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Somebody Accidentally Downloaded Orrin Hatch MP3 June 23, 2003 |
Washington, D.C. Snapper McGee Sen. Orrin Hatch, R-Utah, attempting to burn down the house
The fateful pirating in question took place when teenager Jody Whiteman of East Plains, New York accidentally downloaded the illegal MP3 file during a sleepover with high school friends. “I was trying to download that new American Hi-Fi song, and it was late so I guess I clicked the wrong thing or something because the next thing I ...
tah Senator Orrin Hatch made a surprising statement during last week’s hearing on copyright abuse, calling for the remote destruction of home computers used to illegally download music files. Though the senator refused to discuss his motivation, many believe Hatch’s sudden interest in copyright infringement stems from the first-ever illegal download of one of the Republican senator and part-time composer’s musical works earlier this month. The fateful pirating in question took place when teenager Jody Whiteman of East Plains, New York accidentally downloaded the illegal MP3 file during a sleepover with high school friends. “I was trying to download that new American Hi-Fi song, and it was late so I guess I clicked the wrong thing or something because the next thing I knew, the gayest thing that ever happened was playing through my computer speakers.” Whiteman had inadvertently downloaded the track “America Rocks!” from Hatch’s album “Heal Our Land,” recorded with composer Janice Kapp Perry in 1997. “We must’ve played that thing 100 times,” Whiteman confided, wiping a tear from his eye. “It was like that video clip of that fat guy falling off his bike, we couldn’t stop laughing. First it was funny just because it was so bad, but then we realized somebody must’ve did it on purpose, which was even funnier. Then Tom pointed out that somebody had to like it enough to post the MP3 online, and at that point we all really lost it.” Some speculate the MP3 download must have led to an ironic purchase of the album by one of the high school students involved, tipping off the senator that someone outside of the Hatch family had purchased one of his albums and leading to the discovery of the illegal download. “If they illegally download a song once, or twice, they’ll get a warning,” fantasized Hatch out loud during the hearing. “But the third time? Zap! We blow up their computer. I don’t know how, maybe a laser satellite or some kind of Mission Impossible button or something. But the point is, we blow it up and they never rape our music again. Do that a few hundred thousand times, and people will start to get the message. We’ll copyright-enforce them back into the stone age.” Thinking Hatch was kidding, technological consultant Randy Saaf attempted to save face for the entire Republican Party, if not the white race. “No one is interested in destroying anyone’s computer, but we feel that more strict enforcement of—” “I’m interested,” interrupted an annoyed Sen. Hatch, who was not kidding at all. A long, uncomfortable silence followed. Jonathan Lamy, spokesperson for the Recording Industry Association of America, suggested Hatch was “apparently making a metaphorical point that if peer-to-peer networks don't take reasonable steps to prevent massive copyright infringement on the systems they create, Congress may be forced to consider stronger measures.” “No,” countered Sen. Hatch. “I’m talking about blowing up fucking computers! Kaboom! Do I have to spell this out in sign language for you people? Kazap! And maybe a little shock or something to put the fear of Jesus into these people.” After the hearing limped to an awkward conclusion, several senators gathered in the hall to discuss Hatch’s proposal, but to this reporter’s ear it sounded more like a lot of laughing and some gut-busting falsetto renditions of such Hatch classics as “Jesus’ Love is Like a River,” “Someday I’ll Fly,” “I’m Goin’ to Pray for This Land,” “I Am Happy,” and “It’s Not So Easy Growing Old.” the commune news is against illegally downloading music, but only because our connection is so slow we have to go on the “one note a day” plan. Ramon Nootles has become convinced that anybody can put out a religious album these days, and is looking for musicians to back him on such tracks as “Let Me Fill You With the Holy Ghost” and “I Got Your Sister Pregnant with the Spirit of Jesus.”
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 September 5, 2005
I'm Fresh Out of Haitian CigarettesI am royally bummed, good people. I can say that without fear of contradiction. For one, because anyone can verify how true it is, and two, because I'm simply not afraid of contradictions anymore. The therapy is working. I can't control when someone else disagrees, so I just have to let it go and move on with my life.
But back to business—my bummed nature. It's nothing too severe, but I'm quite disappointed that I've exhausted my supply of Haitian cigarettes. I knew they wouldn't last forever, but I had no idea they would go so fast. It seems no sooner had I stepped off the plane than I completely emptied my little baggy full. What a shame.
I should explain myself, since I haven't informed you of my wonderful find yet. On vacation in Haiti with the Mrs., my Mrs., just in case you wondered, I discovered the one high-quality product they make in Haiti: cigarettes. If you think you've smoked wonderful, mind-blowing tobacco before, good people, you haven't smoked anything like Haitian tobacco. It makes your mind come alive with possibilities, and suddenly everything becomes funnier and more important than it previously had been. Now that's good tobacco.
In truth, I had intended to do more on my honeymoon—parasail, scuba dive, leave the hotel in some fashion, but I had to let Mrs. Finger run off by herself, because I so enjoyed sitting in my room, smoking Haitian tobacco and watching cartoons on television. It is that good, my friends. You...
º Last Column: To Hell With This Desk
º more columns
I am royally bummed, good people. I can say that without fear of contradiction. For one, because anyone can verify how true it is, and two, because I'm simply not afraid of contradictions anymore. The therapy is working. I can't control when someone else disagrees, so I just have to let it go and move on with my life. But back to business—my bummed nature. It's nothing too severe, but I'm quite disappointed that I've exhausted my supply of Haitian cigarettes. I knew they wouldn't last forever, but I had no idea they would go so fast. It seems no sooner had I stepped off the plane than I completely emptied my little baggy full. What a shame. I should explain myself, since I haven't informed you of my wonderful find yet. On vacation in Haiti with the Mrs., my Mrs., just in case you wondered, I discovered the one high-quality product they make in Haiti: cigarettes. If you think you've smoked wonderful, mind-blowing tobacco before, good people, you haven't smoked anything like Haitian tobacco. It makes your mind come alive with possibilities, and suddenly everything becomes funnier and more important than it previously had been. Now that's good tobacco. In truth, I had intended to do more on my honeymoon—parasail, scuba dive, leave the hotel in some fashion, but I had to let Mrs. Finger run off by herself, because I so enjoyed sitting in my room, smoking Haitian tobacco and watching cartoons on television. It is that good, my friends. You can bet I packed a healthy supply of handrolled—they're all handrolled down there—cigarettes before I came back to the States. I worried about having trouble with them on the plane, if you know what I mean—smoking's prohibited. Well, of course, I knew it would be difficult to resist the fine, fresh flavor of Haitian tobacco for the entire plane ride, so I taped all my cigarettes under my armpits before departing for home. The customs official gave me an odd look when he searched me, and I was worried he might jostle them loose and, well, I'd start smoking all 635 of them right away, right there in the airport. Ha! What a sight that would have been. But he didn't even touch them, really. So I got back to our fine country with all my cigarettes intact. But, alas, they're all gone now. I've never been much of a smoker, really, even though I like to try new things and I always do what people on TV do. These are good, though, I smelled them at a party the first night I was in the country and knew I had to try them. Still, as I said, they're gone now. I finished the last one two days ago and have been, how you might say, "jonesing" for a new one ever since. I've tried regular cigarettes in their stead, but none of them have that smooth, uplifting feeling of real Haitian tobacco. I'm not saying I'm desperate or anything, but I have taken to driving around bad neighborhoods, looking for Haitians who can hook me up, give me just a little "fix"—since I do feel like I need a tune-up that only satisfying Haitian tobacco can give me. When I see a Haitian, I roll down the window and yell, "Smoke, smoke!" I hope I'm not underestimating their language skills, they may even speak English, but how am I to know that? I'm just anxious to get my hands on some of their nifty cigarettes, and don't have time for lengthy conversation. Lee says he knows a fellow in some sort of "joint" that knows a guy who can get me Haitian tobacco. Not that I don't believe him, but I worry he's holding out on me, in some fashion. I told him I have the money, or I will by the time I get my next paycheck, or I get paid for the TV that I sold to the neighbor. Right now I need just a little taste—the taste of fine Haitian tobacco. º Last Column: To Hell With This Deskº more columns
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|  September 16, 2002
Scrumpletydumples"Flippetyripples dapplety-giblets!"
cried the elf-like thing.
Pouncing on his footstool,
he was dressed fit for a king.
His sniveling little attendant
was harshly reprimanded:
"Dimplety-smackers… chalooga!"
he so eloquently demanded.
"Snabblety-scrabble, applety-pee!"
he examined it loudly,
the chain of gold that wrapped around his pudgy fingers three.
This would never do, it was much too yellow
is what he seemed to say, what I heard him bellow.
And deep within his deep blue eyes
I sensed a bluish dissatisfaction rise.
A glint of a look that seemed like it said
"Bring me my wife, and off with her head!"
For she had been spotted by the Chudaluk brook
with the caddest of cads, the deplorable Rook.
And that could only mean one of three things:
that she sings when it's hot, or it's hot when she sings
or lastly, unfortunately, that it's not singing at all,
that noise which echoed up through stairways and halls
which made it no secret, the shameful Rook's gall.
Though the last time I saw him, he stood not so tall
for on the king's mantle, in a jar, are his balls.
King Scrumpletydumples quite nearly was dressed
as he fastened a gold chicken medallion to his breast.
He wrapped his squat legs in chiffon and gauze
and dipped in royal rose water his royal red shnozz.
For...
º Last Column: Snuffles, Wonder Dog
º more columns
"Flippetyripples dapplety-giblets!"
cried the elf-like thing.
Pouncing on his footstool,
he was dressed fit for a king.
His sniveling little attendant
was harshly reprimanded:
"Dimplety-smackers… chalooga!"
he so eloquently demanded.
"Snabblety-scrabble, applety-pee!"
he examined it loudly,
the chain of gold that wrapped around his pudgy fingers three.
This would never do, it was much too yellow
is what he seemed to say, what I heard him bellow.
And deep within his deep blue eyes
I sensed a bluish dissatisfaction rise.
A glint of a look that seemed like it said
"Bring me my wife, and off with her head!"
For she had been spotted by the Chudaluk brook
with the caddest of cads, the deplorable Rook.
And that could only mean one of three things:
that she sings when it's hot, or it's hot when she sings
or lastly, unfortunately, that it's not singing at all,
that noise which echoed up through stairways and halls
which made it no secret, the shameful Rook's gall.
Though the last time I saw him, he stood not so tall
for on the king's mantle, in a jar, are his balls.
King Scrumpletydumples quite nearly was dressed
as he fastened a gold chicken medallion to his breast.
He wrapped his squat legs in chiffon and gauze
and dipped in royal rose water his royal red shnozz.
For today was the day he would take a new wife,
a woman so faithful with which to spend his life,
or at least that's what we figured he meant when he said
"Frognatz rulpumba! Tolingle! Shub-bed!"
Hey, your guess is our guess, it's the Kingdom's anguish
that the royal red king speaks an unfathomable language. º Last Column: Snuffles, Wonder Dogº more columns
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Quote of the Day“Let my nizzles go!”
-Moses Harper, on 19th StreetFortune 500 CookieIron lung, shmiron lung—that guy had it coming. Don't bother with that waiting list for Oxford—Kentucky Fried Chicken College wants you now. It's fish or die again this week—same ol', same ol'. Lucky religions: Buddhism, Paganism, Mormonism, worshipping Isaac Hayes
Try again later.Top Tax Filing Mistakes| 1. | Classifying hooker money as charitable donations | | 2. | Taxes owed paid in solid gold krugerrands | | 3. | Claiming Willie Nelson already paid your taxes | | 4. | Online tax-filing with X-Box 360 Live account | | 5. | Attempting to personally deliver tax forms to president himself, accompanied by bonus ass-whupping | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY B. Brown Dullard 7/18/2005 ScieneticsSince the beginning of the dawn of time, science man has longed for the answer to the questions of the mind and the science of thinking. From the French peasant to the uppity French king, men of all walks of life, regardless of how much coin they pocket, have asked these questions: Who am I? Who is that guy? Why am I so unhappy? What is keeping me from the things I want? Why don’t I have a goddamn pot to piss in and Cheurvier, that cocky shit, he has that chapeau down on Napoleon Street?
At last, someone has created a science to answer those questions: Scienetics.
Scienetics isn’t some phony voodoo, like voodoo or psychiatry; Scienetics is a fully-copyrighted blueprint of how the mind works, or fails to work, and how we can kick our own minds in the ass or...
Since the beginning of the dawn of time, science man has longed for the answer to the questions of the mind and the science of thinking. From the French peasant to the uppity French king, men of all walks of life, regardless of how much coin they pocket, have asked these questions: Who am I? Who is that guy? Why am I so unhappy? What is keeping me from the things I want? Why don’t I have a goddamn pot to piss in and Cheurvier, that cocky shit, he has that chapeau down on Napoleon Street?
At last, someone has created a science to answer those questions: Scienetics.
Scienetics isn’t some phony voodoo, like voodoo or psychiatry; Scienetics is a fully-copyrighted blueprint of how the mind works, or fails to work, and how we can kick our own minds in the ass or threaten to pinkslip them if they don’t get back to work. And best of all, Scienetics works.
How do I know Scienetics works? Because I do. I’ve been to every corner of this square earth and seen man in all his various degrees. I’ve slept under trees with the bushmen of the Calihari desert, under the thankless moon and the cold onslaught of desert winds. I’ve rested on the couch of presidents, from Eisenhower to Reagan, until I was politely asked to leave. I’ve shared beds with strange men from the suburbs—you name the type of person, I’ve probably had some sort of sleeping arrangement worked out with them. This is because I had no money for several years.
During these moneyless times, I’ve had opportunity to study mankind, and a lot of women, don’t mistake that. I’ve seen him at his peak and I’ve seen him lying in piss under a bus stop bench. I’ve heard stories of success and I’ve smelled the urine. But any fool can do this. What I’ve done is blueprinted the human brain, and some monkey brains, just for fun; I’ve seen what makes us succeed and what makes us fail. I’ve drawn intricate topographical maps and marked the expensive areas to live in, if we were brain cells. Why? Because it’s fun. And because it’s the science to making us the people we’ve always wanted to be.
Make no mistake, this is no $20 fly-by-night self-help method dispelled by enigmatic gurus with no background in science. Scienetics costs much more than that. Yet it’s worth every penny, because it works. I’ve taken complete idiots, morons, bellowing manchilds with no intelligence and no self-respect, and I gave them jobs working for my brother-in-law. I’ve turned around the weakest of minds, and shown them the way to what the Buddha would call "enlightenment." And I can call it that, too, because the Buddha never heard of copyrighting.
The secret right here, and this is the only secret I’m giving away before you buy the book, is one thing: the subactive mind. What is the subactive mind? Well, it’s copyrighted, that’s for damn sure. But it’s more than that. It’s also the instinctive, the sub-level reacting part of our personalities that harbors the nastiest and most petty part of ourselves. It’s that portion of our mind that works against us. Freud called it the subconscious, because he was a junkie moron. But where he got it wrong, I’ve got it right.
The best part of Scienetics is, no matter what you’re problem, we can cure you—unlike psychiatry. If you have an IQ of 70 or 145, or higher like mine, we can take you. If you have an uncle who sexually abused you, and who doesn’t, or a bad series of romantic relationships, we can take you. If you have a wallet full of $7 million or $7, we can take you.
And it’s tax-free.
For more of this insightful non-fiction, buy B. Brown Dullard’s book Scienetics.   |
