iscount quasi-airline JetBlue has announced that in-flight movies will be cancelled for all future flights and replaced with a live variety show put on by the flight crew, in response to the glowing praise the airline received for an improvised show put on by the crew of JetBlue flight 191 from New York to Las Vegas this morning.

"We had to do something," explained stewardess Theresa Bower. "The scheduled movie for the flight was supposed to be Ides of March but I accidentally sent that disc back to Netflix instead of the Bumfights DVD I was supposed to put in the envelope, and the only other DVD we had on the plane was Space Jam. And nobody wanted to subject people to that. Thankfully Captain Dave came through when the chips were down. We had no idea he was such an electric performer."

The show began with Captain Dave Westman "accidentally" locking himself out of the cockpit after getting up and wandering around the plane for several minutes, at one point standing in the middle of the aisle and eating the lunch meat out of several sandwiches from the stewardess’ service cart and loudly complaining that they didn’t have any bologna. The captain was later seen trying to insert his car keys into the doorknob of one of the plane’s unoccupied lavatories, then arguing with a pregnant woman in coach that she was sitting in his seat. Upon returning to the cockpit and finding the door locked, the uproarious comedy began.

"It was like the best Flintstones episode ever," raved passenger Laura Styles of Brooklyn. "The way he was whining in that sing-songy voice about being let back into the cockpit, I pulled a Bush and totally almost choked on a pretzel."

"It was Laurel and Hardy with air marshals," agreed Styles’ seatmate, Sandra Pullium. "Nobody expected him to drop his pants like that. I was laughing so hard when he tried to knock down the cockpit door with his dick that I didn’t even know what was going on."

"We gotta pull the throttle back, we’re gonna fucking die!" screamed the captain, while furiously pounding on the cockpit door. According to witnesses, the co-pilot responded "Dave’s not here, man," to a raucous round of applause and wolf-whistles from the flight’s passengers.

A hilarious slapstick routine followed, with flight attendants attempting to wrap the irate captain in a comically clichéd straight-jacket, then ending up accidentally whipping off their tops instead and dancing atop the first row of seats to the theme song from Austin Powers.

While the stewardesses were dancing, the captain screamed "There is a bomb on this plane and all you motherless fucks will die in the cleansing fire if we don’t land in downtown Chicago right fucking now! Say your fucking prayers!" before unleashing a fearsomely awkward karate kick to the cockpit door.

"Oh my God," reminisced passenger Todd Franklin of Carson City, Nevada. "When he did that karate thing I almost shit my pants. I had to stick my face in the air sickness bag because I was hyperventilating from laughing so hard."

The flight suddenly plummeted 10,000 feet after the captain bashed down the cockpit door with a fire extinguisher and began comically wrestling the co-pilot for the plane’s controls, resulting in a sissy slap fight that had all the children on the plane calling out for more.

The show proved so popular the flight had to be diverted to Rick Husband International Airport in Amarillo, Texas, so more passengers could be let on for the sold-out evening show.

"When those strippers dressed as cops led the captain off the plane in fake handcuffs, we just all stood up and applauded," explained passenger Lisa Redgraves. "We all wanted an encore but they never came back."

"I hope JetBlue realizes what they have here," mused passenger Roger Trenton of Nardswallow, Nevada. "This show could run for years. I guarantee you the other airlines are going to have copycat shows before the month is out. I only hope they do it right. I could see room for a hilarious inept terrorist character or something like that being worked into other airlines’ shows, but you’ve got to do it right and not just play the smoking bomb underwear for cheap laughs."

Pope Swears God Will Punish Drug Dealers With Poor-Quality Shit

Vintage Dell to Grace Smithsonian's New What the Fuck Were We Thinking? Wing

Isaac Hayes Recognized on Bad Mother’s Day

'Paris Hilton Autopsy' Sculpture Signed to Three-Picture Deal

Who's to blame, good people? That's what I've been asking myself all week: Who's to blame? That and, on an unrelated note, "Why did they cancel Gunsmoke when it was just getting good?"

The earlier question has been inspired by an incident that happened last Sunday, friends. I was enjoying an issue of Hot Dog magazine, as I'm prone to do on occasion, when my charming neighbor Mrs. Hardlevilch stopped by for a visit. As you may or may not know, people who are very close to dying in their old age make a "visit" a huge event, and Mrs. Hardlevilch is no exception. She was dressed in her finest pantsuit and babushka.

The three of us--myself, Mrs. Hardlevilch and my long-suffering wife, Arvelyn--all sat around talking over the state of things, or more commonly the state of things in 1949, the last year before everything went to pot in America. Mrs. Hardlevilch became very flustered and excited when I did my famous Louis Armstrong-in-a-blender impression, and that's when it happened.

Mrs. Hardlevilch wet my sofa! And floor, thanks to some unsightly dribbling, but mostly my sofa is what I'm concerned about.

Needless to say, I was perturbed. At first Mrs. Hardlevilch apologized rapidly, still laughing uncontrollably at my dead-on impression, and offered to build a time machine to go back fifteen minutes and put some plastic on the sofa before she sat down. I was intrigued, but it quickly became apparent her theories of time travel and plans to carry it out were extremely flawed. Within another minute, Mrs. Hardlevilch was convinced someone had entered the room and pissed on her, completely forgetting her role in staining my couch.

I'm now at my wit's end, and it wasn't far to go, let me tell you. I'm left asking, as I said before, who's to blame? Sure, I could sue Mrs. Hardlevilch in a court of law, but no jury is going to convict a withered old fossil of public urination since I'm not sure it's a crime and, truthfully, my living room isn't considered public domain. If I had deemed to shoot her, sure, it would have been legal, but her pissing all over my couch left me without much recourse of action once the moment for retaliation passed. Not that I would ever shoot the dear old women, she'd probably think it was the Kaiser shelling her homeland or something anyway.

If Mrs. Hardlevilch is not to blame, who is? Through some late-night detective work, I managed to find out Mrs. Hardlevilch wears Dapper Debutante brand adult "pads," so that offered me some hope. But so far all threatening letters have not received any offer to settle out of court, and I'm sure signing them with my real name wouldn't help. This means, of course, that there is a faulty product out there in Dapper Debutante adult "safety nets" and behind them is a company unwilling to admit they're responsible for the puddles of the greatest generation.

In the end, as Arvelyn pointed out, I probably have no one to blame but myself. There is nothing funnier in the world than my Louis Armstong-in-a-blender impression; I knew this and carried forth with thoughtless drive to entertain, floors and sofas be damned. More than a reasonable number of healthy young Americans have relieved themselves all over my property in response to my humoriffic comedy "closer." This might seem enough reason for anyone to stop, but I know I won't. The world needs hilarious impressions of famous loveable singers suffering severe torture in a comical fashion, and I think a sofa, after all is said and done, is a small price to pay.

º Last Column: I Have Just Seen American Booty
º more columns

Hot damn said the devil, it's time for another ass-puckeringly sweet edition of Reflections of a Goocher! I'm your host, Stu Umbrage, and that guy walking by the window has nothing whatsoever to do with this column, ignore him completely. Our first guest tonight is noted poet and man of letters, Sir Sheldon Bivouac.

SU: Greetings, Sir Bivouac, how are you?

SB: Few of us can answer the question of our existence, Stu, the how or the why of it anyhow. The where and when are easy, perhaps even the which. But the-

SU: Riiiiiight. But have you ever considered this: What do you call a vegan that refuses to grow milk thistle?

SB: Huh?

SU: A vetard.

SB: Riiiiight. Anyway Stu, I came on today to read from my latest collection of poems, Rape Ape. This first one is called "A Confederacy of Dulcets":

"I ran Sidney Brace bandage itated Koppel grant farms race in the hole Milwaukee ping-"

SU: Sorry to interrupt you, SB, but we've got to break for a commercial.

Do you ever get that "Not so French" feeling?

-Oui oui, monsieur!

Well now there's a French dressing that doubles as an invigorating douche, only from Hellman's.

-Mon Dieu!

SU: And we're back! Let's see what's on the radio, shall we?

-CLICK-

I've got a peeeeeaceful, greasy feeeeeling…

-CLICK-

-eh, on second thought, fuck that.

You'll have to bear with us for a moment, ladies and gentlemen, apparently there's a Spaniard loose in the rafters and they're attempting to gas him out as we speak. Though I believe the gas they chose was helium, apparently that's all we had handy, so if you come across a chipmunk-talking Spaniard please just hand over your car keys so we can get on with the show. We apologize for any inconvenience folks. I had recommended smoking the Spaniard out, but apparently he doesn't smoke.

Oh, nope, the taser got him. And hindsight being what it is, we probably should have put down some rubber gym mats or a trampoline or something, because the old wives tales you've heard about a Spaniard always landing on his feet apparently don't apply to ones that have been electroshocked into drooling unconsciousness. I'm not sure the trampoline would have saved him, but at least we would have got some circus-style entertainment out of the deal, rather than this answer to the unasked question of what would happen if you took a ball bat to a meat-filled piñata.

I'm sorry folks, that's all the time we have this week, and we have to arrange for a Zamboni to come in and clean up this mess, but be sure to tune in next time when our special guest will be the guy who invented dogs.

º Last Column: Gwar of the Worlds
º more columns