First and foremost, I'd like to apologize to anyone who may have grabbed a waning-seconds-of-Christmas gift idea off last year's list; if said gift resulted in a) your Facebook relationship status suddenly becoming "single," b) your incarceration, or c) tears, I profoundly, deeply don't give a fuck.

That said, boys and girls, it's time for Burson's (On-Time) Holiday Gift Guide 2009®, the long-awaited and much ballyhooed tome that assures those on your list get the gift equivalent of a kick in the jock. Looking to tell your girl it's over? Looking to extend the finger to your boss in gift form? Look no further. Burson's got you covered, both literally and figuratively, and is ready, willing and able to hook you up.

In the intervening year since the inaugural edition of this guide, you may have noticed that everything's kinda gone to shit. Nowadays, you can barely scrape together the two bucks for your dinner of cat food and Olde English, let alone buy gifts . . . what's a boy to do? Considering that everyone's pretty much in the same boat (i.e. "fucked"), the trick is to go practical. A box of Hefty garbage bags should fit the bill; considering that many of your recipients are half a step from homelessness, they'll be well-prepared thanks to you!

Speaking of hard times, in an economic climate such as this one, a less scrupulous individual might be inclined to hit a lick or two. For the stickup kid on your list, I submit for your consideration the Glock 17, a fine handgun guaranteed to make the Plaid Pantry clerk shit him/herself, particularly if equipped with a suppressor, or "silencer," as the kids are calling it these days.

It wouldn't be Christmas if Burson wasn't lamenting the sorry-ass state of his beloved Oakland Raiders. Now he and other Raiders fans can effectively hide from the world with the Raiders Fan Face, an ingenious device that simultaneously displays the ashamed fan's team spirit and obscures his identity from bosses, spouses and parole officers. Though I'm certain that Raiders fans are no strangers to masks (see Glock 17 and suppressor, above), the Fan Face is a true multitasker; a wearer can hit the aforementioned lick and still make it in time for kickoff.

If said Raiders fans want to get that "in-game" experience, they could always check out the Official Raiders Tackle Buddy, which is nearly as easy to tackle as an Oakland receiver. Note that the Tackle Buddy has no hands; also reminiscent of a Raiders wideout.

For those of us on a budget this holiday season, Christmas dinner can be something of a challenge. Nothing takes the spirit out of the season quite like bringing home a family five-pack of WinCo pre-smoked "turkey" legs and some off-brand Jell-O for dessert. Never fear, the good folks at McDonalds have it on lock: McRib is back! Just imagine the bucolic scene when you dash in (through the snow) carrying that festive paper sack of low-grade pig parts slathered in corn syrup . . . okay, stop imagining, you're making everyone sick.

For that special lady in your life (or Savage), try a sequined G-String, complete with garters. Why, you ask, would one purchase such a ludicrously impractical garment during one of the coldest times of year? Why, I ask, would you be asking that, instead of thinking about that special lady filling it out? Seriously, though, I see how those sequins could irritate some of the more sensitive areas that may contact them, so you might want to consider something more plush.

Who hasn't said, presumably after a half-rack of Natural Ice, "wow, I wish I could smell like a country music superstar?" Tim McGraw has just the thing for you, "McGraw" by Tim McGraw cologne. While the description may say some shit about "musky," "woodsy" and "masculine," you can be safe in reading this as "smells like horse rectum." If you're a lady (since you're reading wyvern920.com, you're probably not) looking to outfit her guy with that signature scent, look somewhere else. Unless you want your man whiffing faintly of '83 Firebird transmission fluid and tobacco spit, steer clear.

If you're shopping for a particularly angst-y teenage girl or homosexual gentleman, Jewel's A Night Without Armor may be just what you need. While ordinarily a "night without armor" results in pregnancy, HIV or worse, Jewel leans toward a different interpretation in this abortion of a poetry collection. Will someone save her soul? Fuck if I know, I'm too busy hanging my head in shame for this gift even entering my twisted brain.

Finally, I must express both my joy and sadness at penning this guide. On the one hand, Christmas is a time of reassurance, hope and togetherness; a time when we set aside our troubles and come together. However, the fact that we need gift guides at all speaks to something of a hole in our culture, a deep longing we seek to fill with impossibly grand material goods. With each gift, we try to prove to the recipient how well we know them, how much we love them and how much better we are than them for coming up with aforementioned perfect gift. We tear through the malls like Sherman cutting a path to the sea, clawing over the prone figures of less-devoted shoppers, all to find that ab-so-fucking-lutely perfect gift. It'll make the emptiness go away, right? Ah, fuck it, just stock up on some Kingsford, wrap that shit up, and your gift shopping's complete. Plenty of time to go back to bed, curled up with a bottle of bourbon.

Ah, I'm just pulling your collective leg with that last one (except the bourbon - that's a frickin' fantastic gift). In truth, this is one of my favorite times of year, and I wish you all the best. I hope you all have a wonderful Holiday Season, and whether you celebrate Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Solstice, or Friday, I wish you and yours the best. Muthafuckas.

Burson . . . out.

The NFL is world-renowned for its marketing prowess, displaying a deft advertising hand that has taken the league to the apex of popularity in America. Ever hungry, the NFL in recent years has looked overseas, playing pre- and regular season games in Mexico, England and Canada. By and large successful, this international expansion will be put to the test next week when a nuclear blast of suck is sent across the pond to Wembley Stadium, where the Tampa Bay Buccaneers will take on the New England Patriots.

Look up "mismatch" in the dictionary, and the definition is going to mention this game. I don't care if it's the original 1828 edition of Webster's Unabridged, there will be a crude woodcut of Josh Freeman on his back. And yes, I did have to look up who the hell their current QB is, because no one, including Tampa Bay's coach, knows the man's name off the top of his head. To illustrate, Tampa Bay is 0-6 this season while the Pats just laid a 59-0 smack-down on Tennessee this week. This is worse than Washington Generals v. Harlem Globetrotters, this is like playing against the Lions in Madden on "Rookie."

Speaking from a personal standpoint, I hope both teams somehow find a way to lose; my hatred of the Pats is well-documented, and I still harbor a grudge against Tampa Bay from the time of the 2003 Super Bowl. Much as I think the Bucks suck a fat one, this is not the way for them to catch an ass-whupping. This is not a game to export to an allied country; the Taliban and/or al-Qaeda are the only ones who deserve to be subjected to this suck-fest.

If the NFL is looking to expand their international popularity, why send this game over? The rest of the world has since the post-WWII years been the dumping ground for our cultural garbage, from McDonald's to 80's butt-rock, and is presumably quite sick of it. To endear the English to American football, send an exciting game over, not something that amounts to a 60-minute prison rape. Seriously, is the league looking to undo four years of international hype-building by FedEx-ing a crate of dog shit to Wembley? For the love of God, call it a mercy killing and just award this game to the Pats; don't make the Bucs and the British populace suffer through this.

As those of you in the Portland area may or (somehow) may not know, our beloved Portland Trail Blazers are gearing up for their first trip to post-season - otherwise known as "playoff" - action in six long, hard, barren years. Indeed, it's been lean times around the city lately, and the anguish of loyal fans has been palpable in the streets of Portland this last half-decade.

Oh, right, I'm thinking of a different city. Over the last six playoff-free years, no one in this city has given a fat flying fuck about the team, and now all of a sudden everyone's trampling over old ladies and children in wheelchairs to be the next on the bandwagon. Bemused as I am by this sudden interest - it does after all make my job that much more interesting - I'm also thoroughly annoyed with it. Whatever happened to loyalty? Four, five years ago, I was spending my meager earnings on $10 rafter tickets to watch an uninspired Blazer team - under the watchful supervision of their probation officers - lose in front of 4,500 fans on a good day. What was the rest of the city doing then? Hell if I know, but it most certainly wasn't watching the Blazers.

Sure, everyone had an excuse; there's always "all the players are criminals," or "they just aren't that exciting to watch," et cetera. Bullshit. Your team is your team, regardless of whether or not they're employing multiple felons or losing a lot [FULL DISCLOSURE NOTICE: Burson is, as you all well know, a rabid Oakland Raiders fan, so he's used to felonious teams that dog it every game]. My point is not that you the fan always need to condone what your team is doing. Just show some semblance of pride and loyalty in the bad times, and celebrate during the good. If there's one thing that the rally at Pioneer Courthouse Square today showed me, it's that those who HAVEN'T been there all along celebrate much harder than those who have.

While I may be somewhat put off by the flagrant acts of bandwagon-jumping occurring all around the city, I live by one rule: embrace, don't hate. So God bless, Portland. Drink up on these good times like a Polack drinks up vodka. Soak in the playoff aura like a contraceptive sponge soaks up... well, you get the idea. Whether you've been there from day one or not, live it up. When they start losing again, however, I BETTER still see your ass at the games.

It's that time of year again, that beautiful time when the verdant foliage awakes from its slumber, Old Man Winter busts his final icy nut over the landscape, and, perhaps the surest sign of spring, freakishly tall man-boys entertaining freakishly fat spectators with fascinating displays of ball-handling prowess. Indeed, college basketball playoff season, or "March Madness," as the kids are calling it these days, is upon us. I know, exciting, right?

For the sake of certain wyvern920.com readers, basically what we're talking about here is 64 college basketball teams playing each other in a "bracket" format, so as to ensure a streamlined gambling experience. Teams are "seeded" according to their level of talent and size of endowment fund, so that good teams such as the University of North Carolina are playing severely deficient teams the likes of the Eastern Maine Institute of Lobster Fishery Sciences. This goes on, on and, wait for it... on for four rounds or so, until there are but four teams remaining: the fabled "Final Four." Out of this sheer insanity, or madness, if you will, the NCAA Division-I Men's Basketball Champion is crowned. Don't care? Me neither.

Allow me to explain. Despite the fact that I worked the first two rounds of the Tournament, which went down at the Rose Garden, I find it difficult to get excited about college basketball. While I enjoy the game of basketball, the college game is, on the surface, too squeaky-clean. While I realize that there are dark nuances to recruiting, training and playing in a collegiate setting, I've never been one for hidden dirt. I prefer my corruption out in the open, a la Rod Blagojevich or the Oakland Raiders. Thus, until the NCAA sanctions point shaving, sucker-punching and general shit talking, I ain't watching.

When I worked for University of Montana Athletics, there were posters everywhere - EVERYWHERE - in the players' area warning about loss of eligibility for violations ranging from substances to gambling. Fuck. This. As far as I'm concerned, we need MORE substances, gambling and assorted bad behavior in sports. Once they leave the court, I want to see players snorting coke-n-roid cocktails before heading off to place bets with unlicensed gaming establishments, all the while carousing with hookers and, God willing, fighting a brutha or two. Hopefully, this should lead to an all-around and desirable increase in on-court violence and watchability.

I encourage all of you to write your Congressmen and/or women to demand that something is done about this. Violence, vice and excess are proud American traditions, and are sorely lacking from one of our most allegedly American institutions: March Madness.

Just in case you haven't noticed all that snow on the ground, let me be the first to tell you that it's Christmastime. Christmas Day, to be exact. And just in case you're too fucking lazy to have actually done your Christmas, Hanukah, Kwanzaa, or belated Ramadan shopping until now, I'm here to help.

Below is the Burson Holiday Gift Guide, giving you access to all the gifts you'll never want. Maybe you just want to say "fuck you" to that special someone, or maybe you never want to be invited back to your neighbor's Boxing Day party. Whatever the case, the following gifts will get your point across.

In the spirit of the season, we'll start off with some Rainbow Snow Snow Spray Snow Color. For a mere $40 (that's right, 40 bucks), you and your children can enjoy the endless pleasure of dying snow strange colors. Why not use diluted food color, at $2.49 per bottle, you say? Shut up. This comes with stencils.

A DVD copy of the 1997 film That Darn Cat from the wonderful folks at Disney. While watching Doug E. Doug "jumping around all nimbly-pimbly" is a sight to behold, there's a few things about this film that relegate it to this list. First off, it's a remake... why this movie would be remade is beyond me. Second, it's not intentionally stupid, like The Cat From Outer Space or something. In short, nothing says "I hate you" quite like the gift of this film. Advantages, however, include the fact that VHS copies are available for as low as $0.01.

For fans of the Oakland Raiders such as myself and, last I checked, Wyv, there's nothing quite like unwrapping a quality-made Daunte Culpepper Raiders replica jersey on Christmas morning. I don't know what's more depressing, the fact that it's on sale for thirty-five bucks, or that the item's caption on The Raider Image says "Be ready for some touchdowns." I think that at this point, they're just being sarcastic.

While we're on the subject of shitty gifts for Raiders fans, one should check out the Raiders Snowman Bottle Cover, on sale for $5.99. I guess that in the end, this is not a terrible gift, since it allows the Raiders fan in question to effectively and discreetly hide their "yet-another-losing-season" drinking from their friends and family. However, said friends and family might wonder why you keep giving oral to a macrame snowman.

For the Star Wars geek on your list, a pair of custom Amidala/Padme White Leather Boots. Though for $249, it seems like an excellent deal, I have a few questions before I buy. Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't most Star Wars geeks male, and thus the wrong gender for such boots? Now, I realize that Padme boots may have their place in certain bedroom settings, but this is assuming one can find a Star Wars geek who is getting some, and getting some from a woman who would be willing to indulge a Star Wars fantasy. I'm guessing this is a limited market, and personally wouldn't buy stock in the Diaz Boot Company. If you're really looking to get your favorite Star Wars geek something special, try a framed print of Natalie Portman and some of this; it's even got shea butter to prevent cracking. You'll save a shit ton of money, and the geek in question will probably be a lot happier.

For that special someone on your list who is a) interested in travel and b) someone who you never want to see again, try a tour package... to Bosnia and Herzegovina. No word on whether or not there's guided "mass-grave discovery" tours, but undoubtedly the recipient of this gift is in for an "explosive" good time, seen as how the Balkans is one of the most heavily landmined regions in the world. (Bonus: Bosnia's official tourism slogan is "The Heart-Shaped Land." Oh the irony...)

Finally, there's a little something for the special lady on our (guys') lists. Now, there are innumerable gifts to get for the girl you never want to see again, and in many ways it's easier to shop for a female you don't like than it is to shop for one you hope to eventually see, or continue seeing, naked. Perfume from the Dollar Tree, kitchen appliances, a jumbo-pack of Trojans, cat food or a bottle of Scrubbing Bubbles are the surest way to sleep alone for a long, long time, but none of these even compares to a Weight Watchers Magazine subscription. Not only will she hate you for the duration of the holiday season, every month she'll be reminded of just how much of a jackass you are when that month's issue shows up in the mailbox. See above for availability of Natalie Portman picture and hand lotion, 'cause you'll be needing them for the next 12 months.

Hopefully some of these help; Lord knows you'll need all the help you can get if you haven't started shopping yet. I wish you all luck, and see below for the Official Wyvern920.com Christmas Post.

...A fur trapper, who was Strictly From Commercial [Strictly Commercial...]
Had the unmitigated audacity to jump up from behind my igloo
And start a-whuppin' on my favorite baby seal [Boom-Boom-Boom-Boom]
With a lead-filled snowshoe [Peek-a-boo, Whoo-hoo-hooo]

Well, it's that time of year again, when Oregonians crap their pants over a few inches of white powder dusting the ground. It's days like the ones we've had this week that make me wish I lived anywhere else in the country, and not just because of "NewsChannel 8's ARCTIC BLAST 08: Continuing Coverage." No, chief among these reasons is that no one in this state has figured out that "four-wheel drive" doesn't equate to "four-wheel stop," and thus there's no way in hell I'm taking my car out on any publicly-accessed street.

Now, despite the fact that it looks like a) Pablo Escobar sneezed, b) Peter North was especially cold today, or c) there's a Klan rally going on outside, the fact of the matter is that a man has some needs. In this case, I'm referring to alcohol, and more accurately my lack of it. Because of my aforementioned aversion to being t-boned by some jackass in an Escalade going 60 mph on ice, my world has basically shrunk to whatever is within two linear miles of my parents' residence, and this sad fact has put a serious crimp on my access to intoxicating beverages, which if you know me (since you're reading this site, I assume you do) is something I hold near and dear to my heart.

So, in my never-ending quest to uphold the rights guaranteed to me in the Twenty-first Amendment, drastic measures were required. Channeling the spirit of the bitterly cold, and simply bitter, Polacks that came before me, I struck out across the barren landscape of Mountain Park in search of some good-ass hooch. If you've ever been to my particular neck of the woods, you'll undoubtedly have noticed a few things... these things would be hills. Steep fucking hills. Take it on good authority (mine) - when these hills have ice on them, you do NOT want to walk on them.

We'll skip the details, and pick up our story an hour or so later when, after army-crawling and sliding most of the way to the store, I walk inside the glorious, blast-heated confines of my local upscale supermarket. If you were looking for a laugh, I'd tell you about how I forgot my ID and had to walk all the way back to get it, but this was not the case; I buy so much beer that I practically have my driver's license tattooed on my forearm.

After procuring my 12-pack of Iron City (hey, New Seasons is fucking expensive, I gotta go for something relatively cheap), there remained one more stop on my itinerary. Though my particular genetic origins lie nowhere near Kentucky, I had on the walk over developed a powerful hankering for some fine (okay, tolerable) bourbon that necessitated a trip to the conveniently located and creatively named Liquor Store. After much wracking internal debate, I settled on a brand that was entirely apropos for Burson - Rebel Yell (see, that was supposed to be a joke). Though I most certainly wanted to sit down and crack one or five of my recent purchases, many (two) miles of walking lay before me. Again sparing details, I slid, crawled and cursed my way back home and, after so many hours in the cold, sat down to one of the most glorious and well-deserved booze feasts I have ever experienced. Or I just sat down and had a beer or two. Whichever.

Anyway, after a life-altering and enlightening experience such as this one, I simply felt I had to share it with you all (all one of you - what's up, Wyv). In short, if you're out of your particular brand of inebriation, I feel for you, and I advocate and support any and all means you undertake to obtain it. Also, it's cold as balls out there, and people in Oregon drive like shit, so bundle up and use protection.

Watch out where the huskies go
And don't you eat that yellow snow

Considering the recent wealth of posts referencing "What You Like as a White Person" (and by wealth I mean two), I figure it's time to weigh in with a little love for my own people. Without further ado, Burson Productions presents: What You Like as a Polack: 

1. Macrobrews It is a known fact that Polacks sweat Budweiser. After a hard day in the mines or on the docks, ducking into a local watering hole for a shot and a beer (known worldwide as the 'working man') is a sacred ritual. Particularly in the Pacific Northwest, beer is increasingly thought of as some alchemistic brew involving exotic hops, hard-to-find malts and bizarre fruit flavorings. The Polack on the other hand sticks to his father's and grandfather's beers--Budweiser, Miller, Pabst, Coors, Old Milwaukee and the like. 
2. Vodka We invented it, and we still drink it by the gallon. While the Polack may sweat Bud, he bleeds Luksusowa, Pravda and Belvedere. Potato vodka (Luksusowa) is preferable, but grain vodka (Pravda and Belvedere) will do in a pinch. Russian vodka (Smirnoff, etc.) is to be avoided.
3. Vodka It's worth saying again. 
4. American Cars ca. 1920-1980 We mined the iron and coal, milled the steel and assembled the frames, engines and bodies of these gas-guzzling behemoths, and we're fucking well proud of it. Driving a foreign car in the Polish neighborhoods of South Detroit is grounds for a beat-down. Wait, I drive a Volvo... whoops. 
5. Pope John Paul II Better known in Polish communities as Karol Wojtyla (Vozh-tee-wah), Polack extraordinaire. Every respectable Polish household will have, at the very least, a bust of JPII displayed in a place of great prominence. My father's church (Mt. Caramel Catholic Church) has a 20-foot high statue of him in the courtyard, and this is as it should be. 
6. Hatred of Germany/Russia Maybe its the centuries of oppression, slavery and genocide, but most Polacks have a bone to pick with these two nations. Germany is a little more clear-cut--the whole Holocaust thing is kind of/sort of a prominent event that left five million Poles dead (three million Polish Jews and two million Polish Catholics), and there's volumes of atrocities beyond that. Russia is a little trickier; though Tsarist Russia/The USSR was responsible for the deaths of millions of Poles, they're Slavs too, and pure hatred gets a little difficult. After all, we were a part of Russia once... or twice. Or more. 
7. Military Service This is just as inexplicable to me as it is to you. 
8. Silence/Stoicism 'Nuff said 
9. Kielbasa Along with beer and vodka, kielbasa (kee-ohw-basah) forms the Trinity that is the Polack. This flavorful, mildly spicy sausage is the backbone of many traditional dishes, from bigos to pierogi filling, and fresh-ground kielbasa is enjoyed by Polacks the world over. Don't be fooled by Hillshire Farms or John Morrell, that shit will cause a true Polack to choke to an agonizing death. 
10. Cigarettes Yes, they may be part of the reason why Polacks live 20 years less than the rest of you, but fuck if they don't enjoy them. 
11. Argumentation There's a saying: "Four Polacks, six opinions." Polacks love to argue about everything, and if any of them are reading this list, they will probably dispute each and every entry. Polacks are unique in the way they dispute points that they themselves believe, not because of some 'devil's advocate' mentality, but because they genuinely love to argue. This is possibly a factor in why Poland is a third-rate industrial economy with the highest unemployment in the EU. Following is a list of things that Polacks enjoy, but Burson was too lazy to write something for: 
12. Weapons Trafficking. 
13. Vodka. 
14. Ice Hockey. 
15. Extreme Nationalism. 
16. Homophobia. 
17. Union Labor.

Hopefully this serves as a basic reference for those of you attempting to understand the Polack; while he may be white, he is far from WASP, and thus may not be covered by the aforementioned list. Na Zdrowie!

Welcome one and all to 2008. I hope this year finds you well and relatively un-hungover, and no, I won't bail you out, so don't even bother calling. I don't really have much to say (obviously), so I'll keep this one short; basically I haven't written anything for a while, and I more than anything I just wanted to see if my user account had been deactivated yet. If your 2007 went well, I hope this one goes well for you too, and if your last year sucked, may this one suck marginally less. Happy New year, peace and good will to men, vaya con dios, auld lang syne, "You May Already Be A Winner" and all that bullshit for 2008.

Okay, there's nothing I like more than reading about Kwik-E-Marts and Lindsay Lohan's coke habit, but there's something I gotta get off my chest. Granted, no one but me cares about this, but fuck y'all. I won't rest until I clear the air about my beloved Oakland Raiders.

Now, the last three seasons have been nothing short of dismal, and not even having the first draft pick has cheered me up. In fact, if you look at the Raiders' schedule for the upcoming season and picture each entry with a fat-ass "L" in each column, you'll see my pain. When even your Detroit Lions-loving family is riding your ass, you know your team sucks.

What the fuck happened? I was watching some footage from a Raiders-Chargers game from the early '90s the other day, and what I saw warmed my heart--a crowd of guys in Tim Brown jerseys beating and shanking--SHANKING--the one Charger fan stupid enough to attend the game. Despite the warm fuzzy feeling this film instilled in me, it left me sad at the same time. Now what do we got? Uninspired fans weakly cheering an uninspired team, more apt to slit their wrists with their shanks than bury them in some Buccaneers fan's stomach. 

That's some weak shit, and it needs to change. The fans have to be behind the team in order for change to truly come about. That's why I propose some reforms. First and foremost, we got to remind fans of the good days, back when the mere mention of the Oakland Raiders would literally cause opposing teams and fans to piss themselves. As such, I say they not only allow weapons in Raider Stadium, but make them mandatory--no one allowed with knives under 4" or guns under .38 caliber. Fuck that .22 noise, they need some firepower in that stadium. This way, there'll be ample "stray" gunfire in the direction of the opposing team's bench, and there may, God willing, be a few "accidental" bullet wounds inflicted on the aforementioned teams--let's see how well Tom Brady throws when he's got a couple .45 slugs lodged in his arm. Also, instead of those plastic beer cups, I say we bring back glass bottles, pre-scored for easy shattering on some fucker's skull. Church.

So yeah, some changes need to be made before this team returns to greatness. Like I said, none of y'all care about this shit, but, like I said, fuck y'all. I hope this finds everyone in good health, and I now send you back to your regularly scheduled programming.