"miscellaneous writings: volume viii" —— dec 2012 to jan 2013

Transcription

A Tennessee man sought to surrender his bull terrier mix to a local animal shelter—asking that the dog be euthanized for
"being gay"—after claiming to have witnessed the pooch "hump" another male dog, Newspunch's Montgomery-based
Deliverance Regional Bureau has learned. The shelter took immediate custody of the alleged gaynine; subsequently
adopting him out to a new, more labradong receiver-friendly family. In related news, sources close to St. Peter tell Newspunch's Heavenly
Kingdom & East Detroit Bureau that the man in question has now been euthanized by God, who reportedly chose to transfer the nativeTennessean to the Pearly Gates Central Processing Unit for "being a backwoods chum bucket." Explained the Heavenly Father, "It was done
humanely, I can assure you. Our dear friend, Mr. Please Murder My Gay Dog, has unfortunately succumbed to Repeatedly Mistaking His
Left Eye Socket For His Ford F-450's Ignition syndrome." Relatives confirmed that the man's manner of death was, "nothing [they] wouldn't
have expected," with one unnamed female cousin noting, "Oh yeah, that sounds like Clyde alright," after learning her kin had met his
unsurprising demise slumped over a truck stop urinal with three novelty bottle-openers and a mailbox key in his brain.
↓ this dumb thing was made-ed sometime during January, 2013
Pixelated Brownish Comics #20
I don't know about you—but I'm probably willing to learn, if you'll take the time to teach me. I'm sure like most people (myself
included), you're just glad that that guy from this finally has everything he ever wanted. Maybe now—for the first time in the
one-hundred-and-sixty years since that guy from this first appeared in the swimsuit edition of Gold Rusher's Digest—he'll
finally shut up and stop asking for everything he ever wanted. Seems like every other day it's "draw me" or "dialogue me" or
"brownish-pixelate me" or "give me everything I ever wanted"—it's exhausting, quite frankly (which is not to be confused with Quiet FrankLee, who we're all gonna miss tremendously; but don't worry buddy, I'm sure they have tons of old-school shoosh-y libraries where you are
now—Saskatchewan). Knowing my luck, he'll ask for a goat, claiming this one was "unintentional, and therefore technically unsatisfactory as
a gifted goat." That guy from this always nails me with his whip-smart hibbity-bibbity and legally-beagled mumbo-jumbo. But I'll get My
Revenge® in less than two days, which is a board game I ordered with my free thirty-day trial of Amazon Prime.
Magazine Covers From The Future
Uhg. I hate these trashy rags in the future almost as much as I hate these trashy rags in the present. Like, oh my god! You know?
It's like, uhg, what? Like, how can you call that whatever? It's like, yeah, I guess, but, you know? Oh my god! It's just
scandaliferous! Can you believe he wore that? I mean, seriously. Like, for serious! He woke up, put that thing on his body and
went outside? Like, totes out in the world, outside, like? Like, I mean, I know sometimes it's just, like, you know, and whatever,
but seriously? And then, you know? What was I saying? Oh yeah! I love these trashy rags in the future almost as much as I love these trashy
rags in the present!
Woman Injured After Twelve-Foot Boulder Crashes Through Living Room Wall, Still
Happy She Bought House Inside 'Indiana Jones' Ride
→ WOMAN: 'You Can't Buy A House By The Airport And Complain About The Noise, And This Is No Different — You
Never Hear Me Whining About All The Cats I've Lost To Poison Darts And Cobras, Do You?'
Norwegian Cheese Truck Bursts Into Flames In Mountain Tunnel, Tragically Destroys
Region's Entire Reserve Of Highly Flammable Cheese
→ Town Of Tysfjord Briefly Becomes Overcrowded Brooklyn Satellite Neighborhood As Hipsters Descend En Masse On
Borough's Most Esoteric New Fondue Truck, Inadvertently Spark Salvador Dali-Inspired Mustache Fire Of Officially-Secular-But-Open-ToObscure-Forms-Of-Spiritualism-Until-Anyone-Else-Catches-On Proportions
A Florida man has been arrested on charges of unlawfully practicing medicine, after it was alleged he had injected
unsterilized silicone fluid into the buttocks of several men and women—charging up to $400 per session—resulting in lifethreatening infections. For his efforts, the El Patio Motel-based plastic surgery fellow is expected to be admitted to the
prestigious Department of Corrections, where he will pursue a 5 to 15 year degree in Being Pretty, while working under the facility's
foremost experts in the field of butt injecting.
A washed-up actor—best known as the voice of A Charlie Brown Christmas's titular character—was arrested by officials at
a U.S.-Mexico border crossing, after a routine background check revealed an outstanding warrant for allegedly stalking an
ex-girlfriend, as well as making violent threats against the woman's plastic surgeon. Explained the man, one Mr. Peter
Robins, "Good grief, I mean maybe I was being a little snoopy, yeah—but I'm just not totally over her yet, you know? What can I say—she
gives amazing blockhead."
The New York Police Department has released a free smartphone app that allows residents and visitors to browse crime
statistics for any given area, contact precinct emergency services in their current location, and report crime tips directly to
the department. To cope with the sudden deluge of data streaming into its offices and call centers, NYPD IT officials have
also announced a program aimed at upgrading all four of the department's converted Singer sewing machine computing
appliances to a rare, Slovenia-only release of Windows known as ₩ℹµ▷∅₩§ 19&95[฿€⊤ ∀ ]; adding a second phone line in most precincts,
to allow supervisory personnel access to the app's Internet-based database without having to interrupt active 911 calls; and finally removing
the forty-eight-thousand cordless home telephone docks adhered to the city's numerous shrubs, fire hydrants and sticky vagrants, after which
all radio cars will be issued one AT&T prepaid GoPhone™, to be used only while on active duty, or during free night and weekend
promotional periods. Said Lt. Tony Lasagnagulio de Alfredo of the advancements, "I got the freakin' idea when I heard about apps from
somewheres."
Newspunch researchers have combed NYPD records to compile the following chart, which details the crimes most frequently reported to the
department using the new app…
■ Code 8891: Smartphone theft; reported by smartass smartphone thief
■ Code 141: Tamieka drama (141a: Where Tamieka?; 141b: Tamieka keep callin'; 141c: Tamieka dead)
■ Code 2246: Off-Broadway revival of Cats in progress
■ Code 37: Public decency
■ Code 808: Minor jackal pack roving, fewer than three packs (or sixty total jackals); non-urgent
■ Code 10: Starbucks barista prepared non-fat, iced, half-caf, one-pump skinny-vanilla-caramel misto-latte Frappuccino® with no whip
instead of non-fat, iced, half-caf, one-pump, skinny-vanilla-double-caramel misto-latte Frappuccino® with light whip, and I'm not paying for
it if little miss thing's gonna get an attitude and go all street skank on me, 'cause mommy don't play that
NOTE: Data do not include tips related to Code Ohhh-Fuhgetaboutit, which generally concern none of your business, you didn't see nothin',
take a walk.
Several councilmen in southwest Ireland are pushing for "DUI permits" to be issued to farmers in some rural parts of the
country—allowing said farmers to legally consume up to fifty-seven-ounces of beer before driving home or operating
heavy machinery, without fear of interference by law enforcement—in an effort to alleviate an "epidemic of boredom"
amongst small-town residents, which reportedly arose after a 2011 law established an official blood-alcohol limit for motor vehicle operators.
Slurred a visibly shocked Cyril Chuggersly O'McSwiggers—a councilman hailin' from the County o' Pissed-and-Sloshed-on-Trolleyed
Bender Cove—upon being apprised of the effect such a law might have on the Emerald Isle's already less-than-sparkling international
reputation as a floating A.A. meeting, "Jja rest uff jja worl—[hiccup]—jja world shinks we're a buhsh uff vwhats? Pshhh, baldershnashhh. I
love you jjough—jjou're goo—[hiccup]—jjou're good guyjjj [long, throaty belch]." The idea comes on the heels of several similar,
unsuccessful local efforts to stymie the supposed boredom epidemic's spread, including weekly "Happy Weeks," wherein local pub owners
would have offered farmers drink specials every Monday through Sunday; a recalibration of the nation's clocks to run in slow, twenty-fourhour cycles between 5 P.M. and 5:59 P.M.; and a rezoning of one sixteenth-acre of land per farm, on which each farmer would have been
permitted the thrill of growing up to one bushel of any Church-approved non-potato.
Study Reveals Dung Beetles Use Ingenious Starlight System To Navigate At Night, Still
Just Dumb Bugs Rolling Around Big Balls Of Shit Though
Sunday, January 27, 2013 » It's The "Super-Blogooper Bonus Blog!" If You Enjoy It, Or The "Blogsult to Blogjury" If It
Damages Your Brain's Intelligence
I'm feeling blather-ly. First … HBO? More like HB-whoooooa—m'sorry, I saw something that brightly reflected light back at
me and arrested my attention. As I was saying … HBO? More like HBoooowesome—'nd-again, same silly shiny thing. Alright.
Steady, Marvin, steady. Here we go. HBO? Ha! More like HB-oh yes, that's very nice. Yeah—that should stick.
I love HBO. I don't have HBO, nor have I ever had HBO, but I sure do love HBO. Many of the best shows, in my internally harvested
opinion, have been HBO shows. I'm sure it's partly due to the lack of advertisers needing their needs met, and partly that anything and
everything goes, but whatever it is, it friggin' works.
Home Box Office, how do I love thee? Let me list the ways in no particular order: The Wire, The Sopranos, Curb Your Enthusiasm, Mr. Show,
The Larry Sanders Show, The Life and Times of Tim, Eastbound & Down, Extras, Da Ali G Show, The Kids in the Hall and on and on. Some
better than others, sure—and surely many, many digital doubloons I've yet to discover—but in the world of contemporary television, far more
hits than misses, yaaarrr.
And so, that brings me to what I've really come here to discuss: Girls. When I first began to blog this blogpost in my blog for the
blogosphere, I'd only seen the first two episodes, and I really quite enjoyed them. It seemed somehow … I dunno … different. A little offbeat;
quirky, what have you. I'd just seen Lena Dunham on The Daily Show, and she seemed like a cool cat, so, because I'd already heard so many
positive, random little things about it on top of this latest appearance, I decided to check it out…
As I said, two episodes in, good and good. As a matter of fact, it was having the effect on me that so many good comedy/dramas do: It was
making me question everything I spend my time doing, and making me depressed and self-loathsome. Essentially, making me think, "ah, shit,
this is what I should be doing … something with substance, and not just silly and dumb!" I eventually let these things go, and get back to just
enjoying what other, more-talented-than-I people are able to accomplish, all the while forging ahead on my own, fundamentally unchanged
path. (Let substantive people worry about substance, I never said until just then, there!) But, as I already said that I already said (did I tell you
the one about the thing that I already said that I already said?), two episodes in, all was good and good.
At this point I naturally decided it prudent to invest more than just a little time and a coupla bucks on this entertainment endeavor, so I
purchased the remainder of season one, which I finished watching a few days ago. Annnd … I dunno. I just really dunno. It's kinda like an unbleeped soft-core WB show. None of the characters are particularly interesting. It's so often said that men can't write women, but guess what?
That adage goes the other way, too. I read an interview recently with the guy who plays Adam, in which he made the claim that the sex
scenes were never just sex for the sake of sex; they always served to advance the story or build a character. Hmm. I don't know if I agree with
that. Seems like an awful, awful lotta chucka-chucka for chucka-chucka's sake. Never mind that these people are exactly the self-important
art-school types (really just another way of saying "flailing twenty-something addicts of some variety or another") that make it so difficult to
live in any large, cosmopolitan city. (Then again, that last part is probably just some of my latent get-off-my-lawn-ity coming out—
sometimes I worry I'm pushing eighty on the inside.)
I appreciate subtlety; I don't practice a lot of it, but I definitely appreciate it. However, there's a point at which subtlety just transitions into
garden variety dull-ery. And I understand that this show is meant to be "real" and "true" and "honest"—I get that. And it is, in a lot of ways,
but that doesn't mean there can't be a story somewhere in there, ya know? It's not a documentary. And hell, even documentaries—the good
ones—are distilled into something interesting and gripping. It's kinda the same criticism I often hear about Mad Men … "it's boring" and
"nothing ever happens!" Perhaps compared to a lot of shows, that's true, but compared to Girls, Mad Men is downright frenetic. And I
understand that, on any good show, some episodes will be slower and more dull (Breaking Bad, I'm looking in your direction), but not an
entire season! This is supposed to be drama, right? So throw in some freakin' drama! Asking too much?
And don't get me wrong—it's not terrible. It definitely has some very redeeming qualities. (For example: Only a scant 75% of the female
leads are skinny model types, and in Hollywood that counts for progress.) And I didn't exactly have to slog my way through season one—
there were some genuinely lovely scenes and moments. And I certainly can see it becoming the next big thing, and I sincerely hope it does—
it's just not my thing, for what that's worth, which is exactly nothing. As an aside, I hope the name doesn't turn off too many potential
viewers. I think it might've been a poor choice. Let's be honest, half the population is gonna instantly dismiss it based solely upon what the
title implies, which is that it's a TV chick-flick. It's the twenty-something Sex and the City. To that point, though, I'd say that I recently
listened to an interview with Dave Grohl on the WTF podcast, in which he spoke at length about his disdain for the idea of a "guilty
pleasure," and I hope a large number of people feel the same. Basically, his position is that no such thing exists, and if you like something,
then you have to like it, and not worry about what people think. You like it, and that's enough. You don't have to justify it to or hide it from
anyone—you just have to own it. I hope that mentality catches on. And for Girls's sake, it might have to.
My second reason for blogging this blogpost for my blog in the blogosphere is to explain the previous entry on my Internet Web Page, which
is a short story entitled, Don't Tell Me I Can't Fly. I decided during my last self-imposed, strictly-scheduled writing period that I wanted to
write a short story, as I hadn't done so in over three years. (There's one in there called Give My Cat A Break, He Had A Rough Childhood that
I wrote in the past year and a half or so, but, honestly, that was just a random entry in a Blogger blog I had back then, and is probably a
stretch to be included in the short fiction category. But, ehh, I'm shameless.) The muse hadn't struck me, though, until one day, when I saw a
few grackles roosting on the top of a lamppost, whilst I sped along a freeway overpass in my personal auto. In a flash of literary insight, I
said, "yep, uh-huh," but really, still, had no idea where to go with it.
Letting things marinate for a week or two, I scheduled myself to write it during the week after Christmas. Procrastinating as I so often do, I
waited till the last day, and then struggled my way through the first chunk of it, having no idea where to go beyond that. And so, I continued
to struggle—for weeks—trying to figure it out. I have a hard time letting things go once I've invested energy in them, even when they really
do need to just be freed. Finally, though, I decided, "screw it, I'm just gonna sit here and finish it, and if I end up hating it more than I hate
most things I do, I'll give myself permission to just file it away and consider it done—with the option of coming back to it someday, pressurefree. But if I never do make that revisit, that's fine, too. So long as I don't feel like I'm shirking my self-mandated responsibilities—and I gave
it an honest try—it's o-tay." So that's what I did, except that it kinda-totally sucks, and I posted it anyway, because I'm a tremendous "fan" of
"logic."
Basically, my thinking is that 99% of people will hate the things of which I'm actually proud (a tad overly-optimistic, I know), so I put them
out there because I like them, or because I'm proud of them; not terribly concerned with what others might think. The converse of this is that I
post something I personally despise, so long as it's basically finished and polished, because, hey, who's to say someone else might not like it?
Haters'll hate either way, so it's worth it to throw something with which you're not especially thrilled out there, just to see who, if anyone, it
hooks. Nahmean?
That being said, I've posted a new short story (you know—the one I already told you that I'd posted) that I feel is firmly on the side of meh,
but who knows? Someone else might like it. I don't really care if the things I do suck, 'cause I'd much rather be doing something than not. At
least I try. As I've grown fond of saying, "don't wonder, find out."
And so, all that shizz brings me back to the first topic of conversation, which was something of a critique of someone else's work. I'm loath to
(publicly) critique things, because I know how hard the work is; how pummeling and exhausting it can be. And I'm only doing it under my
own pressure—not that of an actual, real-life business with real-life implications to hundreds or thousands of people and their livelihoods! I'm
not a fan of Leno or Family Guy or a lot of other things, but I appreciate the work. At least those people are doing something, even if it's not
something I personally enjoy. And so, with that—though I'm not sure whether or not I'll be tuning in for season two—I wish Girls and its
creator all the success in the world, as well as that of the moon, if Earth's success is running low. Two more quick notes…
I've added the advance praise, foreword, afterword, acknowledgments, about the author, and back cover portions of the book of short-stories I
self-published a few years ago (under the pseudonym Matteo Scopa [Matteo being the Italian spelling of Matthew, and Scopa being a
contraction of my middle and last names, and, coincidentally, the name of an Italian card game]) under the "miscellanea" section, here. All of
the stories published therein have long-been posted on this Internet Web Page (in the "unlong storyz" section), and are also available for free
download in .pages, .doc, .epub, .pdf and .rtf formats. So now, you basically have the entire book, FOR FREE! Say whaaaaa? (Or, you can
go to Amazon or Barnes & Noble to buy the real thing in paperback, or the Kindle edition, in the case of Amazon!) Secondly, you can catch
me all this week at the Lewisville, Texas Red Lobster, where I'll be eating two sets of unlimited coconut shrimp and scallops each night at 8
and 10. Doors open at 11 A.M. Until next time, please remember to forget about not remembering, whenever you think you might forget to
remember.
This particularly lazy, rambling and poorly-written web-log entry has been brought to you by Telemundo's caliente new series, La Fragrancia
de Señorita, starring El Pacino. Miércoles at Neuve P.M. Check your local lististimos. SAP unnecessary, where available.
↓ this dumb thing was made-ed sometime during early January, 2013
Don't Tell Me I Can't Fly
"I don't believe it!" crowed Edgar. "I can see the whole world from up here!"
Roosting quietly beside him—and serving as a calm, twenty-minutes-elder complement to Edgar's unbridled energy—William
nodded; a gesture meant, perhaps, to broadcast the boisterous exclamation in his own peaceful way, or perhaps merely as a
passive dismissal of his brother's growing habit of attaching unwarranted pomp and spectacle to the otherwise mundane.
Perched upon a dirty steel lamppost arm, Edgar could, in fact, see everything from up there, for he was new to the world, and nothing could,
conceivably, lie beyond the visible horizon at his feet; cascading mysteriously in every possible direction. With such a recognition, one so
young could only surmise themselves to be invincible; God-like from their towering, all-seeing perspective. But while he nested a mere
twenty-five-feet above the street below, the distance between Edgar and the crumbling asphalt—as utterly indifferent to maintaining the
integrity of any limb or bone that may find itself crashing into it as it tended to be—was, in proportion to his relatively small stature, actually
quite perilous.
"Edgar!" squawked his mother from some distance. "Edgar, don't you move from that spot!" Her singsong voice betrayed not a sliver of
leeway; though, indeed, neither was it particularly tinged with sincere concern. "And William," she continued, "don't you let him move an
inch from that spot, William!"
William nodded.
"You can't fly," she chirped, before pausing for a moment to muster what she deemed a suitable quantity of motherly disapproval, again
bellowing in feigned desperation, "You can't fly!"
For Edgar, his mother's half-hearted concerns fell on deaf ears. For Edgar, nothing could stand in the way; the world was there at his feet,
patiently awaiting his exploration. For Edgar, not a thing in his narrow slice of life seemed more obvious than the need to spread one's wings
and fly. "We're gods," he told William confidently. "We're lamppost gods."
William shrugged, unimpressed or unconvinced. "Mother said not to move. We'll fall and die, Edgar—we can't fly."
"Maybe you can't fly," Edgar snapped back, looking out across the endless, sprawling suburban landscape. "Maybe you can't fly, William."
Falling somber and silent for a moment, he lifted his head and leveled his eyes on William's; suddenly cementing within himself an
admittedly infantile resolve, now bolstered by the negativity streaming in from all around. "Don't tell me I can't fly."
With that, William shook his head disdainfully, and Edgar took two wobbly steps toward the lamppost's dormant bulb; a contented grin
growing ever wider across his tiny face. Stopping at the edge of the lamppost's arm—perched atop the cold, rotund bulb—Edgar spread his
arms wide and with great force, causing several errant feathers to escape their moorings and flitter toward the ground. As he watched the
feathers gently alight on the pockmarked pavement—and catch his mother's distant, occasionally observent eye—his inner-nerve reached its
apex.
"Edgar! What did I say? Don't you move, Edgar! You stay right there," his mother cawed. "And William! Am I asking too much? Watch your
brother, William!" Pausing to peck at a morsel of food with an increasingly annoyed jerking of her head, she added, "You can't fly!"
Edgar peered toward his mother—his eyes squinted in uncharacteristic anger—as he emitted a low, unflinchingly determined growl. Cooing
more to himself than anyone else, he seethed, "Don't tell me I can't fly."
Closing his eyes, Edgar prepared to step away from the lamppost bulb and soar into the endless possibilities of the open skies. But the
morning's soft breeze had, by then, built into a steady wind, and just as his left foot released the clammy steel, a gale swept in around the
boys; wooing and whirring loudly as it swirled violently about the lamppost. Edgar's sure-footedness suddenly became but a tenuous grasp,
and with the relentless, terrific power of raw gravity grabbing hold, he spun round, and fell toward the pavement with an eerily silent calm.
Without having even a moment to think through his options, William had thrown out a hopeless, feathered and futile arm to the rapidly
descending Edgar; losing his own footing and falling backward toward the same unforgiving land below. With a deep, certain thump, Edgar
crashed to the ground, twisted and motionless. Not a second later, William, too, lay supine on the gravel beside his brother; his limbs angled
awkwardly, and his song silenced.
"My boys! My boys! Dear God, my boys!" their mother cried, as her sheen of apathy immediately gave way to a no-less-superficial sheen of
paralyzing fear and anguish. She ran toward the boys, sliding down on her knees for the final several feet; grimacing through the terrible
grinding of her road-rash-singed skin grating along the pavement. Planting herself beside Edgar, she swatted away dozens of gently floating
feathers, as they settled to the ground around her, having been flung into the air with the unforgiving force of impact. Obligatory tears
streamed from her eyes as she shook Edgar in vain; receiving only a limp, lifeless rolling of his head in response. "My boys! What have I
done to deserve this, Lord? What have I done! I've always been a decent and attentive mother, what on Earth have I done to deserve this?"
As her pleas of mercy dissolved into quiet and huddled sobbing, the glint of a bright, rotating light caught her eye from somewhere in the
distance. A soft whine became louder and more shrill with each passing moment, and as she stood to scan the horizon—attempting to
pinpoint the origin of this mysterious sonic pulse and photonic strobe—she saw a tiny, pink-and-orange-striped fire engine approaching her
feet; rolling slowly on a dozen green, marshmallowy tires. The truck was no larger than a child's toy, and sported what appeared to be a scaly
dragon's tail, which jutted from the rear bumper. The tail jerked and swayed as the truck shuddered to a stop near Edgar's bruised and broken
body, emitting two tiny squeaks. Someone inside the truck's minuscule cab pulled down on a thread-thin rubber cable, and out came the honk
of its surprisingly thunderous horn.
Kneeling down to more closely examine the queer machine, the boys' mother stumbled suddenly backward, startled, as one of its occupants
opened a door and began to slowly squeeze himself out. As each part of the man's body oozed from the tiny opening in the side of the tiny
truck, the boys' mother's eyes grew ever wider; marveling at the size of the man unfolding before her. With an almost playful pop, the man
pulled his last lagging foot through the door and stood before her; a full-sized human firefighter, wrapped and weighted in heavy firefighting
gear. Six more would follow—each larger than the last—before the final man emerged; standing no less than thirteen feet tall, with velvetysoft skin striped in the manner of your every earthly tiger.
"They're gone, ma'am," the smallest of the firefighters said, as his colleagues squeezed into two tight circles; examining each boy closely.
"I'm sorry."
The boys' mother stood to face the man speaking to her. "Just as well," she said with unexpected frankness. Turning to watch as the oncesolid lamppost from whence her departed sons had plummeted began to melt into a soupy yellow slime, she added, "I never much cared for
those ones, anyhow."
With a bright flash, the assortment of firefighters disappeared with loud pops, one by one, into the tiny fire engine. As the boys' mother
watched, seeming increasingly disinterested, four scale-covered, muscular legs emerged from the underside of the truck, while two
featherlight reptilian wings of blue burst from either side. Its grill forming a crude mouth, and its double-paned windshield a crude set of
glassy eyeballs, the truck looked up at her and sneered. "Don't tell me I can't fly," it snapped, as its powerful wings pumped it three feet aloft.
Hovering before her, the truck-turned-mythical-fauna spun round toward the bubbling yellow lamppost sludge, and—with a mighty rush of
heat and wind conjured from the depths of its fiery lungs—set the fluid ablaze, before disappearing into the sky in a streak of brilliant orange
light.
Looking down upon the scene of her two sons' tragic end, she sighed. "Guess I better clean up this mess." Finding herself suddenly grasping
the dry wooden handle of a broom, she began to sweep the still-burning chemical fire into an oversized purple wastebasket inexplicably
found resting to her left. "Sweep, sweep, sweep," she hummed to herself. "Sweep, sweep, sweep it all away."
As she swept away the final flickering flames, the silhouette of a woman appeared through the fog of hazy smoke. Squinting hard to make out
the identity of this mysterious stranger, she suddenly felt a pang of despair tumble through her throat and into the deepest, darkest reaches of
her bowels. Her head slunk suddenly down, with her chin ashamedly coming to rest in her sunken chest. Her eyes remained fixed on the nowplushly-carpeted flooring beneath her bare feet, as four plaster walls slid in slowly from all directions; coming together to form a small room,
and closing her in with the ghostly, smoke-obscured outline of this visitor, whom she now clearly recognized.
"Margie," the feminine shadow beckoned; profound disappointment dripping from every slowly uttered syllable. "You're a loser, Margie. You
always have been, and you always will be. You'll never make anything of yourself, Margie, and you'll be a terrible mother. A terrible
mother." Pausing briefly to take in the still-smoldering scene around her, she continued, "Look at this! Dead, dead, dead. Where were you,
Margie? Yes—a terrible, terrible mother."
Feeling a surge of energy—as adrenaline rushed from the core of her body and pumped itself into her every vessel—the boys' mother sprung
forward with incredible force; swatting, scratching and kicking at the smoky visage with all her might; the power and fury of countless years
of tightly-bottled rage and inward-turned-hatred unleashed itself upon the murky form. "I hate you!" she screamed; thrashing wildly at the
nonplussed apparition. "I'm a better mother than you could have ever hoped to be! I hate you so, oh, I hate you so!"
Rolling with vibration as a sudden, powerful jolt rocked her entire body, the boys' mother found herself surrounded by a darkness as black as
pitch; the phantom scene before her disappearing in an instant. Paralyzed and unable to speak, her eyes involuntarily clenched shut, as she
summoned every ounce of strength left in her exhausted fleshly vessel to will them open. "Wake up, wake up, wake up!" her mind chanted in
silent agony. "Wake up!"
All at once, the darkness fell away, and the boys' mother found herself lying atop a heap of plush silk sheets in an expansive bedroom; the
walls adorned with an incongruous mixture of beautiful, out-of-place artwork and tattered swimsuit calendars from years long past, and the
floor a messy array of every imaginable electronic trinket and tool, interspersed with dozens of knick-knack-stuffed Wal-Mart shopping bags.
Bleary-eyed, she looked to her left and saw an overweight, mustachioed man lying in the bed beside her, beginning to stir.
Quite suddenly, the man's eyes shot open, and he began to shake and stretch away a deep sleep, yawning loudly. "Hey, babe. What's up? You
have that dream again? The bird stuff? Your mom and all that?"
The boys' mother nodded, staring blankly.
"Ah, don't let it get to you, babe." Sitting up in the bed, the man continued, "Look around, babe. Look what you got here, huh? Eighty-fourinch plasma? Come on. Six-thousand square feet on a half-acre? Say what? And sixteen of the best kids a womb could ask for, right?"
Drawing in slow, deep breaths, she calmed herself. Looking at the man beside her, she blinked hard and forced a smile. "You're right,
sugarpop."
"Kids!" the man unexpectedly boomed in a powerful baritone. "Role call!"
Within moments, fourteen children—ranging in age from four to fourteen—filed into the room, one-by-one; lining themselves up shoulderto-shoulder along the rear wall.
"…twelve, thirteen, fourteen…" the man muttered, as he counted quietly to himself. "Hmm." Scanning the room for a moment, he resumed
his count, motioning toward a large, bare bay window, "Ah, mm-hmm. Fifteen and sixteen."
Peering through the window from her side of the bed, the woman watched as two young boys—draped in homemade, feathered wings, and
each wearing a yellow crayon-colored snow-cone cup over his nose and mouth, secured in place with a length of fishing line—began to scale
an aging iron lamppost. "Always with the bird crap," she said, half to herself. She stared at the boys as they clutched and shimmied higher
and higher up the rusting pole, unable to take her eyes off of them.
"Hon, babe? Did you hear me?"
Looking at the man blankly for a moment, she shook her head.
"The main producer guy from TLC called, babe—he said if we can guarantee two more by December, they can give us at least three more
seasons, with an option for a fourth. Just two more kids, that's all. Eighteen, babe."
"Oh," she replied, with an eerily vacant look in her eyes.
Discreetly bolted into every conceivable corner and crevice, cameras buzzed and whirred all around them; running in an infinite loop, and
compiling the lives lived before them into a commercially invaluable trove of editable storylines of intentional design.
"Go on, kids. Leave us alone. Whoever's short on confessionals, go get caught up. They're not paying us to be introverts," she said flatly. "Old
ones watch the young ones—you know the drill."
Heeding their mother's words, the fourteen-strong throng of the couple's sixteen—and soon enough to be eighteen—children orderly filed out
of the room just as they'd so orderly filed in, while the solid oak door shut behind the final set of scattering feet with a heavy clack.
"That's $2 million more each season, babe. That's $6 million, at least—maybe more. And we retain the worldwide publishing, or whatever.
Babe, babe."
A wide smile spread slowly across the woman's face. She looked out across the room; taking in the glut of luxurious possessions so
completely overfilling it. Looking at her husband with the intense shrewdness of a businesswoman in her element, her eyes leveled, and her
feigned smile grew sinister and real. "Terrible mother," she snarled with a dismissive snort, as two feather-wrapped twin boys fell
unbeknownst from the upper reaches of the nearby lamppost, with brisk and final thuds. "Don't tell me I can't fly."
Computer Programmer Fired For Allegedly Outsourcing Own Job To China, Expected To
Outsource Entire Life To Futon In Parents' Garage For Foreseeable Future
Doctors Successfully Treat Gastrointestinal Infection With Transplanted Poop
→ Express Optimism For Future Of Booger Transfusions, Prosthetic Tinkle
In a recent article regarding seven-time Tour de France winning cyclist, Lance Armstrong, Mr. Armstrong was described by
Newspunch as "an honest, humble, kind-hearted inspiration to millions, who is living, breathing proof that—with hard
work and perseverance—anything is possible, and anyone can achieve their dreams with honor, virtue and humility. He is
truly the earthly embodiment of the irrepressible human spirit, and the lives of all those around him are invaluably and
irrevocably improved, just for having found themselves within the arresting presence of his thoroughly transcendent talent for life and
cycling."
Newspunch feels the need to retract its previous statements. Mr. Armstrong is actually an arrogant, lying, cheating, drug-chugging, hormonetrafficking fuckhead, whose Category-5 typhoon of coercion, deceit and grade-A bullshit has finally bankrupted the nation's remaining
deposits of trust in—and adulation for—its professional athletes. He whose 'roid-needle-sore riddled ass is probably going to end up in jail
for a very long time will be lucky to walk away with a single errant penny of the ill-begotten earnings his epic-scale fabrication has raked in
over the past thirteen years. Fuck that fucking cockgoblin. That said, who cares. The man rides a bicycle for a living. Who cares.
Additionally, his ruse has raised millions of dollars for cancer research, and helped untold numbers of the devastating family of disease's
sufferers with said funds. In related news, his poor family.
Newspunch regrets the mistake.
(In an earlier version of this retraction, Newspunch failed to remove all foul language deemed inappropriate for the subject matter. This
version corrects that.)
Snake Attaches Self To Qantas Passenger Jet For Duration Of Two-Hour Flight
■ Vindicated Samuel L. Jackson Couldn't Care Less About Vindication, Unimaginably Richer Than You
Either Way
→ Pop Culture Savvy Airline Wastes No Time, Launches New Marketing Campaign Assuring Potential Customers: 'Enough Is Enough!
We've Had It With These Motherf%@kin' Prices On These Motherf#@kin' Planes! Everybody Strap In! We're About To Open Some F@%kin'
Fare Sales!'
A Pakistani police official tasked with investigating suspected corruption involving the country's prime minister has been
found dead in a government dormitory in Islamabad. Police say the man—suffering from a complete leg removal, as well
as twelve rifle wounds to the head and rectum—was found with what is believed to be a self-inflicted suicide note—carved
into his back with precise, elegant calligraphy—which read, in part, "Sorry…I did a suiciding not assassins. Bye to loved ones if I have you,
signed 'me.' Walk away now."
↓ this dumb thing was made-ed on or around February 6, 2013
An eighteen-year-old man has been arrested for allegedly giving several people wedgies outside a Bradenton, Florida
movie theater. Elated police officials believe they have in their custody the notorious Deep South Wedgier, who is
suspected in a brutal string of unsolved wedgies, spanning eight years and five states. "It's too early to say for sure, but we
think we have our man," Bradenton police sergeant, Twipp Dwexler, told reporters. "We have evidence linking the detained
to at least forty-two unsolved Manatee County wedgies, and, in the coming weeks and months, we fully expect to tie him to additional cold
cases; possibly reaching into the hundreds." Sgt. Dwexler added, "Basically, he just got sloppy—and we didn't miss a beat. This is a proud
day for Florida law enforcement."
The Deep South Wedgier has long-terrorized residents throughout Florida, Georgia, South Carolina, Alabama and parts of eastern
Mississippi; striking seemingly at random, and with no apparent, specific victim profile in mind. His victims have run the gamut from
elementary school assistant janitors and soccer uncles, to elderly day-traders and regional politicians. Explained FBI criminal profiling
expert, Douglas J. Blowncover, "He doesn't seem to have a consistent modus operandi, other than a slight preference for briefs over boxers
and thongs. He's likely young, white and breathtakingly stupid." Added Agent Blowncover, "I mean like hammer-sack dumb."
Experts believe the man was apprehended in just the nick of time, as he may have been in the early stages of progressing to even more
depraved acts, including purple-nurples, titty-twisters, and possibly even the infamous, gender-indifferent front-side wedgie known on the
streets as a "pulled pork man-jamwich" and "karate chopped taco," respectively. "Typically, these people will become bored with the standard
wedgie, and will often make an effort to expand their wedgie repertoire; becoming more eccentric in their actions, and creating unmistakable
signatures—or 'pulling up on underwear calling cards'—in an effort to bolster their brand, and not become lost in the shuffle amongst their
wedgie-doling peers and copycats," explained Dr. Roberta Josétha-Juanita, an expert and professor in the field of serial and mass wedgiests at
the University of California at Riverside's Theodore Bundy School of Criminology. "I've seen this before; it always follows a similar pattern.
First, they wedgie only sporadically; essentially testing the waters. Then the wedgies increase in frequency and brawn. Finally, the wedgies
become so severe, they reach a level we in the field refer to as 'atomic,' with each successive wedgie drawing ever closer to the point of
'critical stretch,' at which all known forms of elastic lose their ability to maintain structural integrity, and snap—with devastating and, often
times, mildly stinging results."
Upon receiving word of the arrest, local residents expressed relief, as well as excitement at the possibility of returning to their normal lives,
without the constant need to glance over their shoulders; always wondering where the Deep South Wedgier will strike next. Said long-time
Bradenton resident, and owner of three local ThongShack commercial thongeries, "Business has been real slow, as I s'pose folks don't wanna
take their chances, what with this madman on the loose. I myself am mighty-fine tired of worryin', and sure am lookin' forward to gettin' back
into a nice ThongShack thong—all this commando goin' sure ain't done nothin' to keep the inside of my favorite dungarees clean and proper,
I can tell ya that much for sure."
In Birmingham, Alabama, members of Thunder From Down Under's traveling, all-black exotic male dance revue, Aborigid Boomerwangs,
sighed relief at the prospect of no longer being required to wear thigh-high leggings and garter belts, in an effort to safeguard against any
potential onstage wedgie attacks, however unlikely. Said the show's thickly-accented producer, Foster Koalaflap, "Ah yah is mut goot nah
been saff, roight," adding, "Terf weh dun gob don lar, myte. Terf weh dun gob fuhnt shah, chuckle chuckle."
If nothing else, the arrest of the likely culprit has brought some calm to a community that hasn't otherwise found itself this on edge since the
emergence of Wendel the Westside Wet Willy Werebeast, in the autumn of 1968.
↓ this dumb thing was made-ed sometime during late January or early February, 2013
Dear Matty » Answering Your Cries Of Help With Astounding Grace, Untouched Knowledgeability, And Deity-Level Glory —
Simply By Being The Best, Most Humble Human Being On Planet Earth
___________________
Dear Matty,
I'm concerned my husband of two years might be cheating on me. He hides his phone, stays out all night, insists on doing his own laundry,
lets his girlfriend sleep on our couch every other night, and barely even talks to me anymore. I'm afraid to broach the subject though, because
I don't want to insult him if I'm wrong. What should I do? I don't want to throw our marriage down the tubes! Please help, Matty!
Thanks,
Concerned in Cincinnati
Thanks for writing, Concerned. Like most of the folks who take the time to ask me a question, I can't help but bristle at your parents' decision
to give you such an odd name. That alone has probably caused you untold confusion, anger and general mental malaise! Concerned? Really?
I can only hope it was your grandmother's maiden name, or something! Yikes! If I were you, I'd consider going by Connie, or, to a lesser
extent, Ernie.
As for your specific question, Concerned, this is indeed a delicate situation. Judging by the tone of your letter, I'm guessing you haven't much
considered your husband's feelings throughout this ordeal. What you have to remember here is that he is hurting, too. Have you considered
how the guilt of so openly cheating on you could be affecting him? Do you ever think of people other than yourself, Mrs. "Concerned?"
Honestly, I fail to see a reason the man wouldn't cheat on you, considering how poorly you're treating him during this very difficult time in
his life. My suggestion would simply be to give him some space, and let him work this out for himself. I won't mislead you; it could take
some time—years, maybe. In the meantime, I recommend entertaining any offers to join your husband and his girlfriend in the bedroom with
enthusiasm, in order to expedite the healing process. Once he's healed, you'll both be able to get back to your normal lives, and I think that's
probably what you both want, deep down (though your husband is plunging those "depths" in his own hot, sexy, troubled way).
In a situation like this, it's also very important to consider the karmic repercussions of your actions. Remember: Two years from now, during
the affair you'll be deeply engaged in, do you really want your next husband nosing around in your business, when things are so confusing
and sensual for you in your secret life? What goes around comes around, Concerned.
One last thought: Often, in times of great concern, a mantra can help. Whenever you feel yourself unfairly coming down on your other half
during this most tumultuous and complicated time in his life, simply take a deep breath, count to ten, and tell yourself, as many times as it
takes: Don't be a cunt, Connie. Good luck, and God bless!
___________________
Dear Matty,
I recently came into a tidy sum, due to the death of a distant relative for whom I never harbored a single positive emotion. I'm feeling
conflicted—should I donate the money to charity, since I never liked this person to begin with, or should I just do something for myself, and
finally build that beach house in Des Moines that I've always dreamed of?
Please help,
Conflicted in Calgary
Thanks for writing. One thing a lot of people who find themselves in a situation similar to yours tend to forget, Conflicted, is that the actual
dollar amount of the inheritance is extremely important in untangling any moral ambiguities that arise.
Small amounts (typically under $500) should, under all circumstances, be used for discretionary spending within the month following the
long-overdue death and disbursement. Purchase things you would normally purchase in any other month, but purchase them in larger
quantities. (For example: If you typically purchase two gallons of whole milk per month, purchase sixteen; if you typically purchase three
gallons of whole milk per month, also purchase sixteen; and if you typically purchase sixteen gallons of whole milk per month, request an
increase in your family's life insurance policy payout, or opt to supplement it with a large securities investment in the medical stent industry.)
Intermediate sums (in the $501 to $99,999 range) are perfect for creating and donating to shell corporations, upon which you can then derive
tax benefits for the donated amount.
Finally, if the amount of your inheritance is substantial ($100,000 and up), it is sometimes beneficial, both mentally and spiritually, to
purchase as much space on local billboards as possible, on which you can then publicly disparage the deceased. (Often times catharsis can be
found in even the smallest public acts of vengeful legacy desecration.)
Ultimately, a good rule of thumb is to always try and do what's best for you in this time of bereavement, and leave charity to the charities.
And as far as that beach house goes, I say: Go for it, Conflicted! (Though I will warn you that beachfront property values in Iowa have
skyrocketed in the past few years, and you might be forced to wait for another of your codgers to croak before you can truly relax; reaping
the rewards of what the reaper's racket's wrought.)
___________________
Dear Matty,
My four-year-old quintuplet sons are constantly fighting with each other. They scream; they kick; they scratch; they push; they live—it's
driving me insane! Should I just ground them and take away their PS3 privileges for a week, or should I drown them in a bucket? I'm really
at my wit's end, here. Help!
Sincerely,
Filicidal in Fontana
This is one of those questions that ultimately comes down to personal preference, Filicidal. Personally, I would almost always choose the
grounding route, as it can sometimes help to illuminate for your children the importance of respecting the rules and understanding the
consequences of their actions, as well as help to keep them 100% alive.
If the former course is simply not an option, however, there are many variables to consider, and choices to be made. If Satan factors into your
decision, by how much, and in which way or ways? Does he appear to you in apparition form, or is he merely broadcasting his evil into your
every waking thought and feeling? If so, in which language? Is it English, Latin or a garbled, unplaceable tongue seared into your psyche
with fire and Luciferion® brand brimstone? Additionally, it could be advantageous to discuss with your spouse the Dark Lord's role in your
decision making process, if for no other reason than to keep the lines of communication open. (You never want your spouse to feel caught
off-guard by your irascible, homicidal leanings—that's Happy Marriage 101!)
If you do decide on the murdering option, bucket selection and water salinity are important things to consider. Will you be dunking each of
the five boys into the water, one at a time—discarding the carcasses between drownings, thus requiring only a small bucket—or will you be
employing a local variation of the classic large bucket heaping method; using the weight of each successive boy to hold down the boys below
him, with the final boy ultimately being held down with a spare truck tire or the family dachshund? (As far as salinity goes, it really just
depends upon whether you prefer a lightly brined mound of wet lungs, or a more traditional, fresh-water saturation for those adorable little
pulmonary apparatuses. Again, personal preference.)
Another thing to consider—though looked upon by some on the fringes as overly sociopathic—is whether to immediately begin the process
of building an insanity defense when the Sheriff's Department arrives on the scene, or wait to see what the media's response to the story is,
and adjust accordingly. There's no one-size-fits-all solution; you just have to do what you feel is right for you, given the particulars of your
own situation.
There is a third path, Filicidal. I'm a bit loath to mention it, as I know it could be offensive to you—or even come off as downright ghoulish
—but I'd please ask for your patience; bearing with me for just a moment, while I float you the idea. Have you considered not murdering your
children, and instead running off to join a cult, never to be seen or heard from again? I know, I know—but I'm sure you appreciate that I had
to at least mention it. Believe me, I fully understand the desire to not associate oneself with such dubious organizations. Please accept my
sincere apologies for even bringing it up.
One last thing to consider: Sometimes children with close-proximity ages have greater behavioral success when part of an even-numbered
family (a family where the total number of members amounts to an even number). Are there perhaps just two of the boys in particular you
could do without, leaving the remaining three and your husband to re-coalesce into a well-mannered, even-numbered familial unit? This
avenue provides two noteworthy benefits: Your husband would be appreciative of the significantly lessened fatherly burden (in purely
quantitative terms) it would provide, and you'd still be able to enjoy that much-deserved "mommy break" upstate. Just something that may be
worth considering. I hope everything works out for you, Filicidal, and kudos to you for tackling the tough questions!
(P.S. Since you're likely to be spending a lot of time on HLN over the coming months and years, could you scratch an itch that's been nagging
me forever? Can you find out if that's Nancy Grace's real head? Thanks. You're alright, Filicidal. You're alright.)
Sunday, January 13, 2013 » { ( It's About [Something This] (Time) ) [We Do Something] }
If you can decipher that title, please let me know … I'm dying to find out what it means. I bet it's cool or something.
Getting right down to plastic tacks (I'm on a budget), I think it's safe and/or fair to say that a sizable swath of the things I write
(from the certifiably certifiable to the really-really-wants-to-be-non-amateurishly-satirical-when-it-grows-up) have a certain,
ever-present current of contempt for our time's various institutions flowing just beneath the surface, but are still, for the most part, relatively
light-hearted. Some of these things I write—when I really stop and think about them—are actually quite dark (though interspersed with
unchecked inanity), but, I think, that's merely due to my black, lifeless heart. One thing I wrote recently, however, was dark and biting and
intentional—and that thing was all about guns and their apologists, neither of whom can count me among their fans. Indeed, quite the
opposite…
I'm up front about it. I don't have some "secret liberal agenda." It's no secret—I don't like guns. I'd be the first in line to sign the amendment
repealing the second amendment. I've always been of the mind that the words "well-regulated militia" mean just that: A well-regulated militia
—not: Every Joseph-shmo go get yer gun. Back in the real world, however, I know that guns are here, they're queer, and I have to get used to
it—but I shouldn't need to fear it. That's insane. That every time something horrendous happens in this country we have to listen to a chorus
of grand old partiers sing, "oh, that's just terrible—but it doesn't mean there's a problem, and we really oughta just continue on as we were," is
debilitatingly infuriating.
I saw a statistic recently noting that fully half of the mass killings in U.S. history took place after 2005—the same year the federal ban on
assault weapons expired. Now, it didn't specify that all those post-2005 mass killings were committed with guns—nor did it define "mass"—
but that's still quite a striking revelation. Yes, if Freakonomics taught us anything, it's that things that seem like they're obviously connected
may not be connected at all—and that sometimes the deepest connections are the one's you'd never even think to look for—but, taken at face
value, with a smidgen of salt, that's terrifying.
There's no doubt the United States has a violence problem, non-inclusive of the gun variable. And I understand gun-nuts rushing to point out
this fact—implying guns are merely a tool, and not the root cause of the problem. Sure—but I still hate guns. And it's a hell of a lot easier to
kill a bunch of innocents very quickly with a gun than it is to do the same with a hammer, knife or banana smoothie.
"But dickhole, what if there's a spate of whack-jobs intentionally mowing down large crowds of people with their cars? Should we ban cars?"
No. In the parlance of our parrot-like mass-news-media, that's what's called "a false equivalency." Those hypothetical cars are being misused.
These guns are not. Guns are for killing. That's their sole purpose. They're tiny cannons. Did people hang out with all their yahoo friends
firing cannons at paper silhouettes of human beings during peacetime before the age of the gun? So why should that be a god-given right
now? They're for killing. War, hunting, crime—nothing else. If you just can't seem to get your rocks off without the ability to freely fire a
high-powered micro-cannon pointlessly at an arbitrary target, go play paintball.
And don't give me the hunting "tradition" bullslap, either. I despise hunting in the name of anything other than actual, life and death necessity
just as greatly as I do guns. (For a very well-executed articulation of this feeling, check out the third episode of the first season of Sports
Night, and the "Jeremy Goodwin" character's monologue regarding the hunting trip his employer sent him on, in particular.)
"But dickface, even if you got rid of all the guns on Earth, people would just find another way to kill each other en masse—maybe they'd just
start using explosives!" So? Then you get rid of all the explosives. And when they switch to pineapple catapults, away the pineapple catapults
go. What's the alternative? Let these awful crimes continue to plague us simply because "people will just find some other means anyway?"
What? If we want it to stop, we're going to have to exert some sort of effort, so why bother try at all? And—insofar as my feelings about guns
go—I suppose it helps that I'm not one of those paranoid people that believes the government'll invade itself, and confiscate all of our
precious Xboxes and tool sheds if we don't all have a gun behind the toaster. If they wanted to, they could do that now. They have the bomb,
for fyook's sake. Do you honestly believe two-hundred-thousand yokels in Wichita could hold back the United States Army? Who are you
kidding?
Oh, did I mention the classic gun-nut argument along the lines of, "but dickfoot, are you suggesting we take guns away from law-abiding
citizens?" Yes! Maybe I'm on the fringe, but I hate guns! Yes! (Concession: Yes, of course I want police officers to bring a gun to a gun fight
—for their safety and mine—but the ideal situation would be no guns on either side. Maybe someday … when we either evolve intellectually
as a species, or devolve to the point where throwing rocks is high-tech. Either scenario works for me.)
While at work recently, I overheard a conversation between two older gents, regarding this very topic. They were discussing the Switzerland
model, and noted that, "everyone in Switzerland is armed," and that, aside from the formidable terrain, "that's the only reason Hitler never
took Switzerland." I'd never heard anything of Swiss gun politics, so, interested, I decided to look into it…
Okay. While it's true that gun ownership per capita in Switzerland is one of the highest in the world (though still paling in comparison to the
rate in our union of semi-sovereign states), it's very much a case of comparing apples to orange juice concentrate. Switzerland does not have
an army in the way we in the United States think of an army. Basically, most males in their twenties are required to receive military-style
training—which, not surprisingly, includes firearms training—and this loose band of citizens, were they ever needed, would serve as the
country's first line of defense against any theoretical foreign hostility. The weapons used in this training are issued to the trainees, and kept—
under lock and key—in their homes. Swiss ownership of non-military-issued guns is very low. In order to carry a weapon in public,
concealed or otherwise, a federally-issued gun carrying permit must be obtained, and most such permits are reserved for individuals working
in a private security capacity. This, mah peeps'l, is nothing at all like our li'l ol' melting clusterpot. And though gun ownership—when
compared to the world as a whole—is technically quite high in Switzerland, crime is exceedingly low, because those guns are strictly
regulated.
In 2010, there were only fifty-three homicides in the entire nation of Switzerland—a nation that boasts a population of eight million
chocolatiers of varying skill. Here's the kicker, though: Of those scant fifty-three homicides, a full seventy-five percent were committed with
firearms. Yes, people do kill people, but—as I've already said—it sure is a lot easier to accomplish with a gun. I firmly believe that a
reasonably high percentage of the homicides committed in the world could be prevented, if only the potential-perpetrator had no access to a
gun at the time of the crime (for the rhyme). The idea that you'd have to get very close to someone—and take a very intimate, personal role in
killing them—would surely make the whole thing seem like less of a great idea for a lot of people, then were it a spur-of-the-moment act,
perpetrated from a safe, anonymous distance (kinda like the Internet!).
So what am I saying? Yes, I hate guns, and, ideally, I'd like to see them disappear from the face of the Earth. But I am realistic, and I know
this is not a feasible request—but that doesn't mean we can't change things. As it's been said by so many more-eloquent people than I over the
past few years, it's time for an honest, frank, grown-up conversation about gun control, and the changes that need to be made thereof. How
many more times does something utterly unthinkable only fifteen years ago have to happen before we can all get on the same page? It's mindboggling. And if the answer truly is to simply enforce the laws we already have on the books, then do that—don't just employ the notion of
doing so purely as a mis-directional tactic intended to skirt the issue. Just my (unsolicited, inconsequential) more than one, less than three
cents.
On an entirely different topic, I have a prediction to make (for no other reason than to be able to say I was the first person, that I know of, to
have predicted it, when it inevitably comes true, and not for the purpose of collecting the generous first-predictor prize—though having a
second zebra and brand-new, low-mileage hyena pack in the apartment will be a lovely bonus): Someday, when either The Daily Show gets
cancelled, or Stew-beef leaves the anchor desk to make way for someone new, he will—within two years—have his own Charlie Rose-style
talk show on some network, pay cable, basic cable or PBS channel somewhere. Obviously, bookings at TDS have skewed more toward
political figures and academia in recent years (with fewer and fewer Hollywood shills making the rounds), but a notable, more recent change
lies in the increasing regularity with which interviews run long (and are only available uncut on the web), and/or the entire second and third
acts are devoted to said interviews. On top of all that, Jon Stewart just seems like an extremely curious person, who's genuinely interested in
what his (non-celebrity) guests have to say—not to mention the fact that he often refuses to blindly accept those saided things, and deftly
challenges their assertions and beliefs with occasionally uncomfortable (but always interesting and entertaining) results. So anyway, that's
gonna happen. And you heard it here first, or maybe some other position in the classical sequence of numbers.
Flipping through the paper this morning, I came across an article in the "Important World News Stories" section, regarding my wife and my
upcoming relocation to los City de Angeles, or LosCDA, as it's usually abbreviated on Dodgers caps. Yes indeedy, a plan is finally in motion,
and things are finally beginning to congeal the way any delicious food product does. A few days shy of seven weeks and counting. Looks like
I'm gonna be commuting to Orange County for the first six months, but, ehh, I'll make due. I'm headed out there tomorrow morning to begin
(and maybe even end) looking for a certified structure in which we will be permitted to store our belongings and sleep, for a hefty monthly
fee. Originally, we were gonna try for Burbank (as that's where all dem studios is homed), but we quickly realized that most—if not all—
decent dwellings in the area would be asking to permanently possess all of our money, each and every month. So, south we shall head. It's the
ninth time I've moved in nine years, so it still suuucks. (Ha ha! You thought I was gonna say something like, "so I'm an old veteran," huh? I
misdirected you … WITH HILARIOUS RESULTS!) West Hollywood, Marina del Rey, Santa Monica … somewhere like that. We'll see how
it goes. (As I told my legal spouse, the old "failure is not an option" cliché rings true here … there is no failing in this quest … just trying
until it works. If it takes twenty years, it takes twenty years, but there's nothing else out there for me, so there's nothing to do but try—and
live life all along the live-long way.)
One.5 other thing. Recently, I was wondering to myself, "Gerald, whatever happened to all those godawful-idiotic chain emails and
brainfrackingly-stupid forwards you used to get all the time, no matter how many times you asked your friends and relatives to take you off
their list?" And then, like a bolt of lightning covered in cobra-filled atomic tigers—so, like, really hardcore lightning—it hit me: Facebook.
FaaaaaceBOOOOOOK! Yep, that's where they went. Sigh. I swear. I'm not even a big Facebooker (Facerbookling? Facebookerist?), and I
only have a handful of non-family friends—with a grand-sum-total clocking in at under seventy—and yet half my goddamn news feed is
populated with stupid ecards, fake stories about things that never actually happened, and "Share if you love your daughter!" graphics.
(Honestly, if your daughter's level of awareness of your motherly love for her is really dependent on how many times you tell her via
Facebook photo share, uh, I don't know—but that doesn't seem like a good thing.) I've picked up quite the nasty habit of leaving comments
containing nothing but a link to the snopes.com-debunking of whatever stupid shizz someone shares (because I'm obsessive like that, and
once I start doing it, I can't stop doing it), to, surprisingly, no avail. And it gets even worse(!)…
Ever heard of "Like farming?" If not, you should read this. I'm sure like me, you've seen the one about "Mallory," the girl with Down's
syndrome who "doesn't believe she's beautiful," and "Like if you think she is!" or something similar. Well … there is no Mallory (at least, not
in the context portrayed on Facebook). The girl in the photo does in fact have Down's syndrome (or something along those lines), but her
name's not Mallory. She lives in Australia, and her family has been fighting, through legal channels, to have her photos removed, without
success. Someone found her photo online, attached a story to it, and off it went. What they do is build up thousands and thousands of "Likes"
(even millions, in some cases), and then they sell (yes, sell) the page itself to someone else, who can then advertise their products, services or
brand to a built-in audience of hundreds of thousands—or, again, sometimes millions—of people who will see the posts in their news feed.
Yup. I just can't wait for the day they finally cut the crap and broadcast chain-letters directly into my brain. Maybe then I can finally get some
sleep, whatever that means.
(Speaking of Facebook Likes, one of my dumb things got FIVE mutha-mutha Likes! That's unprecedented! I think I've officially tipped!)
Until next time, please remember: Forgetting is the devil's … something. I wanna say it's, like, policy, but not exactly that. It might be dress
code. It doesn't matter. Just don't forget.
↓ this dumb thing was made-ed on or around January 12, 2013
Determined Biden Meets With Gaming Industry Group To Discuss Role Of Video Games
In Nation's Gun Violence Epidemic, Wastes No Time Laying Full Blame On 1984's 'Duck
Hunt'
→ VICE PRESIDENT: 'Look, Nintendo Made A Whole Generation Of Youngsters Believe It's Okay For A Cartoon Dog To Giggle While They
Shoot Dead Duck After Duck After Duck, With No Decipherable Motive Or Goal, And They Should Be Held Accountable For A
Transgression That's Clearly Led To So Much Heartache And Bloodshed — And Yeah, I Did Kinda Puss-Out At The NRA Meeting, But Those
Dudes Are Literally Armed To The Teeth'
Pixelated Brownish Comics #19
It's been quite awhile since Pixelated Brownish Comics's eclectic-electric power-storm crackle-ackle-acked atchya through the
Internet's many sexy switches and nodes, and the world, my dear friends, has changed tremendously since last we meeted. It is
within this vein that PBC feels the need to lob some PSA-action your way, with this particularly chilling revelation making up
the 100% brunt of it: If Galileo Galilei had lived in flat-ass Iowa or Kansas, he wouldn't have been right—-handed. (If he wasn't
already not right-handed to begin with, of course. Otherwise, he wouldn't have not been not left-handed.) The world is round, all you O-G.G.
detractors! Get with the times, long-deadlingers! In other news, it turns out that all the Mr. T. in China doesn't amount to much. (They have
no Mr. Ts at all, to be exact—if you're into that sorta kinky precision-play.) Until next time, an unspecified quantity of the fourth-dimension
will have twirled by, mostly unnoticed.
Largest Known Spiral Galaxy Gives Birth To New Galaxy, Proves There's Somegalaxy
Out There For Everygalaxy
→ MAURY TO RELIEVED MILKY WAY: 'You Are Not The Galactic Progenitor'
A state law eliminating governmental funding for Texas-based Planned Parenthood clinics that offer legal abortions has
officially gone into effect; essentially leaving as many as eighty-thousand of the state's vulnerable, low-income female
citizens without basic reproductive healthcare and sexual education services, as well as opening the door to the sorts of
unplanned pregnancies that tend to lead to the very same abortions conservative lawmakers seek to eliminate. Part of a fastgrowing brand of counterintuitive legislation utilizing an unusually low logical threshold, the self-defeating law is an example of what
contemporary political scientists call "stupid."
Armed with an eighteen-gallon Stetson, 1979 Honda Civic-sized belt buckle, and still-unused copy of Rosetta Stone's English As A First
Language—addressing a small contingent of press and relatives huddled inside a tiny viewing room within the Texas State Penitentiary at
Huntsville—Governor Rick Perry stated, in regards to his state's new "Initiatives to Protect Life" campaign, of which the aforementioned law
is a part, "Woo! Woo woo! I mean, life, y'all," before gleefully pulling down on an oversized iron switch, and hibachi grilling the masked
inmate sitting in a nearby electric chair. Pausing briefly to jog outside and feed sixteen rounds of .52 caliber San Antonio brain candy to a
passing elk mother and her calf—before returning to the death chamber—Mr. Perry added, "Gotta protect it, y'all—life's the most important
thing alive." Grinning widely, the Governor then proceeded to repeatedly punch the still-sizzling, unidentified human brisket in the face with
an oversized class ring, upon which the words "Texas A&M" were flagrantly misspelled.
Newspunch researchers have composed the following chart, in an effort to help demystify the cultures and players on both sides of the
issue…
■ percentage of anti-choice advocates who own Larry the Cable Guy Gives Them Queers Whatfor: Live at the Daytona Beach Ballroom on
Blu-ray or DVD Combo Pack
■ percentage of pro-choice advocates who have said the words "I'll have the spicy buffalo aioli panini with braised kale, please" more than
ten times in their adult lives
■ percentage of anti-choice advocates who have ever made it all the way through a book not penned by Anne Coulter or King James VI
■ percentage of pro-choice advocates who have ever openly purchased a non-French printing of a New York Times bestselling book, unless
it was reviewed un-ironically by The Village Voice
■ percentage of militantly anti-choice advocates who ever again think about an unplanned, out-of-wedlock-conceived, teenage-mothercarrying fetus—which is more likely to be headed toward a life of poverty, neglect, violence, substance abuse and/or general sorrow than the
average child—once they've been born
■ percentage of both pro- and anti-choice advocates who are genuinely decent human beings, and who only want what they believe to be
best for all the people whom they are not—just so long as none of the issue's many shades of messy gray affect their own, personal day-today lives and routines—and/or have naturally occurring penises, and so don't really have a rightful place in the debate to begin with
In a recent article regarding the average overall temperature recorded for the continental U.S. in 2012, it was reported:
"Lies! 'Global warming' means King Emperor Maobama the Red Almighty wants your GUNS! Science is lies,
SOCIALISM! SWEDEN SWEDEN SWEDEN! (euroCHINA!) They lie with LIES, and lies, lies, lies, lies, LIES! 'Global
warming' means LIES! OBAMA DID 9/11, SECRET MUSLIM! Barack HUSSEIN Hitler wants your MONEY! Tax, tax,
TAX, spend, spend, SPEND, lies, lies, LIES! It's COLD today! Explain THAT 'sciencetists'! LIES! "
The article should have read: "The average overall temperature in the continental United States for 2012 broke the previous calendar-year
record, set in 1998, by a full degree Fahrenheit—in a statistical realm where records are often broken by a mere fraction of a degree.
Widespread drought devastated the nation's corn crop, while over thirty-four-thousand daily high temperature records were broken at weather
stations all across the country. During the same period, fewer than seven-thousand low temperature records were broken—a gap that has
steadily widened since the 1970s, and was most often marginal, if not entirely nonexistent, prior to that time."
Newspunch apologizes for the error.
In a remarkably candid interview with Dateline, veteran Today show weatherman, Al Roker, revealed that—during a 2002
visit to the White House, shortly after undergoing gastric bypass surgery—the weather-balloon-turned-windsock had
inadvertently defecated on himself, saying quote, "I pooped my pants." Disaster was averted, however, when Mr. Roker
was quickly ushered to the Quayle Bathroom's state-of-the-art bidet, or—as it was known to the giggling, just-shy-of-MENSA-caliber former
vice president—"the Dukakis shower."
New 'iPotty' Potty Training Toilet That Doubles As iPad Stand Destined To Become
Creepiest Stray Ejaculate Receptacle Ever
→ EVERYONE: 'Oh My God, Eww'
Daily Planet Reporter Suspected In Decades-Long Time Theft Scam Unmasked, Detained
By MPD
— A Newspunch Bullshmack® Exclusive News Beef Sandwich™ —
METROPOLIS, U.S.A. — As part of a citywide push to crack down on white-collar crime, an internal investigation into a suspected
decades-long series of brazen time thefts within the ranks of Metropolis's première daily newspaper, The Daily Planet, has yielded a single
arrest, Newspunch's greater Metropolis bureau has learned. According to poorly-sealed internal documents—of which Newspunch easily
obtained copies—the Metropolis Police Department has detained long-time crime reporter Clark Kent on suspicion of falsifying company
payroll documents, in an apparent effort to collect wages on upwards of 100,000 labor-hours not believed to have actually been tendered by
the accused, over a period of approximately seventy-five years. Mr. Kent is expected to be paraded for local media during a press conference
scheduled for this afternoon; a tactic believed to be aimed at convincing the population at large to embrace the MPD's latest initiative—and
paint the unassuming Smallville native as "the Lex Luther of poached overtime"—but which will likely prove fruitless, as word of the arrest
has already quickly spread throughout the city.
According to one long-time coworker—who wished to remain anonymous—Mr. Kent is described as less than the model employee. "Well,
let's see: He's constantly late on copy, he's almost never in the office—always just rushing off at random, without any explanation—and he's
agelessly handsome—almost to the point of it just being annoying," the unidentified coworker told Newspunch, adding, "And for goodness
sake—what does a girl have to do to get a ring on her finger around here? My biological clock's been ticking since the Eisenhower
administration."
"I know he's worked here forever, but, for the life of me, I just can't put a face to the name," said current Planet Editor-in-Chief, Perry White,
adding, "I wanna say he's the guy that can't seem to find a suit that fits—always too small; just bursting at the seams. I don't trust a grown
man who can't buy himself a proper suit." Casually flipping through Mr. Kent's curiously skimpy personnel file, he continued, "I guess he just
sort of flew under the radar; leaping successive mid-level editors in a single bound, on his way to perpetual career stagnation. I mean, hell—
the guy's never been promoted; never won an award; never written anything of any real, lasting import. And—I hear—on the occasions he's
actually in the building, he just slinks back into his little 'fortress of solitude'—as the guys in the office have taken to calling it—and then,
next thing you know, phoom. Nowhere to be found." Gazing out his upper-floor office window—as an unimpeded mutant creature of
tremendous evil toppled the building's landmark Daily Planet globe-topper onto a nearby grade school—Mr. White added, "Oh, but you best
believe he got himself paid. Yep—sure never forgot to fill out those time sheets." Watching as immolated child after immolated child
collapsed outside the grade school's flaming wreckage, he self-assuredly concluded, "But the game's up, dirtbag. We finally got you,
scumsuck—and that's the most important thing right now."
Though not yet able to prove it, company investigators believe Mr. Kent—in addition to the fraud charges—is likely to have willfully
perpetrated hundreds of acts of writing-credit misattribution, as well as outright copyright infringement; shamelessly attaching his name to
the bylines of stories upon which he could not possibly have been present to report. In regards to the only currently-filed charges, however,
Mr. Kent's long-running deception was detected when company investigators—in cooperation with the MPD's Major Trivial Crimes Unit—
noticed the otherwise-unremarkable beat reporter's peculiar ability to deliver an earth-shattering crime report immediately following an
incident; often inclusive of such excruciating, fantastical detail that much of the editorial staff believed the stories to be artificially massaged
for dramatic effect, if not contrived entirely.
Following the arrest, an anonymous source inside Metropolis Central Jail told Newspunch that Mr. Kent—shortly after politely accepting the
intake officer's offer of a complimentary phone call—became agitated, and had to be temporarily shackled and chained for the staff's safety.
"I don't know, you know? He was just standing there grumbling—something about how the phone didn't have a 'booth' around it, and 'how
was he supposed to do what he needed to do without the privacy of a transparent booth around the telephone?'—it was weird," the
anonymous source said, adding, "Then he told whoever was on the other end of the line they had the wrong number, and he inserted the
receiver into a block wall like it was nothing—like it was a speeding bullet."
Sister Magatha O'Leary, abbess of the Our Lady of Goddamn This Place Is Sad orphanage for the double-orphaned—or those orphaned
children whose new, loving foster and/or adoptive parents have perished—had a different take on the news, following a ravenous, insatiable
fire that had—just that very morning—burnt her orphanage to the ground under suspicious circumstances. "What this does is truly shows the
world where our priorities have gone to, here in Metropolis," Sister O'Leary said, swatting away a steamy fog of anger-vaporized sadnesstears that had begun to envelop her head. "Here we are spending untold sums, and authorizing seemingly infinite man-hours to catch some
pol thóin—pardon my Gaelic—that forgot to punch-out a few thousand times, and all-the-while some mysterious villain of ill-repute is out
there burning down our double-orphan orphanages?" Snapping momentarily out of a trance-like state of stuporous shock, she added, "Look,
I'll be the first to admit that the whole 'think of the children' refrain is tossed out there a little thoughtlessly at times, but I think we can all
agree that it would probably be advantageous—at the very, very least—to think of the double-orphans."
Sister O'Leary's sentiments were echoed by the proprietor of the HappyTime Puppy Shoppe chain of adorable puppy dispensaries, one of
which exploded within minutes of Mr. Kent's arrest; an incident in which foul play is strongly suspected. Said HappyTime's Executive
President in Charge of Puppy Tickling, Thom Teddyhugglwuggles—carefully peeling warm puppy from the creases in his ears—of the
MPD's sudden shift in focus to white-collar crime, "It's very disappointing. To be honest, I've never really had much faith in the MPD
anyway, and now that they've apparently decided that someone skimming a little off the top takes precedent over exploding puppies, my
faithlessness is sealed. And where's Superman through all this nonsense? Did they get to him, too? What?—is he out there collaring some
nitwit CEO for backdating twelve stock options?" Picking moist puppy from the webbing between his fingers—and shaking his drooping,
puppy-painted head in grief—Mr. Teddyhugglwuggles lamented his hometown. "It's truly shameful what's become of this once-great city,
when criminals are free to wantonly explode our puppies without fear of reprisal. It's really only a matter of time before they do the same to
our kittens and chinchillas."
Across town, at the Eternal Gray Abyss Senior Citizen Storage Compound, dozens of canes and walkers reportedly received minor damage—
having been lobbed at a communal television—following the local cable access channel's decision to bow to pressure from MPD officials,
who implored the station to break into its regularly scheduled programming, in order to broadcast a breaking news bulletin regarding Mr.
Kent's arrest. The unplanned, ninety-minute interruption robbed residents of an afternoon with everyone's favorite talking wombat, Skippy
the Filler of Endless Empty Hours. Growled long-time Eternal Gray Abyss resident, Herbert Hemmelsmith, "Where the hell'd the talking goat
thing go?" Shortly following the impromptu broadcast, eyewitnesses reported seeing "some kind of evil villain" commandeer the station's
transmission equipment, which was then—according to those present—remolded into what appeared to be "a crude atom bomb."
Acknowledging the need for a more comprehensive investigation into the matter, police officials have promised to "look into it when things
settle down a bit."
While staring down a prison sentence that's likely to run anywhere from eight to ten months, Mr. Kent's pin-up good looks are, however,
reportedly causing the disgraced former entry-level copy editor considerably greater concern than any pending legal troubles. Speaking from
a low-security common area within the jailhouse, Mr. Kent told undercover Newspunch reporters, "Let's just say there're two substances that
can do me in. The first would do anyone in, and that's kryptonite, which is a little-known-but-extremely-dangerous radioactive element I only
came to know of through my research on a feature I published on the field of theoretical, alien elements—and through no other manner. And
the second one, well…" Mr. Kent trailed off and fell absolutely silent, lowering his head to stare blankly at his pair of non-standard-issue
pink prison booties. Without looking up, he offered finally, in a paranoid whisper, "I don't want to talk about the other one."
Shortly thereafter, a fellow inmate slapped Mr. Kent on the right buttock—as the unidentified man strode casually by—causing the suddenlymeek, alleged time-thief to slink into his chair with a violent shudder. Flashing a flamboyant smile—and a knowing wink—the man then
quipped, "Ay, papi—love that little curlicue cowlick, mi grande hombre de steel-o. Mmm—tas-ty."
UPDATE
Following the suspected arson of a temporary shelter set up to house the displaced residents of several fire-razed double-orphan orphanages
—a fire which is thought to have led to the explosion of a second HappyTime Puppy Shoppe location, due to its close proximity, and which
ultimately resulted in the tragic death of cable access television's Jesse Berger, who was best known for his role as Skippy the Filler of
Endless Empty Hours, and reported to have been donating spare organs to a disheveled family squatting near the shop at the time—Mayor
Fleming has now offered the full support and resources of City Hall, with respect to its constituents' most pressing concerns.
"After the tragic $220 embezzlement discovered this morning within the ranks of Metropolis's own Regal Richford's Savings & Loan, the
mayor's office has no further recourse but to redouble its efforts to stop cold in its tracks this sudden spate of victimless crime; that which is
occurring in spite of MPD's recent crackdown on white-collar offenders," the mayor explained.
Blotting semi-dried puppy from her brow with a packet of hundred-dollar bills—and gazing out at the somberly-smoldering remnants of a
child's nearby lemonade stand—she added, "And while that particular bank's insurance policy does include a no-questions-asked, 250%reimbursement-of-losses clause for all monetary deficiencies attributable to minor, intra-institutional, unauthorized debits, this sort of thing
simply will no longer be tolerated under a Fleming administration. So to all you soft-sided criminals out there, heed thee this warning: Your
days of taking a penny without leaving a penny are coming to an end. Mark my words."
Mistakenly believing her microphone to be switched off, Mayor Fleming concluded, "That oughta hold 'em over—and where's my [expletive
deleted] English muffin?" –NPBS/RGT
Robert George "Robert 'RG' George" Timothys began covering the greater Metropolis metropolitan area for Newspunch in late June, 1938,
after graduating magna cum polio from the University of Pennsylvania's prestigious P. Myelitis School of Viral Contagion. By early July of
1938, the hard-driving "Robert 'RG' George" had moved up to the position of being in heaven now, where he's dead for eternity. In his free
time, "Robert 'RG' George" is divinely required to enjoy conversing with the hundreds of billions of disembodied souls cloud-swimming all
around him, and wishes he'd been born "anytime after 1952, really."
↓ this dumb thing was made-ed either in late December, 2012 or early January, 2013
Disoriented Would-Be Jewelry Store Burglars Mistakenly Cut Through Wall Of Crowded
Kentucky Fried Chicken Restaurant, Settle For Bowl Of Town's Most Valuable Mashed
Potatoes
The city council in a small Utah town has decided to apply a minor name change to a local street—previously known as
Morning Glory Road—which it will officially redesignate as Morning Vista Road. The vote to change the unassuming
thoroughfare's name arose—on a regular cycle, throughout the night—after an insurance industry software company that
plans to relocate its headquarters to the slightly-curved-to-the-left street voiced concerns over the now-obsolete name's
relatively obscure sexual meaning: Namely, as a seldom-used euphemism for naturally-occurring, early morning male erections. In response
to the town's actions, Newspunch researchers have compiled a list of street names likely to be considered by some as racy, and polled a
random sampling of Bukkake Hot Springs, Nevada residents, in an effort to determine—within a +/- 45% margin of error—which American
avenue's appellation is most urgently in need of a second look…
■ Ivanna Showalter-McCooterz Thruway/I-190, Buffalo, NY
■ NE Double Penetration Boulevard/Happy Trail Highway, Macon, GA
■ The Bi-State Dongpike, MS/AL
■ Rep. John Boehner Premature Memorialization Parkway, Washington, D.C.
■ Whispering Ballsack Drive, Bellevue, WA
■ Canal Street, Vagina Hills, CA
Twenty-Three-Year-Old Woman Tattoos Likenesses Of Five Deceased Pet Cats On Own
Back, Surpasses Number Of Acceptable Deceased Pet Cat Back Tattoos By Five
→ ALL POTENTIAL MALE SUITORS: 'Yikes'
A Wisconsin couple managed to escape serious injury during an overnight house fire, after the loud clucking of a basementhoused pet chicken aroused them from their slumber. Camped out near the smoldering rubble of their home—having been
repeatedly asked why local media had not yet been granted an opportunity to photograph the hero hen—the bird's greasestained, bucket-clutching co-owner, Dennis Murawska, explained, "Oh, god, you gotta try some of this famous baked chicken from—
somewhere else. It's just unreal. I guess it must've been a chemical in the siding or duct work—it's like a polyurethane mesquite or
something. Just amazing. Oh—I mean—I wonder how they do it." Choking momentarily on the char-blackened thigh bone of an unidentified
chicken, he continued, "Oh, but he's resting right now. All that excitement. Yeah, probably better to just come back later." Loudly slurping
down dubiously-procured chicken skin after dubiously-procured chicken skin—and pausing occasionally to savor the unique blend of herbs,
spices and evaporated wood stains—Mr. Murawska winked and added, "At the next house we get, I'm gonna put the loudest-mooing Kobe
beef-cow I can find down there, for, you know—safety."
↓ this dumb thing was made-ed on or around December 28, 2012
Sketch: "Lost & Found"
Have you ever lost or found something? Something important or unimportant or middleimportant? No? Well screw you too,
mister or misses perfect-'cause-you-never-find-or-lose-anything-important-or-otherwise-and-now-you-think-you're-all-betterthan-us-and-what-have-you-probably! For the rest of us imperfect, humany humans, losing things is a part of life, and finding
things is a part of life, and other things that can happen is a part of life. This sketch should help to illuminate whatever it
happens to illuminate for you, and I assure you that, whatever that happens to be, that's totally, exactly what I was going for, 'cause, yo, peep
mah skillzz, ya heard? An'den peep mah sketchezz.
[ note: this is definitely designed to be a filmed sketch, as opposed to something you could conceivably put on stage, methinks-ith. also, it's
really strange. like … really, really strange. ]
peep the PDF
↓ this dumb thing was made-ed sometime during mid-December, 2012
Cody Sandstone Knows the Score! » Season 1, Episode 1: "Cody Learns Responsibility"
Young Cody Sandstone may be young, but that doesn't mean he doesn't know the score! Cody Sandstone Knows the Score! is a
heartwarming family comedy chronicling the many hilarious and heartwarming comings, goings, ups, downs, ins and outs of the
wacky, lovable Sandstone family, and their wacky, lovably precocious and heartwarming progeny, young Cody Sandstone!
You'll laugh; you'll cry; you'll feel an urge to purchase things because of well-placed marketing cues! When the world seems it's gone crazy,
and you have nowhere left to turn, don't you worry whore, 'cause Cody Sandstone's here, and Cody Sandstone Knows the Score!
[ note: before you ask, i don't know. i just don't even know. i have no earthly, worthwhile explanation for this. i like weird things. to that end,
i think it's safe to say that if your immediate reaction upon intentionally viewing this monstrosity—in the unlikely event you were able to
actually make it all the way through the full six-and-a-half brain-punching minutes—was something akin to, "why did you just make that
happen to me?" you could 'n should be forgiven. however, i think it's also pretty safe to say that—amongst the hundreds of thousands of
repetitive-clutter-junk videos out there—it's probably the only thing like it on youtube, so that's something, at least. (on whether that
something is good or bad, though, the jury's still out … psychologically recuperating.) this is probably the single strangest, stupidest thing
i've ever attached my name to, and that's saying quite a lot. by the way, that "season 1, episode 1" in the title is purely decorative … there will
never be any more of these. now, enjoy… ]
↓ this dumb thing was made-ed sometime during December, 2012, methinks
FULL-BRAINED HOMINIDS: Gun Nuts Who React To All-Too-Common Mass Gunnings
By Defending The Guns Doing The Gunning Have 'Nuts' In Their Intellectually
Diminutive Community's Rightfully Pejorative Label For A Reason
→ NATION'S GUNS: 'No, Actually, We Do Kill People, Like, All The Fucking Time'
Internet Preparing To Close For Winter
— A Newspunch Bullshmack® Exclusive Hot News Sundae™ —
SILICON VALLEY, CALIFORNIA — Representatives for the Internet are reminding all users to make their final searches, and proceed to
their browser's nearest exit, as the interconnected array of disparate computer servers is preparing to close for the winter.
Amid scattered grumbling, a majority of the world-wide digital communications network's 2.4 billion users are shrugging off the annual
wintertime hiatus, and taking the opportunity to initiate near-field verbal language conveyance with friends and family members—a process
which has, historically, allowed individual humans to "catch up" on the past year's comings and goings, while simultaneously marveling at
how big and born their kids are now.
Others—including Edward Mullins of St. Cloud, Minnesota, a frequent consumer of online pornographic materials—are left to seek
alternative methods by which to squander the precious gift of life. Speaking with Newspunch through a telephonic voice modulator, Mr.
Mullins explained that he plans to transition his primary waking-hours activities to an aging VCR in his den, where he's carefully squirreled
away "just enough of the good stuff" to survive the long, upper-midwest freeze. "Who knows," mused Mr. Mullins, "I might even look at my
wife at some point." Heard to be carefully positioning what sounded like a half-gallon jug of Jergens brand aloe vera hand lotion on a nearby
plate-glass end table, he added, "It's just too early to tell."
Inside the world of the Internet itself, Google CEO and co-founder, Larry Page, plans to spend long-neglected quality time with his billions
of U.S. dollars, recently blogging, "I really haven't been giving [the billions of U.S. dollars] the attention they deserve. This whole last year,
I've just been so busy building things other people have already built better and then dismantling mine in disgrace, that I've been treating my
many billions like they don't really exist, and are only represented by stock that could, quite literally, become completely and utterly
worthless in half a cat's fart. I aim to fix that." Pausing to switch from one ornate, bejeweled golden crown to another, the monocled Page
added, "First thing tomorrow morning, I'm selling that stock, and me and my billions are gonna hit all the hotspots—Grand Cayman, Zurich,
all of 'em."
While the Internet's annual winter closure is par for the course in contemporary terms, that wasn't always the case. The impetus for a
rethinking of the Internet's schedule came in the form of the historic winter of 2009, during which a prolonged La Vida de Señor Hombre y
Grande Estupido weather pattern brought record snowfall and subzero temperatures to large swaths of the United States—where many of the
Internet's buttons and wires are currently warehoused—resulting in several of the web's primary gears to seize; essentially bringing to a
stuttering, devastating halt all worldwide communications, digital commerce and lolcats. To address the issue—as well as see to it that such a
failure could never be repeated—the Internet's board of directors issued a decree indefinitely requiring a three-month closure, set to span the
northern hemisphere's coldest months. Explained Y. Hoo Metacrawler, current president of the main Internet, "The requirement not only
protects [the Internet] from the harmful effects of fresh snow, but it also allows our maintenance crews to safely traverse its narrow URL
entrances, where they can then perform thorough checks of each domain's central lever-and-pulley-assembly; replacing or removing any
damaged or burnt-out websites that may otherwise become permanently wedged in the Internet's vast latticework of funnels and
passageways."
On the other side of the issue, businesses have reported a sharp increase in the potential for productivity since the annual closure's inception.
Specifically, those tasked with the responsibility of managing white collar office workers at all levels of experience have noted the largest
theoretical uptick. "It's like they added eight more hours to the day—it's just incredible," explained Jerry Flomenza, manager of the accounts
receivable department at Dayton, Ohio-based Fuggs & Step-Sons, a broken-family-owned purveyor of flame-retardent chimney logs. "I
mean, don't get me wrong—we all still check our email like eighty times a day—just in case a residual list of 'your mother' jokes or Jiffy
Lube coupon sneaks through—but now that we have so much time to actually do our work, most of us have had to take up sudoku or
artisanal flute whittling to pass the time between smoke breaks and second lunch."
While relatively rare when compared to the larger population, the Internet's seasonal closure does have its detractors—many of whom
regularly congregate on the steps of the Internet's regional headquarters, in Silicon Valley, California, to engage in pro-Second Life rallies and
munch-ins. One such twenty-three-year-old protester—who asked that her name, gender and age not be divulged—told Newspunch, "I hate
it. I think it's the stupidest thing ever. Why do they have to close the whole thing? Would it be so terrible to at least have a few websites stay
open, just to, you know, hold us over till April?" Adjusting a lanyard-anchored I.D. badge emblazoned with the name "Maggie Donnelly," the
anonymous protester continued, "Seriously—why can't they just have, like, the regular Internet, and then maybe a smaller one they use for
the winter. You know—an Internet lite or a diet Internet or whatever. Just something so they could keep open the websites with all those
snarky, godawful captioned photos of animals and stuff. I love sharing those with every single person I've ever been in the same room with
even once in my life." Shaking her head in disgust and stepping away, she shouted in conclusion, "Hey ho, the Internet closure's got to stop!
Hey yea, the end of the Internet closure should be here to—uh—keep going forever!"
Whether you're ultimately for or against the wintertime Internet closure, however, the end of March will bring with it another spring, and,
before long, young memes and fresh, asinine new acronyms—or FANAs—will emerge from YouTube's fertile womb; sprouting up all across
Facebook as they make their first wobbly shares. Similarly, the landscape will almost instantaneously find itself blanketed with newly
blossomed tweets, as the Internet's soft breeze links them to blogs and paparazzi photos of E-list celebrities everywhere. From FarmVille to
Mafia Wars, a rich harvest of digital sweet potatoes, blocky livestock, and retributory gangland-style cartoon murder will once again flourish.
And—as DeVry University climate student, DJ Egvar Ronashonbrom, told Newspunch during a recent interview aboard his counterfeit
Vespoe motor-scooter—there may yet be hope for the reestablishment of a perennial Internet. "With the continued, undeniable rise of average
global air and water temperatures—and the persistent degradation of the world's polar and glacial ice—we might just find ourselves with a
year-round Internet as soon as the next decade or two." Flicking a ball of deer ticks from his tachometer, the good DJ added, "Which would
be great too, 'cause learning to be a certified climate guy without access to Weather.com is just cray-see." –NPBS/RGF
Randolf G. Flemmings is the editor in chief of Newspunch's sprawling Cœur d'Alene, Idaho bureau, where he expertly manages a team of
over two-thousand reporters, editors and vending machines, while continuing to perform angry, award-winning soliloquies outside his
father's gourmet Catholic strudel shop, Christ, That's Some Good Strudel!. Randolf is survived by his malformed wife, Elliott, and twin
daughters, Murderess and Mandy, the latter of which has been charged with fatally stabbing him into the only hot tar-pit in town. His recent
obituary was omitted to resolve an unrelated page-eighteen advertisement positioning issue.
Magazine Covers From The Future
I'm sure this is going to be quite disconcerting for some folks out there, but I, for one, welcome our new owning-and-rethinkingand-redesigning-every-single-facet-of-our-lives overlords. True, I've always felt like every tangible item—as well as intangible
feeling, thought and gurgle—in my life could really benefit from sexily brushed aluminum appointments, the latest iLife release
and a Thunderbolt™ port or dos, but perhaps this is a tad too far. Oh, well … it's not like we tried to stop 'em! What's that, now?
You don't believe me? This magazine cover from the future is merely a poorly-executed example of parody, you say? And this delicious iCed
Tea & Mocha Chip Frappuccino I'm chugging isn't from one of the many Starbucks by Apple® locations? Come, now! That's just your pretakeover, still-capable-of-being-active imagination talking! Not to worry, though … go have yourself a nice ham & cheese by Apple®
sandwich and drop into sleep-mode until sunrise by Apple® … it'll all be iKay in the morning, iPromise.
↓ this dumb thing was made-ed on or around December 11, 2012

"miscellaneous writings: volume viii" —— dec 2012 to jan 2013

Transcription

Similar documents

The Spill Canvas 3685

Denver Dumb Friends League

Flyer - Denver Dumb Friends League

“The Cask of Amontillado” by Edgar Allan Poe from Charters, Ann

Smith and Wesson Model 41

TOLL-FREE USA

2015 Winners

GoFiler Corporate Product Sheet

"miscellaneous writings: volume x" —— jan to mar 2013 (10.7 mb pdf)

May-June 2012 - Youth with A Purpose Boys Home, Inc.

4 THE DUMB ONE EPISODE