Turns out that in certain faraway parts of the world -- Alaska -- people have been peddling reindeer gallbladders as tonic for, um, unleavened reproductive organs. They, the erectile technicians, sell the gallbladder to men slightly less intelligent than the reindeer themselves.

Who discovered this potion anyway? Who was so frantic that he thought to drink the gallbladder juice of reindeer? Seal kidney ... nothing. Whale dung ... nothing. Reindeer gallbladder ... EUREKA!

It supports my theory that men will do anything to be firm, even if it takes rigor mortis.

And who would have guessed Viagra to save the day? As gallbladder potion is replaced by, "stiffer competition," reindeer are free to hold on their organs and go back to hating Rudolph...

"They should have called him Rudolph the brown-nosed reindeer."

Alaska's reindeer have united in their love of Pfizer and have been buying up supplies by the silo. By next Christmas, they'll definitely be able to point out where the naughty girls live.

At the gym I found a man who had tattooed onto his head the following public service announcement: "Trust No B*!tch." At great personal risk, I tried to snap a photo, but he was rushing to jump on his Harley and go injure things.

Normally it's my pleasure to approach the Carnival People, but this man had different-colored eyes, which has always said to me, "spawn of Satan." David Bowie: spawn of Satan.

I had already seen the "Trust no B$*tch" bumper sticker (The Shopping Channel?), but this was the first person committed enough to burn the message into his scalp. Can you imagine this guy's shrink: "Let's start with your mother..."

Maybe I'm being unfair. Maybe this poor fella has, in truth, heroically survived the attack of a vicious female dog and hence the tattoo. Maybe it was a Siberian husky with different-colored eyes.

Only his therapist will know for sure. I mean, assuming his therapist is male.