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Rover Finds Ted Kennedy’s Face on Martian SurfaceMarch 15, 2004 |
Los Angeles, CA Courtesy NASA A craggy outcropping in the Bonneville Crater has NASA longing for the DTs
“This is huge,” explained mission commander Emeril Welch. “Bigger than Ted Kennedy even, if you can imagine that. This is incontrovertible evidence of life on Mars, and booze.”
Once only a controversial theory, this latest evidence all but proves that Mars once...
ASA scientists were stunned and slightly nauseous this week to find the face of US Senator Ted Kennedy unexpectedly present in the most recent feeds from their Spirit rover, one of NASA’s two remote-controlled toys currently canvassing the Martian surface. Once they’d recovered from the pain and confusion of seeing the senator’s visage cruelly larger-than-life on the big screen, however, speculation erupted among engineers as to what this means about the red planet’s mysterious history.
“This is huge,” explained mission commander Emeril Welch. “Bigger than Ted Kennedy even, if you can imagine that. This is incontrovertible evidence of life on Mars, and booze.”
Once only a controversial theory, this latest evidence all but proves that Mars once contained enough booze and loose women to support the Massachusetts senator. The news is sweet vindication for the few fringe scientists who have argued for years that the red planet once played host to representative democracy, and floozies.
“Ted Kennedy might have been able to get by on Mars without water, but no way is this a dry planet in the alcohol sense,” stated Welch. “We think it’s only a matter of time before one of the rovers uncovers evidence of shot glasses and used condoms.”
The discovery is a boon for scientists of all stripes, who had previously been embarrassingly excited about finding trace evidence of long-gone water inside rocks on the Martian surface. This latest finding confirms that Mars once contained not only various forms of water and club soda, but also a virtual minibar of alcoholic concoctions.
Preliminary drilling in Kennedy’s face has uncovered evidence of whiskey, vodka and scotch, with various crags in the face showing evidence of large quantities of rum once existing on the Martian surface. Such discoveries represent a quantum leap for NASA scientists, who have gone from scouring the Martian surface for faint evidence of microbes to speculating about the Martian bar scene in mere days.
How Kennedy got to Mars, or perhaps came to Earth from Mars, is another question entirely, and one scientists will explore after they’ve answered the burning question of whether or not a Martian could get drunk off the dust from Kennedy’s face. Conspiracy theories have already surfaced suggesting some kind of drunken shuttle mishap, covered up jointly by NASA and the Massachusetts senator. These theories have put a new spin on the original controversial “face” on Mars, first spotted by the Viking Orbiter 1 in 1976 and now thought to possibly be the visage of Kennedy’s female shuttle companion, presumably killed in the crash and later denied by the Kennedy family and the National Aeronautics and Space Administration.
These latest discoveries have put on hold cash-strapped NASA’s plans to charge $5 a minute for web surfers to drive the Mars rover from their home computers, using keyboard commands or supported peripheral joysticks. This would seemingly put an end to heated online debate over whether the rover would accept quarters or would require special tokens. Early indications are that the online community is “pretty bummed” at the prospect of missing out on killer games of “Tank Battle” between the rovers Spirit and Opportunity. the commune news swears we would have told about the girl in the passenger seat, if we hadn’t been convinced she’d turn into a mermaid and swim to safety as soon as the car hit the river. What can we say, the bitch lied to us. Mordecai “Three Finger” Brown is not responsible for either of the faces on Mars, but does claim responsibility for “the face” on the wall of the Flatbush Arby’s, a chilling portrait in grease and horsey sauce.
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Detroit rolls out "Come, Survive Detroit" campaign
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High gas prices slowing Molotov cocktail sales
Punk-ing of William F. Buckley even more dull than predicted
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MySpace Premieres in Communist China as OurSpace Pain in the Ass Hawking Demands Handicapped- Accessible Space Shuttle “Blond Highlights the Devil’s Work,” Says Iran, Straight Men Dow Reaches 13,000, Tao Reaches ∞ |
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 May 17, 2004
Midgets Aren't All They're Cracked Up to BeFrom the first day I pulled Nevil out of my duffel bag and locked him in the trophy case in my living room, I thought that I was pretty damn clever for acquiring a midget. I pictured all kinds of everyday tasks that he could perform for me; it would be like having my own butler, only puntable and hilarious. Who wouldn't want a comically undersized sidekick to make their bed, brush their teeth, or stand in for them as a real life stunt double in situations they personally didn't want to be associated with, like work, paying taxes, going to jail, or being gang fucked in a dark alley by a group of Hell's Angels hopped up on PCP?
Fate, it seems, has a cruel way of twisting your dreams into reality.
It seems like I cater to that fucking midget more then he ever waits on me. For the longest time I couldn't even take him on a walk through a decent neighborhood without him darting off and humping somebody's front yard gnomes. I can't count the number of times we would've both been arrested if it weren't for my quick thinking, drop-kicking Nevil into the hedges and soaking up the accolades from homeowners who thought I'd just saved their landscaping from some kind of demented, randy troll.
Eventually I had to solve this problem by stealing one of those remote control shock collars. It didn't seem to be doing the trick at first, if anything the shocks just got Nevil excited, but after I replaced that pussy-assed 9V battery with a Sears DieHard...
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From the first day I pulled Nevil out of my duffel bag and locked him in the trophy case in my living room, I thought that I was pretty damn clever for acquiring a midget. I pictured all kinds of everyday tasks that he could perform for me; it would be like having my own butler, only puntable and hilarious. Who wouldn't want a comically undersized sidekick to make their bed, brush their teeth, or stand in for them as a real life stunt double in situations they personally didn't want to be associated with, like work, paying taxes, going to jail, or being gang fucked in a dark alley by a group of Hell's Angels hopped up on PCP? Fate, it seems, has a cruel way of twisting your dreams into reality. It seems like I cater to that fucking midget more then he ever waits on me. For the longest time I couldn't even take him on a walk through a decent neighborhood without him darting off and humping somebody's front yard gnomes. I can't count the number of times we would've both been arrested if it weren't for my quick thinking, drop-kicking Nevil into the hedges and soaking up the accolades from homeowners who thought I'd just saved their landscaping from some kind of demented, randy troll. Eventually I had to solve this problem by stealing one of those remote control shock collars. It didn't seem to be doing the trick at first, if anything the shocks just got Nevil excited, but after I replaced that pussy-assed 9V battery with a Sears DieHard he started singing a different tune. I'm not sure what, it sounded like "Greensleeves" but it's hard to scream in tune when you're on fire. The shock from that car battery is so strong it'll blow a midget clean across the street, and he'll shit his pants in mid-air or your money back. That little fucker even stopped biting, hissing and spitting. I'm telling you, a shock collar is the gift that keeps on giving. Remember that come Christmastime, especially if anyone on your list owns a midget or an ornery dwarf. In the end, I guess my biggest midget-owning gripe is still maintenance. I had a big problem with him drinking out of the toilet in my apartment, which sounds funny until you get up in the middle of the night to take a crap and realize you've just shit up the back of a midget's jammies. Trust me, that makes leaving the toilet seat up seem like no big deal. So after I got the collar, I decided to hide in the bathroom closet and wait until Nevil got his tongue in the water before I hit the button. Holy shit! Now he won't even go near the fuckin' bathroom. So what does he do? He shits in the bottom drawer of my fridge. I should have gotten a hamster. The vet says that Nevil doesn't have any hair anymore due to the hundreds of thousands of volts that I run through him on a daily basis, and that I should find other ways to discipline my midget. Yadda yadda yadda. But I'm nothing if not a humanitarian, so for a week I took the damned collar off. Every time he did something that I didn't like, picking at the paint on the walls, trying on my clothes, trying to escape, or pissing in my closet, I would beat him shitty with a pick-ax handle instead. Trust me, it was good exercise, but nowhere near as convenient. That and my neighbors were always complaining about the noise and asking if they could borrow my croquet set. Communication is a big problem too. It would be so much easier if Nevil could talk. All he ever does is grunt and growl. Why can't midgets ever talk? You'd think they'd be great at it, since they constantly need help when they can't reach things. I'd expect a midget kid to be able to say "Hey bitch, hand me that sammich!" by the time they're two. Of course, maybe at one time he could talk. But when I found him, in order to subdue the little bastard enough to get him into my bag I had to stab Nevil in the throat with a piece of splintered wood, then tape the wound shut with duct tape so he wouldn't die. I wasn't worried about it at the time, since I already knew that midgets can't feel pain. So don't say I never learned anything in school. But I think that might have had something to do with his lack of conversation skills. So a word to the wise, for those of you who are thinking about getting a midget: Think twice, because it will be more of you taking care of them, and not the other way around. º Last Column: This is Mickey Hanes!º more columns
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|  September 30, 2002
I Will Not Accept My Party's Nomination for PresidentThere comes a time in the political life of everyone in the public eye where they weigh the value of what they can accomplish in office with the sacrifices made in their personal life. It is with heavy heart I address these concerns in my own life, and I must tell you all that I cannot and will not accept the nomination for president of the United States by my party, and if nominated, I will not run.
This comes as a shock to many of my supporters, I'm sure. Supporters like Betty Hoopmay of Blush, Nevada, who sent a very supportive letter that, while severely criticizing my recent columns as "piss-poor journalism," ended with the very affirming, "I don't wish you dead or anything, but you need to get your shit together." Thank you, Betty. I don't wish you dead either. But despite these outcries of faith in me, I cannot accept the nomination for president.
For one, the timing is bad. I have too many responsibilities at the commune here that I'm currently ducking. I cannot shirk all the required responsibilities of the office of president at the same time—that's more than one man can avoid. I have chosen to devote my energies to the commune at this point in time… or has it chosen me? Either way, we're damned to be intertwined for a while yet. And despite my appearance of worldliness, I fear and mistrust foreigners, which is bound to interfere with my responsibilities of meeting and trying to act like I'm listening to dignitaries from other...
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There comes a time in the political life of everyone in the public eye where they weigh the value of what they can accomplish in office with the sacrifices made in their personal life. It is with heavy heart I address these concerns in my own life, and I must tell you all that I cannot and will not accept the nomination for president of the United States by my party, and if nominated, I will not run.
This comes as a shock to many of my supporters, I'm sure. Supporters like Betty Hoopmay of Blush, Nevada, who sent a very supportive letter that, while severely criticizing my recent columns as "piss-poor journalism," ended with the very affirming, "I don't wish you dead or anything, but you need to get your shit together." Thank you, Betty. I don't wish you dead either. But despite these outcries of faith in me, I cannot accept the nomination for president.
For one, the timing is bad. I have too many responsibilities at the commune here that I'm currently ducking. I cannot shirk all the required responsibilities of the office of president at the same time—that's more than one man can avoid. I have chosen to devote my energies to the commune at this point in time… or has it chosen me? Either way, we're damned to be intertwined for a while yet. And despite my appearance of worldliness, I fear and mistrust foreigners, which is bound to interfere with my responsibilities of meeting and trying to act like I'm listening to dignitaries from other countries. Other dirty, unwashed countries.
The tireless, thankless job of running for president itself would be more than I could bear at this time. I need constant reassurance and reward for everything I do. I need blind, vacant approval for all that I do and I need people to stay out of my life, to let it remain enigmatic and a beautiful mystery left alone by all reporters. Everyone I work for at this point understands that, if they know what's good for them, and I'm not prepared to give that up just to be president.
As much as I hate to mention this, too, my party is virtually powerless to make any significant headway in an election. My party, the Sandwich-Socialist party, is only on the ballot in two states, and one of those is the state of mellow, which is a mood rather than an actual state. This owes to many factors, not the least of which is that it's a very bad idea to hold all your meetings while heavily intoxicated, but the very fact that I would have little chance of accomplishing anything other than wasting my modest fortune on a bid for the presidency, makes it imperative that I decline the nomination, if offered to me.
Which brings me to another point—I don't even get the nomination to be our presidential candidate? Fellow Sandwich-Socialists, I have to say I'm pretty offended by this. Yes, I'm not going to accept the nomination, and if nominated I will not run, but it is just plain ridiculous that we've gone this far without myself being nominated for the position. For Christ's sake, I started the party, I developed our elaborate platform of all sales tax going to build sacred temples and liquor replacing bathwater in homeless shelters, the least you could do is throw me the bone of nomination. It was my idea to call us the Sandwich-Socialists. Is that why you're pissed? It's not a great name, I admit, but I'd like to see you do better buried under 132 mini-bottles of Kahlúa. It's not too bad, really. At least I got "socialist" in there, as per Gary's suggestion.
So for those reasons, and no more, I will happily remain a civilian during this upcoming election. Though, now that I think about it, the next presidential election isn't until 2004. I still have next year to start campaigning, if anyone wants to nominate me. I'm not saying I will… just… it would be nice to get the nomination. º Last Column: Lawsuit Settled, Advantage: Bagelº more columns
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Quote of the Day“Fortune is a fickle bitch. No, wait… I'm thinking of my wife. That's right, my wife's the fickle bitch. Fortune is some transcendentalist concept.”
-Martoon RomeoFortune 500 CookieQuick, put these shoes on—walk around in them to get comfortable, if you need to. This week, fasten your seatbelt for the ride of your life. Straight over the goddamn cliff and everything. Sure, when you say a dog talks to you, everybody believes you, but make it a rhesus monkey and all of a sudden you're "crazy." Now here's Trip with the sports.
Try again later.Top Easter Memories| 1. | Stuffing all those eggs up the bunny's ass. For the children. | | 2. | Knee-deep in Peeps. | | 3. | Kicked out of church for eating wooden Jesus. Thought it was chocolate. | | 4. | I'll be damned, family really can tell ham from Spam. | | 5. | Boil the eggs next year. Sweet Jesus, boil the motherloving eggs. | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 10/28/2002 Hello hello, America!
Boy have we got some nipples for you this week! I ca- nipples? You know what I mean, America, movies. Weird. Some people think it's significant when you nip out like that, ma- slip up, nip rocks, whatever. It's not like this is a column about taut, hairy man-nipples or anything. Woman! Woman nipples. Hairless and soft. I mean, it's not about that either, but if this column were about nipples, it sure as hell wouldn't be about any tempting, salty, lickable man nipples. Gross.
All right, let's get to the boobies before somebody gets hurt.
In Theaters
Auto Focus
Ford loves to kiss its own ass over the fact that they present the hit drama...
Hello hello, America!
Boy have we got some nipples for you this week! I ca- nipples? You know what I mean, America, movies. Weird. Some people think it's significant when you nip out like that, ma- slip up, nip rocks, whatever. It's not like this is a column about taut, hairy man-nipples or anything. Woman! Woman nipples. Hairless and soft. I mean, it's not about that either, but if this column were about nipples, it sure as hell wouldn't be about any tempting, salty, lickable man nipples. Gross.
All right, let's get to the boobies before somebody gets hurt.
In Theaters
Auto Focus
Ford loves to kiss its own ass over the fact that they present the hit drama 24 without commercial interruption, like Robitussin used to do with Twin Peaks. But then they turn around and flush all of that goodwill right down the crapper by putting out a movie that's one thinly-disguised two hour commercial for their miserable mini-car, the Focus. Sure, there's some porn and scandal and whatnot in there to distract you from this fact, but it's still obviously the opening salvo in the upcoming "Battle of the Shitty Midget Cars" with Ford trying to high-step its way out to an early lead over the Toyota Echo and the Chevy Burp. You might think the Honda Cramp should have a place in the fray, but it's technically in a different car class since you can fit a jug of milk in the trunk.
Formula 51
Leave it to Samuel L. Jackson to bring Heinz founder Mortimer P. Heinz to badass life on the big screen. Sure, Heinz wasn't black, but he sure made catsup like he was. And Jackson brings that tomato-squashing verve to this role so convincingly, you'll almost forget how he tricked you into paying to see that shitty genius shark movie a while back.
Ghost Ship
It sure as hell didn't work for Speed, but the makers of the 2001 Nintendo Pictures hit Ghost World apparently thought two times was a charm when they decided to needlessly recycle their hit film by setting the sequel on a big ol' boat. Sure, Patrick Swayzee gets to hop around some more and shoot fireballs out of his nose at skeleton pirates, and you know the kids love that, but not bringing back Whoopi Goldberg for the sequel was a big mistake, and the picture runs out of gas halfway through because of it. The second half of the film is exactly the same as the first, except now the ghosts are orange instead of blue, which I guess is supposed to mean something.
Jackass: The Movie
The elephant fetishists aren't going to like it, but Michael Moore's latest cannonball into the kiddie pool of conservative life is his funniest film yet. Not that it takes someone with an IQ over 15 to make our president look like a yokel, but Moore does it up right with this hilarious space invasion of all things George W. Bush. It's all here, every time he's made up a word to express his complex feelings during an interview, the notorious "Stuck Inside a Port-a-John" episode from the Republican Primaries, and some jaw-dropping super-8 footage of a teenage George W. being outsmarted by a Chinese finger trap (and tape of the classic 911 call that followed). Sometimes Moore can be too far-reaching in his satire, but this time he hit the nail on the nards.
The Truth About Charlie
Red Bagel's third unpublished book about the Vietnam War finally finds its way to the big screen, credited of course to one of Bagel's many pen names. Always one of the most popular of Bagel's photocopied manuscripts around his favorite local haunts (the Laundromat and the Crazy Crotch Tavern), Charlie uncovers the untold story of the Vietnam conflict, beginning with Grover Cleveland's illegal importation of midgets from the Orient in the 60's and continuing through the mock battles staged on a Hollywood set for the benefit of JFK's private investors. The book, if you can call a ragged stack of Xerox paper binder-clipped together a book, ripped the asshole off the entire cover-up, and changed the way about fifteen people thought about Vietnam forever. The movie, of course, is watered down horseshit with some pretty faces plastered on the package, but that's to be expected. The government hasn't let Hollywood come anywhere near the truth since Benji the Hunted in 1987*.
(*Note: Benji Bones a Bitch, the 1992 home-video hit, was filmed entirely in Vancouver, outside of the Hollywood system.)
Waking Up in Reno with Billy Bob Thornton
You know it's got to be Halloween season when they start putting scary junk in all of the upcoming movie trailers, like Jennifer Love Hewitt or shots of Billy Bob in his bikini briefs. This is what they mean when they call something a "Psychological Thriller," unless it's a movie about a killer psychologist, in which case that's what they mean. I probably should have seen it coming, from the title and all, but I have to admit I jumped halfway out of my pants during the scene when Ashley Judd wakes up and rolls over to find Mr. Slingblade between her sheets. Absolutely the scariest waking up scene since the one where that Canadian chick wakes up to find a moose head in her bed in The Godfather.
Well, it looks like that's that, America. Another two weeks down, another several hundred to go before we can lay down and die. That's how the country song goes, anyway. Old-time country, not this new truck commercial country they play nowadays. I'm talking about back when country was about having your balls chewed off by a thresher and how that means you won't be able to have no two-headed children with your cousin Moline, and how that drove you to drinkin'. These days country music is all about how your agent tricked your dumb country ass out of a million dollars and now you've got to do a Dr. Pepper commercial so the bank doesn't repossess your hideously decorated triple-decker yacht. It's crap, but it still sells since there are plenty of small-town minivan moms out there who need to be sheltered from irony. But listen to me here, you'd think I was trying to make up for not running any album reviews since Clinton was in office. Take it easy, America.    |
