. So does JOE in fact have a foot fetish? "In a word, not really," He assured us, "but I have gotten special attention for my big feet, because everyone knows that big feet means big shoes, and the skirts enjoy nothing more than going shoe-shopping with someone who knows intimately about all things orthopedic. But occasionally, yeah, I do think about other stuff." Fair enough. So how was the BOC show? "Pretty great, but I was kinda bummed they didn't do 'She's as Beautiful as a Foot'."

NEXT ISSUE: The JOE "Reverse Sweepstakes," where everyone who enters gets to give Him all their money, maybe something about hash browns, and other invaluable nuggets of wisdom...   

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Lips are flapping frothily at the announcement of the upcoming JOE-CON America 2011, to be held at the gaudy and exorbitant Ballagio hotel and casino in Las Vegas (date TBA). The three-day event marks the first annual convention of all things JOE, and will include live appearances by some of His favorite performers, including Cher, Slim Whitman, and Wayne Newton, all of whom waived their usual fees for the chance to appear onstage with JOE, who in turn waived His strict "no moustaches backstage" clause. JOE adds: "It was, literally, the least I could do. That's just for Slim and Wayne, though. If Cher's daughter shows up with a moustache, she's not getting in." 

Unfortunately, JOE refuses to don sequins for the event. "That's just overkill," He explained. "The other three have it covered. Besides, we have some duets planned that could easily spark a riot on their own. Why push it?" Good thinking, JOE! "I don't want to give away too much, but the bit with Wayne is really special. [SPOILER ALERT!] First, I come out on one of his Arabian chargers while the P.A. plays 'Pomp and Circumstance.' Then, I dismount, and a freshly-reconstructed Morgan Fairchild takes my robe off. And wait 'til you hear Wayne's re-working of 'Danke Schoen,' which he sings directly to me on his knees, while The Flying Wallendas are doing their own fruity act in the background. It's classic Vegas," promises a more-than-ready JOE.

For the memorabiliacs, in addition to the usual overpriced Taiwanese sweatshop T-shirts, merchandise will include black satin "tour" jackets with you-know-who on the back as the King of Hearts, 64-ounce coffee mugs, ashtrays, key fobs, belt buckles, hoodies, refrigerator magnets, velvet wall hangings, change purses, prayer candles, lingerie, PEZ dispensers, beach blankets, shower curtains, condoms, and limited-edition adult diapers for His elderly fans, all emblazoned with the sunny visage of a beaming JOE sitting on a huge pile of everyone else's money. "Trinkets are all fine and well," He said, "but everyone knows the real action will be at my kissing booth." Amen to that!

The hash browns update is on hold while we pursue JOE's latest obsession, blueberry coffee. "I swear to Christ, every time I find something that could further improve my life, the stores stop stocking it," yipped an aggravated JOE. "And I'll bet anything they just do it to get a mention here. It's a cheap ploy, and I won't stand for such monkeyshines. Scratch that. Let's go with tomfoolery. I actually like shiny monkeys, and Tom's probably a dick anyway. Meanwhile, chop-chop on the blueberry, my 20-something Asian pedicurist is due any minute, and I need to be on my game."

Ever seen a bona fide Sex God shave with two hands? You would have, if you'd been in JOE's hotel room on His recent junket to Egypt. "I'd forgotten to pack my trusty titanium alloy Mach III, so bought a two-pack of those cheapie disposables from the gift shop. I hate to keep the chauffeur waiting, so I lathered up and just WENT for it. Not one single nick. It's pretty wild, still discovering these natural gifts I had all along," boasted a slyly grinning JOE, glowing as if pregnant with justifiable pride. 

But why Egypt, of all places, this time? "I really like that Leon Sphinx guy, and I wanted to donate some teeth. He's a kindred spirit who knows the meaning of sacrifice, so it was only right," expressed a stunningly selfless JOE from under His pith helmet. "Plus, I saw in National Geographic about an archeological dig where they'd unearthed something I had to see for myself. Sure enough, it was already in a museum. Not a huge surprise, but I can't complain. And yes, I've got the photos." 

JOE is, understandably, a tad ruffled by fan mail from a smattering of old-time (print edition) readers who sarcastically suggest that He hasn't grown spiritually to the levels we've so meticulously documented. The usual jab is something along the lines of, "Back in the day, that dude would fuck anything that moved. Leopards don't change their spots," blah blah. "It hurts, and it's patently untrue," sniffled a slightly distraught, yet ultimately impervious JOE. "I never once said it had to be moving."

NEXT ISSUE: More references to previous issues, other important stuff.

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Rumors are flying that JOE and Tinsel-Town twinklet Zooey Deschanel were closerthanthis at the premiere of her upcoming straight-to-DVD disappointment. A somewhat sheepish, but no less masculine JOE responded via satellite: "It happens all the time. She's a fine actress, and a definite cutie-pie, but I had to decline her offers. I'm holding out for someone with a tad more box-office thunder, like Ida Lupino or Imogene Coca, if they hadn't croaked. The kind of classy broads who understood that star power works both ways. I may reconsider, though, to see if Zooey lives up to her name in the ol' sackeroo."

Heads rolled at a recent staff meeting. "Let's get down to the serious business," demanded an alarmingly somber JOE, repeatedly whacking the conference-room table with a banana in lieu of a gavel. "This is bad. REAL bad," He continued, all steely-eyed, sending genuine chills through our fretful hearts. "Someone named Kim, from Cambridge [MA] wrote, asking where to find Chester's Puffcorn [Volume 3, Issue 2], saying it 'sounds like pirate booty.' Had she used proper capitalization, I'd have known that Pirate Booty is an actual brand name for a similar product. I thought she was just being colloquial. My assistant rang from Stop & Shop to tell me it exists, and grabbed the last bag. And it's not bad. But think how much more I could have crammed down my gullet if this Kim person had employed basic grammatical skill, in more timely fashion. Now I'm trapped in a nightmarish Snack Purgatory. It's a straight-up fucking disaster!" spat a disgruntled JOE, who is much more pleasant to be around when He's gruntled.

Last issue, we failed to mention that JOE's fruitful foray into television is hardly His first, and as always, we've got the proof. JOE was in the pilot episode for what would become Leave It To Beaver, before network execs decided it was way too progressive, opting instead for the same old sitcom horseshit, and casting human chipmunk Jerry Mathers in the lead. "It would have made history," insisted a pensive JOE as he reached for a Tiparillo. "The episode centered on Wally asking me to be his prom date. Of course, the locals go ballistic. It ended with a great courtroom scene where the bailiff pukes, and we even had a puke laugh-track specially made up just for that moment to close the show. It was great TV. American audiences had already embraced Ernie Kovacks doing Percy Dovetonsils, but we wanted to make a real political statement. And look what happened. They're only now getting around to gay marriage," sighed a tired, but tireless JOE.

Indeed, most are unaware of JOE's relentless activism in support of myriad unjustly ignored social causes, and that He's founded many programs, and set up countless grants and scholarships on His own. "Aw, shucks, let's not publicize all that," chirped an exuberant JOE, slightly blushing at the reminder of all the good He's done for humanity. We approached Him poolside in Tuscany for a comment on some of His grassroots campaigns. "Are you shittin' me? I fuckin' LOVE the Grass Roots!" He said, perhaps a bit weary from jet-lag. "When they do that 'Temptation Eyes' number, my own eyes roll up into my head. It's like Linda Blair with the pea soup!" blabbered a giddy, but firmly-grounded JOE, His excitement noticeably visible through His day-glo magenta Speedo.

Speaking of steamy visuals, we only recently learned of JOE's surprise encounter from last Christmas Eve. While enjoying a sandwich ("A Rachael, if you must know," He explained, "which is kinda like a cross-dressing Rueben") at an all-night diner on December 23rd, JOE noticed two cheerfully flagrant (and obviously rich) lipstick lesbians chatting up all the customers and taking notes. "And what do YOU want for Christmas?" they finally asked Him. "We'll be here at this time tomorrow night to deliver everyone's presents." Grateful, but skeptical, JOE made His request and wished them well. On a whim, He returned on the 24th to find the gals had come through, and was gifted with a $20,000 Rolex. "It's great and all, but they could have saved a bundle," He said. "What I actually told them was, 'I just wanna watch'."

And where are the lawsuits, you may well be asking? "I'm currently considering one against Tom Menino, Mayor of Boston, on grounds of being a public nuisance. The core of the suit is what Dershowitz and I are calling 'a verbal restraining order'," revealed a frustrated JOE, His patience clearly overtaxed. "In short, he'd be forbidden from speaking, ever, or at least until he learns some diction. HIs vocabulary is depressing enough, but when you strain it through a constant mouthful of phlegm, something's gotta give," snapped a no-nonsense JOE, "and you're talkin' to someone who's fluent in Gibberish." Amazing. Something ELSE we never knew. Does it ever end? We certainly hope not. 

NEXT ISSUE: Long-promised hash browns update, travelogue, a contest (if Rolls-Royce comes through and signs off on the grand prize), and more, more, MORE! (How do you like it, how do you like it?)

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No sooner had we dotted our T's and crossed our eyes on the last issue, when we heard that WikiLeaks honcho Julian Assange had released the URL for The JOE News, which was contained in a private message to a scant few earlier (print) subscribers in a test run. "I knew this internet thing was a bad idea," fumed a visibly trembling JOE, "but I'm smarter than that Swedish meatball. I'm launching JOELeaks as the first pre-emptive strike. I know a thing or two about steady drips," beamed a triumphant JOE over an unspeakably smelly victory dinner in Paris.

STOP THE PRESSES! CNN is now reporting that WikiLeaks is "imploding." Coincidence? "Not a chance," gloated The Righteous One, "and another thing---for all those doubters from the old days who thought my presence at historic events was bullshit, we'll be presenting declassified photographic evidence, and I assure readers that I'll never stoop to using technology to achieve it. The home office might, but not me personally. I challenge Assange or anyone else to PROVE they're fake," railed an almost obnoxiously self-assured JOE. "People can think what they want. I'd be jealous too." While the world waits for the bombshell JOELeaks site to debut, we recommend that readers bookmark this page to keep current. "How the fuck are they supposed to bookmark it? We're no longer in print! God, you people are idiots!" bleated a savagely overworked JOE.

NEXT ISSUE: Familial birthday bloodbath erupts over Eagles' music, more shit about snacks, Hollywood stalker chicks, the usual...

DECLASSIFIED HISTORICAL EVIDENCE PHOTO #1:

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"No way! That asshole is still alive? FUCK!" And so rose such jubilant cheers the world over when it was learned that not only is JOE still alive, but the flagship (okay, only) chronicle of His trials, travels, trevails, and trichomoniasis has finally arrived in the great digital dumping ground. A place for fans to rejoice, bask, wallow, rejuvenate, and other life-affirming shit. We know it's a lot to absorb so suddenly. It's only been five minutes for us so far, and we're already shaking and sweating like Harry Reems.

We're told that JOE received word from one of His moles (not a spy, but an actual mole) that this project was underway. Never one to pooh-pooh the dreams of those who so clearly love Him (and no one doesn't love Him), an accepting, yet legitimately concerned JOE was said to have pensively advised, "Tell them to take it slow. It's been a while. People are restless. They want, and deserve, answers. It had to have been hell, not knowing what was up with me all this time. I didn't know myself, for most of it. I just don't want to end up with another Guyana here. Keep it chillin' in the 'hood, yo." JOE thoughtfully declined to tell his allegedly famous Jim Jones joke, explaining that, "The punch line is way too long." Oops!

From what we've been able to glean (one of His favorite words, just by the way---if you can get near Him, you'll probably get lucky if you use it properly), it's been a whirlwind of events for JOE these last several eons. "Yes and no," gurgled a clearly exhausted, yet willing-to-share JOE. "Busy, yes, but the wind wasn't that bad, and I did virtually no whirling the entire time. People can relax now, go back to what they were doing, which probably wasn't much anyway. I mean, let's be honest, here." You know He's right, folks. We're always still amazed at how the truth never seems to sting as harshly when it floats from the succulent lips of the unreasonably sexy JOE.

What's all this about JOE snubbing an invite to be a judge on American Idol next season? "It's a multi-pronged dilemma," groused a slightly ruffled, but still emotionally generous JOE, who has much experience with multiple prongs. "I'm not the showboating type," He naturally understated. "It would be unfair for my unstoppable charisma to suck up all the attention in the room, but it's not like I'd do it on purpose. It just happens." In a gesture of His trademark humility, a bursting-with-compassion JOE bowed His head slightly, and shed a single, yet devastatingly effective tear. "It's a small sacrifice, but it's for the kids. It must suck to never be me, but I wouldn't know. I've always been me," He softly whimpered with a grace uncalled for, considering His absolute right to gloat like a motherfucker.

JOE's recent White House visit also had the tabloids buzzing. "I was joking with Hillary about the irony of being in the War Room with such a battle-axe. She was a good sport, though. She tried to smile, but her face shattered and crashed to the floor," marveled a usually unflappable JOE. No truth to the rumor that "the Closet Patriot," as His fellow Navy SEALs jokingly call Him, was there to receive a medal for snuffing that dude in Afghanistan, which we're required by law to say, although we can't prevent you from inferring the obvious truth. We contacted JOE's old friend Jesse Ventura via smoke signal ("They can't be tapped," Ventura explained) for a comment. "My lips are sealed," bellowed the former pastel-plumed testicle-crusher. "SEALed, get it?"

One thing that hasn't changed in JOE's absence is the constant gathering of groupies outside the office, some camping out for days, even in the most inclement weather, for the slightest glimpse or a palpable twinge of His fabled aura. "I'd bottle it up and sell it, if I could," He said, a none-too-subtle smear of regret tainting His carefully chosen, perfectly-pronounced words so cherished by the massive hordes of starstruck floozies. "It'd keep 'em occupied while they wait for their numbers to be called, would serve as a jumpstart to the foreplay, saving valuable time, keeping things moving, and I'd reel in some hard-earned shekels. It's a win-win deal all around." Now there's something that's changed, if you can believe it: that heart of gold has only gotten bigger. Of course, it would help if He actually showed up here at some point.

The age of Aquarius is over. This is the dawning of the age of Taurus---the only Taurus that matters. This ain't Woodstock, it's livestock. Cyber-space, bend over and take it like a man. And remember, as always: JOE news is good news. Stay tuned...

[Rare present-day shot of JOE at a Zimbabwe petting zoo for rubber animals:]

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