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Cocky Shit-Heel Wins LotteryMay 27, 2002 |
Atlanta, Georgia Ansel Evans Lottery spokesperson Merle Fiber (left) verifies claim of McGurney, humongous wanker (right) urther proof the world is just plain unfair occurred last Monday when Atlanta, Georgia-based asshole Brian McGurney matched all winning numbers and the Powerball in the Powerball lottery game to win the $25 million jackpot.
McGurney, a 27-year-old former assistant manager for a major video retailer, currently "between things," checked the paper Monday morning to find out he had matched all winning numbers and the elusive Powerball to claim the jackpot. With no sense of humility, McGurney admits it was his first (and now only) lottery ticket.
The winning prize of $25 million will be paid out over 25 years, approximately $1 million before taxes each year, to supplement McGurney's income. The high school graduate bragged that, after taxes, a friend figured out for ...
urther proof the world is just plain unfair occurred last Monday when Atlanta, Georgia-based asshole Brian McGurney matched all winning numbers and the Powerball in the Powerball lottery game to win the $25 million jackpot.
McGurney, a 27-year-old former assistant manager for a major video retailer, currently "between things," checked the paper Monday morning to find out he had matched all winning numbers and the elusive Powerball to claim the jackpot. With no sense of humility, McGurney admits it was his first (and now only) lottery ticket.
The winning prize of $25 million will be paid out over 25 years, approximately $1 million before taxes each year, to supplement McGurney's income. The high school graduate bragged that, after taxes, a friend figured out for him he'd be taking home about $750,000.
McGurney refreshingly admitted that the money would change him greatly.
"Yeah, sure, I'm not going to let the money change me—you think I'm going to tool around in a '92 Ford Tempo with a million bucks a year coming at me? Forget it. I'm going to get something expensive and obnoxious. Like a Rolls Royce or a monster truck."
The big win comes at a great time for McGurney, whose ten-year high school reunion is the first week of June in a couple weeks.
"At first I wasn't going to go," said McGurney, "but now, you bet your sweet ass I'm going to be there. I thought I might wear an expensive tuxedo, but now I'm leaning toward just wearing an expensive jogging suit. You know? It says, 'I have the money, but you're not important enough to wear a tux for.'"
The little toad is also not forgetting the most important people in his life, like his parents.
"Mom and dad have hit on hard times lately, with dad losing his job and all," McGurney said. "But I'm going to surprise them by buying back their house from the bank. That'll be a kick in the ass, me being their landlord! Ha! I'm sure my rent will be reasonable, based on their income and such, like they did for me when I lived with those pricks.
"I'm also going to pay off my girlfriend's car," continued McGurney. "That ought to settle up things between us for that money I borrowed for that big stock venture. Then I'll have a clear conscience when I kick her to the curb. I want to make a clean break before I start hooking up with all the supermodels and shit who'll be scoping me now."
McGurney had no immediate plans to start a savings account, though he did have an excellent idea to put five pounds of fish into a safe deposit box, remarking how "they've been asking for a major prank after bouncing six of my checks."
For all his faults, McGurney's friends still think he's a deserving winner.
"It's about time," said long-time friend Tim Blanch. "Brian's been through a few tough years since high school, and those jerks at the video store should have given him a break when he needed it. Now that he's finally hit his stride, you can count on him to remember his friends who are down like he once was."
Blanch added, "That's good stuff you can use, right? Make sure the pissant reads it, if he can even read. What a fucking knob." the commune news will self-destruct in 30 seconds. Ramon Nootles is a commune correspondent and international love ambassador.
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‘Black Friday’ Sales Slow; Black People Blamed he nation’s African-American community had to bear another injustice over the weekend as it was revealed the sales on their own personal super-saving shopping event, “Black Friday,” were moderate at best. Undoubtedly, the responsibility for the lower-than-projected sales will fall squarely on the shoulders of the black community. “Sales were not as high as initially expected,” announced economical tool and white person spokesperson Neil Van Hurst of Columbia University’s School of Business. “This is owed mostly to continuing downward spending trends in recent holiday seasons.” And its all the fault of black people, Van Hurst all but said. Child Left Behind recent round of standardized DMAS testing in America’s elementary schools has revealed that in spite of President Bush’s ambitious “No Child Left Behind” education policy, at least one American child has been left way the fuck behind. “I don’t like schoolin’,” explained eight-year-old Topeka, Kansas boy Rodney Camaro, exhibiting numerous symptoms of left-behindedness, including messy, uncombed hair, untied shoelaces, a poor vocabulary and a fondness for pro wrestling. Camaro was brought to the attention of education officials earlier this week when test results revealed that someone had actually scored a zero on last month’s DMAS, a feat previously thought mathematically impossible. Big Ratings Prompts ABC to Seek More Dancing Handicapped Shows Strychnine Dog Food: Where Can You Buy It? |
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 May 27, 2002
What's A Cornhole?I have a question for my loyal readers, or even the disloyal ones, anyone who traipses over the column on their way to reading Entertainment Police or Pickle Barrel or maybe some guys stumble on the page by accident thinking commune is French for pussy or something, I don't know, the French probably have 50 words for it.
My question is: What's a cornhole?
Please don't laugh now, I've just never heard the term before. I grew up in California and we had no real experience with corn out there. I mean, we'd eat it, but it's not like in Iowa or nothing, we didn't go out and plant it and grow it and sit and watch it for hours and burn it for fun or nothing. We had television and yoga where I grew up, not ways to waste your time.
I tried asking my mom and she passed out on the phone, which might be unusual except for the fact she does it all the time. My dad just went into a spiel about how back in his days the homosexuals didn't rub it in your face. I'm not sure what that has to do with corn or why the homosexuals would rub corn in your face, or what exactly it is that they rub in my dad's face that gets him so riled up, but it wasn't worth talking to him for another hour to figure it out.
I asked everybody at the commune and they just break out laughing, like when I ask who's supposed to edit my columns. Nobody would tell me at all, though Ramon Nootles offered to show me. I don't even want to talk to him after the last time he...
º Last Column: Lindsay Wagner Wants Me Dead º more columns
I have a question for my loyal readers, or even the disloyal ones, anyone who traipses over the column on their way to reading Entertainment Police or Pickle Barrel or maybe some guys stumble on the page by accident thinking commune is French for pussy or something, I don't know, the French probably have 50 words for it.
My question is: What's a cornhole?
Please don't laugh now, I've just never heard the term before. I grew up in California and we had no real experience with corn out there. I mean, we'd eat it, but it's not like in Iowa or nothing, we didn't go out and plant it and grow it and sit and watch it for hours and burn it for fun or nothing. We had television and yoga where I grew up, not ways to waste your time.
I tried asking my mom and she passed out on the phone, which might be unusual except for the fact she does it all the time. My dad just went into a spiel about how back in his days the homosexuals didn't rub it in your face. I'm not sure what that has to do with corn or why the homosexuals would rub corn in your face, or what exactly it is that they rub in my dad's face that gets him so riled up, but it wasn't worth talking to him for another hour to figure it out.
I asked everybody at the commune and they just break out laughing, like when I ask who's supposed to edit my columns. Nobody would tell me at all, though Ramon Nootles offered to show me. I don't even want to talk to him after the last time he offered to show me something. Stu Umbrage actually did offer an explanation, but he would only speak in palindromes, so after an hour of him uttering only four words, three of which weren't even palindromes, I gave up. No answer at the commune.
I've heard "cornhole" plenty of times, usually in movies or reading through Omar Bricks' hate mail, but I'm never sure what it's supposed to mean by the context I find it in. It didn't bother me until I picked up a script over the weekend for a part I'm auditioning for next week. The movie is titled Cornhole but I couldn't really grasp the meaning of the word from reading my six-line part. You might guess, I don't like to read entire scripts because I don't want my character to know about things going on that my character wasn't there for, and I also hate to read.
Would you believe "cornhole" isn't in the Webster's dictionary? That's the assumption I'm going on. If anyone finds it in there, let me know. It will definitely be a surprise.
I guess it could be a Spanish word or something, maybe some kind of dip. Sometimes really artsy movies are titled after foreign words because that makes them smarter. If you called a movie Fartknocker you're not getting the same kind of audience as if you called it Le Knocquer de Flatulénte. As far as field research on the term and everything, I've never seen holes in corn. I suppose if you rip a corntree out of the ground the hole left could be called a cornhole, but what's the point of calling somebody that or referring to that in a prison?
So anyway, I hate to take up a whole column with this question, but I've got to find out, it's driving me nuts. Hurry up and let me know, if you can. Nothing would be worse than showing up at an audition for a movie called Cornhole and not knowing what it means. They'd think I'm an asshole or something. º Last Column: Lindsay Wagner Wants Me Deadº more columns
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|  March 21, 2005
Pretty Big O' MeLadies and gentlemen, I don't mean to shock you out of your pants (particularly you fatties), but I've got the most shocking news to report: Apparently I, Rokwell T. Finger, have been married for a while already.
I'm not defecating with you. Nor am I talking about my two previous wives, Arvelyn, the foul temptress, or Wyfe, my mysterious first spouse I never seem to reveal much about. No, this insidious beast is, as far as I can tell, some third entity I married more recently, after Arvelyn and after Wyfe, but before my engagement to my latest love, Ginger Baker.
You can't imagine, even with hyper-space imagining goggles, how surprised I was to get a call informing me I had abandoned my wife on a deserted island known as Australia, somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. Her name is Felchyana Finger, which is either an incredible coincidence or the tart has even taken to using my name. I called her a filthy liar, and now that's added into the lawsuit. Oh, yes—she's suing me for abandonment. And now slander. As far as I'm concerned, she can sue me for complete forgetment, because apparently she has a case for that more than anything else.
People, believe me, if I knew I had a wife, I never would have started up with Ginger Baker. Heart be damned, and loins be voodoo'd. I am not the kind of man who goes out milking cows when he has a jug of milk at home, even if it's goat's milk. Actually, I have never met this Felchyana character, and I...
º Last Column: Ol' Lee Loves Chachi º more columns
Ladies and gentlemen, I don't mean to shock you out of your pants (particularly you fatties), but I've got the most shocking news to report: Apparently I, Rokwell T. Finger, have been married for a while already.
I'm not defecating with you. Nor am I talking about my two previous wives, Arvelyn, the foul temptress, or Wyfe, my mysterious first spouse I never seem to reveal much about. No, this insidious beast is, as far as I can tell, some third entity I married more recently, after Arvelyn and after Wyfe, but before my engagement to my latest love, Ginger Baker.
You can't imagine, even with hyper-space imagining goggles, how surprised I was to get a call informing me I had abandoned my wife on a deserted island known as Australia, somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. Her name is Felchyana Finger, which is either an incredible coincidence or the tart has even taken to using my name. I called her a filthy liar, and now that's added into the lawsuit. Oh, yes—she's suing me for abandonment. And now slander. As far as I'm concerned, she can sue me for complete forgetment, because apparently she has a case for that more than anything else.
People, believe me, if I knew I had a wife, I never would have started up with Ginger Baker. Heart be damned, and loins be voodoo'd. I am not the kind of man who goes out milking cows when he has a jug of milk at home, even if it's goat's milk. Actually, I have never met this Felchyana character, and I can't fathom how I would even meet an Australian. But we were married. Her lawyer has pictures of me with her and everything. I'm not sure how they got me into that ridiculous Wild Kingdom get-up, but the woman tricked me into marrying her, there's obviously no end to her powers.
Not that I've met her—beyond our time of marriage, that is. We're speaking through attorneys, her attorney and me, who is representing myself. He's a nice fellow, her attorney Nick Digby, but you can't understand a damned thing the man says. I suppose they all speak that way on his primitive island.
Nice, yes, but he's been spinning some cock-and-balls story about the FBI giving me a new identity, me hiding from the mob, then some nonsense about getting kidnapped by pirates. Honestly, do they think me an idiot? What kind of sane person goes around offending the mob, marrying Australians, and turning pirate overnight? It doesn't sound like me at all. I'm not buying it.
But, from a legal standpoint, Digby and the foul-mouthed wife of mine have some kind of case, I can't deny that. Worse than that, they have me over a barrel, and it's full of piranha who are nibbling my kibbles 'n' bits. If I want to marry Ginger Baker—and I do—I'll have to find a way to settle things amicably with Ms. Down-Under. Or I suppose that's Mrs. Down-Under. No matter what lies she spins about me, the important thing is not to take it personally, just keep friendly, and try to walk out of this a single man.
In the interest of honesty, I have to tell Ginger Baker what kind of man she's marrying. What I'm trying to decide right now is whether to wait until after we're married, or if it's quite necessary I tell her before. My conscience is telling me the latter, but I'm not sure how much I can trust my conscience, given that I'm a man who has huge gaps in his memory and has married women at the drop of a veil before. Ah, the dilemma! Torn between two women, only one of whom I really want. I suppose many men would happily trade places with me. If anyone wants to, try to match my height and my approximate looks so Felchyana won't be able to distinguish us. º Last Column: Ol' Lee Loves Chachiº more columns
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Quote of the Day“Fortune is a fickle bitch. No, wait… I'm thinking of my wife. That's right, my wife's the fickle bitch. Fortune is some transcendentalist concept.”
-Martoon RomeoFortune 500 CookieQuick, put these shoes on—walk around in them to get comfortable, if you need to. This week, fasten your seatbelt for the ride of your life. Straight over the goddamn cliff and everything. Sure, when you say a dog talks to you, everybody believes you, but make it a rhesus monkey and all of a sudden you're "crazy." Now here's Trip with the sports.
Try again later.Top Reasons for Increased U.S. Ladder-Associated Deaths| 1. | "Up/Down" directions never specified | | 2. | Reckless Generation Y refuses to wear protective equipment | | 3. | Ladder-deaths portrayed so glamorously in the movies | | 4. | Frequent union strikes by staircases leaving human helpless to descend to higher landings except by already overcrowded ladders | | 5. | Direct correlation to 50% increase in all-blind-cast productions of Our Town | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Skippy LeBonne 3/17/2003 Alphabet SoupMonday, March 17, 2003
Anemic anteaters
from Azerbaijan
bounce from brassieres
and bark at batons.
Cold-water codfish cause
cramps in the colon of a
dark-dimpled debutante
named Deborah Dedolin.
East of the egg factory, eyes can enjoy
fat-fingered Francophiles
fasting in festive Flournoy.
"Great!" gabbed the grouse-eating Gregory Gregross.
"How homey, a heart heals in the hearths of hosts."
Incredulous Incans inspect his inflection while
judicious Japanese gents make joking suggestions.
Kiss-kindling Kansans knit knives in a knot as
laconic Laotians look lazy a lot.
Merely making mention of meatloaf as he might
Nicholas Nanewton needs news...
Monday, March 17, 2003
Anemic anteaters
from Azerbaijan
bounce from brassieres
and bark at batons.
Cold-water codfish cause
cramps in the colon of a
dark-dimpled debutante
named Deborah Dedolin.
East of the egg factory, eyes can enjoy
fat-fingered Francophiles
fasting in festive Flournoy.
"Great!" gabbed the grouse-eating Gregory Gregross.
"How homey, a heart heals in the hearths of hosts."
Incredulous Incans inspect his inflection while
judicious Japanese gents make joking suggestions.
Kiss-kindling Kansans knit knives in a knot as
laconic Laotians look lazy a lot.
Merely making mention of meatloaf as he might
Nicholas Nanewton needs news of the night:
"Only obliging an orange or one oat…
perhaps peas, persimmons, parsley? Please promote
quietly, quaintly and quite quick the quality of radishes and rubarb and ruffled red roe!
Salmon swim stateside and slip slightly slow
through thoughts that trip toward the tip of my toe,
underneath unusual ulcers until or unless
venomous vitamins vent my vile stress."
Wouldn't we want well-worded wishes which
examine such exciting expository expertise on dishes?
"Yes, young Yertle, yesterday you might. Yet
zebras zipping zeppelins is too much. Goodnight."   |