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America's Stoners on 'Extremely High' AlertFebruary 17, 2003 |
Madison, Wisconsin Snapper McGee An unidentified legalization advocate follows chart instruction, enabling him to ease tension and consider the tenuous nature of molecular bonds.
"American pharmacological enthusiasts are as stressed out as anyone," said journalist J.D. Weber. "The economy is as bad as it gets, war with Iraq is becoming inevitable, and there's tremendous fear of some kind of terrorist attack. Now, more than ever, relief is needed. Primo relief."
Weber is one of the reporters working on a special edition of High Times magazine announcing a status of "Extremely High" Alert, expected to come out in March, assuming the staff doesn'...
ensions in the country are great in recent weeks, and everyone is going to great lengths to alleviate those tensions. Work helps some, planning for tough times makes others feel secure; then, there's America's stoners, who turn to alternative stress relieving systems during times of trouble.
"American pharmacological enthusiasts are as stressed out as anyone," said journalist J.D. Weber. "The economy is as bad as it gets, war with Iraq is becoming inevitable, and there's tremendous fear of some kind of terrorist attack. Now, more than ever, relief is needed. Primo relief."
Weber is one of the reporters working on a special edition of High Times magazine announcing a status of "Extremely High" Alert, expected to come out in March, assuming the staff doesn't flake on getting the layout to the printers in time.
"It's a revolutionary political stance for stoner culture, and High Times magazine by extension, which is the periodical of choice for that culture," stated Weber, very slowly. " High Times has taken political stances before, but this is bigger than the legalization argument. Unless politicians in turn ask us if we think it should be legalized, because we still stand for that. But our worldview is bigger now. These are hard times, and we need hard solutions, big, overflowing plastic bags of hard solutions."
Accompanying the article, High Times will be introducing a color-coded "Buzz-Killer" chart. Included on the chart will be colors correlated to the intensity of the threat the country is currently experiencing, as well as a number of hand-rolled cigarettes depicted that increase in number depending on the severity of the bring-down.
The first level, green, means that everything's copasetic. Engage in what you will, when you will, at your own discretion.
The second level, blue, means bummer. Increased intake of mood enhancers is encouraged, but never take more than you can handle. Exceeding normal dosages is not cool, dude.
The second level, yellow, means whoa, whoa, whoa, let's chill out. It's a good time to experiment with new, better-grade stuff. South America will be called upon to increase production and hopefully we can all just relax, no big deal, cool?
The third level, the current level, is "extremely high," and the color is yellow. At this time getting as much as you can and keeping a steady flow of easiness coming in is highly recommended. Hoarding, at long last, is cool. Even squares who usually get high on life are encouraged to experiment to forget their troubles.
After that, the highest color is red, and no contingency plan has been developed for that, but insiders are saying if that time comes and you have your hands on some hard stuff, indulge like the sky's falling, motherfucker.
Another color, purple, represents "narc." It is the only condition where even minor usage is highly discouraged. Before the condition passes, it should be ascertained that everyone in your company is cool. All possessions should be carefully hidden out of sight as long as the condition is in effect.
Before the interview with Weber could be concluded, this reporter was informed the condition had changed suddenly to purple without warning, and it would likely stay in effect as long as I was present in the room. the commune news is just wondering if you're holding, compadre—sure, we're cool. Bludney Pludd? No. He's not cool. Decidedly uncool. Let's ditch him.
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Microsoft promises to eradicate spam and free thought by 2006
 Bush Admonishes Tornado's Cut and Run Policy
Condoleezza Rice refuses to answer Iraq question, takes the physical challenge
 Brit Sailor Apology Video Obviously Just Photo with Superimposed Talking Lips |
Media Plugs CIA Leak ne the most potentially controversial stories in recent years was successfully nipped in the bud by the Bush White House and its ever-faithful assistant, the national news media, as the ongoing story of former Cheney Chief of Staff Lewis Libby’s indictment, the first of a sitting White House official in history, was relegated to page 3 by bored news directors and other major Republican-driven news stories. Libby, called “Scooter” by his many enemies, is the first and likely only casualty of the under-covered story of a White House leak, in which the identity of a working CIA operative, conveniently the wife of Bush opponent Joseph Wilson. Wilson’s wife Valerie Plame was outed as a spy by a conservative columnist, and his source was traced back to the White House. While liberals hoped the 22-month investigation by Special Counsel Patrick Fitzgerald would reveal the dirty tactic came from a source as high as presidential counselor Karl Rove, the most the Democrats could succeed with was a guy named Scooter. And the victory itself was short-lived. French Protestors Politely Riot urious French protestors continued to riot over the weekend, gently overturning traffic cones and unleashing salvos of pithy wit at assembled riot police across some of the roughest neighborhoods in all of Paris. The riots began the previous week in the Seine-Saint-Denis suburb northeast of Paris, sparked by what officials believe was a disagreement over food. “Those incorrigible police buffoons know nothing of fine chocolate!” said impassioned teenage rioter Jean Touloc, only in French. The urbane French police were overwhelmed almost before the rioting even began, requiring the French Army to be brought in last week. The army surrendered four hours later, and plans were being drawn up for a transitional government when some joker switched out the treaty-signing pen with a novelty model that laughs electronically when you try to write with it. The rioters, perhaps correctly believing that they were not being taken seriously, stepped up their boisterous chants of “We beg to differ!” and their disorderly milling-about. Bob Barker Ceases to Exist After Retiring From Television Tree Bark Face Turns Out to Be Likeness of Jesus Lookalike Vance Waxman |
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 April 5, 2004
Ransom, Lose SomeMy sympathy goes out to the girl who tried to fake her kidnapping last week—hey, I've been there, sister. Whether you're just trying to get attention or making a serious bid for money, it doesn't matter, they always catch you. All these successful kidnapping movies you see just make you think you can get away with it—Ransom, Silence of the Lambs… actually, they didn't get away with it, so maybe the movies are innocent on this one.
I never got away with any of my fake kidnappings. I had enough real ones to establish some credibility that someone actually thought I was steal-worthy, but I wasn't very good at pulling off hoaxes. I like fresh air too much, I suppose, which is probably what the Wisconsin girl's problem was. She was seen parading around town, buying hoax supplies like hoax rope and joke knives and shit. I only hung out in neighborhoods, I never went on shopping sprees or anything. That's one for Clarissa.
Come to think of it, I was usually between 9 and 13 when I faked my kidnappings. What was her excuse? By college age I sure had enough brains to b.s. my way to a convincing kidnapping. Something really believable, like there were two kidnappers, one looked like Danny Terio but a little Horschacky in the face, and the other one had a big beard and looked like Grizzly Adams, but despite his menacing appearance, he was the one who was kind to me—brought me cold sodas and let me watch TV on a portable black-and-white...
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My sympathy goes out to the girl who tried to fake her kidnapping last week—hey, I've been there, sister. Whether you're just trying to get attention or making a serious bid for money, it doesn't matter, they always catch you. All these successful kidnapping movies you see just make you think you can get away with it— Ransom, Silence of the Lambs… actually, they didn't get away with it, so maybe the movies are innocent on this one.
I never got away with any of my fake kidnappings. I had enough real ones to establish some credibility that someone actually thought I was steal-worthy, but I wasn't very good at pulling off hoaxes. I like fresh air too much, I suppose, which is probably what the Wisconsin girl's problem was. She was seen parading around town, buying hoax supplies like hoax rope and joke knives and shit. I only hung out in neighborhoods, I never went on shopping sprees or anything. That's one for Clarissa.
Come to think of it, I was usually between 9 and 13 when I faked my kidnappings. What was her excuse? By college age I sure had enough brains to b.s. my way to a convincing kidnapping. Something really believable, like there were two kidnappers, one looked like Danny Terio but a little Horschacky in the face, and the other one had a big beard and looked like Grizzly Adams, but despite his menacing appearance, he was the one who was kind to me—brought me cold sodas and let me watch TV on a portable black-and-white set. Occasionally they would get nervous when they thought cops might be closing in, so they hid me in a closet in a burlap bag but the big one gave me a flashlight because I was scared of the dark. I could hear them through the door, arguing about whether or not they should just kill me and forget the money, but the big guy resisted, given his sweet nature. Eventually the nervous Danny Terio-Horschacky guy lost his cool and tried to ice me with a knife, but the big guy wrestled him away and had to snap his neck to stop him, but not before Danny Terio-Horschacky stabbed him in the belly. Regretful, he freed me from the closet and drove me to a bus station where I could contact my parents, and I asked him if he would be alright, and he said he would, but he was bleeding too bad and messing up the interior of his 1982 Pontiac Firebird. I got out and waved good-bye, knowing I'd never see him again, and that's how I managed to get away, but I don't know the way back.
Damn, that was good. I almost convinced myself I really was kidnapped. I suppose it's possible it's another real kidnapping from my TV days and I just repressed it or something, but I don't think so.
No matter what your reason, though, or how excellent and even poignant the story you make up is, fake kidnappings aren't worth the time. I should do a public service announcement like that. If you want money, hell, there's tons of easier ways to do it. Dealing drugs in minority neighborhoods is one way to make a fortune without ever drawing the attention of cops, but you have to be careful, because if you're a 20-year-old white girl selling heroin you might not be able to defend your turf well against local drug kingpins. But then again, maybe they'll appreciate your spunk. Make you a mascot for their drug trade or something.
And if you want attention, trust me, join a cult. It's like a legitimate kidnapping, drives the folks batshit and they give you a place to sleep and robes to wear. It's like a little vacation at a mind-control resort. Parents will even pay to have people kidnap you back, it's crazy cool. That's how we got my brother Poot back the first couple of cults he joined. Dad didn't pay the kidnapper, but he cooked some great steaks and we had a fun barbecue. The kidnapper was Freddy Mercury, but don't even get me started on that. I'm just trying to let all the kids know, if you're hard up for money or attention, sleeping in the woods and causing a national media frenzy is not always the answer. Sometimes. But not always. º Last Column: Let the Buyer Bewareº more columns
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|  December 23, 2002
A Mission of Utmost ImpertinenceI have locked the door and bolted it from the outside. I have turned off all stove implementations and heat-producing devices, and when I couldn't turn them off, I moved them next to the cold- and water-producing devices so as to prevent a fire before it starts. I have left instructions for my papers and mail to be picked up by that greasy-headed drug-dealing neighbor of mine; in short, I'm off.
This is no mere vacation I engage in, a trip to some faraway state that's really more of the same, just to sit down for holiday dinner with people I can barely tolerate. This is a mission of life-and-death importance, and the dinner with people I can barely tolerate will have to be squeezed in, is possible, for this is serious shit I am getting into.
Readers will remember the conspiracy of such great import I have told you nothing about it, and that at the last column it came to a head deserving of popping. This is where I go now, loyal readers, and I take with me beloved anachronism Sampson L. Hartwig as a human shield; that is to say, loyal companion.
Hartwig was the only one who met my qualifications, the first one I asked who agreed to go. True, I didn't really ask anyone after Hartwig, meaning most of the staff, but when you have the right man you need why waste countless hours looking for younger, more qualified human shields? Which is to say, loyal companions?
I'm glad he's coming along, since he can carry much more than...
º Last Column: I Am Gathering a Troupe for a Journey
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I have locked the door and bolted it from the outside. I have turned off all stove implementations and heat-producing devices, and when I couldn't turn them off, I moved them next to the cold- and water-producing devices so as to prevent a fire before it starts. I have left instructions for my papers and mail to be picked up by that greasy-headed drug-dealing neighbor of mine; in short, I'm off.
This is no mere vacation I engage in, a trip to some faraway state that's really more of the same, just to sit down for holiday dinner with people I can barely tolerate. This is a mission of life-and-death importance, and the dinner with people I can barely tolerate will have to be squeezed in, is possible, for this is serious shit I am getting into.
Readers will remember the conspiracy of such great import I have told you nothing about it, and that at the last column it came to a head deserving of popping. This is where I go now, loyal readers, and I take with me beloved anachronism Sampson L. Hartwig as a human shield; that is to say, loyal companion.
Hartwig was the only one who met my qualifications, the first one I asked who agreed to go. True, I didn't really ask anyone after Hartwig, meaning most of the staff, but when you have the right man you need why waste countless hours looking for younger, more qualified human shields? Which is to say, loyal companions?
I'm glad he's coming along, since he can carry much more than I can. Also, Sampson knows several good stories, and he's told them all in his columns so it will be interesting to see what kind of babbling banter he produces around a campfire. Perhaps his silver tongue can keep us from getting thrown out of Motel 6s when we continually light campfires, I can't say. All I know is good company is better than bad company, especially their Fame and Fortune LP.
Why the mystery, you ask? Why the secrecy? I can't tell you, damn you for even asking. You should know by now Papa Bagel dishes out the details when he's good and ready, and when it won't result in your deaths by the thousands—the thanks I get is repeated questions and inane whining buggering me like a prison bunkmate. Keep your patience, for I will return in time, and when I do, all will be revealed. Check out the Playgirl spread in March.
Until then, I leave your favorite news source in good hands. And for those of you who said " The New York Times," fuck you, that joke's old enough to travel by telegraph. For those who sincerely said "the commune," thanks for your loyalty and I promise that acting Editor Ramrod Hurley will be running a tight ship in my absence. For those of you who said "Yeah, the Titanic"… I got to give you that one. Good one at Ramrod's expense. I'm going to tell that to the office crew during lunch.
Mr. Hurley will be not only replacing me in charge of the editorial business, but will be substituting for myself in this column for the duration of my motley absence. Try to be kind to him, his evil twin brother has been showing up lately and leaving torched cars in his wake.
Why must I go, you ask? I just told you, you blithering morons. But in short, America stands for many things to many people, but underneath the political spin, the propaganda, the flag-waving, and everything else, America should stand for complete and unrelenting truth. It's what great authors have devoted themselves to, it's what the heroes of revolutions have died for, and it's what our Constitution stands to support when all else fails.
As for what complete and unrelenting truths I'm fighting for, well, again, I can't tell you that just yet. But at least I'm not going to lie about it. See you when I see you. º Last Column: I Am Gathering a Troupe for a Journeyº more columns
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Milestones1983: Reporter Raoul Dunkin begins down the long road of abandoning teams when things get rough, quitting a dodgeball match due to some minor bone fracturing.Now HiringYou. Seeking dedicated, hard-working you of moderate intelligence to engage in commune reading, web-surfing, and other you-centered activities. Payment and benefits to be based on experience.Best Selling Albums| 1. | Come On
Britney Spears | | 2. | I Keep Returning Like Freddy Krueger
Madonna | | 3. | Passable Generic Metal
Creed | | 4. | Farting to Critical Raves
Radiohead | | 5. | Fossils
Aerosmith | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Vinder Ferfsson 9/16/2011 The Goth Chick With the Attitude
Tuesday, January 18-Thursday, January 20
The Chief Inspector walked the courtyard, wishing he had worn something more suited to the Icelandic weather, even something slightly more masculine. But they only played The Rocky Horror Picture Show once a month, and he promised himself when he started work as a homicide detective he wasn’t going to give up his personal life for anything. Still, the nylons weren’t as flattering as his plaid trousers.
An outline in the snow marked where the body had fallen.
Grooves marked where it had been dragged away.
To where, nobody knew.
It was a classic "whodunnitandwhere’ditgoaftertheydunnit."
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Humdrummus Pretentious. In the...
Tuesday, January 18-Thursday, January 20
The Chief Inspector walked the courtyard, wishing he had worn something more suited to the Icelandic weather, even something slightly more masculine. But they only played The Rocky Horror Picture Show once a month, and he promised himself when he started work as a homicide detective he wasn’t going to give up his personal life for anything. Still, the nylons weren’t as flattering as his plaid trousers.
An outline in the snow marked where the body had fallen.
Grooves marked where it had been dragged away.
To where, nobody knew.
It was a classic "whodunnitandwhere’d itgoaftertheydunnit."
*
Humdrummus Pretentious. In the native tongue, it’s known as a crimson willow. It was brought to the continent by African immigrants as far back as 200 A.D. The long off-yellow stem gives the bulbous red petals a perch from which to adjaksdfaskdadjksdasa Oh, shit, did I doze while typing that? Well, fuck me, it’s a flower. You can’t expect me to really care about background information on a flower. Where’d the goddamn murder mystery go? Still waiting for a stupid body. Let’s just pretend we went through the unnecessary flower background, it’s important for a red herring later. Shit, wasn’t supposed to say "red herring." But that does make me hungry. Let me grab lunch.
*
Hansel Bergenbjörgenfurd had lost everything that mattered to him. His keys as well. He had to rent a car to take him up to the Forfürgen Estate. Never in all of his career as a down-and-out crime reporter had he ever seen such a palatial mansion. Everyone at the Forfürgen Estate was so rich they could afford to dress every letter on every sign in umlauts. As a young boy in Reykjavik, Bergenbjörgenfurd had dreamed of having multiple-umlaut wealth. But like his once-promising journalistic career, all of Bergenbjörgenfurd’s dreams had died.
Through the umlaut-laden hallway he passed, admiring the pictures of long-dead relatives who might be important later, I’m just saying. The butler, because I should have mentioned there was a butler, led him into the Lunch Hall, which was adjacent to the Breakfast Hall and on the opposite wing from the Brunch Hall, the Dinner Hall, and one floor beneath the Midnight Snack Hall. There waited Erbst Skafaldingyad.
"Mr. Bergenbjörgenfurd," said Erbst Skafaldingyad.
"Please, call me Hansel," Bergenbjörgenfurd insisted.
"I wouldn’t dream of it, Mr. Bergenbjörgenfurd," said Erbst Skafaldingyad, smoking a Barginfarg brand cigarette. "Let’s cut to business, Mr. Bergenbjörgenfurd: I wish to hire you."
Bergenbjörgenfurd was stunned, and slightly exhausted. "I don’t work as a reporter anymore. I don’t care how much money you have."
"We have all the money," Skafaldingyad said. "All of the money in Iceland."
"Oh, then I do care."
"We have a murder we wish you to investigate," said Skafaldingyad. "If you are successful, it could restore both your name… and your career. But you will need help. The help of a Goth chick. With an attitude."
*
At home with her laptop computer, Muriel Salamander crunched on Snöktjargon cookies and surfed the internet. She had hacked the bank account of a disreputable corporate slimeball and was transferring all his money to NOW, just for laughs. She was always doing such things of a highly moral nature and questionable legal status. It helped her forget the horrible secret in her past, which is revealed on page 435, if you simply can’t wait to find out later.
She was a girl of modest height, with jet-black hair that she dyed even blacker, shining green eyes that all innocence had left, a killer body, several tattoos on her neck of unicorns and lygers, and a giant nosering.
A knock at the door grabbed her attention. Could that be the cops there again? She mistrusted all cops, and all men. Most cops were men, so she mistrusted them twice as hard.
She cracked the door, then figured she could continue her kung fu later, the guy was still knocking. Opening the door only part way, she saw an older man that she was inexplicably hot for.
Bergenbjörgenfurd was shocked by the appearance of the girl inside the apartment, particularly the gold nose ring she wore. I should mention that while it’s 2011 in much of the world, it’s 1988 in Iceland.
"Muriel Salamander? The Goth Chick With the Attitude?" asked Bergenbjörgenfurd. He held up pictures of an empty, body-shaped gouge in the snow. "I need your help finding a dead man. And then solving that dead man’s murder."   |
