|  | 
August 29, 2005 |
Already many scientists are beginning to ask: "Could Tyler have once sustained life?" he whole world, or at least a very small percentage of us into geeky astronomy stuff, was floored by the discovery recently of an object that may well be a new planet. If anyone's still paying attention, they might be happy to know scientists have at last agreed the object is a planet, and furthermore, the scientific community has agreed on a name: "Tyler."
The discovery was originally made by the Spitzer Science Center, where a kid can be a dork, but was quickly verified by observatories all over the world, which frankly had little else to do. While the debate lingered on as to whether the object was a planet or just some shit stuck on the glass, the majority of the scientific community came together over the weekend to agree on the object's planet status. Attention q...
he whole world, or at least a very small percentage of us into geeky astronomy stuff, was floored by the discovery recently of an object that may well be a new planet. If anyone's still paying attention, they might be happy to know scientists have at last agreed the object is a planet, and furthermore, the scientific community has agreed on a name: "Tyler."
The discovery was originally made by the Spitzer Science Center, where a kid can be a dork, but was quickly verified by observatories all over the world, which frankly had little else to do. While the debate lingered on as to whether the object was a planet or just some shit stuck on the glass, the majority of the scientific community came together over the weekend to agree on the object's planet status. Attention quickly turned to naming it, with many renowned scientists claiming they had called dibs on the next planet long, long ago.
"Frankly, we haven't had a planet to name in a few centuries," said Astronomer and amateur astrologist Benton Leatherbelt. "That name-hog Galileo took up a lot of them. Mostly all the planet-namers went the Greek god angle, with Mars and Mercury and Neptune and what. But to name a planet something like that nowadays would be a waste, not to mention anachronistic. Plus, we're out of the best Greek god names. Unless they want to go with Hercules. I could see planet Hercules."
Many professional astronomers agreed, except for that "Hercules" bullshit. Super-hot U Ignorant professor of astronomy Bubbles Corkran:
"It's taken years of hard sky-looking, but finally we have a ninth or tenth planet. I can never remember which," said Bubbles, laughing intoxicatingly. "And I, for one, want to see a name that matches that little cutie. It was me who suggested 'Tyler,' because I wanted something that represents our modern age and to show that today's astromonists have their eyes to the future. Plus, I love Aerosmith. Who doesn't love Aerosmith?"
Professor Corkran's choice received much support among horny astronomers, but wasn't without challenges. Other top contenders were "Jacob," "Joshua," "Dylan," or "Abigail" if it turned out to be a rare female planet. Some were notably upset with the choice of name for the new planet, like Arizona State astronomy professor Wilson Bernardi.
"Naming the greatest scientific discovery of this new century 'Tyler' was unbelievably short-sighted and irresponsible. We had a burden upon us to apply a proper label to this new celestial body, and could have taken the proper amount of time to consider all potential choices. 'Isis' would have been a possibility… all I'm saying is, 'Tyler' seems like a very temporary and forgettable name. And I know you're going to hear stories, but this is not just because people didn't choose the name I proposed: Planet Faggot."
The debate continued into the first week after the planet's naming, but others among the world's astronomers called for a healing of the rift.
"We've all spent too much time and effort on the relatively unimportant process of naming this fantastic new discovery," smirked Lawana Kirk, professor of astronomy at the University of Colorado. "It's time to settle down with the name and concentrate on more important aspects: Who will be the first to conquer this new planet? I've already got my things packed, and I've begun construction on the world's fastest rocket to get me there before all you other carpetbaggers. Anyone want to call 'shotgun' on the window seat?" the commune news has known about the tenth planet for a long time, but we were under the impression it was already named the Planet of Funk. Speaking of funk, let's stay a fair distance away from Bludney Pludd today, okay?
 | Discriminating junkies buy cheaper heroin, crack-cocaine in Canada
Hillrods Celebrate Opening of Hurricane Season
Cat hunting legalized in Madison, WI; dog insulting still morally nebulous
Newsweek Slammed for Not Using That One Picture of Michele Bachmann Where She Doesn't Look Crazy
|
British Nearly Affected by London Terror Attacks ith their famously stoic façade put to the ultimate test, Londoners came through with flying colors this week, failing to register the slightest emotion in the face of stunning terror attacks on the city’s mass transit system that left 50 dead and over 700 wounded. “Oh yes, it was quite a mess,” explained commuter Harold Alburn, who was aboard one of the bombed subway trains and only survived due to being caked in a human cocoon formed by the flaming remains of his fellow passengers. “That rail line’s going to be down for weeks, you have to assume.” Jackson Prosecution Produces Bloody Glove he Michael Jackson trial escalated to the seventh level of hooplah Friday as prosecutors introduced into evidence a bloody sequined gloved that had not been previously revealed publicly. The defense requested a recess, to which the witty judge replied that no one had been good enough to deserve recess, but they would take a brief break. It gave the Jackson defense, led by attorney and Warhol knock-off Thomas Mesereau, a chance to recover from the five-fingered blow. Serial Killer’s Neighbor: “He just wouldn’t shut up about serial killing.” Heather Graham’s Career Found Dead in Apartment |
|  |
 | 
 August 4, 2003
Sic the Killer Chicken on SaddamI'm going to let you all in on a secret that will save our federal government billions of Saddam-hunting dollars and will end this whole Iraq misadventure once and for all. It may take slightly longer than our current approach, but it's cheap and we won't have any more GIs shot in the ass while they're playing beach volleyball. It's simple: All we have to do is open a couple of Pizza Huts over there. They may not have that kind of hut-building technology over in Iraq yet, but we can import it. And within 30 years, all those bomb-happy assholes will have more fat pulsing through their veins than blood and they'll be dropping like lethargic, weak-hearted flies. Advantage: America.
It's a scientific fact that terrorism never originates in countries that get more than 40% of their calories from fat. Constructing a pair of tennis shoes out of plastic explosives or hucking hand grenades at an army patrol sounds like an awful lot of work when rolling over in bed is enough to raise your pulse. But you start feeding these guys rice, beans, and couscous and before you know it you've got some asshole hiding a time bomb in your birthday cake. Bad scene.
Now I'm a realist, so I realize this plan won't work quickly enough for those individuals who want Saddam Hussein's gonads in a Ball jar like, yesterday. But for those impatient folk I believe a slight modification to my Mideast peace plan may suffice.
Let's say you turn those fast food franchising...
º Last Column: Sierra Mist º more columns
I'm going to let you all in on a secret that will save our federal government billions of Saddam-hunting dollars and will end this whole Iraq misadventure once and for all. It may take slightly longer than our current approach, but it's cheap and we won't have any more GIs shot in the ass while they're playing beach volleyball. It's simple: All we have to do is open a couple of Pizza Huts over there. They may not have that kind of hut-building technology over in Iraq yet, but we can import it. And within 30 years, all those bomb-happy assholes will have more fat pulsing through their veins than blood and they'll be dropping like lethargic, weak-hearted flies. Advantage: America.
It's a scientific fact that terrorism never originates in countries that get more than 40% of their calories from fat. Constructing a pair of tennis shoes out of plastic explosives or hucking hand grenades at an army patrol sounds like an awful lot of work when rolling over in bed is enough to raise your pulse. But you start feeding these guys rice, beans, and couscous and before you know it you've got some asshole hiding a time bomb in your birthday cake. Bad scene.
Now I'm a realist, so I realize this plan won't work quickly enough for those individuals who want Saddam Hussein's gonads in a Ball jar like, yesterday. But for those impatient folk I believe a slight modification to my Mideast peace plan may suffice.
Let's say you turn those fast food franchising dogs loose on Iraq, to quell the general populace. But while you're at it you save one location for a very special KFC. You might even put this special KFC in Saddam's hometown, couldn't hurt. But the most important thing is to make sure this restaurant is really the cream of the KFC crop, no chicken fingers petrifying under heat lamps for two weeks while the crew chief does lines of coke back in the walk-in freezer. That won't do. What we need here is a real tightly run ship that's cranking out some damned delicious chicken. And once the joint's become established and you've saturated the region with fried chicken fat, one random day you close up shop very unexpectedly. Blame it on to "technical difficulties" or a chicken rampage or what have you.
But before you board up the windows, you sell one last bucket of chicken. The last ever, and it goes to the highest bidder. Doesn't matter who it is. Wherever he's hiding, some of that chicken will find it's way back to Saddam Hussein, guaranteed. Maybe a thigh, maybe a wing. Doesn't matter. But the kicker is that you've saturated that one bucket of chicken with enough fat to kill the three tenors. Silver bullet heart attack variety, extra tasty deadly. Let's see the Iraqi public claim we faked a picture of Saddam Hussein, dead on a toilet with a drumstick hanging out of his mouth. Even those cynical bastards will be shocked into acknowledging the disgusting truth.
It's a sad state of affairs when all this administration wants for Christmas is Saddam Hussein dead on a toilet, but there you go. Merry Christmas.
Escalating the plan further couldn't help but solve the bigger Mideast asshole problem, as all those hard-ons will go soft for stuffed-crust cholesterol bombs and gorgeable Gorditas. And it wouldn't cost the Western superpowers a thing, just cut the fast food chains loose and they'd lick each other's brainpans clean for the chance to do America's dirty work for us. But for God's sake, please leave Subway out of this. The last thing I need to see on television is some big fat Arab guy talking about how he used to be even more big and fat before he started mainlining veggie subs.
If that happens I'm just going to keep my ideas to myself in the future, the common good be damned. º Last Column: Sierra Mistº more columns
| 
|  May 27, 2002
Adventures in DogsittingMy neighbor Mitch is away on a trip, and while he's out I've been watching his dogs, Benedict and Arnold. To tell you the truth, I didn't really want to, but he took care of Foghat while I was detained in Mexico a few years back, so I can't rightly tell him to jump up an elephant's ass the one time he asks me to do him a favor while he's in having his colon removed.
These dogs are a flaming, hemorrhoidal pain in the ass.
Benedict is, according to Mitch, an Australian Cattle Prod. I'm not sure if that's completely accurate. Nobody knows what the hell Arnold is, but he looks like what you'd end up with if you stapled bat ears onto a gigantic caterpillar. He's like a walking sausage with radar. Appropriately enough, he makes high-pitched squeaking sounds like a rubber pork chop every time anything happens. And I mean anything: car doors slamming outside, bacon grease catching on fire in the kitchen, the refrigerator turning on, foreign war, it doesn't matter.
I don't know what kind of social life Mitch has got, but I get the impression he doesn't exactly spend his spare time wolfing down speedballs in the Viper room. These dogs demand more attention than a live hand grenade. They watch your every move as if you might, at any moment, explode like a piñata and rain doggie treats all over the room. It's especially unnerving when you're in the bathroom.
I think Mitch may shower with these dogs. I'm not kidding, I'm pretty sure he...
º Last Column: Prohibition Here We Come º more columns
My neighbor Mitch is away on a trip, and while he's out I've been watching his dogs, Benedict and Arnold. To tell you the truth, I didn't really want to, but he took care of Foghat while I was detained in Mexico a few years back, so I can't rightly tell him to jump up an elephant's ass the one time he asks me to do him a favor while he's in having his colon removed.
These dogs are a flaming, hemorrhoidal pain in the ass.
Benedict is, according to Mitch, an Australian Cattle Prod. I'm not sure if that's completely accurate. Nobody knows what the hell Arnold is, but he looks like what you'd end up with if you stapled bat ears onto a gigantic caterpillar. He's like a walking sausage with radar. Appropriately enough, he makes high-pitched squeaking sounds like a rubber pork chop every time anything happens. And I mean anything: car doors slamming outside, bacon grease catching on fire in the kitchen, the refrigerator turning on, foreign war, it doesn't matter.
I don't know what kind of social life Mitch has got, but I get the impression he doesn't exactly spend his spare time wolfing down speedballs in the Viper room. These dogs demand more attention than a live hand grenade. They watch your every move as if you might, at any moment, explode like a piñata and rain doggie treats all over the room. It's especially unnerving when you're in the bathroom.
I think Mitch may shower with these dogs. I'm not kidding, I'm pretty sure he takes them everywhere he goes. I heard he got kicked out of Disneyland last year after Benedict threw up on the Matterhorn. And I don't mean the structure itself; that dog was buckled into a bobsled and screaming down the mountain at fifty miles an hour when it happened. Mitch came home with a black eye that I can only assume had something to do with the people riding in the sled behind him and Benedict. They certainly look pissed off in the picture on the refrigerator. Omar Bricks is not a violent man, but I have to admit I'd be strapping on my Jackie Chan shoes if I were ever hit with fifty mile-an-hour dog vomit.
Arnold will hump anything that's not moving: the couch, his bed, a box of crackers, Benedict. I've only looked directly at Arnold twice, and both times he was humping something. Now I just infer that he's in the room from the shallow panting noises. My biggest fear is that I'm going to look accidentally one time and see the lipstick in action. For a while I was worried about how I was going to explain the visible dick marks on the bathroom door to Mitch, but he's got to be used to this shit by now.
I decided to take the dogs for a walk the other day, since I was starting to feel bad about them being cooped up in their rooms all the time, with nothing but their record collections and board games to keep them entertained. Way to be the neighborhood hero, right? Wrong. Mr. Friendly Neighborhood Narc had a different idea. Did you know it's illegal to tie a dog's leash to your car and drive around the block? It's not like I was even going very fast. Somebody told me that's not "walking the dogs," but they looked like they were walking to me. Or running. Skiing, maybe. Whatever.
Since the neighborhood patrol had such a serious problem with the dogs getting any exercise, I had to resort to Plan B. I went to the pet store, bought a rabbit, and let it loose in the house. Shit if the dogs didn't love that! I don't know if I've ever seen a couple of dogs so happy. Arnold even humped the drapes. Granted, things got a little rowdy after I let the rabbit loose, but if Mitch isn't cool with a couple of broken lamps, a television on the floor or a cracked bathtub he shouldn't have got dogs in the first place. And if the guy can afford to have his colon taken out I'm sure he can afford to rent a steam cleaner, too.
Now I just need to come up with a way of explaining to Foghat why another dog wiped its nose on my pants. Bricks out. º Last Column: Prohibition Here We Comeº more columns
|

|  |
Quote of the Day“Upon being stopped by the Customs Officer during my trip to America, he asked: 'Have you anything to declare?' I burst forward, telling him, 'Only my genius!' I was promptly beaten to a piteous pulp and subjected to a humiliating search. Needless to say, they found my weed.”
-Wildman Oscar DaviesFortune 500 CookieBy next week you will not believe what passes for a blowjob these days. Guess how many quarters I have in my left pocket and I will be quite surprised. I said don't cauliflower last week? I did? That doesn't sound like something I'd say. Remember, trust no one. Including me. If you believe that, you're a fool.
Try again later.Top Nonsensical Curses| 1. | Motherbumper Fannyfuck | | 2. | Shitwheeler | | 3. | Short-Handled Ass Tank | | 4. | Mop-Handle Michelangelo | | 5. | Pelé! | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Dan D. Nancy 3/31/2003 Big Gay Bear"This is unbelievable," said John Patriot, referring to something he did not believe.
On the screen before him was a series of dots that meant nothing to the average Joe Six-Pack or his wife Jane Smoking-Tree. But Patriot instantly recognized the pattern.
Felix Nustle, a bureaucrat of the oldest ilk, stood nearby, hands crossed over his beer barrel chest. "What do you make of it, Patriot? We found it in the hideout of the subversive terrorist cell we apprehended outside Drinkenbad, Germany. We were afraid even you, the C.I.A.'s foremost expert on all things terrorist, wouldn't know"
"I'm afraid I know all too well what it is," said Patriot, though he really wasn't afraid. "It's a map of chemical laboratories. If I have to guess, I'd say these...
"This is unbelievable," said John Patriot, referring to something he did not believe.
On the screen before him was a series of dots that meant nothing to the average Joe Six-Pack or his wife Jane Smoking-Tree. But Patriot instantly recognized the pattern.
Felix Nustle, a bureaucrat of the oldest ilk, stood nearby, hands crossed over his beer barrel chest. "What do you make of it, Patriot? We found it in the hideout of the subversive terrorist cell we apprehended outside Drinkenbad, Germany. We were afraid even you, the C.I.A.'s foremost expert on all things terrorist, wouldn't know"
"I'm afraid I know all too well what it is," said Patriot, though he really wasn't afraid. "It's a map of chemical laboratories. If I have to guess, I'd say these laboratories store some kind of biological weapon, such as anthrax."
"Good lord!" exclaimed Nustle. "That's extremely disturbing—and topical. How can you be sure it isn't something even more frightening, and I'm just using a 'fer instance,' but something like nuclear-grade plutonium?"
"I considered that," condescended Patriot, pacing before the computer-generated map. "Then I realized that there's too many of them. Nowhere in the world would there be this many nuclear facilities that close to each other. But I recognize the pattern from a cluster of chemical laboratories in the Ukraine I helped dismantle a few years back."
"Wow, you've been everywhere," said Nustle in awe. "Well, that's a relief. At least you've already dismantled the potential threat."
"It's not over yet," said Patriot, picking up a phone and dialing a real long number. "I dismantled those chemical laboratories after the fall of the Soviet Union. But in post-communist Russia, the Russian mafia took them over and remantled them in my absence."
"You mean…?"
"I'm afraid so," said Patriot. "They're still mantled."
The phone rang in Russia and eventually was picked up by Mikhail Yvynokstof, a burly large Russian with a loud, infectious laugh, and the clap.
"Greetings, caller," said Yvynokstof. "I am sorry you called but I am not home at the moment."
"Can the jokes, Yvynokstof," said Patriot, grinning his phone call grin. It's John Patriot."
"John Patriot!" exclaimed the girthy Russian. "Truly this is a cause to celebrate. I will break out my finest Vodka and we shall drink. Since you are not here, I shall have the larger portion."
"I'm not calling to listen to you drink," snapped Patriot. "We've got problems. I think a terrorist group known as Ala-Carte is planning to steal biological weapons from one of fifteen labs in the Ukraine."
"Great Lennon's ghost!" yelled the moderately-rotund Russian. "Big Gay Bear!"
"Yeah, well you mother goes down more than a German U-Boat."
"No, comrade," said the monsterish Russian. "Is not insult. Is great Russian biological weapon. It was to be a defensive weapon against American troops, should cold war antagonisms ever lead to actual fighting. Various germ agents are stored separately throughout Ukraine to prevent accidentally making weapon when bored lab assistants fuck around with materials. My comrade… Ala-Carte is not planning to hit one of fifteen laboratories… but all fifteen!"
It was the worst thing John Patriot had heard of since the last novel. He scratched his chin thoughtfully and then his ass. It looked like this was to be his strangest mission yet, teaming up with his old Russian adversary to stop the rising threat of Islamic fundamentalist terrorism so popular these days.   |