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Dateline NBC Blows Up Bridge to Prove Point September 29, 2003 |
Delmont residents evacuate in case of a special report on nursing homes
“In our view, we do not believe we are in violation of the law, because it was not our intent to cause mayhem or destruction,” said NBC News President Neal Shapiro. “Those were merely inevitable side-effects of blowing up a crowded midtown bridge. We were just testing the system.”
According to the video footage shot for an...
ederal authorities are weighing criminal charges against the Dateline NBC staff members who blew up the Wakasakpie River bridge in Delmont, Wisconsin on Sunday, despite claims from NBC that the terrorist act was merely part of an investigative piece on homeland security. NBC is calling for all charges to be dropped in relation to the incident, which caused over $10 million in damage and left seven dead in the small Wisconsin town. “In our view, we do not believe we are in violation of the law, because it was not our intent to cause mayhem or destruction,” said NBC News President Neal Shapiro. “Those were merely inevitable side-effects of blowing up a crowded midtown bridge. We were just testing the system.” According to the video footage shot for an upcoming episode of the NBC News program, staffers received little resistance while rigging the bridge with enormous quantities of high-powered explosives. The lax security did not mean the production was without its difficulties, however, as curious locals were constantly asking “Whatcha doin’?” and a nosy Wisconsin state trooper had to be tied to a large boulder and pushed into the river after being knocked unconscious by Dateline NBC staff members. “It really makes you think,” said victim Dennis Tyson, nursing a severed arm. “If reporters could do this, just imagine what the bad guys could do if they had a whole crew of people and NBC funding behind them.” As part of a Dateline NBC special report titled “Achilles Heel,” the investigative piece succeeded in exposing security loopholes in this northern Wisconsin town, as reporters were able to destroy the bridge after telling local authorities they were in town to tape a fictitious segment entitled “Who Has All the Beanie Babies?” Authorities authorized the crew’s presence after recognizing Dateline NBC reporter Sara James, and then being pistol-whipped and corralled into a back room at gunpoint. These latest journalistic terror actions came on the heels of reports earlier this month that several ABC reporters successfully smuggled 15 pounds depleted uranium into Los Angeles from Jakarta, Indonesia. Although it was unclear what the arrested reporters had intended to do with the uranium, industry observers unanimously agreed that a domestic thermonuclear explosion would have been awesome for ratings. The events in Los Angeles and Wisconsin have led some federal officials to suggest that the greatest threat to national security may currently be domestic investigative news shows. Unconfirmed reports have staff members of ABC’s 60 Minutes changing cars on an hourly basis in an attempt to foil increased federal surveillance efforts, so that they might still bring America a special report on why Harry Potter is so popular. NBC heads have yet to say how the arrests will effect their plans to fly three hijacked airliners into rival ABC’s network headquarters as a test of national security on the upcoming season finale of Dateline NBC. the commune news admittedly has a terrible track-record when it comes to investigative journalism, though we did once trick the mayor of Chillicothe, OH into sitting on a toilet seat that was covered in superglue. Few could blame us for giving up after we tried to get reporter Ramon Nootles to fix a greyhound race last year, only to have that moron mistake the laxative dog treats for Keebler cookies and spend the entire race clinging to a men’s room toilet for dear life.
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Christ, you're 30 years old, get your finger out of your nose
Greenhouse Gases at Record High, So is Gary Busey
Allah throws a little flood action Pakistan's way
Pakistan tests nuclear bomb; now has to save up for another one
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You’ve Got Mail, Iran’s Got Nukes Da Vinci Code Author Found Guilty of Inspiring National Treasure New .eu Domains Popular Among Gross-Out, Childbirth Video Websites Sharon Still in Coma, Phyllis Still Total Slutbag |
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 April 3, 2000
Your Kung Fu is WeakNo dice, no rice, don't think thrice—the conclusion is made, amigo. Your kung fu is weak.
I hate to put the tip on the table before the entre is served, but I gots to clear the air. I'm tired of every time I want to head out to the pub or county fair or some backroom cockfight somewhere every joker and their mother wants to try their kung fu against mine. You think that's an exaggeration? I ain't shitting you to no degree, man, a lot of fucking son-mother team-ups out there, a surprising amount. And they all talk trash about the kung fu of Omar Bricks. Until I put their sorry asses on the straight and narrow. They find out quick (kick?) enough my kung fu is no fucking joke.
Some people have stolen kung fu from ancient masters and stuff, but I assure you, commune buddies, I've done no such thing. It took me many years to develop my own kung fu independent of all these other styles, and let me tell you the real bitch is that most all of the animals are taken—that shit's fucked up. I tried one called "Anaconda" for a while, and it sounded awesome, but since a snake has no arms or legs I got my cheeks kicked many a time trying to fight with my head, tongue, and ass; I decided to pack away the Anaconda kung fu for something else.
My next big venture was Hungry Brando kung fu, but I could never gain enough poundage to make it work well, although the theory is entirely feasible. Any fat guys out there want to trounce your opponent, give...
º Last Column: 10-10-SELLOUT
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No dice, no rice, don't think thrice—the conclusion is made, amigo. Your kung fu is weak. I hate to put the tip on the table before the entre is served, but I gots to clear the air. I'm tired of every time I want to head out to the pub or county fair or some backroom cockfight somewhere every joker and their mother wants to try their kung fu against mine. You think that's an exaggeration? I ain't shitting you to no degree, man, a lot of fucking son-mother team-ups out there, a surprising amount. And they all talk trash about the kung fu of Omar Bricks. Until I put their sorry asses on the straight and narrow. They find out quick (kick?) enough my kung fu is no fucking joke. Some people have stolen kung fu from ancient masters and stuff, but I assure you, commune buddies, I've done no such thing. It took me many years to develop my own kung fu independent of all these other styles, and let me tell you the real bitch is that most all of the animals are taken—that shit's fucked up. I tried one called "Anaconda" for a while, and it sounded awesome, but since a snake has no arms or legs I got my cheeks kicked many a time trying to fight with my head, tongue, and ass; I decided to pack away the Anaconda kung fu for something else. My next big venture was Hungry Brando kung fu, but I could never gain enough poundage to make it work well, although the theory is entirely feasible. Any fat guys out there want to trounce your opponent, give me a ring sometime, I'll give you the lowdown. After that it was a one third-rate kung fu after another: Has-Been kung fu, Alley Cat kung fu, Wild Tree kung fu, Ricky Martin kung fu (the same as Has-Been kung fu, really, but just a few steps away), and Crunchberry kung fu. All were decent attempts—let's see you create a deadly form of martial arts from scratch! But then I stumbled upon the killer kung fu: Drunken In-Law kung fu. Key points in Drunken In-Law kung fu, as designed and copyrighted by Omar Bricks, you thieving prick dogs, are: Disable your opponent with unexpected passes at his spouse/girlfriend/love interest, barring that, a family pet or mom will do. Trip toward them and strike with unexpected strength. Your lack of balance is your friend as you can stand as quickly as you can fall. Give him a supreme tongue-lashing when he isn't expecting it. Never underestimate the value of pretending you've passed out, only to recover and attack them from behind. Create an uncomfortable fighting environment with uncalled for verbal attacks and vulgarity. Strike with wide swings, as if possessing blurred vision multiplying your enemies by two. Grilling utensils can be incorporated for full effects. Hopefully this will be good for a cease and decist to all the assholes out there who wish to challenge the Drunken In-Law kung fu of Omar Bricks. Your kung fu is weak. º Last Column: 10-10-SELLOUTº more columns
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|  April 1, 2002
Queen of the Doomed RelationshipThe showbiz life can wreak havoc on your love life. Havoc? A "c," no "k"? That never looks right. But it's true. Havoc or havock.
Having the necessary charisma and magnetism to make it big in the entertainment world is no guarantee you'll be successful at love. In fact, in my world it's been the opposite case. All my relationships have fizzled into burnt marshmallows at the bottom of a pissed-out campfire.
My first boyfriend was my third agent, let's just call him Mort R., for the sake of confidentiality. Old Rothstein, that's what I always called him, he was a sucker for girls who looked young. And I looked young, being 12 at the time, so we were a perfect match. We had everything in common, we both liked McDonald's and Alf, we both wanted kids. Well, he didn't want kids the same way I wanted kids, but we were working through our problems when my parents and his wife made us break up. You may have seen the news article in The Star or the Fox movie of the week. They could have at least done me a favor and cast me as myself, I definitely know the part.
I didn't have a real serious boyfriend again until I was 15. We were married in California, only to find out Reverend Jughead didn't have state sanctioning so it never was legal. When we found that out, things just disintegrated. That and one argument about what constitutes "enough" oral sex and the storybook romance was over. Yeah, a storybook—the title of this story was "Sleeping...
º Last Column: The "M" Stands for Music!
º more columns
The showbiz life can wreak havoc on your love life. Havoc? A "c," no "k"? That never looks right. But it's true. Havoc or havock.
Having the necessary charisma and magnetism to make it big in the entertainment world is no guarantee you'll be successful at love. In fact, in my world it's been the opposite case. All my relationships have fizzled into burnt marshmallows at the bottom of a pissed-out campfire.
My first boyfriend was my third agent, let's just call him Mort R., for the sake of confidentiality. Old Rothstein, that's what I always called him, he was a sucker for girls who looked young. And I looked young, being 12 at the time, so we were a perfect match. We had everything in common, we both liked McDonald's and Alf, we both wanted kids. Well, he didn't want kids the same way I wanted kids, but we were working through our problems when my parents and his wife made us break up. You may have seen the news article in The Star or the Fox movie of the week. They could have at least done me a favor and cast me as myself, I definitely know the part.
I didn't have a real serious boyfriend again until I was 15. We were married in California, only to find out Reverend Jughead didn't have state sanctioning so it never was legal. When we found that out, things just disintegrated. That and one argument about what constitutes "enough" oral sex and the storybook romance was over. Yeah, a storybook—the title of this story was "Sleeping Beauty and the Prince Charming Who Violated Her Before She Woke Up."
For years I just had little flings here and there, sometimes for days at a time. But I couldn't land a real boyfriend, it was like I had herpes or something. I mean, I did, but it was like everyone knew it. And I don't care what anyone says, they do go away, that is the biggest myth I ever heard.
Then at 22, I met the nicest guy on the face of the earth. No, not Bob Ross, I think he was already dead by this time. I met my boyfriend Spanner. He was a fantastic guy, before he turned into an asshole. He was a professional pool player when I met him, he played in places around the city and got paid for it. I met him playing pool, actually, and we even played for money. It takes him a few games to warm up, but around the third game he turned into a dynamo like instantly! Our sex life was often a mirror of that. Anyway, he didn't like to be called a "pooler" like I used to say, he preferred "hustler." My dad said it wasn't even a real job but I know he was mistaken because I've seen magazines for the profession.
I could go on forever about Spanner. He was sweet, he was handsome, he had a different car every night—everything a girl dreams about. I'm convinced we would've gotten married some day if the lousy cops hadn't sent him to jail for a crime he only did once. I would have gladly waited for him but he started cheating on me with his cellmate, and to make things worse, I didn't even know he was gay. He said he didn't do it voluntarily, but if you think I'm going to believe that, ha! Why didn't he tell the guards or ask the guy to stop then?
Yes, boys, my heart's been broken more times than Liz Taylor's elastic waistbands. But as always, I come out landing on my feet. I recently started seeing a charming co-worker of mine here at the commune, Ramon Nootles, and I've got a great feeling about this one. He's already taking me to meet his mother this weekend. At least I think it's his mother, he just kept calling her by her first name, Bunny, and he said he'd thought we'd really get along—he can't wait to watch us.
I may be in love again! º Last Column: The "M" Stands for Music!º more columns
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Quote of the Day“I cannot tell a lie—I like big butts. You other brothers can't deny. My anaconda don't want none, lest you have buns, hon.”
-George WizzleswishingtonFortune 500 CookieOur apologies, but the guy doing your fortune was a complete fraud—hmph. You'd think we'd have seen that coming. This week, reconsider investing in those flame-retardant pajamas for the little ones. Definitely Burger King—definitely. Lucky dusts this week: Gold, saw, angel, and the stuff on grampa's skin.
Try again later.Most-Quickly Deleted Internet History Entries| 1. | NymphosOverNinety.com | | 2. | KissLikeAGayMan.com | | 3. | LetMamaDressYou.com | | 4. | DeadPuppyPics.com | | 5. | Scientology.com | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Albert Forrest Hyne 1/20/2003 The Tell-Tale Cell PhoneTRUE! I am shitting bricks like some kind of gigantic house-building robot, but does that make me crazy? Fuck you if you say I'm crazy! Fuck you and all of your crazy-saying friends! Fuck you right in the antelope! Yeah, I'm crazy like the bionic man was crazy. I can see through walls, motherfucker! You come and get some of this, I'll hear your eyelashes rub together when you reach for the car door! I'll drop a safe on your ass, and I'm not talking about some little file folder box with a lock on it, I mean one of those huge goddamned gun safes you could fit a Samoan in! Still think I'm crazy? Step a little to the left, motherfucker!
I don't know why I did it, okay? People do some fucked-up shit after snorting a pound of coke. I knew a guy once who tried to paint a house...
TRUE! I am shitting bricks like some kind of gigantic house-building robot, but does that make me crazy? Fuck you if you say I'm crazy! Fuck you and all of your crazy-saying friends! Fuck you right in the antelope! Yeah, I'm crazy like the bionic man was crazy. I can see through walls, motherfucker! You come and get some of this, I'll hear your eyelashes rub together when you reach for the car door! I'll drop a safe on your ass, and I'm not talking about some little file folder box with a lock on it, I mean one of those huge goddamned gun safes you could fit a Samoan in! Still think I'm crazy? Step a little to the left, motherfucker!
I don't know why I did it, okay? People do some fucked-up shit after snorting a pound of coke. I knew a guy once who tried to paint a house with his dick, I'm just sayin' it gives you some strange ideas. It's true, I never had a problem with Ernesto. He was always okay by me. But tonight he showed up and he had the ringer on his goddamned cell phone playing "Somewhere Out There" and that thing was ringing like every two SECONDS. At first I figured people would eventually stop calling him but then his bitch of a girlfriend kept calling every two minutes to see if he loved her yet and that thing drove me out of my mind like in a Ferrari.
Finally I got pissed and asked him why he didn't put the thing on vibrate before I had to club him to death with a jack handle, but he said he couldn't because he had a can of Red Bull in his pocket and he didn't want the thing to get shook up and jizz all over his new pants. This seemed fair enough, but still that phone was DRIVING ME FUCKING CRAZY and I asked him if he could change the ringer to something else, like something by the Baha Boys or Shaggy or whatever, anything really. But he was a prick and wouldn't change it so I had to club him to death with a jack handle.
Would you still think me crazy if I told you how cunningly I disposed of the body? If you looked in the dictionary to check and make sure cunningly was really a word, and it turned out it was, what would you think then? A madman would have attempted to dispose of the body in some crazy way, like shooting it out of a cannon or trying to inflate it with helium so it would float away. Or putting fake cardboard ears on the head and saying "My dog got hit by a car!" But not I, who is not mad. I buried that novelty-ringing fucker in the bathroom. And if anyone questions the uneven tile floor in there, I will tell them I have moles. The animal kind.
Just then there came a knock at the door, and it was Terrance and his brother Marcus. At first I told them to fuck off, because Marcus is the dick who never returned my Shirelles tape, but then I realized how that might look so I invited them in. We hung out for a while talking about thong underwears and that was cool, but Marcus was going on so long my ears started to ring. Then after a while I realized it wasn't my ears at all, there was a faint ringing sound in the air, impossible to locate or ignore. That's when it hit me. THE PHONE!
Terrance scrunched up his nose when he heard it too.
"Hey man, is Ernesto here? That sounds like his goddamned phone. I hate that fuckin' thing."
"No!" I told him. "And why are you asking such stupid fucking questions? Damn is you stupid. If Ernesto was here, why wouldn't he be out here with us? What, you think he's hiding in the bathroom or something? Shit. If Ernesto was here, I'd beat his ass to death with a jack handle, that's how not here he is."
I had covered my tracks deftly but still, the phone rang on. Again and AGAIN. That stupid bitch girlfriend! Couldn't she take a hint that he was dead? By now it was becoming impossible to ignore or deny it, Ernesto's annoying goddamn phone was in my apartment somewhere! At first I had Terrence and Marcus convinced that it was just me humming "Somewhere Out There," but then Marcus asked how come I could hum and drink beer at the same time, was I some kind of ventriloqueer or something?
SHIT!! They KNEW! My eyes darted around the room for something else to blame the ringing on as it grew louder and louder. In an instant it was deafening! My head was pounding as Terrence and Marcus laughed and talked about Barbershop. Were they fucking with me?? They had to know, and now they were fucking with me! Those pricks!
"Alright you cocksuckers!" I shouted. "I confess!"
The both looked at me with genuine puzzlement. Hmm.
"I, uh… haven't seen Barbershop yet."
"Well, shit dog," smiled Terrence. "Get your coat man, we goin'."   |
