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U.S. on Code Red May 26, 2003
Washington, D.C.
Junior Bacon
President Bush, the human code red, delivers a speech with some help from his “Li'l Dubya” ventriloquist's dummy
T
he United States Presidential Warning System (or “Terra Box” as it is fondly known around the White House, a tongue-in-cheek reference to the president’s speech impediment) reached its highest level Tuesday, signifying a major presidential gaffe or screwjob is impending. This news immediately scrambled foreign government officials, environmental groups and talk-show writers nationwide, who entered their own highest states of readiness and/or dread.

The little-known Presidential Warning System has been in place since the 1960’s, but it quickly fell out of favor during the Nixon presidency. Aides kept finding the siren-like device hidden in desk drawers or crammed beneath sound-deadening mattresses in the Lincoln bedroom over the course of Nixon’s term, and records ...Read more...


MySpace to Offer Breaking News on What Ira Mankovics is Doing Right Now

High Gas Prices Threaten Tradition of Setting Homeless People on Fire

New photos of Iraqi prisoners in Barely Detained Magazine

Kyrgyz president found in Gilmore Girls chatroom



October 10, 2005

Click for Biography

At War With the Joneses

There must be some sort of law that says I, Rok Finger, can never live next to a normal neighbor. Well, I suppose the neighbors on the other four sides are normal enough. But that doesn't excuse the fact my neighbors to the right are the most obscene excuses for homeowners you've ever seen. You have seen them, haven't you? Leaving their vehicles on the lawn, setting fire to things at all odd hours, walking around the neighborhood in full Nazi regalia. I am not kidding—these are neighbor freaks.

They are the Joneses, if that is their real surname. I'm not sure if they're Eastern European or Russian or what, but they are clearly not indigenous to the area. They claim to be from Mississippi, but their accents are the worst I ever heard. If people in Mississippi all talk like that, I don't know how they ever get anything done—nobody could possibly understand that gibberish. Come to think of it, I'm not sure they get anything done in Mississippi at all. But that's another column.

Don't try complaining to the neighborhood block association either. There's clearly a strong foreigner sympathy streak running through them—maybe they have a soft spot for those who live behind the Iron Curtain, I don't know. But they always take their side. They let them burn animals at all weird animals, calling it "barbecue," an American tradition. But you throw firecrackers at one cat and all of a sudden they're the SPCA.

Nazi-lovers, too, obviously. You'd...Read more...


º Last Column: The Concert for New Orleans
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February 27, 2006

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Headlice Fading

Ginger Baker, my long-loving wife, had the brilliant idea of donating our time to charity. I was happy to do it—you know me, anything for a cause of some sort—until I learned donating time was a lot harder than donating money. Then I wanted to give the money. But Ginger promised me it would be worth the time. I'm still waiting for that proof to show up.

We're donating our time to the children, since Ginger believes firmly that the children are our future. I partially agree. I think the adults they grow up into will be our future, but kids will always be leeches taking all our money and time and eating all our food without any compensation. Plus, what about nanotechnology? The nano-things could be our real future, and I bet you dollars to donuts they're not happy about all this wasted time messing around with children.

That said, I had already agreed to volunteer at the schools and couldn't get out of it by this point. Ginger and I offered our help with Health Awareness Day or some such thing. Ginger, being a real estate broker, gave an inspiring lecture about buying property in economically depressed areas, and then sitting on them until the zoning changed to really clean up. Turns out this has nothing to do with health. I wanted to teach the kids about the value of being under-tall, but was directed instead to assist in checking the kids for health problems.

I was assigned to examine the male children for back problems, specifically, a...Read more...


º Last Column: Riding the Crime Wave
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Milestones
1921: Underground rumor begins that Lil Duncan, to be born in 50 years, will like the kinky stuff.
Now Hiring
Deaf Mute. Duties include standing around, accepting blame for assorted office mishaps, and listening to Ramrod Hurley's stories about the one time he went fishing. Antidepressant prescription a plus.
Least Successful David Bowie Incarnations
1.Wacky Far-Out Space Nut
2.Lithe, Quirky, Effeminate Heterosexual
3.Gold-Suited Game Show Host Mutt Smalley
4.Evil Twin Brother Donald Bowie
5.Lou Bega
Last IssueLast Issue’s Lead News Story

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

View Past Columns
BY Winston C. Mars
6/10/2002
Do Not Disturb
Combustible rustable
grannies come marching
in waves from the caves
with their zinc eyebrows arching,
in tunics with tonics
electric on their lips,
cities of biddies descend on our ships.

"Great Montezuma!"
cried Macbethle Macwire
as the deck pitched to starboard
and the riggings caught fire.
"We'll be beaten and eaten
and forced to buy crafts!
I'll boil the oil while you
man the space-rafts!"

I sketched our escape by the nape of our nuts:
We'd man the space rafts and save our space butts
while brave but slow-running Macbethle Macwire
dropped that hot oil on the grandmas entire.

My plan went off like a stitch without hitch
as Macwire...Read more...

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