World Headquarters:
We do
the news because
the future isn't our strong suit.
I can't remember the punchline but I sure as hell remember the joke.
February 10, 2003
Item:
Powell Declares Vial of Simulated Sperm to be "Evil":
Holding the opaque milky substance aloft in front of an eagerly revulsed
world, Colin Powell explained archly, "We got it from swabbing down
the insides of those shiny spent aluminum tubes we found outside Baghdad.
I mean, just use your imagination...you gettin' it?...you see now?...that's
right. That's just evil. Pure axis o' evil." When pressed, Powell
admitted that the disgusting vial contained only a "simulation"
of the (axis o') evil sperm, not the (axis o') evil sperm itself, but
noted, before winking out in a deliquesced puff of degaussed ions, that
he, himself, personally was not "actually" here at all.
February 6, 2003
Item:
Man fabricates diary.
In a tortured rush of quasi-coherent prose, Herman Thurman of Thick Thistle,
New York, lost his firm grip on what is commonly accepted as the "Truthful
Diary Principles," in which the diarist limits entries to
stuff that actually happened: not a difficult concept to comprehend. "I
got over-excited because I was so close to the end of volume 5,"
stammered Thurman, "but nothing had happened to me in 122 days. My
whole life was was stuck like a frozen corpsicle so, yeah, I panicked.
I thought if I could just get to Volume 6, maybe things would loosen up
and flow for me." Thurman filled the last 21 pages of Volume 5 in
a frenetic script detailing how, in November, he made love to all the
spokesmodels at the Huffakers, NV Locomotive Trade Show and then in December
he gave away, in a mad phit of philanthropy, 60 billion Euro dollars to
needy children in the Fiji Islands and then because the weather was nice,
went scuba diving 1500 feet down into the Marianna trench and wrestled
with a ghostly pale deep water shark but let it go in an act of pure love;
and finally how, just yesterday, how he, one Herman Thurman, single-handedly
engineered the bankruptcy of Microsoft and drove Bill Gates into an ocean
of quicksand and utter madness.
January 28, 2003
Item:
John Asscroft, General Attorney of NUSA (New
United States of Amurica), unilaterally deploys revered early American
anti-terrorism methodology. "I am going to revive the The Witch Trial,"
announced the murder-loving Kompletely Kracked Khristian flourishing a
rare grin and a fistful of extra-long old-fashioned lamplighter style
matches from the 1943 Sears catalogue. "I believe in the power of
hot flames to lead us to honesty in America. Only wine inspires greater
candor, but drinking is immoral. And besides, the smell of burning sin
is a lot more rectifying than a coupla brewzinskis."
Item: Descendent
of Montezuma, Hector , nurses acute case of buyer's remorse as the warranty
to his Chevron Algonquin "Special Cut" Montezuma Avenger unexpectedly
expires. 
Item:
American Zen Buddhists employ new "pop"meditation technique.
Roshi "S'not Here" Wagstaff, speaking for the East Crossroads
Plaza Ashram, declaimed, "Thanks to the force of the universal dharma,
we developed a practice suitable to the episodic yet apocalyptic nature
of contemporary American consciousness. This most expeditious technique
"popped" into our awareness, thanks to Fed Ex's synchronistic
delivery of plastic bubble packing materials to back of the saloon. In a
nutshell, we assume our sitting positions on barstools arranged in a circle,
a square yard of bubble wrap practically hovering on our laps. We use a
mudra where we place our fingertips, barely touching, on either side of
a single bubble cell and then we focus, investing a single plastic sphere
with all the aspects of our personhood, until it becomes a virtual world
complete unto itself. As we empty, it becomes filled. And then we squeeze,
slowly increasing the tension, not knowing when it will just … pop."
The Roshi paused, her face shining as bright as the heavy yellow equipment
parked out front. "It's our way of becoming like god. Except without
the responsibility. But with plenty of that smig hupness."
Item:
Steel brace projects from top of building, Builder cannot remember why.
“It was in the plans, I think. If I recall, the architect said something
about it being a ‘beacon for mankind’. So who was I to say it
‘didn’t work?’ ” explained Dick Ceasar of Rome,
Georgia, when queried by the Chateau Woods Building & Design Standards
Committee about the unfortunate projection atop the already underwhelming
Seymour Butts Building on Underpasse Boulevard. “We finished it late
in ’99, and heck, I don’t actually remember how it come about
that we left the Butts Building like we left it and why’d they let
us?”The Butts Building’s projection cast saturated shadows over East End Mall, reminding no one of a diminutive Mt. Rushmore, drawing the indigenous peoples into a strange magnetic dance, in thrall to a quadrilinear force they knew but not whereof. The standards committee, overcome by the ineffable, genuflected ritualistically and broke into a sweet chorus of Oh, Danny Boy before dispersing quietly into night darkness.
Item:
Younger person laughs, perhaps scoffs, at older person’s pain.
Hyacinthe Greudle looked deeply into the confused and vacant eyes of her
grandmother, Lettie Hanover, and reacted to the near and dear flesh and
blood reflection of her own eventual mortality by snorting abruptly and
laughing out loud. Faced with the more than apparent fact of her grandmama’s
physical discomfort and obvious difficulty following a modern, snappy conversation,
Hyacinth could summon up nothing but the most primal of empathic responses
to Lettie’s lack of coherent mental processing – the belly laugh.
Everything the elder Hanover muttered, uttered or stammered was either unintelligible
or muttered in obscure Gaelic impressionistic dialect. Every maladroit gesture
and lapse of comprehension only served to make Hyancinth feel more alive,
superior, and of course, ha, ha, immortal.The younger person tried desperately to suppress the rising clouds of laughter. Ultimately, however, the younger person submitted to the utter hilarious absurdity of Lettie’s horrible ineptitude and burst out laughing, her face turned only slightly to the left not bothering to disguise her ecstatic derision.
Her grandmother blinked, then stared at the street beyond Hyacinth’s right shoulder, soothed by the sound of a taxi she remembered, accelerating down Chelsea Ave.
Item:
Police display suspect in Pine Lake, Ga. Having cornered
Harvey Newsome on Spring Street, formerly Spring Dr., police shot and "winged"
Mr. Newsome after he refused to comply with Ordinance 40-890 which clearly
states that yards are to be neatly mowed to a height of 2 1/4 inches, reseeded
in the spring and fall and curbs must be 100% visible at all times. Failure
to comply may result in an official lawn "police denuding". Officer
Nealy stated, "It happens every day here in Pine Lake. We arrested
two residents yesterday who left their trash cans visible to our weather
satellite. If you let that go by, property values plummett, fat cat developers
lose money, cancel their vacation plans and pretty soon roulette operators
in Atlantic City are looking for work. You want that to happen in the US
of A? Harvey will be put in stocks on Turtle Island in Pine Lake for a couple
of months just as example. Residents are paraded by twice a month just so
they know we mean business. It's the law."
Item:
Immigrant unaware of attention-getting name in new country. Mr. Shitass
Fuckhead, a really polite and fastidious escalator repairman from Phlegmnia,
Dikhaidistan, arrived in the Queens, New York neighborhood crowded with
his countrymen who seemed surprisingly displeased to see him. Mr. Fuckhead
remained blissfully unaware that his surname, hallowed and esteemed back
home in Phlegmnia, was in fact a somewhat off-color term in his newly adopted
country. Proudly shaking hands and introducing himself on the #7 subway
line to Flushing, Shitass hadn't a clue why his new countrymen responded
by placing an elbow in their neighbor's ribs and laughing their heads off
before beating the "shitass" out of him.
Item:
Pitcher throws 239 hitter. Henry "Crank" Quitman of the Chagrin
Falls Chorthairs said he "thought he had pretty good stuff tonight"
despite allowing 239 hits and losing the game 239-3 to the Coweta County
Belt Rattlers. He put together the epic loss by allowing 38 sharply stung
singles, 47 screaming frozen rope doubles, 61 solid triples and 93 cleanly
belted home runs. Quitman explained how he felt to get into the record book
to reporters after the game: "I'm just glad Coach had confidence and
left me in. And I have to give credit to my shoddy defense. They really
played rather shiftless and shitty, really. Especially on those homers.
And I have to thank the ump, Merv Hackett, as well. He had a good eye in
the first, but when he took it out to shine it in the second inning, I knew
I was in big trouble. But overall, it's a good to be recognized by your
peers for a day's work. I look forward to being in the Guiness book of world
beers." 
Item:
Woman Gets Art Grant, Shoots Car. District attorney Milo Hightones of Jupiter,
Florida, claims to have "more than enough circumstance" to indict
local conceptual artist, platinum blonde and late night Waffle House dessert
queen Candy Kane, who's not really from Jupiter, Florida, according to just
about anybody who is from Jupiter, Florida. What is not in dispute is that shortly after Ms. Kane received a $112 check from the Jupiter Bureau of Cultural Affairs, she pumped 1,973 rounds of hot lead into Mayor Chuff Whitbee's 1973 Chevron Algonquin Matador Custom deluxe all leather Full Tilt Cruiser at midnight last Tuesday under the harsh pinkish glow of the new mercury vapor street lights installed at Jupiter City Hall. Said a beaming Ms. Kane, "Metaphorically, Chuff's Matador is a piece of crapola but realistically it's not about symbols. It's about time and love and bullets."
Fortunately, Mayor Whitbee had recently insured the Matador against bad conceptual art and store-bought ammo. Mayor Whitbee was last seen under the self same harsh pinkish glow of the new mercury vapor street lights, running a trembling hand over the bullet-ridden side panel of his beloved Matador, weeping loudly and deconstructing modern art. Whether this was due to simple remorse or aesthetic catharsis is best left in the eye of the beholder, or perhaps stuffed in the glove compartment of the Chevron Algonquin.
Item:
John Asscroft, Attorney General, orders zoo animals' "private parts"
covered so that innocent virgin schoolchildren would not have to stare
at the terrifying weirdness lurking in their loins. 
Item:
Government mandates wildly expensive study of "schooling" phenomena.
In an effort to rouse its lethargic, dimwitted and hopeless school children,
the nation's leaders have determined that fish are the answer. The Department
of Education has been renamed the Department of Fish, and every graduate
thesis submitted to an accredited institution will be limited to the study
of fish and their amazing capacity to "school". Says Jeffard Whitby,
obviologist and Phish PhD, "We want to find the genetic markers that
make fish want to school and once in "school" stay in school until
they die or are eaten by sharks or are made into fishsticks. We can use
this to increase children's desire to "school" and then later
in life to keep a really cruddy job without killing more than half the people
in the local cubicle area."
Item:
(Taken from an actual incident.) (But not this one.) Venthood Blowout Bombs.
Vince Pell, owner/operator of Rhineland Imported Venthoods and Wide Brimmed
Vented Felt Hats, shook his head ruefully and admitted to neighboring business
owner, Vince Heine', of Saskatchewan's Big Duck Villa, that his last Big
Sale of the Year had turned out to be a flaming dud. We spent almost $2,500
american on ads. 'Find a freaking venthood at a price lower and we'll give
you ours or one like it.' You know, venthoods don't go on sale very often.
That's just the way the industry is because with the demand so high I hadn't
seen a venthood sale around here in, like, two years when suddenly I thought
it was time for a Venthood sale the likes of which hasn't been seen since
the Brown Brothers went out of business because Hector Brown killed his
wife and was sent to Reidsville for the rest of his natural life."
Mr. Pell went on to explain how everyone just loves Venthood sales, "but
not this unique one. I guess we should've had a raffle or free hamsters.
I guess next time we'll just do the old bait and switch. People don't seem
to get enuf of it."
April 11, 2002
Item:
Kinky Friedman, looking svelte in form fitting fuscia neoprene jodhpurs
(not currently illustrated), caught fishing for large-mouthed bass (a
type of water dwelling fish) at the whaling wall in Jerusalem. "Just
fishin' fer a good ole Judeo Crisco god," said Kinky, dangling his
special "bubba ganoush" lure with million-pound test amidst
the note-stuffed niches of the ancient fishing hole. "It's a test
of true skill, timing your casts between the genuflecting non-gentiles.
Plus it's a great place to write genuine (not that new crap) Hassidic
country music." Local cognoscentis winked and swapped smoky stories
about the time they barely caught the big one and let it go in a gesture
so magnanimous that it would make Gandhi blow chunks. A few rigid nimrod
dipfucks loomed menacingly nearby, like rabid badgers, on the distant
chance Mr. Friedman actually hooked the Big One.
March 22, 2002
Item:
Man seeks relief from eerie stiffness in area of lower front.
Item:
English word "deleterious" considered harmful and destructive. Merriam-Webster
advises word should be approached with caution, a closed mind and heavy
weaponry.
|
|
Resident
|
Item:
Needle nose pliers missing in Smingeeville, Arkansas, home just when resident
needs them to crimp the second thing he's ever crimped in the nine years
he's owned them. The pliers, as of press time, remain under the thing
at which he hasn't looked and the object thing presently remains uncrimped.
 |
|
Freshman,
Rose Marcus
|
Item: New school for "everybody else" opens. Notre Drone University has opened in Huxley, OH and promises to serve everybody else, ie: "the little people, the creeping hoi polloi and the faceless teeming masses." Notre Drone anticipates churning out slews of graduates in light and heavy dry wall repair, regular and high-speed floor buffing, book binding, muffin shaping, envelope stuffing, button replacement surgery and manual earth modification. Said Florence Luxjeeterr, president, in the school newsletter, The Up Down Over and Out, "Drones do that stuff others won't do most of the time or can't and it still doesn't matter." It was such a short article everybody read it, but she did add, "Can you believe there's only three fuckin' people in a trio?."
February
8, 2002
Item:
"No, my luggage has not been in my possession the whole time I've been
here," admitted Captain Marvel to the diligent, severe yet beguiling
ticketing agent at Sue Falls Down, Ontario. "Perhaps they were packed
by others, perhaps not. Who would know? Let's discuss it over breakfast,"
spoke Marvel after a delightful full cavity body search. Wrestled slowly
to the ground by a well-armed cadre of 72 busty blond security agents,
the super hero publicly and exuberantly thanked Shazam for delivering
him to paradise without the required suicide bomb mission which almost
always results in death and/or extremely painful bomb related injuries.
That's when the hairbrush, packed snugly into the captain's
bag by stinky foreign French Canadian pistoleros, exploded. With a bang.
Item:
Godot family reunion turns into waiting game.
Item:
Area
man obsessed with $50 Epson Stylus 820 Color Printer rebate, knows in
his heart of hearts that everything in the free market is conspiring to
keep him from his glorious rebate and a butt nekkid shred of human dignity.
Daunted by the prospects of reading reams of obtuscene fine print, 6-10
week agonizingly long waits, and 50 goddam imaginary bucks at the end of
the rainbow, Area Man realizes the worst part: knowing that he must, in
his quest for the elusive mysterious rebate, open and examine every two-bit
piece o' shit brown "I'm junk-mail throw me away" fucking envelopes that
choked his inbox lest he over look the deposit-only prize. Five Years Later: Area Man finally receives life-altering $50 rebate but it arrives the day after Epson gets out of printers and goes into the salt business.
January 5, 2002
Item:
Scientist discovers two snowflakes the same. Flik Binclaiter, a wonderfully
impulsive scientist, decided to empirically test the thoroughly untested,
whacked out theory that "No two snowflakes are alike." Dr. Binclaiter assembled
his " Chevron Algonquin Tri-lateral Ident-i-Tester" at the local rugby pitch
after the first dusting of winter snow. He surveyed the frigid expanse,
and plucked two crystalline flakes from the vast whiteness. According to
the perfectly calibrated C.A.T. Ident-i-Tester, not only did they match,
they were identical!! Binclaiter got really excited and started jumping
up and down screaming till his vocular joints popped. "Sacrè bleu!! Either
I'm crazy or I am having fit!" His impassioned comments were later translated
and seemed to indicate a deep frustration with certain traditional information
regarding snowflakes he had received as a child. Binclaiter then returned
home and had a traditional deep fried turkey with his family. (See Photo.)
December 28, 2001Item: At the old and only post office in greater downtown Huffakers, Nevada,
on a day so piercingly crystal clear that all residual wisps of humidity
re-atomized in the pale hovering cliffs just outside of town (and portend the
arrival of an unrequited and long-lost love), the following comments were overheard by our itinerant
reporter this festive and laugh-out-loud holiday season:
· Marsha Stillwater, Egyptologist stated, "I'm not a sex object anymore, I' m just an object." · Brenda Kaye, manager, Cactus Motor Homes said, "I'm trying to find my inner sponge." · Clay Finks, bagboy at Gillespies Super Foods, "Guys like me make you sick." · Sky Eagle Buffalo Shank, Warden, Navajo Game Reserve and Bingo Parlor, "We have the channels.
We just don't have the TV." · Madge Listphizer, German, "Alcohol, it sharpens the wit." · Elridge Klestervonk, inmate at Spikey Knob Correctional Facility, "Fuck the law! Beer goes with everything." · And so on. Happy RamaHaQwaMas Holidays!
Item:
Man discovers himself completely in the mood to return urgent phone message,
has none. Arriving home from a hectic day shoveling and sorting buffalo
chips at the East Huffakers Home Do-It-Yourself Heating Co., Ralph Chuck
paused on his doorstep, sure his life was about to change…… forever. Chuck
strode to his fully automated AT&T home message center fully expecting an
avalanche of cries, omens and lamentations, and perhaps if he was lucky,
advice from a Vast Active Living Intelligence. His only message began spinning:
"This is World Headquartlling to let you know that cigars really don't taste
good after all. We asked everybody we know and they all agree. In case you're
interested: They stink. Plus they're expensive."
November 27, 2001
Item:
Woman loses important piece of highly personal ornamentation. Jill
Freeklater, 190 Harleycollier Blvd, E. Huffakers, NV, reported to police
that she lost one of her really valuable silver and turquoise insect earrings,
you know, the one that's kind of like a scarab like the one they sell
in those kiosks in the mall but she got hers from an Indian shaman in
a remote Equadorian village during the 60's. Says Freeklater, "He was
weird. Nice but weird. Like I knew he was doing shrooms or peyote and
he said here take these earrings, they are your spirit bugs, and the way
he looked at me I knew that he knew some powerful shit. I mean whew, Fuck,
man. But anyhow, I was watching this fabulous Bacharach special and singing
along to these fantastic songs while I was waiting for Johnny Boofay,
this guy I just met and really liked, so I was wearing the spirit bug
earrings and I was kind of twirling the left one when the door bell rang
and it was him and we went to the car and as we were riding along I noticed
my RIGHT earring was missing and that freaked me out, since I distinctly
remembered how they both looked in the mirror, the two shiny bugs just
dangling. Must have been some kind of anomalous cosmological funk jive
doohickey ballad kind of thing like calling on the name of Burt Bacharach
once too often. And I know for a fact that Burt's from Quito… Equador,
you know?" Huffakers police are on the case.
October 24, 2001
Item:
Garth Wooley, of East Huffakers,NV, has big-ass revelation----Then one
of the seven angels who had the seven bowls came and said to me "Come,
I will show you the judgement of the great harlot who is seated upon many
waters, with whom the kings of the earth have committed fornication, and
with the wine of whose fornication the dwellers on the earth have become
drunk". Later that morning, while Garth was rinsing his underwater
breathing apparatus with gasoline, he commented, "I remember glancing at
my depth gauge. I remember the pleasant yet bittersweet paradoxical sensation.
I was firmly encased inside my knotty skull whilst the vast maelstrom of
interstellar godstuff exploded in my medulla oblongata." Asked what the
revelation meant, Garth replied, "I'm not sure, I read it in the Bible...
Got a match?" October 20, 2001
Item: Cornell architecture student designs unique bridge structure.
Uses self to support entire thing.
October
13, 2001
Item:
World Headquarters decrees that on October 13th we should all get
off our high horse and chill out and just give everybody a big ol' fuzzy
hug. Hey, it couldn't hurt.
Item: World Headquarters decrees in light of recent events the constitution
of the United States should be upgraded so that everyone will be even
freer than they ever were. You just have to believe it, that's all. Really.
Hey, it couldn't hurt. Public nudity will especially be encouraged as
will all activities that includes nakedness in all its splendiforisness,
especially at your house.
Item: Hear ye thou artless, fen-sucked miscreants - World Headquarters
decrees that to further the concept of World Peace, Esperanto (a seldom
used universal language [is there any other kind?]) will be combined with
Elizabethan Shakespeare to produce a new world language-Shakesperanto!
This new language is mandatory whether you know it or not and will be
introduced in all schools in all countries forthwith sometime next fortnight.
Item:
George Bush displays new “War Mullett”, urges Americans to get a mullet-cut,
buy a plane ticket and play “Free Bird” really loud this Saturday at vespers.
September 6, 2001
 |
|
ADM's
Floccoli Farm
|
Item:
Scientists at Archer Daniels Midland, a giant in the agribusiness business,
announce they have produced a new genetically engineered broccoli
with all florets and no stalk. The new vegetable is called Floccolli.
The researchers say that one plant has the potential to reach up to 100
meters high and 300 meters wide and is immune to pests because it has
been engineered to ooze a highly toxic gel that virtually disappears as
soon as its harvested. The delicious vegetable needs no water…as
we know it. Floccolli uses a new water substitute invented by researchers
at ADM called Wah-Tur™. Made by convertng spent plutonium into an
element called h3Zero its just like water but without the wetness. The
experimental Flocolli farm is in the Gobi Desert and with the help of
cheap affordable Wah-Tur™ the farm is now producing small Floccolli
plants up to 30 meters wide. Says ADM spokesmodel, Phlinda Gleeman, "This
is just the beginning! With plants this big we'll make a ton of money!
And with the profits anticipated from Floccolli we can roll out another
fantastic new food-like product: the Double Helix Diet Food Array. Tasty
fat free non-nutritive pastes engineered to mimic the taste values of
most of the major food groups and which produces human waste that is passed
in eight fun colored odorless and easy to expel quarter sized pellets.
Thanks to a special additive in the Double Helix Food Array these pellets
can be placed on the ground and within two weeks produce a plant that
attracts nuisance insects, such as mosquitos and gnats who are fooled
by its pleasant aroma but are soon dead, killed by the agreeable but deadly
fumes. See you at Food Giant!"
Item: Is it hot or is it just us?
Item:
Gil T. Salmon, founder of the "Because I Said So" school of theoretical
philosophy, whose most basic tenet is that even the most chaotic, whacky
and inexplicable of events can be explicated, died today in what was termed
by the Schenectady Forensic Arts department as "an utterly fantastical set
of disconnected coincidences". Mr. Salmon, it appears, was walking between
buildings on the campus of the Drezlick School for Eccentric Idiot Savants,
when he sidestepped a serrated oil slick and tripped on a rubber lobster
left by a clown looking for directions to a circus, any circus, only to
be harshly beaned by a frozen block of infected fecal fragments inadvertently
dropped from Delta flight 3.140 bound for Capetown but making a giddy detour
into Drezlick, Indiana, on the tail wind of wayward migratory Canadian geese.
His acolytes were sorely miffed and promised to make the whole thing predictable.
August 1, 2001
Item:
Dick Cheney dies for 7th time and is resuscitated, thanks to the transplanted
heart of the naked drug-addled but totally beguiling mystic, Baba Rum
Duss (recently ascended) from Calcutta. Vice President Dick Cheney collapsed
and died yesterday while delivering a speech on "The Benefits of Industrial
Effluvium" to the Knights of Klemper, Kansas in Kansas City, Kansas (The
KKKKCK). After uttering a mild "oh, fuck" and collapsing on the dais,
Cheney's valet/heart surgeon, Dr. Peter Mingle, leapt on stage and deftly
inserted the exotic heart directly into the veep's neatly hinged chest
cavity. Onlookers report that Cheney "definitely died" and was resuscitated
via cardiac massage with a thick stick of incense soaked in Quaker State
10WD-40. As his brittle eyelids snapped open with an audible hiss, the
pallid assembly was briefly briefed on possible changes in the veep's
personality, which could include wild eyed hysteria, hopeless romanticism,
infantile leg biting, tri-state killing sprees and/or the "slimy old bastard"
syndrome.
Item: Area man resists getting bold. Becomes italic.
Item: Area man falls deeply and passionately in love with his old sofa.
"I don't know what took me so long," gushed Romeo Boggs of Whipville,
Tennessee, "She's been waiting quietly for me all this time." The love-struck
Romeo spent the entire weekend in intimate collusion with his old sofa,
eating, sleeping, snuffling, watching TV, putting off till next weekend
what was eminently doable this weekend, and by and large acting like a
soon-to-be-embalmed corpsicle, refusing to part from the genuine leatherette
caress of his newfound paramour. Unable to summon the energy to entertain
even the faintest whiff of self-loathing, Romeo Boggs grinned before he
lost his remote "one more time" in the alluring dark spaces between the
cushions of the love seat, and noted to himself, "Sometimes a man just
doesn't feel like doing what he's gotta do."
Item:
Modern art completely comprehends woman, woman fails to comprehend modern
art.
Subsequent to having her soul vacuumed by a postmodern installation, Edna
St. Vincent Milfuzzlay retreated to a distant table at the café and stared
blankly into the pulsating maelstrom of life itself, now devoid of meaning,
while struggling to remember the French word for "French dressing".Thanks to Kwame Brown
Item:
Woman of the Year has bad next year. Brita Barnard, Bay County 2000 Woman
of the Year confesses that 2001 has really "sucked"…."so far." HQ found
Brita in the basement of her 1.5 bedroom, 3/4 bath ranch uniplex, doodling
on the keyboard of her Casio-2k All-in-One home recording studio (first
prize, last year). "Sure. One year it's all kudos and thank yous and we
love your dimples and you look great in a cotton muumuu and do you need
more vodka? and the next it's, "Don't let the sliding glass patio door hit
you in the ass on the way out!", intoned a harmonically challenged and somewhat
bitter Brita, of Sunnybun, Florida. "Talk about weird. The precise moment
I let go of that damn zircon encrusted tiara, the shit hit the fan." The
facts bear her out: At 7:43 a.m., January 1, 2001, the day her reign as
the Bay County Woman of the Year ended, Ms. Barnard's Chevron Algonquin
Vixen threw a rod on the way to deliver a gross of all-you-can-eat-chili-bibs
to the girls of Girl Scout unit #12, who were left salivating at the thought
of a VFW charity luncheon while baking in the unrelenting Florida noonday
sun in the parking lot in front of the Speedy Mart at the corner of Azflat
Avenue and BonBon Boulevard. Several scouts spontaneously sprouted stigmata
and collapsed in righteous torpor, while others wondered just what the hell
was going on. Said Girl Scout Phlinda Portman, "Fuck this shit. I don't
give a rat's ass if she was Woman of the Freaking Millennium. This sucks!"
Guess who felt "really guilty". And just two days later, with a trunk full
of overdue bibs and a prior, Ms. Barnard was nabbed driving backwards under
the influence of mind boggling hallucinogens while delivering the Bay County
Weekly Flotsam Classifieds Supplement. "If you can believe that", opined
Brita. "Fuckin' technicality." And the next day, after posting bail and
doing an eight hour stint of community service on the back of a waste management
vehicle, she found out her husband, Jesper Barnard, was sleeping with Christie
"The Wailing Banshee" Flister, Bay County's deputy Sheriff and (as it happens)
troop leader of Girl Scout unit #12. And to top it off, that night she just
"happened" to get her saliva all over the gun that Barnard used to accidentally
shoot Tae Kwan Do Master Husnart Fleekly, at the Women's Defense "Take Back
the Night!" weekly funk jam! Ms. Barnard says she plans to sit quietly for
awhile in a dark candlelit room, listen intently to her favorite Throbbing
Gristle CD and consume chocolate covered raspberries until fat covers the
pain. 
Item:
Man has too much to do and too much to read this Saturday. Dr.
Sam Fruddaker, of Velvet Shank, Mississippi, massaged his temples and tried
not to think about the mindboggling variety of yard chores and unread literary
masterpieces that awaited him on his day off. Oscillating wildly between
reading John Grisham's epochal narrative, The Evil Lawyers Who Cheat, and
cranking up his Red Devil WeeDwacker , Dr. Fruddaker decided "What the hell!
I'm going to emit more light than I receive!" and sat down to a crystal
clear cable connection to catch the Golf Channel's coverage of the third
round of the Greater Poughkeepsie Open.June 15, 2001
Item: Area man happy at arrival of his neighbor's tax refund.
Item: "Pookie" Philpots celebrates divorce from Jolene Phillips Philpot.
Plenty of above-average, unilateral and extracurricular free sex seems
to have played a role.
 Item:
Man makes "V" sign with entire body, including his arms,in the middle of nowhere. No reason given. No questions asked. No problemo. That's just the way it is. |
Item: Area man talks incessantly about shutting up. Doesn't seem to "get it".
Ralph "Radio" Phlume, of Oxford, Mississippi, after coming to the sudden
realization that his future contentment and domestic ease
would depend on the simple act of "shutting up" whenever he felt
like saying anything stupid, became so overjoyed and inspired
by the pure simplicity of this mental technique that he couldn't
stop talking about it. Accosting friends, strangers and innocent
fire hydrants alike, and in defiance of obvious irony, "Radio" drove
everybody nuts talking about not talking. His neighbor, Tony "Two Schools" Stilleto ,
after maintaining a "stoic" demeanor in face of the verbal onlslaught,
finally told Mr. Phlume, point blank, with a hint of menace, "Shuttup shuttin' up." Item: Local Speedy Mart at corner of Azflat Ave. and BonBon Blvd.
reveals banner that exuberantly announces, "We are now accepting
medium sized gifts!! No purchase necessary. Just give it up."
Item: Boy poets invade Cuba.
Item: Svelte, high-nosed know-it-all spills wine all over his suede personality,
misses a beat.
 |
|
Regis
Phlunge
(side view) |
Item: International Fraternity of Suicide Bombers ( IFSB ) convention goes unattended……..again.
Item: Man Gets All His Ducks in Row, Briefly. Joe Schmoxli of West Huffakers, NV, owner/operator of the Family Innocence Petting Zoo, assisted by his trained ferret, Hinky, recently arranged all 47 of his ducks in a row in front of a mesmerized crowd of Cub Scouts, confused emus, wet-cold-blooded-cod-fish and paying customers. Combining provocative rhetoric, disco hustle dancing and magic fancy swipes with a broom culled from his years as an Olympic curler, Mr. Shmoxli finally squeezed all the ducks into stringent alignment for an official 1.3 seconds, a standard set by the Global Council of Imposing Linearity. Moments later, overwrought by maintaining such a taxing vector, several fowl spontaneously converted to Sufism, broke ranks and waddled recklessly towards Greater Duckness like it was 1999.
Item: International network of yapping dogs pose growing threat. Things look dire for the forseeable future.
Item: Political prisoners bring great joy to the filthy rich.
 |
|
Mr.
Snikhardly
|
May 11, 2001
Item:
Joe Blokowsky, of Metro Clik, Idaho, tired of revelling in the beatific
sensation of the universal, seamless and unrestricted flow of cosmic energy
constantly gushing betwixt and between himself and his environs, sticks
plastic GI JOE action figure up his ass. Claiming he needed to "fight the
bliss", and acquire some "issues" to "work through", Joe Blokowsky quit
his job as tan-line consultant to the filthy rich at the Clik Beach Health
Spa & Scenic Reservoir and set off on a quest for divine dysfunction. Said
Joe, "Yes, I had the perfect spiritual tan and I was known in metro area
health spas as "Da Man" but deep down in my genetic substructure I had this
gnawing sensation that nothing was missing. Actually, it really wasn't a
gnawing sensation, but I could feel a soul-sucking emptiness deep inside
where a gnawing sensation should be." Blokowsky says he's sure there's a
tornado-prone trailer park out there somewhere beyond Greater Clik with
his name on it, and - "I'm gonna find it." Residents of the Joe Blokowsky
Trailer Park outside Eccentric, Alabama could not be reached for interpretation.
Item: Man eats car. Gets energy.
Item : Bicuspid man commits egregious social faux pas. Clydictarius "Red" Haardork of There's-A-Flaw-In-Your-Ointment, ND graciously accepts dinner invitation from Chupp and Wray Eadumuff and then…….if you can fucking believe it?…….. cancels……the fucking nerve. Red said without a hinge of irony he had to "prepare mentally for jury duty", but every one in town knew what was going on. Red really hated Chupp and Wray and their whey-based meatloaf and dreamed of assaulting the starchy couple if not outright hurting their feelings. But everyone knew Red was too sensitive and thoughtful and too much of a #2 pencil dickhead to do anything about it. What nobody knew was that the A-train, the F-train, the monkey face on mars, the bicuspid of Gemini and a V-9 Chevron Algonquin Sierra 4-Door Pick-Up were all bearing down on Red like an unemployed president and urging him to "bisect his nature." He strapped on his six gun and sashayed menacingly into the Lonesome Prairie Phase II subdivision towards his showdown with destiny herself. The meatloaf was almost ready.
Item:
Yakland, Utah. Blik Kilgore, normally taciturn resident of the One Step
Closer Rest Home (which features a "special" labyrinth for the memory impaired),
announced to all within earshot that, "The sun is really hot… but
I've seen hotter." Item: Area man befriends Time. Is hurt in the long run.
April 21, 2001
Item:
Area man "plots" world domination with $91 tax refund.
Leonard Stift of Scituate, MA, assistant zamboni operator at the Wee Willy
skating rink situated just outside Scituate, felt his entrepreneurial
spirit soar as he softened the ice in decreasingly concentric circles
in between periods of the raucous and tightly fought peewee hockey playoff
game last saturday. Oblivious to the blood seeping onto the ice from the
parents' booster section behind the home goal, Leonard dreamed of what
he would do with the $91 dollars in tax rebates that the President of
the United States himself had promised would be in his mailbox sometime
within the next three years if The President felt like it. First, Leonard
mused, he would buy his own zamboni and move to Mexico under a little-known
NAFTA provision. There, he would tap into the heretofore unrealized hopes
and desires of the indigenous peoples and lead an economic revival that
would sweep south, as newly enfranchised zamboni operators rolled over
coca fields in decreasingly concentric circles, inspiring everypeople
to toil together for the everyweal. And that was just the beginning....
meanwhile, just as the 6-8 year olds glided out to cut fresh lines in
the newly virgin rink, a continent away Virginia Smooth looked out over
the Pacific and asked her billionaire husband what he would do with his
tax rebate, and Mr. Smooth shrugged and replied, "I dunno. Rent some movies,
go see a hockey game, whatever..."
Item:
Rhinoceros' monster erection with weird scary
looking alien-like bulb at the tip causes extenuating silence amongst Christian
tour groups during "Family Innocence Day" at the zoo in North Platte, Nebraska.
 |
|
Les
Nyland
|
End of discussion.
Item:
Computer class doesn't have computers. Reginald Flaxheath, gleefully engaged
in a mid-life crisis, was slightly surprised to discover that the computer
classes for which he enrolled and paid $2200.00 did not have any computers
whatsoever. Reginald found himself sitting, stunned like a sheared sheep
with hoof in mouth, after 4 hours of listening to instructor Victor Hodges
drone on and on about the joys of Transfer Control Protocols and Print Buffers
and a bunch of other frighteningly boring Microsoft Certification Bullshit
which couldn't possibly mean anything to anyone except someone who reads
Windows NT Technical Specs on the toilet all day even when they don't have
to take a shit, wondering what the hell he was doing with his life. Much
later, a slight chill in his buttocks, Reginald awoke alone in the cold
and dark puzzled at his failure to comprehend the hexidecimal system. 
Item:
"Down with Communist Party!" Fateful words spoken by a Chinese man on the
internet and before you could say, "Down with the Communist Party," the
man was arrested, tried, and sentenced to two years hard labor in a "dot-commie"
re-education center for uttering the awful truth. The man, Jiang Shihua,
stated in court that what he really meant was, "The Communist Party GETS
Down! I can see how someone might be confused, but the Party knows how to
Par-tay, sho nuff". Shihua, a sexual intercourse instructor at Nanchong
high school, had joined an online digital intercourse chat room when he
wrote the fucking phrase. After his arrest and mandatory post arrest flogging
by a member of the public safety collective, Nanchong schools were ordered
in December to start a vigorous ideological de-programming/re-programming
campaign for faculty and students alike, according to a surprisingly scantily
clad school spokeswoman. The spokeswoman also stated, "I really do like
the ideological de-programming /re-programming campaign. It helps to replace
flawed cognition. Plus ideological de-programming /re-programming is so
fun. You get to stand in the sun for weeks with hundreds of thousands of
fellow citizens waving tremendous red flags and sing and chant great rhythmic
ideological phrases like, 'citizen agricultural programs are planting cereal
crops for a strong and vigorous nation to consume heartily on its predestined
path towards gastro-intestinal dominance!' Would you like to hear another?"
Item:
"My butcher is freaking me out!" So says Connie Clipthorn of Villa Rica,
GA. The butcher in question is Henry "MoonBoy" Quitman of Quitman's Meats
& Cream. His family has owned Quitmans for over 120 years of cleaver-wielding,
fat-whacking, blood-draining USDA certified fun and games. Ms. Clipthorn
goes on to say: "He sells a great ham hock, but you just can't look at him
when he slices one off for you. Last time I looked into his eyes, I peed
my panties and had beef flank flashbacks for like three years." Shown above
while gripping a butcher knife a little too gleefully and eyeing tripe,
Mr. Quitman replied to these allegations. "Scary? (Whack, thump.) I'll show
you something freaking scary! Take a look at this!" he shrieked, touching
his left nostril to his right nostril. March 3, 2001
Item:
Dateline - Huffakers, NV. Area Man's computer virus deletes everything
except itself and him. Dag "Stig" Skalsburg's new Chevron Algonquin Matador
4 gigasperm processor refused to fucktualize his 100 gig ovadisk. As a
result, the normally graceful union was severed between "Stig" and his
usually cohesive adhesive environs. He and the virus were left floating
in an uncomfortable netherworld twixt then and now, making small talk
about the weather in Cremdalaysiastan. "Don't try to spare my feelings!"
sang Stig, growing red. The virus took up the second chorus, spinning
variations on "I got one less egg to fry", which infused the lyric with
a deeply lacquered irrationality. It's not that unusual. The same thing
happened to us.
February 23, 2001
Item:
Sour Mash Whiskey Relaxes People, Study says....Up To a Point. A "new
study" by the Food and Drug and Sex Administration has found that freshly
distilled sour mash whiskey relaxes everypeople and makes them feel more
goofy in social situations. Especially if they drink it.
This just in: "It", aka the FDSA, also found that if the average
drinker consumed 4 or 5 whiskeys, straight up in a five minute period,
that same person could potentially, according to asst. lab technician
Arthur Amberstrutz, "Get hincky, go out of his fucking mind, run bare
ass naked through YOUR fucking mind, commit violent and unsettling karmic
fox passes against the hoi polloi, and thank god, have no memory of nary
a part of it." Jack Daniel Distillery spokesmodel Kent Thazawzix got up
from his prone position on the floor, wiped the mashy sour foam from his
lip and said, "Put some gas in it." Gathering his wits, he pinched himself
hard and continued, "Oh, yeah, the FDSA findings. Like that's news. We
know that. Happens everyday here at the plant. Workers are trained to
drink moderately on their break, do their job and chat amicably amongst
themselves and wink a lot. But everyday at about 2:30 in the pm, Hinky
Shingston hits the proverbial "ethanol wall" and we have to restrain him
in the employee lounge until the shrieking stops. He's in there now, glaring
at his bust. Anyhow, then everyone is fine and we all, including Hinky,
can go back to making some mighty fine whiskey spirits." The Food and
Drug and Sex Administration is withholding additional comment pending
the results of an all-night, ad hoc session of food and drug and sex.
Item:
Whacky race of albinos accrue most of the worlds resources. Any questions?
Item:
Man receives 1,206 free hours on new cell phone and completely loses
his mind. Ralph Dreizenhoffer, new Sprint subscriber, was unable to use
up his allotted free minutes in the prescribed 30 days. "Goddamn, everybody
knows I tried. I called every fucking person I knew anytime, anywhere. It
was awful. I called every effing man, woman and child in the Mt. Airy Residential
White Pages. Christ, I got you on conference call now. Say hello to Captain
and Mrs. Habersham. Or don't. Hell, I even worked through the Mt. Airy 'Babe'
Community College illustrated phone directory, which I covertly acquired
during an unauthorized and unscheduled on-campus 'visit'.............are
my eyebrows too… thick?" Dreizenhoffer was later espied in a church nave
frantically *69ing the Almighty on his Nokia after a beautific revelation
which he later said "caught him looking the other way" as he was gazing
at Mrs. Olmstedt's bra strap bulging through her tight as paint acrylic
sweater, as she knelt so deep in prayer on the naugahyde knee rests. Details
are only available through a numerological analysis of the Torah while feeling
"vulnerable". Item: Grocery store owner is unable to speak to Dolly Parton because she has such big tatas.
February 2, 2001
 |
|
Dr.
Virus Bactrium
|
Item: Greenwich, England: Local know-it-all improves Gregorian calendar in time for tea. Dr. Virus Bactrium, a none-too-Slavic famous garbologist and self-proclaimed "gatekeeper and REI spokesmodel," has invaded Ye Olde Clock Tower here in Greenwich and added a "buffer zone" between midnight and the next day so that things won't get so "damned packed in". Says Dr. Bactrium, "We're suffering from event clutter, and we need a few moments of space, or rather, a few hectares of time, twixt one day and the next. Countless masses of faceless citizens find themselves all twisted up between here and there, now and then, this and that, and she and him and such. This won't really address the problem but who cares? At least it will temporarily postpone the inevitable, maybe you'll be able to stay up past midnight and gaze into a purely neutral psychotemporal topology before succumbing to the same old never was like you always do." Authorities could not be reached for comment, but were seen dousing themselves with gasoline and asking random passersby for a light.
 |
|
Hector
Thibadoux, shown with new GM Holy Roller
|
Item: General Motors to market "faith based" internal combustion engines. Following the lead of the new administration in the White House, GM has announced plans to introduce a new line of bloatmobiles powered by what company promotional literature terms "the awesome force generated by clean living, tight jockey underwear and The Holy Ghost". Substituting the holy spirit for petrol, these new cars promise to revolutionize transportation as we know it. As GM spokesperson Sister Ignitius Magillicutty put it, "You may think you're on route 24 to Poughkeepsie, but you're actually on the High Occupancy Vehicle lane to heaven!" Responding to accusations that the new vehicles were nothing more than a bunch of hot air, Sister Ignitius was quick to point out the virtual pseudoscience behind the new design: as the driver settles behind the wheel, nerve induction sensors imbedded in the genuine leatherette upholstery penetrate the driver's fleshy posterior and measure the impurity levels vs. the spiritual force flowing through the driver's cerebro-anal fluid and utilizes a special alchemical formula to circulate the "holy nectar" throughout the car's hydraulic and combustatory mechanisms. In effect, the holier you are, the faster you go. Said Hector Thibadoux of Flatline, Loosiana, one of the twelve "lucky lotto scratch-it-and-win" fat cat donor recipients of the prototype Holy Roller demo model, "Well, truth to tell, I haven't been able to get it out of the driveway on account of my moral turpitude, so yesterday I gave up likker and armed robbery so hopefully I'll be able to take her for a downhill spin come Sunday. That is, if I don't go on a tri-bayou murderin' rampage first." President George Bush applauded the company's efforts to "raise the depth of the average commuter's stigmata", but that was before he figured out that the new cars didn't need no high quality Texas grade crude petroleum.
 |
|
Bismark,
ND
|
 |
|
Dr.
"Sfigo" Gudgeon
|
January 05, 2001
 |
|
Slim
Pecker
|
"The implications of this policy are horrifying, sobering, difficult to even comrehend," said ACLUDS of Ohio Legal Director Slim Pecker. "Now citizens will have to limit themselves to 49 kegs which is not enough to even really wipe your ass. Where will it all end? Eh? Ehh?! Hrrraaackkptui! 'Scuse me, sorry I spit on your spats. Ahem. Today, I fear for the future of... things, I do."
Under the new rules, anyone purchasing 50 or more kegs of beer must submit to either a barium enema or an even more scarium colonic administered by Janet Reno herself, with the ATF's crack "sisters of mercy" dominatrix squad administering "security", five days in advance of their purchase. The soon-to-be-purged offendee must not only kiss authorities' asses, but must also clean up when done.
"As for me", Pecker continued, "I'm going back to Crapistan. The cops really like me there."
January 01, 2001
Item:
Area man Declares: "I thought I was exercising a modicum of restraint!
" Claimed Victor Cambrini, of Sloppy Hollow,
Ontario, "I AM trying to get to the point. Just because I forgot
the first part don't mean I don't know the general direction in which
this mighty vessel of abstract thinking is heading." A stiff nor'easter
blowing backwards across the sun-bleached Canadien prairie sucked the
punch out of Mr. Cambrini's starchy delivery and spit it back sideways
in the form of razor-sharp repartee, which quickly shredded thru Mr. Cambrini's
neo-cortex, leaving him nonplussed, tongue-tied, and wishing he could
double the volume of his junk e-mail. Thankfully, the first (and most
piquant) portion of his intention remained firmly outside his mental purview.
The moral of the story is this: Don't be alarmed if something of true import might sho-nuff pop briefly into your skull only to vanish in a playfully vague zephyr.
Item: World
Headquarters rings in New Year with wildly successful soiree. World
Headquarters, the immensely prosperous and poplular web site catering to
artists and intellectuals and other unemployed surfers of the internet released
this photo of the aftermath of its annual New Years Party. Said Chairman
and CEO, Jon Marcus, "Wow! I mean Wow Wow! You absolutely have not
partied until you've taken an F-16 to mach 4, opened the cockpit and then
nosedived into the desert. This sure beats last years clambake!" Matt
Rosenberger, President and Chief Executive in charge of Getting Down but
Still Making Ends Meet(CECGDBSMEM) stated, "We got down. Definitely
got down. And as much fun as we all had, next year we are going to have
to charge admission. Normally revenues will pick up the tab but we didn't
expect to have to cover the full cost of an F-16. We are talking 2 billion
here. Of course we didn't pay retail and a few other dotcoms kicked in,
such as F16.com, crashlanding.com, fireandsmoke.com and partydown.com. The
total cost of the shindig was $2,000,000,153.97 and this figure takes in
everything including party favors. I'm not trying to harsh anyone's mellow
so I'll just say--Happy New Year." Sr. Vice President in charge of
Adjectives (VPCA), Calvin Burgamy interjected, "Fantastic. Explosive.
Dynamic. Cosmic. A complete rush. Immensely Poetic! Happy Effing New Year,
baby!"
Item:
Woman taken to hell kicking and screaming.
Yesterday Loretta Amberstrutz, of Villa Rica, Mississippi, was taken by
Satan, kicking and screaming, into a place of eternal torment after having
blown herself into minute particles of cosmic dust just moments before in
a head on collision with a supersonic jetliner during a game of runway chicken.
Ms. Amberstrutz, after having consumed about 9 gin fizzes, 4 percosets and
by her own estimation, " a shit load of acid" , climbed into her 1976 Chevron
Alonquin V9 Conquistador and hauled "A" to the airport. Ms. Ambertrutz
who led a wanton and destructive lifestyle based on solid principles of
lying, cheating, stealing, drinking, drugging, fast driving, fast living,
fast loving with not one deep commitment to family, friends or domesticated
animals has always maintained that, "If Satan wants me, he's going to have
to take me kicking and screaming, cause I ain't going quietly." Said Satan,
"She was pissed alright. But every other person goes kicking and screaming
so its not like I'm not prepared. Time permitting, I do let them kick and
scream for a couple of minutes then I just have to 'whump'em' (pardon my
francois) upside the head with a baseball bat or lead pipe or ball peen
hammer - whatever is handy or can be conjured up quickly without a lot of
fuss. Usually it only takes a whack or two and they become a little more
co-operative. Hell, I have been doing this forever. I didn't just fall off
the celestial turnip truck yesterday." November 22, 2000
Item:
Woman cannibalizes computer, makes beautiful yet recalcitrant household
devices. Fannie Hillfeatherton, whose computer died
soon after installing a really "hot" version of She Windows SO-SUE-ME
86, is making amazing appliances from old strips of memory, discarded
processors, fried modems and 6 pounds of raw energy. They are all stunningly
efficient and ravishingly seductive in design but seem to have a "mind
of their own" when it comes time to operate them. According to Mr. Somebody
Important, "It's an irq problem. At the risk of being obvious, I again
say irq. You can't change the past, but you sure can fuck it up." Says
Hillfeatherton, "Things have been pretty clear ever since. Don't
you think?"
November
2, 2000
Item:
Kallyphornia. Dateline Election 2000. Rep. James Rogan, a semi-dead
Republican meatball spaghettihead from a seriously orange area of Kallyphornia
announced today that he had a large illuminated disc implanted in the
top of his head. You should see the picture. It was really something.
His re-election bid has been in trouble mainly due to his role in President
Clinton's peachment and his recent bestiality and controlled lack of substance
conviction, not to mention his stinking a-hole problems. The Kling-On
candidate told us over a quiet plate of ziti and boiled peanuts, "I had
a meeting with the Republican and Buxom Stepford wives just today and
they were absolutely enthralled and confused and a bit hypnogogic. It
was very problematical. I'm sending George Bush a complimentary exta large
illuminated disc before Al Gore or Joe Lieberman see it and claim it was
their own brain. Now excuse me while I commune with the omniverse."
A spokesmodel for Gore's encampment refused to say bupkis on the cozmik-disc
deficit.
Item:
Bush hits nail squarely on the head once again, vows to use hammer next
time. Saginaw, Mich., Sept. 29, 2000. George Bush, Republican candidate
for President of the United States and keen observer of upper class facial
tics and exotic aquatic animals such as catfish and crappie, stated after
years of self-imposed exile in a bank on the banks of the Rio Grande, "I
know the high-status human and the two-eyed fish can coexist peacefully."
And then to himself stated, "I've seen it with my own ears. Plain as money.
Fishes and rich peoples (and I love everypeoples of all brackets of taxes)
aren't that different. Fishs swim, peoples swims. We (the peoples) catch
them fishes. Fish (the fishes) catch peoples. It's being so absolutely thought
poking. More peoples should think about it more. Go ahead, make my money.
I got time, and I fish, but I don't sleep with the fishes. I had gills when
I was a fetus, and so I am against aborted fishes and federal spawning.
Please pass me a potato(e) gun." 
Item:
Man gets no respect. Nivlac Ymagrub, of Rotten Schriek, Connekticutt,
has received virtually no respect for actually making contact with a technical
support person "on" the internet. After days of dialing, emailing, screaming
and weeping quietly into the soft underbelly of a hedgehog, Ymagrub finally
contacted a technical support person who then ACTUALLY corrected the nagging
problem that had been vexing his illustrious web team for some months. The
problem was that no email, submission text, credit card orders, cash or
holy wafers were being received. It was "as if" they owned a tiny, rarely
visited website with stupid and/or highly esoteric content that nobody gave
a flying fuck about and wouldn't respond to what was written even if the
visitor was beaten with a ten foot electric prod while standing in a vat
of runny rice pudding. And this is the thanks Ymagrub gets? Well, I've,
uh, "he", had it up to HERE mother fuckers!!! You all can go to hell or
Silicon Valley, and come back in a goddamn fruitbasket if you think I care
one stinking minute!! You looking at me?????????????!!!!!!!!!! No - I'll
put YOU on hold, ya weenie! Or rather, Nivlac will. Or did. We just report
what happened. Item: Man sows wild oat. Hank Ruud, 17, of Uummannan, Kalaallit Nunaat, where the mean temperature is a mean 15 below zero (Fahrenheit, not Celsius nor Kelvin nor metric nor any other egghead bullshit temperature), drank several frothy adult beverages, stripped buck naked, stole a snowmobile, drove at speeds deemed unsafe by the local authorities, had wild, unrepentant sex with a locally famous yet temporally challenged prostitute, drank a pint of sweet gooey green stuff (contents unknown) rolled wildly in an unfettered manner in the snow, had a grand mal seizure, dry humped a discarded overcoat, sang, twirled, jumped and hollered in a language so primal, so feral that glaciers spontaneously calved in perfect symmetry and vast herds of nomadic elk were moved to perform unspeakable acts with heavy yellow equipment donated by tango-possessed Finns.
Item: Eschew eschewed by area man. ( gesundheit! ) Frederick Nezzbeyer of Fort Husciepeck, Kansas , noted prestidigitator of the English language, announced today that he is eschewing the use of the word "eschew". Says Nezzbeyer, "It sounds like a freaking sneeze, is what it boils down to. It has got to the point that whenever I say 'eschew'
( excuse me ) I say 'excuse me'. So I am going to avoid the use of the word on practical and moral grounds…which doesn't leave many grounds left if you know what I mean. No longer will I eschew ( excuse me ) 'eschew' (excuse me! ), I will avoid, deflect, forbid, exclude, preclude and prohibit 'eschew'." ( excuse me!! ) From now on, I will simply reroute my reflexive syntax around the offensive word. In compensation for this artificial manipulation of my normal speech patterns, I will speak ( softly and mellifluously ) in tongues while snacking on government cheese and condescendingly address all my natural superiors as "you idiot"."
Item: Noted bazillionaire and tool of Satan George "I shot the sheriff and Thailand's currency plus a tasty Wisconsin cheese" Soros sent shock waves throughout the body thoracic of the financial world today when he announced that he would donate the entire net worth of his MegaTigerSuckYouDry Derivative/Hedgehog Fund to a struggling nunnery in Ireland (The Noted Beer and Shamrock State). In a rambling, turbid and spittle-drenched manifesto which left many in the news cadre weeping softly into empty single-malt casks crisply arrayed near the exits, Soros proclaimed that he is changing his name to "The Multi-cellular Gas-emitter Formerly Known as Judy" and would be retiring to a life of seclusion at the convent of the Perpetually Nekked Sisters of the Threadbare Frock, high in the heather on Breathybeeste Moor. God only knows what they will do to him there, with all his money among the herds of savage Huffakers Beige Wood Sprites & Financial Imps, some of whom had been heavily leveraged in the Pacific Rim. The banshee wails at midnite, so help me almighty Lord of Darkness.
Item: Ice Machine Kills Fascist. Dwight White, senior assistant Grand Omnicron of the Super Duper White People's Party was killed in a chilling act of karmic retribution. After fishing a Mello-Yello out of the soda machine on the second floor landing of the Yellow Lily River Motel with his special "thing on a string" lucky coin, Dwight depressed the dispensing lever on the adjoining Absolutely Free & All White Ice machine which promptly dispensed a cold hard block of truth and justice right between the cross-hairs of his creamy white & knotty ass. White keeled over and gasped, "This probably has no relation to my supreme belief that white people have a super snotty sumlimanabally magnificent uppitty gene pool. Anybody could get killed by an ice machine." Whereupon he lost all color in his bumpy face and promptly quit breathing. Another Dwight White, the very black very bulky former member of the Pittsburgh Steeler's famed Iron Curtain defense, chuckled and knowingly adjusted his red felt beret as an opaque forewarning of the coming darkness (a darkness that would be omnipresent save for the ubiquitous light).
Item: Pretty cut flowers smell great when heated. This just in from the ever roaming Jack "The Llama" Klonosko. "Didn't see you half-hearted bastards, nor any trace of Dick Cheney, nor anyone else on my way north. I dropped 7 bales of Loblolly pine straw, 22 kruggerands, and some 'pretty cut flowers' at the shed en route to the Jacks River Trail in the Cohutta wilderness, just east of Alabama. Hiked in Friday about 10:00am and tried to get out, but couldn't. My verisimilitude scale (at 5:00am Friday) said my pack weighed 45 pounds. I couldn't get it off the ground without two hands. I couldn't get it off my mind with twelve year's legal experience and a doctorate from the School of Hard Knox. I figured the scales of justice and the other scales, including the crystalline scales of that rainbow trout, were way off scale. Today, 3 days later after eating everything I didn't remember to bring, and burning all my fuel, the pack weighed in at 90 pounds and gave me a feeling of transgressive ambiguity. My initial gut call on the weight was 90 pounds, but I kept trying to say, 'Are you better off now than you were in 1822?' I toppled over sideways. If it didn't weigh 80 pounds then why do I have the only blue shoulders between here and the Crab Nebulae, if you know what I mean. Wait until you august and fertile protrusions see my next outing. If I'm 10 pounds over the pack weight I'll buy you a Kaliber Lite Beer or a Zima, your choice. Those bean counting bastards that cut the handle off their tooth brushes to save weight are not idiots. They should have tossed the bristles, too. Saw a turkey, grouse and one lone rare Huffakers Hissing Puma. Fish not in the mood, I got a headache and ate some foreign air." Klonosko says he is continuously astonished in spite of the occasional bewilderment.