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Texas Scientist Regrets Cloning CatMarch 4, 2002 |
College Station, Texas Ansel Evans Mr Fluffers: Back and sassy as ever cientists at Texas A&M University received international attention last month when it was announced that they had successfully cloned a domestic cat, the first successful cloning of its kind. The cloned animal was a beloved lab cat named âMr. Fluffers,â who had met an untimely end in an acid-bath accident weeks earlier.
The research program, known as CopyCat, is rumored to be centered on the possible replication of household pets and the lucrative market this breakthrough could create. However, head researcher Mark Fuerbarker insisted that this first cloning was purely personal.
âSure, itâs truly a great day for science and for Texas A&M. But personally, I think weâre all just glad to have Mr. Fluffers back,â stated Fuerbarker.
Well, mayb...
cientists at Texas A&M University received international attention last month when it was announced that they had successfully cloned a domestic cat, the first successful cloning of its kind. The cloned animal was a beloved lab cat named âMr. Fluffers,â who had met an untimely end in an acid-bath accident weeks earlier. The research program, known as CopyCat, is rumored to be centered on the possible replication of household pets and the lucrative market this breakthrough could create. However, head researcher Mark Fuerbarker insisted that this first cloning was purely personal. âSure, itâs truly a great day for science and for Texas A&M. But personally, I think weâre all just glad to have Mr. Fluffers back,â stated Fuerbarker. Well, maybe not all of them. One scientist in the lab has gone on record stating that he thinks that they may have made a mistake, and perhaps not for the expected ethical reasons. According to Marty Lomas, who refers to the original cat as âMr. Fucker,â the cat âwas an obnoxious kitty primadonna who they never should have strained out of the acid bath for purposes of DNA collection. That cat was an asshole.â Lomas admits that his viewpoint is a controversial one in the Texas A&M labs, but scientists from around the world share his concerns. âIâve seen pictures of that cat they cloned,â confided Norwegian geneticist Olaf Sproutzel. âAnd it looks an awful lot like this hellspawn lab cat I had once, Blitzen. I swear, that thing could crap its body weight in a day and it always got into my lunch. I hated that cat.â Lomas expressed equal sorrow at the cloning that didnât happen. âThey had a $20 million dollar grant to spend on cloning research. They could have tried to bring back any kind of amazing asset to humanity, like Lincoln or MLK, or even Marilyn Monroe, so what do they do? They clone this douchebag cat that likes to leave hairs all over my keyboard and thinks it has the run of the research lab, getting all pissy when we invade its âterritoryâ. Fuckinâ knobs. Alright Mr. Fluffers, if you want to talk about territory, weâll settle this natureâs way with a little âsurvival of the fittest.â Iâll be right back, Iâve got a claw hammer in my car.â Lomas chuckled bitterly at the irony of the situation, his grief-stricken coworkers breaking new ground in cloning research in an effort to bring the cat back. He hints that the original cat âdidnât exactly meet a natural end, if you know what I mean. Where were these guys when Gandhi was shot? That might have been worth artificially inseminating some eggs over. But this vain, worthless puffball of a cat? Give me a break. How many times am I going to have to kill this damn cat, anyway? Maybe if I force-feed it enough asbestos these guys will cure cancer.â the commune news, looking out for number two since 1997. Especially when we're jogging. Ivana Folger-Balzac wants the world to know that it takes more than an acid bath to get rid of her, and that Ramrod Hurley can dig his anvil out of the sidewalk in front of the building any time now.
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 July 21, 2003
Volume 47Dear commune:
Who pooped on the communeâs parade lately? Talk about a bunch of sad sacks and down-about-the-facers! What this gang needs is some crisp, refreshing lemonade! What could be better than liquid refreshment on a hot summer day? Nothing! So why not buy some lemonade today? Only five cents a glass, while supplies last!
Sincerely,
Bobby Turner The sidewalk outside the commune offices
Dear Bobby:
Listen kid, if we wanted any of your fucking lemonade we would have bought some already instead of sending Ivana Folger-Balzac downstairs to kick your pitcher over and break your sign in half. Canât you take a goddamned hint? It was bad enough you had to ruin our mornings for weeks straight, sitting outside the commune offices with your puppy dog eyes and pathetically large quantities of unsold lemonade, riddling our already-riddled hearts with guilt. Canât you understand that the commune staff members work hard for their money, and five cents (though it may not seem like a lot to you with your freewheeling, ass-deep-in-lemons lifestyle) is actually a weekâs pay for some of these people? Apparently not. So youâve seen fit to torture our hearts further with your sorrowful refrains of "Doesnât anybody want any lemonade?" sung to the tune of "Bohemian Rhapsody" all day and night. And now, with the letters and voice mails!
Knock it off kid, our answering service is on the...
º Last Column: Volume 46 º more columns
Dear commune: Who pooped on the communeâs parade lately? Talk about a bunch of sad sacks and down-about-the-facers! What this gang needs is some crisp, refreshing lemonade! What could be better than liquid refreshment on a hot summer day? Nothing! So why not buy some lemonade today? Only five cents a glass, while supplies last! Sincerely, Bobby Turner The sidewalk outside the commune offices Dear Bobby:
Listen kid, if we wanted any of your fucking lemonade we would have bought some already instead of sending Ivana Folger-Balzac downstairs to kick your pitcher over and break your sign in half. Canât you take a goddamned hint? It was bad enough you had to ruin our mornings for weeks straight, sitting outside the commune offices with your puppy dog eyes and pathetically large quantities of unsold lemonade, riddling our already-riddled hearts with guilt. Canât you understand that the commune staff members work hard for their money, and five cents (though it may not seem like a lot to you with your freewheeling, ass-deep-in-lemons lifestyle) is actually a weekâs pay for some of these people? Apparently not. So youâve seen fit to torture our hearts further with your sorrowful refrains of "Doesnât anybody want any lemonade?" sung to the tune of "Bohemian Rhapsody" all day and night. And now, with the letters and voice mails!
Knock it off kid, our answering service is on the lite plan and only counts up to five: youâve already maxed us out for the month. Youâre milking a dry tit, kid, and you wonât have any better luck with our downstairs neighbors at Crochet! magazine either, theyâve been drinking nothing but sealed bottled water ever since Omar Bricks spiked the buildingâs water supply with mescaline last Halloween.
You just donât get it, do you kid? Apparently all the potted plants (thanks, Crochet!) Ted Ted has been dropping at you from our windows like some third-rate Atari game have failed to crack your thick skull in more ways than one. All right kid, we get the message. You want to play with the big boys? This means war.
the commune Editorâs Note: the commune is not responsible for any unintended casualties in our ongoing holy war with lemonade vendor Bobby Turner. If you donât want a metal plate holding your skull together, stay off the sidewalk.º Last Column: Volume 46º more columns
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|  March 26, 2012
Return to Zender (Week 50)Greetings, communistas. First and foremost, I must apologize for my absence and the hellish disrepair this site has fallen into in said absence. I had an unfortunate run-in with a Taco Bell Volcano Box and have spent the past few months in the loving care of the Shanesly/Rupert Valley Regional Memorial Hospital. Some might argue that four months is a longer than necessary stay for a common case of food poisoning, but just like the anti-drowning safety labels on all the bottled water sold in town say, we like to be careful here in Shanesly. And really there was no harm done, as Iâm sure my birthday party magicianâs guild insurance will more than cover the expenses.
The story of how all of this happened is far too graphic for young and impressionable readers, but suffice it to say that Volcano box lived up to its name and turned my box into a veritable volcano, overflowing with flaming human effluvia, if by box you understand I mean my asshole. I realize the term is usually reserved for a womanâs vaginal area, but I imagine gay guys or somebody somewhere calls a manâs ass a box as well, so there you go. Here at the commune headquarters, the inmates were left to run the asylum while I was gone, and I suppose it comes as no great shock that the inmates did a real half-assed job of asylum running. It doesnât look like weâve published much, but the staff somewhat made up for that by adding a wet, rotting Nerf refrigerator to my back yard, which apparently...
º Last Column: Return to Zender (Week 24) º more columns
Greetings, communistas. First and foremost, I must apologize for my absence and the hellish disrepair this site has fallen into in said absence. I had an unfortunate run-in with a Taco Bell Volcano Box and have spent the past few months in the loving care of the Shanesly/Rupert Valley Regional Memorial Hospital. Some might argue that four months is a longer than necessary stay for a common case of food poisoning, but just like the anti-drowning safety labels on all the bottled water sold in town say, we like to be careful here in Shanesly. And really there was no harm done, as Iâm sure my birthday party magicianâs guild insurance will more than cover the expenses.
The story of how all of this happened is far too graphic for young and impressionable readers, but suffice it to say that Volcano box lived up to its name and turned my box into a veritable volcano, overflowing with flaming human effluvia, if by box you understand I mean my asshole. I realize the term is usually reserved for a womanâs vaginal area, but I imagine gay guys or somebody somewhere calls a manâs ass a box as well, so there you go. Here at the commune headquarters, the inmates were left to run the asylum while I was gone, and I suppose it comes as no great shock that the inmates did a real half-assed job of asylum running. It doesnât look like weâve published much, but the staff somewhat made up for that by adding a wet, rotting Nerf refrigerator to my back yard, which apparently has a pack of ferrets living inside of it. Iâm afraid to ask where that thing came from, or why Nerf ever made flexible, spongy refrigerators. Whatever the reason, now itâs a collapsed floppy mess in the back yard that squeaks menacingly whenever you walk near it.
On the bright side, several more commune regulars wandered blindly back into the fray during my absence. Vernon Hooper accosted Raoul Dunkin at a local Dennyâs, mistaking him inexplicably for Rick Santorum. Freelance freeballers Ella Dipthong and Chals Woodland both sent in columns via the teletype system for deaf people that Mitch Kroeger stole from the old folksâ home he had been pretending to be old to live in, rent-free, for the last few years. In other words, weâve got all your old non-favorites. When it comes to re-configuring the commune, corralling the old staff has proved to be much easier than expected, since they all seem to be drawn to no pay and ill repute like fat, juicy moths to a house-sized bug zapper. Getting them to do their goddamned moth jobs once theyâre incapacitated and twitching on the ground is another story entirely. But at least theyâre fumbling their way through the door, even when Iâm not here to explain that the doggie door is for dogs only and that Mountain Dew Code Red in the fridge is most certainly not for the dog, as evidenced by the jittery red sprays of dog urine everywhere.
I even received a telegram from Red Bagel the other day, which simply read "HEâS COMING." Thatâs literally what it said, apparently Red still believes in the power of referring to himself in the third person. The telegram was most impressive for the fact that no telegraph services exist any more in modern times, apparently Bagel had to email the message to some local chunkhead, who then typed it out on some telegraph paper he bought at a garage sale.
The excitement around here would be even more palpable if I wasnât the only one who remembers who Red Bagel is.
Anyway, itâs great to be back. Iâd love to say this will never happen again, but Taco Bell has recently added a Dorito-shell taco to their menu, and we both know itâs only a matter of time before that thing is making babies in my stomach. Until then, we here at the commune will endeavor to provide the high degree of timely journalism you are in no way accustomed to from the commune. Set your eyeballs to "stunned"!
Zincerely,
Emil Zender º Last Column: Return to Zender (Week 24)º more columns
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Quote of the Day“My love is like a red, red wiiiine⌠go to my heaaaad⌠make me forgeeet⌠Wait. Sorry. My love is like a red, red rose⌠just like eeeeevery night has its daaaaaw- awawaaaan⌠Just like eeeevery cooowboy⌠Fuck.”
-A.D.DobbsFortune 500 CookieClowns don't hate you, they just feel sorry for you. Your "Don't Worry, Be Slappy" series of self-help books finally broke the five-copy sales barrier this week, and just got you sued by the estate of Slappy White. This week's lucky strikes: Clover-Workers' Union, ump didn't see ball careen off batter's jock and through strike zone, killed them all while they were dreaming about killing you, threw your ex-wife's severed head down lane on accident.
Try again later.Worst-Selling Breakfast Cereals| 1. | Scroats! | | 2. | Branimal Crackers | | 3. | Frosted Mini-Thins | | 4. | Too Much Fibre | | 5. | Vitamin Pill Crunch | | 6. | Unlucky Leprechaun Pocket Fuzz | | 7. | Byproducts | | 8. | Easter Peeps in Milk (milk included) | | 9. | Youâve Got Crabs | | 10. | Beano: The Cereal | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Pat Cheeks 7/7/2003 The Adventures of Sollsberry StakeIt wus'n nigh on 4 of the clock when I seen Rush Steamshed, mah ol mate. Rush is'n a first-rate buddy, real true, too. He'sn the kinder feller what would punch 'is own head 'fore he'd a punch you. You know the kindâreal stupid.
Rush wus'n playin on bein cowboys an injuns, but he'sn all lonesome goin 'bout it cuz'n it wuz only him. He ast me if'n I wanted to play with 'im, but I sed I wus'n too busy huntin up treasure.
"Why'sn you doin that, Sol?"
"Why, so's I kin bury it all over agin."
"Bury it?" he went a-repeatin'.
"Lawd yes!" I declared. "Cuz'n I'm a-playin pirates. That's what pirates do, Rush."
"Why bugger me stupid," sez Rush. "I ain't ever heard o' such a thing. I thought pirates wus'n all into rapin...
It wus'n nigh on 4 of the clock when I seen Rush Steamshed, mah ol mate. Rush is'n a first-rate buddy, real true, too. He'sn the kinder feller what would punch 'is own head 'fore he'd a punch you. You know the kindâreal stupid.
Rush wus'n playin on bein cowboys an injuns, but he'sn all lonesome goin 'bout it cuz'n it wuz only him. He ast me if'n I wanted to play with 'im, but I sed I wus'n too busy huntin up treasure.
"Why'sn you doin that, Sol?"
"Why, so's I kin bury it all over agin."
"Bury it?" he went a-repeatin'.
"Lawd yes!" I declared. "Cuz'n I'm a-playin pirates. That's what pirates do, Rush."
"Why bugger me stupid," sez Rush. "I ain't ever heard o' such a thing. I thought pirates wus'n all into rapin an pillagin."
"I reck'n we could do that, too, if'n we wants. But mostly I'm a-buryin treasure. That ways the pirates who what originally buried the treasure kin't find it agin."
Rush was mighty intrigued by all o' this, an he wanted to play pirates with me for a while. I sed he was a big queer an liked me like a girl likes a boy instead o' how a boy is supposed to like a boy, an it hurt his feelins. Which just prove'n my point.
After'n a while we got all tarred out playin pirates an decided we wus'n goin t'sit down an smoke some tobacker. I stole'n some tobacker from mah pa early that week, he wus'n tryin to quit by goin on the patch, so he wunt miss it. Goin on the patch requires goin down to a thorn patch when ever'n you gets the urge t'smoke an roll'n aroun for a hal' an hour or so. I knowed it, smoking is bad habit-formin.
We tried t'smoke big tobacker jist like mah pa an Rush'z Aunt Lou an neither of us was none good at it. There'n we decided we wus'n goin t'kick the habit e'en 'fore it could start up. It made us awful sick right out.
Strollin down where the river wuz up on the shore, we spied a ol' wooden raft jist a-floatin its way down the waters. On it we saw Bill, a mighty nice black boy who wus'n our age, an lived up yonder on the ol' Wigworth estate. We waved all frantic like an jumped an hollered like we wuz mad with scarlet fever 'til he spotted us an started t'wave back. He swam his raft on over to the shore an we met up with 'im an ast where he wuz goin.
"Lawd, I'm a-goin on'y place I kin go. Up north. I'm a slave done run away. You int'rest in helpin me run off?"
Rush sed out right he don't know, he need t'sit down an think on it a while. But I wuz right happy to help. I done thought 'bout it long time before, 'bout what it's like to the property of'n someone else. Bein forced to help do they chores an all the stuff they'ren too lazy to do jist cuz your skin ain't white. I may not know Heaven or Hell or nothin like that, but I knowed what's right an wrong here on the earth.
"Sure, I'll help you, Bill," I told him. "I've always thought you wus'n a mighty good niâ"
Well, I reck'n I didn't get much farther than that when Bill done whomped me on the head an started hittin on m'mouth, got it all bloodied up. Heck if I knewed it, but apparently it ain't okay to use that word no longer in 2003.   |