NASA Photographs Infuriate Shut-Ins, Conspiracy Geeks

August 5, 2002

Tempe, AZ

Courtesy Of Nasa

Clear photo of "The Face" underlines need for Martian pooper-scooper law

ew infrared images from NASA's Mars Odyssey orbiter featuring the long-debated formation known as the "Face on Mars" have sent shockwaves through the shut-in and conspiracy geek communities. Anxious and unbathed web surfers who expected the infrared pictures to provide new revelations about the features voiced their disappointment, saying the new images are bullshit because they don't show any kind of recognizable face at all, just a couple of bumps in the dirt.

NASA claims this is because there never was a face, stupid, only a trick of light and shadow fueled by desperate weirdoes who haven't worked in years. Fans of the face contend that it was only the lack of "night-vision" imagery that failed to expose the Sphinxlike visage they have come to know and love. NASA responded with a patronizing smile and a hand gesture indicating "okaaay."

The debate over the Face has simmered for the last twenty-five years, since NASA's Viking orbiters transmitted pictures of the Cydonia region that appeared to show a half-shadowed, helmeted face staring up from the planet's surface like some kind of cross between Kermit the Frog and Han Solo. Since then, additional formations have been identified as the "Alien Conspiracy Pyramid," "the Mounds of Xena" and so forth â€” and fans of the Face have argued that the formations showed evidence of a vast Martian civilization populated by breathtaking huge-breasted women incapable of resisting the charms of virginal 30 year-old earth men.

In the past five years, sharper imagery from NASA's Mars Global Surveyor orbiter popped a big-ol' hole in that over-inflated fantasy balloon, confirming the mainstream view that the Face and the other formations were nothing more than a whole lot of wind-eroded dirt, much like everything else on Mars. But die-hard fans of the Face refused to give up hope, disregarding the newer photos as hoaxes and propaganda, and confusing everyone in their apartment buildings by going as "The Face" for Halloween.

The new Mars Odyssey images are unique in that they were taken using infrared light, unlike the visible light used for the Viking and Global Surveyor images of Cydonias. This allowed for day or night photography unhindered by shadows. Many fans of the Face, however, took issue with NASA's methodology.

"We got gypped," griped Thomas Reinhold of Jackson, Miss. "They totally lead us to believe they were going to be doing some nighttime infrared imagery, not just daytime. What if the face only comes out at night? Didn't think of that, did you, NASA?"

"He said what?" questioned Tony Rice, a member of the Arizona State University imaging team that worked with NASA on the project. "Jesus. Thanks to AOL, every kind of mook can get on the net now."

The Arizona State imaging research team denied any unique features belonging to the mesas that make up the Face. "What do we have to do, draw you people a map?" Rice questioned. "Oh, wait, that's right. We already did that. Morons."

No stranger to being called morons, the Face fans press on with their hunt for the truth.

"Those white-coated government lackeys over at NASA can conspiratize all they want, but we know the truth," boasted Elmer Noonan of Vine Grove, KY. "We've seen the pictures. The first picture, anyway. All the other ones after that were bullshit. A total governmental cover-up, straight out of the handbook. If it hadn't been for that Libertarian dude working at NASA back in '76, we never would have got to see that original image of the face. I bet those NASA guys have been kicking themselves every day since they released that thing. Ha. Jerks."

"We're putting new stuff out there every day for the public to look at," Rice said while playing with a hole in the bottom of his shoe. "I don't know what their problem is. Oh, right. The conspiracy. I almost forgot. Well, you're going to have to excuse me while I conspire to drive my shitty little Tercel over to Arby's and eat a roast beef sandwich for lunch."

the commune news needs a hero: he's got to be strong and he's got to be fast and he's got to know where and how to dispose of an incredibly obese dead body. Mordecai "Three Finger" Brown has been spending a lot more time haunting the commune offices lately, ever since he tired of his gig chasing a buffalo through Kevin Costner's nightmares.

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January 21, 2002

Sick and Tired

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If there are three sure signs that you're getting butt-raped by lady luck, they're these: you're sick, you're stuck in a waiting room watching a Behind the Music special on someone under the age of ten, and you're listening to Aaron Neville.

This past week I found myself with the lady's strap-on broken off in my poop basket for sure, as I came down with some heinous malady and spent the better part of an hour in some doctor's waiting room before this mannish nurse-thing told me that they didn't accept my "Skipper's Choice: Long John Silver's Health Insurance Discount Card." Before I could lodge a protest, or even throw an elbow, I found myself being dumped out onto the sidewalk by a pair of orderlies the size of East German ballerinas. You can bet the double-mortgaged farm that I cursed the commune and their shitheel "benefits package" the whole way home.

According to the Physician's Desk Reference, I have the Polynesian Swine Flu. I blame that bastard Ramon Nootles. If anyone in this office has been getting up-close and personal with Polynesian swine, it's Nootles.

I've been coughing up some kind of incredibly nasty gelatinous mustard all day. So far I've been on the phone to UNICEF, the CDC and MAPO about this, but none of them have been able to help me. That third company actually makes machines that process taco shells, I'm not sure who I thought they were supposed to be.

What's up with this supposedly space-age society we're living in? We can put a man on the moon, and write a song about it, but we can't eradicate these germs? And what about the mosquitoes, and horse flies? What the hell good is the military if we're at he mercy of these vermin? I'm all for downsizing the militaryâ€”if by that you mean shrinking the tanks and missiles down to miniature proportions to blow up viruses and box-elder bugs and whatnot. I can't be the first one who's thought of this.

I've drank so much cough syrup in the last two days that I went to work three times this morning before I realized that I was still laying naked in my bathtub at home, wrapped up in the shower curtain like a pig in a blanket. From there I started going through my medicine cabinet alphabetically, hoping to hit upon some miraculous flu-curing combination somewhere in that pharmacological potluck. No luck so far, but a word to the wise: those herpes pills may provide a powerful buzz, but you'll also grow a third eye in your asscrack. Sometimes it pays to read the small print.

One thing I've learned is that it's best to buy a shot glass specifically for NyQuil shots. That shitty little Dixie cup they give you is worthless, and trust me, your regular shots will taste like Martian ass from that day forward if you try to multi-task with one shot glass. You'll never that disturbing tang all the way out.

I feel like I'm sitting in my own head, looking out at a movie about desk accessories. Good God, that's creepy. I plan to spend this afternoon finding a way to mechanically suction out my sinuses, and also take a jack-handle to whoever's been piping in this Aaron Neville. Again, I suspect Nootles.

Sweet Lord, let me die. I think I just coughed up my own nuts. Bricks out.

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April 5, 2004

Full Retreat

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Astute commune readers or other mythological creatures might have noticed the long sustained absence of new material over the past couple of weeks. It was the first time since 2001, the year I got my first checkbook and rented commune office space, that we've taken an extended absence from news reportage. I apologize, but it couldn't be helped, as everyone here had lost their minds.

That might be a possible exaggeration. Lefty the commune mail clerk seemed perfectly within her normal rationale, but she was particularly grumpy on the ride to the Funsational Summer Corporate Retreat and Motivational Seminar, on the commune bus, also known as the Damned Bus. Everyone was in a not so good mood, which is to say no one was in a good mood, but it was yet another of my kind concessions to brother Gay to make the commune a more profitable experience over the long haul.

Despite the silly name, Gay did NOT have fun at the Retreat. Sure, he had a ball when the clowns were doing their thing, and the white college Republican rap troupe broke it down for us, and I could see him really moved by motivational speaker Slick Hodges. But then came the group therapy session, where we attempted to learn about our own personalities in the work place, outside of the actual work place, and the hard bitter truth ran right into his sweet spots.

We tried a dandy trust exercise, where we split into groups and, blindfolded, had to put up a tent. It ended in a lot of pain for Gay, who found a tent post painfully inserted somewhere, only partially, thank God, by one or more of his teammates. Ted Ted is the angriest and most outspoken, so the obvious suspect, but he lacks the physical strength to force a tent post into the human body, while Stigmata Spent had the sheer muscle to do itâ€”but still, someone had to hold him down. Despite the animosity toward my brother, and the fact they didn't get the tent set up, the session leader still had to admit they showed impressive teamwork in the endeavor.

As always, role-playing followed, and without going into much detail, let's just say it soon degenerated into everyone doing their Gay Bagel impersonations. My favorite was Ivana Folger-Balzac's, which consists of wagging a finger and yelling gibberish like "Habba habba habba! Habba ha!" Which is not to discredit humorless Shabozz Wertham, who puts on a pointy white hat and straightens his tie while saying, in a very Gay voice, "About time for my weekly cross-burning!" That brings down the house. Oh, and then there'sâ€”well, perhaps I should return to my earlier policy of less description. Gay wasn't very happy with this therapy, and the session leader scolded us, saying we should role-play more than one person to do it right.

To our great surprise, it did help us realize our problemsâ€”Gay. The unlicensed psychology student conducting the therapy sessions suggested we feel pressure from Gay to do well, and Gay confirmed it, interrupting the student and making her cry. Many of the staffers complained about the new weekly schedule, saying it was more work than they were used toâ€”one story or column a week is taxing the talents of my crew, and they long for the old days of the semi-weekly schedule. Actually, they long for the days of childhood when they could eat popsicles and screw around all summer, but I'm powerless about that. But the semi-weekly thing I could do something about.

So the rift is wider and more pissed-off-filled than ever between Gay and I, since I broke our deal and put the commune back on its semi-weekly format. But anything to make my staff happier. It is important I mention that, in the end, I'm glad Gay came aboard here at the commune. Before they hated me, or Raoul Dunkin, or Ramrod Hurley, and all the back-stabbing, bad-mouthing, and vandalism really started to pull our family apart. But now I'm on the inside with it allâ€”we've united against a common enemy, my brother. And they've got a point, of course, he really is a dick.

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Milestones

1978: Griswald Dreck's landmark third grade report "George Washington: Star of the Negro Leagues" creates a fervor in the classroom, leading to the firing of third grade teacher Anais Brockmiller and a thorough review of the state's history textbooks.

Now Hiring

Eunuch. No job really, just sit around and answer questions about what it's like to be a eunuch. Maybe take a blow to the groin to no effect every once in a while to impress office visitors and guests. Talking in a Mickey Mouse voice might be kinda funny too.

Top Frustrating Wi-Fi Dead Spots

1.	Flower bed outside ex-wife's bedroom window
2.	Antarctica. Most of it.
3.	Men's room at the zoo
4.	Twilight Zone
5.	Raging Waters: the whole goddamned theme park

North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie

BY Turner Volst

2/14/2005

A Time for Dead

His pants were too tight, Spencer Chowheim thought as he attempted to get comfortable in his sniper perch. Should've bought a 33 waist. Harder to find, sure, and seldom available on the discount rack. But at moments like this, the moment of truth, the difference made a difference. Chowheim squirmed inside his slightly-too-tight trousers.

"Maybe I'm getting fat?" he thought to himself and others. Hmm. An intriguing notion. Chowheim quickly calculated his up-to-the-minute Body Mass Index, based on his internal sense of blood pressure and the level of resistance he felt from the roof's granulated concrete surface. 28.4, same as always. It had to be the pants. A shame too, since historically, 34% of failed missions turned on ill-fitting couture. He sucked it in, vowing to himself to be the exception.

He would admit to friends, if he'd had any, that this was an unusual mission. He thought he'd seen it all during his eight year tenure as a highly in-demand rogue double agent, and one so skilled he'd been able to skip the normal single agent phase entirely, shooting straight into the big time of espionage. But he'd never been asked to shoot a deer before. At first he thought it must be a typo, written with a finger in the dust on his car's passenger side window, the way he always received his top secret missions. He'd figured Deer must be the last name of some deadly ex-KGB killing machine proficient in seventeen languages and Russo-karate. But over his customary eighteen months of research and preparation, Chowheim realized how wrong he had been. This was no ordinary deer.

This deer had vital information about nukes in the former Eskimo stronghold of Newfoundland, Canada. A mole deer, a triple agent. A triple agent was the most impressive and complicated thing a spy could be, man or beast, since anyone who attempted to make the leap to quadruple agent invariably got confused and ended up just becoming the regular plain vanilla agent they were pretending to be during the course of their subterfuge times four.

When Chowheim thought about it, he realized how perfect the plan had been. Nobody ever expects a deer. National reaction to the Disney film Bambi had been overwhelmingly positive ever since it opened on 1,517 screens in 1942. Entire generations of Americans were ripe for this con. And with a deer's average lifespan of 17.4 years in the Northern hemisphere, there was plenty of time for ample training and invaluable field experience before the serious missions began. Plus, he'd heard deer could run pretty fast. Always a handy trick to have up one's triple-agenting sleeve when in a pinch.

Chowheim calibrated his sights again to compensate for the warming early-morning air. It was an odd place to expect a deer, a busy Manhattan street on a Tuesday morning, but double agents thrive on expecting the unexpected, and triple agents thrive on hiding in plain sight. This deer was good.

Then he appeared. Casually, by a newspaper stand. Chowheim aimed for the pulmonary aortal junction, the surest kill spot for a male buck deer without rolling the dice on a dicey skull shot. Remembering his months spent in veterinary school and the additional weeks he spent wearing a deer suit in the wild, Chowheim aimed just below the junction, allowing gravity to do some of the bleeding work for him. It was no use taking his chances creating a geyser of deer blood squirting up into the air, which some passing Good Samaritan might catch in a bucket and use to save the rogue deer's life. Chowheim squeezed off a silent round without needing to look, and quickly broke down his rifle.

After changing his clothes, facial hair and blood type on his way down the stairwell, Chowheim made a point of weaving into the crowd gathering around the ex-triple agent deer's now-lifeless body. Market research had shown that the last person anyone suspects is the guy with the handlebar mustache walking towards the action.

Chowheim cast a quick glance streetward to admire his handiwork as he passed, then froze in his tracks like a glacier hitting a landmine. Something wasn't right. Something very wasn't right.

Just then Chowheim realized he'd shot a dog. Not even a particularly deer-like dog, either, it was a French poodle. Shit, Chowheim thought. Then he thought shit again. After a quick calculation of odds, counter-odds, and evens in his head, he realized it was time for Plan D. Quadruple-agency, here he came.

For more of this great story, buy Turner Volst's
A Time for Dead