NASA Photographs Infuriate Shut-Ins, Conspiracy Geeks

ew infrared images from NASA's Mars Odyssey orbiter featuring the long-debated formation known as the "Face on Mars" have sent shockwaves through the shut-in and conspiracy geek communities. Anxious and unbathed web surfers who expected the infrared pictures to provide new revelations about the features voiced their disappointment, saying the new images are bullshit because they don't show any kind of recognizable face at all, just a couple of bumps in the dirt.

NASA claims this is because there never was a face, stupid, only a trick of light and shadow fueled by desperate weirdoes who haven't worked in years. Fans of the face contend that it was only the lack of "night-vision" imagery that failed to expose the Sphinxlike visage they have come to know and love. NASA responded with a patronizing smile and a hand gesture indicating "okaaay."

The debate over the Face has simmered for the last twenty-five years, since NASA's Viking orbiters transmitted pictures of the Cydonia region that appeared to show a half-shadowed, helmeted face staring up from the planet's surface like some kind of cross between Kermit the Frog and Han Solo. Since then, additional formations have been identified as the "Alien Conspiracy Pyramid," "the Mounds of Xena" and so forth — and fans of the Face have argued that the formations showed evidence of a vast Martian civilization populated by breathtaking huge-breasted women incapable of resisting the charms of virginal 30 year-old earth men.

In the past five years, sharper imagery from NASA's Mars Global Surveyor orbiter popped a big-ol' hole in that over-inflated fantasy balloon, confirming the mainstream view that the Face and the other formations were nothing more than a whole lot of wind-eroded dirt, much like everything else on Mars. But die-hard fans of the Face refused to give up hope, disregarding the newer photos as hoaxes and propaganda, and confusing everyone in their apartment buildings by going as "The Face" for Halloween.

The new Mars Odyssey images are unique in that they were taken using infrared light, unlike the visible light used for the Viking and Global Surveyor images of Cydonias. This allowed for day or night photography unhindered by shadows. Many fans of the Face, however, took issue with NASA's methodology.

"We got gypped," griped Thomas Reinhold of Jackson, Miss. "They totally lead us to believe they were going to be doing some nighttime infrared imagery, not just daytime. What if the face only comes out at night? Didn't think of that, did you, NASA?"

"He said what?" questioned Tony Rice, a member of the Arizona State University imaging team that worked with NASA on the project. "Jesus. Thanks to AOL, every kind of mook can get on the net now."

The Arizona State imaging research team denied any unique features belonging to the mesas that make up the Face. "What do we have to do, draw you people a map?" Rice questioned. "Oh, wait, that's right. We already did that. Morons."

No stranger to being called morons, the Face fans press on with their hunt for the truth.

"Those white-coated government lackeys over at NASA can conspiratize all they want, but we know the truth," boasted Elmer Noonan of Vine Grove, KY. "We've seen the pictures. The first picture, anyway. All the other ones after that were bullshit. A total governmental cover-up, straight out of the handbook. If it hadn't been for that Libertarian dude working at NASA back in '76, we never would have got to see that original image of the face. I bet those NASA guys have been kicking themselves every day since they released that thing. Ha. Jerks."

"We're putting new stuff out there every day for the public to look at," Rice said while playing with a hole in the bottom of his shoe. "I don't know what their problem is. Oh, right. The conspiracy. I almost forgot. Well, you're going to have to excuse me while I conspire to drive my shitty little Tercel over to Arby's and eat a roast beef sandwich for lunch."

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You get asked a lot of stupid questions when you write for the commune. Like, "What is the commune?" and "Who the hell are you?" and "Sir, can you empty your pockets please? Don't cause a scene, sir." But every once in a while a non-dumbass will ask a question I think warrants an answer, and so I try to take a moment to appease that foolboy. This week I answer the question, "What does the name of your column, 'My Friend Polio,' mean?"

Your roughneck narrator has a very big and occupied world to deal with, compadres, and so I sometimes forget your world is altogether different, often smaller and more disappointing. So I forget sometimes a title like "My Friend Polio" is lost on all of you who don't hang with Mr. Bricks in person. Let me try to define the nature of "My Friend Polio" and why that title is the letterhead for this column each week.

Growing up in Waucheska, New Jersey was pretty cool. We were so close to Asbury Park that I got many a Springsteen reference all you midwest cowpunchers didn't. Then Bon Jovi came along from New Jersey and fucked up a good thing; we all tried to keep it a secret, then that Alpha Centauri-sized asshole had to go and title an album "New Jersey," making it all more than obvious. Goddamned nutsack-tugger. Anyway, forget him, getting off-track.

I had lots of friends growing up, but two best friends--one was Johnshark Remnants and the other was a guy I could never remember nor pronounce his name, so me and Johnshark called him "Polio," 'cause one leg was terrifyingly smaller than the other on him. Mind you I don't think he actually had Polio, not even sure what that shit is, Johnshark came up with the name, and I think it was cured by Dr. Spock anyway, and if you get down to brass tacks, amigo, I don't want to know what he had, but suffice to say one leg was big-fuckin'-difference smaller.

Back in the day, Johnshark, Polio, and me were big into NBC's "Voyagers." Now this ain't the crappy UPN "Star Trek" spin-off with freaks galore and a bitch captain. This is the crappy NBC time-travelling show with only one little Waldo-shirted freak and some big bitch time traveller who later shot himself by accident I hear, no joke. But anyway, the show didn't last long because the motherfuckers at NBC were always looking for some big drama like "The A-Team" and wouldn't give sci-fi a chance back in them days. Johnshark, Polio, and me specialized in collecting memorabilia from the short lived show and bragged at parties that collectively we had the largest gathering of "Voyagers" merchandising and collectibles available. Whenever we got invited to parties, 'course.

Then, boom! Along comes this rich asshole Carrington Johnson, who we hear has basically all the shit we got times two, plus the coveted "Voyagers" lunchbox complete with thermos intact—only 200 of those were made before NBC cancelled the fucking show. Naturally, dudes, we wouldn't stand for it. The guys and me planned a little midnight rendezvous to add this dweeb's memorabilia, lunchbox and all, to our own collection. Johnshark assured us that there was a constitutional ammendment testifying "that no one of doofus stature shall possess infinitely cool stuff whilst some bad motherfuckers do without." It's been a long time and I ain't ever checked that clause out, truthfully, but I gotta admit the "whilst" sounds dead on like the Constitution.

So we saddle up in pure commando gear, bad motherfuckers in the truest sense—fuckin' Doc Martens before they was cool, black turtlenecks like mothefuckin' "Mission: Impossible," except for Polio who only had a dark green one, and black knitcaps, except for Johnshark, who had this big-ass ten gallon cowboy hat, that son of a bitch knew how to carry out commando-esque action in style!

So lo and behold, the fuckin' door is left open! This shit couldn't be easier. And this mighty bastard don't even have nothing put up in cupboards with locks or something, no laser-type motion sensors or nothing, which would've been cool as fuck but hard as a virgin on prom night to bust. All this priceless treasure is packed away in boxes, and me, Polio, and hat-wearin' motherfucker Johnshark just waltz in and grab this booty, hauling off everything, Polio taking special care to grab that incredible lunchbox-thermos combo and making off like a bandit.

But shit explodes on the lawn when some gargantuan Rottweiler starts chomping down on us at full speed. That awesome Johnshark converted to pussy in record time and drops all the bonanza, zooms across the lawn, over the hedges in a single jump and I swear I didn't see that yellow motherfucker for another two years, no shit.

Me, I never learn a lesson before it happens, so I grab up as much of Johnshark's shit as possible and try to make it to the fence, convinced I could scale that badass faster than that dog can catch up with me. But Polio, prized lunchbox in hands, reaches the fence first and goddamn if his little bizarro fuckin' leg don't go right through the spokes and gets stuck.

I throw all of our ill-gotten gains over the fence in one hurle, like "whoosh!" it's over, and then try to get that little freak leg out of the fence, 'cause Omar Bricks never leaves a man behind, don't you know. But this dog is down on my ass by the time I get Polio's toothpick leg out that damn fence, and I hurl the motherfucker right over the fence, breaking my previous record for shit tossed over the fence. But as luck would have it, I break the fucker's leg, too—and wouldn't you know it, it's the big one. Goddamn if Lady Luck don't fuck me with a strap-on sometimes.

So I clear the fence like I sprouted wings on my ass just as that big dog tries to grab some Omar on the way up. I land on the other side and it's pretty clear Polio ain't going anywhere without a wheelbarrow under his ass. So I start thinking of where I can get a wheelbarrow, but wouldn't you trust that little pygmy-leg son of a bitch to take the high road and say to me, "Go, Omar! It's too late for me! Save yourself."

Omar Bricks don't need to be told nothing twice. I'm out of there before Polio can change his mind, even as I hear him scream things behind me. I think that dog might've climbed the fence and started gnawing on his leg like a rawhide chew, but I'll be damned if I'm going to turn my head and lose much-needed velocity.

That was a long time ago. I read in the paper Polio's doing hard time now. That crazy bastard never said one word about yours truly or that massive infection of cowardice Johnshark. And Lady Luck took unkindly to his ass as well—he was assigned to a minimum security prison, then became part of this prison exchange program with Guatemala. Now he's busting rock in some goddamn hellhole to finance some rich-ass king or something while some little fuckin' political prisoner tart is living the highlife in his minimum security joint.

That's the story, mates—long and ugly, like a pecker in a porno. It was after that Omar Bricks decided to turn his life around and stay away from the evil temptation of stolen TV memorabilia. Polio would've wanted it that way. Maybe still does, how should I know? I don't even remember his real goddamn name to look him up in the phone book if he was out. But I'm forever appreciative, wherever you are, you off-balance motherfucker. So everytime you all tuck in to read some shit on the commune, remember to thank Polio for me.

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This week's Nedmiller Column is excerpted from "Spastic Diaper: The Ned Nedmiller Story" by Rolando Burf. Continued from last week.

And it might still be that way today if it weren't for one Nedriff Nipplebelt Nedmiller. When Ned heard of the buffalo problem, he locked himself in his laboratory, pronouncing that he would not appear again until he had the solution. Neighbors wondered at the strange noises coming from Ned's lab at all hours of the day and night: the singing of saws, the burping of crows and the vague smell of a swimming pool on fire. Someone called for a constable when a rumor circulated that Ned was melting down school children into paraffin wax, but just as the fuzz was about to knock on Ned's door, the man himself flung open his doors and announced to the world that their problems were over.

The device that Ned presented to the world looked like a cross between a smallish piano and a largish dentistry utensil, on wheels. It had a crank on one side and a flared cone on the other. And on top there was a mannequin head wearing a hat. On the side, hand-lettered in on it's black surface in black paint (or so he told the people), it said "Ned Nedmiller's Framjambulous Laughing Machine".

Refusing the spectators' pleas for a demonstration, Ned hopped aboard the Laughing Machine and rode it west, toward the Plains. It was a four-week journey, but thanks to the help of a flock of pelicans, and Ned's invention of a land-sail, it only took him a month and a half. He arrived to find the Chinamen, sitting about and scratching their heads, as a stoic buffalo stood, motionless, at the eastern termination of the Walking Rail.

Without saying a word, Ned positioned his Laughing Machine in front of the buffalo, wet his thumb to check wind direction, and gave the crank a furious crank. Laughter of every size and denomination, every type and at all points along the spectrum of sanity, poured forth from the laughing machine's cone. Chortles, titters, guffaws and even silent shaking filled the air. Three times the laughter produced by a fart in Congress spilled out of the Laughing Machine. Laughter so contagious that all of the Chinamen began to laugh along, and those who had yet to drop their tools and daydream now dropped their tools and doubled over in laughter.

The buffalo first looked at Ned (who nodded) in a confused fashion for a moment before it began to laugh. For those who have never heard a buffalo laugh, I suggest climbing inside an industrial textiles washing machine, starting up the cycle, and then letting loose the warthogs you've been hiding in your pants. Then you'll have bigger fish to fry than wondering what a buffalo sounds like when it laughs.

The buffalo laughed and laughed until finally it collapsed onto it's side and shook with buffalo laughter. Ned promptly shut off his laughing machine and when the Chinamen had recovered, they went about their merry task, building their Walking Rail all the way to New England. Ned accompanied them the rest of the way, providing laughing machine support whenever they came across buffalo, brown bears or hillbillies.

When they finally arrived in New York, Ned and the Chinamen were given a tickertape parade, and a recording contract with Capitol Records. In a show of gratitude, the Mayor of New York gave them all complimentary tickets for the maiden voyage of the first luxury liner built entirely by the blind, the Titanic.

The problem was, the Titanic was sailing to New York, not from it, so Ned and the Chinamen quickly hitched a ride on a grand blimp called the "Hindenberg 2: NO SMOKING" all the way over to England, where they were just in time to ride the Titanic back to New York.

Ned and the Titanic were like peas in a pod, and he entertained the guests and crew day and night with his inflatable pacemaker and a metal box that he claimed to contain Spain. He was voted "Best Grandmother" on the Titanic and was given a commemorative kick in the head. Unfortunately, these blissful days were not to last.

Out of nowhere the "biggest skeeter this side of the Rio Grande" latched onto the ship and started "jimmyin' open the fuselage with his tremendous skeeter-beak". Ned knew that time was short and heroism was in high demand, so he leapt into the fray with only a freakishly large Q-tip and a loincloth on his side. When all was said and done, "them skeeter" had been swabbed into submission and nine months later Ned would unexpectedly give birth to a small Laotian boy named Ring-rong, who would go to work in the diamond mines, and was years later buried under a landslide of engagement rings. Unfortunately for all aboard though, at that moment some joker pulled the plug on the Atlantic and "them Titanic" went down the drain, never to be seen again. Ned survived only by holing up in the belly of a whale named Tim, who later washed up on the shores of Costa Rica, proving his long-standing claim that he was allergic to Danes.

Over a hundred years later, the Walking Rails are still the mode of trans-continental transport preferred by most 10 year-old runaways. None of this would be possible without Nedrum Nightynight Nedmiller, and it's truly time that the city of Pasadena, California erects a gigantic knee brace in his name.

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