Archive for September, 2009

30
Sep
09

ingesting peyote, so you don’t have to

REUTERS- A Centers for Disease Control spokesman expressed cautious optimism regarding the containment of the yet-unnamed virus that has devastated communities worldwide over the last 48 hours. The virus, which turns people into giant, superintelligent reptiles that destroy everything in their path, has infected members of all walks of life while demonstrating no regard for social status, wealth, or prior resistance to past strains of human-to-ultrabeast viruses.

Speculation runs rampant about what fuels the monsters on their rampages. Scientists agree that the reptilians can subsist on hamburgers, heirloom wedding dresses that have been passed down for four generations, live panda bears, and childrens’ letters to Santa Claus, but that list is rapidly expanding. Recently, a cadre of reptilian hobos and reptilian high-level members of the federal government were caught by security cameras joining forces at the First National Bank to rip the doors off the safe, then feasting on the gold bars inside.

Though a cure remains far off, scientists have begun work on a pill that will give uninfected humans the virus should the reptilians prove too strong to fight against any longer.

23
Sep
09

alternate universe headlines

Study Links Condom Use, Enjoyable Sex

Must-Have Accessory for Fall 2009: Crippling Self-Doubt

Tao of  Mario Lopez Replaces Baal Worship as World’s Top Religion

Plastic Six-pack Rings Kill Dolphin That Would Have Become the Next Hitler

66 Year-Old Jimi Hendrix Releases Worst Album Ever

Newspapers Still Doing Awesome

Woman Arrested for Not Covering Her Tentacles in Public

Superherpes Virus Kills Tens of Millions, Saves World Economy

Hints From Heloise: Even In This Universe Where the Sky is Purple and We All Walk Around On Our Hands, Club Soda Still the Best Way to Get Out A Red Wine Stain

Parents Stunned by Newborn That Can’t Do Algebra

Americans Showing Vacuous Entertainment Fatigue

Nation’s 44th Black President Fails to Make History of Any Kind

21
Sep
09

the stuff of legends- football edition

My name is Antonio Ramiro Romo, prepare to die. Unless you are an opposing defensive back, in which case, prepare to breakdance your way into the end zone while holding a football that I hand-delivered to you with a note that says, “Who says a guy can’t get his best buddy in the world a gift without it being a holiday? Thinking of You- Just Because! We should grab lunch sometime at Baja Fresh. I was going to get you an iTunes gift card, but at the last minute I decided that you would like this football better.” Yep that’s me, Tony Romo. When I wear football pants, my ass looks like your dad’s ass, mostly because my offseason training regimen consists entirely of playing golf, just like your dad. I’m like a kid out there having a great time and everything is hilarious to me, and why wouldn’t it be? The only thing I enjoy more than punching tons of hot blonde kitty is throwing the ball directly to the opposition, and I am awesome at both of those things.

P.S. Underneath my helmet I am wearing a Kangol hat.

16
Sep
09

i now pronounce you drunk and high

Good evening, and welcome to Newsline. Tonight we bring you a story from inside the ultrasecretive police state once known as the United States of America, whose run as a world superpower came to an ignomious end last year, when Barack Obama took office and, within a few months, turned everything irrevocably, unrecognizeably super-queer. Here in 2010, America is a complete socialist wasteland. Her once-mighty citizenry is today reduced to running for cover at nightfall to avoid the roving bands of Nazi Brownshirts driving around on motorcycles and beheading random citizens in the street as a means of maintaining order through intimidation for their black Muslim overlords.

My crew and I were graciously invited to visit the home of a family that wished to remain anonymous, for fear of swift, cruel government retribution.  After hiding us in their laundry baskets during the Big Brother-mandated evening bunk checks, they were kind enough to treat us to a home-cooked meal. One of our cameramen was understandably shaken from a seizure brought on by the rapid movement of the dozens of intrusive flashlights searching for illegal contraband, such as Bibles. “You haven’t even touched your potatoes,” the mother said, trying to calm his nerves, to no avail. “Here, try the sour cream and onion kind.”

The children retired to study their only three textbooks: Mein Kampf , Dreams From My Father, and the Necronomicon. Each book was printed in Mandarin, the official language of the new school system. President Obama, teaching the class via video feed like he does every day, was scheduled to administer a test, and the white students who received unacceptable grades were to be placed into re-education camps. We later learned that little Jimmy didn’t make it, and he is now doing hard labor in one of the Administration’s shovel-ready projects, as one of the shovels.

At last, the father returned home from a grueling day, tending to a sickle- or possibly hammer-related injury sustained in the workplace at his mandatory second “green job”. Once inside and safe from government eyes looking to deem his injury too severe, (subsequently declaring him Unfit to Live), he went looking for the home’s Public Health Care Kit. On the mantle under the framed picture of Dear Leader was a tackle box with a roll of electrical tape, a flask of corn whiskey, and, in case of emergency, a phone to call the clinic. The couple was loath to go to the clinic because no one ever seems to return from there, especially since the government’s mysterious new food rations began arriving in mailboxes. Upon further investigation, however, our field producer determined that the phone was actually just a plastic toy phone filled with hard candy.

A single tear streamed down the mother’s dirt-smeared face as she lamented America’s rapid and totally unforeseeable decline. “Our kids don’t even knowed how to talk English no more.” Upon hearing this, William Shakespeare, watching from heaven, pulled a knife from the belt of his angelic robe and slashed his wrists, then locusts poured forth from his opened veins and created pestilence all over the land.

Truly a remarkable tale of woe. From Park Slope, I’m Christiane Amanpour.

09
Sep
09

ain’t no manifesto like a manifesto posted on facebook

Thanks for the warm welcome. How about another round of applause for Murray Levin? Very funny stuff, Murray! Beautiful crowd here tonight. Fred, can we turn the house lights up just a bit? I want to get a closer look at these lovely folks. Ohhhh, who do we have here? Let’s turn the spotlight on this one, Fred. Yes, the gentleman here in the front with the blue suit. Everyone see this guy? He looks just like that old Dick Tracy villain, what was his name… ah yes, New York City Face! Look at all those buildings on your head; the resemblance is uncanny. Oh, and his wife looks just like a whitetail deer. Tell me, sir, when she answers the phone, does she go, (adopts deer voice) “Hello?” And this fellow in the back.. don’t laugh too hard, friend, I’m getting you next. Now folks, who does this look like? A holdover from Camelot, right? A piece of advice, my good man: never be seen in a suit of armor after Labor Day! And you there, madam, you in the fishbowl! My god, look at those rows and rows of razor-sharp teeth! Judging by the bleached white bovine skeleton on your plate, I can see you had the prime rib instead of the fish. Excellent choice!

Okay, I’ve had my fun. By applause, are there any couples here on their first date?

02
Sep
09

humans: they’re just like us!

Mark returned home from work exhausted, but proud of the honest day’s work he had just turned in. He sat down in the kitchen to pour himself a bowl of cereal when his roommate Gary entered the room, looking sad.

“You look like you’ve had a rough day,” Mark said while instinctively checking his pocket for his hunting knife. “Want to talk about it?”

“Yeah, I’ve been so swamped at work lately. Sorry I’ve been such an ogre these last few weeks,” Gary replied while putting a jeweler’s loupe in his eye and turning on a sodium lamp, then forging numbers on a lottery ticket. “Our company’s fiscal year ends next week, so I’ve just had so many loose ends to tie up getting ready for that.”

“That’s okay. Just so you know, you haven’t really been that hard to be around,” Mark replied before reaching into a small refrigerator, pulling out several vials of blood, then rearranging the labels on the vials and placing them back into the refrigerator.

“I appreciate it, but you’re just being nice,” Gary said as he browsed the internet for tattoo removal options, all the while eying the Latin Kings tattoo that for a ten-year term in a maximum security penitentiary had been the only thing standing between survival and being stabbed in the neck with a screwdriver. He will spend his whole life trying in vain to do two things: one, recover his dignity, and two, forget the things he had seen and done in that hellhole, things that still make him wonder whether he can ever qualify as a human being again. “I’m my own worst critic, and I know that sometimes I take that out on you.”

“Buddy, you’ve got to lighten up on yourself. When the fiscal year ends, we should head down to Cancun for a little mini-vacation; just the two of us. You certainly deserve it after working so hard,” Mark said, then took a hit from an inhaler which, instead of asthma medication, contained the vaporous form of the ghost of country music legend Roy Acuff.