Like butterscotch crème pie, Pictionary and "grace," I knew this was coming.

Before we go any further, this week's edition of "Tales from a Broke and Barely Employed Recent College Grad" will be different. Since last weekend was Thanksgiving weekend (must ... stop ... calling it ... "Break"), I fully expected to be at home, reminiscing with my friends and hit on something totally random that -- for better or worse -- I'd feel compelled to write about this week. That's what happens after you graduate from college -- you spend half your time talking about stuff that already happened. And you do this because you don't have any money to do anything else. Boy, was I right. Two things you should know going into this.

1. If you're eating a turkey sandwich right now, put it down.

2. I grew up in the suburbs. To give you an idea of how desperate people are for things to do, somebody actually came by my friend Batch's house one night and stole off with a half dozen shrubs.

So, one night Batch and I were driving around looking for a mini golf course we hadn't played. Instead, we took eight wrong turns, found a live bait vending machine ... and were absolutely thrilled by it. For a few weeks, it was like "Punk'd" with plankton. Crayfish were popping up in people's trunks like the Lufthansa heist victims. But one afternoon, when my Mom was skimming the pool, it came home to roost.

"Honey ... do you know anything about the shrimp in the pool?"

Batch got me. I swore payback, and where there's payback, there's interest. To me, there was only one rational move: putting a lobster in his car. Sadly, lobsters in New England in July cost more than I had, or at least was willing to spend. I fished for free alternatives.

You know, like the raccoon on Route 9.

Before you judge me, remember that this was four years ago. Thanks to Tom Green, hijinks with road kill was an acceptable practice. Heck, giving Tom Green movie deals was an acceptable practice, too. Well, around 10:30 that night, four of us gained a whole new respect for Green ... and the highway patrol ... and the guys who had to move Billy Batts. This wasn't just a flattened animal. This was a 20-pound flattened animal that may have been expecting. While pushing this thing along, right around the sixth spell of uncontrollable coughing, I realized what a spectacularly bad idea this was. This wasn't revenge; this was responding to a water balloon with a hand grenade. Besides, Batch's senior superlative was Worst Driver. He didn't need my help ruining his car.

Still, he deserved something. Our attention turned to the shovel, which was covered by a not-so-distant cousin of bile. The scent was the same; the magnitude was about one-one hundredth as bad. That settled it. We drove over to his house, holding the thing as far out the window as possible without maiming a late-night dog walker. We killed the lights, pulled up, I crept down the driveway ... and completely forgot about one thing.

"SENSOR LIGHTS! SENSOR LIGHTS!"

So there I was, a month away from college, sprinting away from my buddy's house. And from his office window, there was my buddy's dad, watching me sprint away ... past where his shrubs used to be ... with a shovel.

Four years later, there's only one thing left to say. I swear, Mr. Batcheller, it wasn't me.

Onto the links ...

Boston Globe (11/24) -- If you're amazed what penalties celebrating a playoff win in your underwear can bring about, keep in mind that relieving yourself off the highway here can get you registered as a sex offender. I mean, there's a reason the 'B' on the cap is scarlet.

Minneapolis Star-Tribune (11/26) -- Remember a week ago when Simmons wrote: "Here's my compromise idea: For the rest of the season, before every game, Artest gets wheeled out to midcourt like Hannibal Lecter -- you know, tied to one of those white stretchers and wearing a strait jacket and the metal facemask. Then, they untie him, and he gets to warm up with his team. I think this would get the message across to the fans -- stay away from this guy." Ah, the good old days, when he was only spawning one cartoon.

ESPN.com (11/27) -- Might as well hit this, too. On Sept. 24, he wrote: "The league feels broken this season; I can't remember this many shaky offenses at the same time ... The scoring situation is SO dire, Len Pasquarelli even wrote his annual 'Give Jeff George a chance' column six weeks earlier than usual." Well, the "Veteran signs deal" column seems right on time, doesn't it? So does Jay Mariotti calling George "a thirtysomething Cade McNown who can play a little."

Philadelphia Inquirer (11/26) -- Like Homer Jay Simpson said: "To alcohol! The cause of ... and solution to ... all of life's problems." An Inquirer columnist lets beer off the hook in the Artest fiasco. A Miami Herald column says beer sales should end at a certain point in the game. I'd go the second way. It's kind of like stopping sales after "The Gambler" at a Kenny Rogers concert. Know when to walk away. Know when to run.

LINK OF THE DAY
It's Karate, Kid! The Musical -- It was so easy living day by day, out of touch with rhythm and blues (and depths of bad taste). Suddenly I'm in a Chinatown Bus state of mind. Unless you hear otherwise, I'll be going to NYC this weekend. Expect a critique of this show next Monday, which, after the censors are done with it, should be a least 45 words long.

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