Great White Pyrotechnics Implicated in Columbia Disaster

irl, as if it wasn’t bad enough clubbing’s been more dangerous lately than before they invented the AIDS cocktail, now they found the reason Columbia lit up the sky with their name. And it’s a phrase you’ve heard more than once: Cock rock is responsible.

Great White is once bitten, twice shy, and three times an asshole this week. Not only did the gorgeous ladies of ‘80s commercial rock burn down the hottest spot in the Rhode Island night club scene; now NASA is saying crucial video footage of the shuttle shortly before explosion puts the hair band and their infamous pyrotechnics on the scene.

“We have nothing but scratchy de-rezzing video stills,� said NASA blame-thrower Pete Hucksnell, “but we’re reasonably sure that was the ‘80s metal band Great White in the aft part of the cockpit. They were in the midst of a first encore, possibly a second, as the craft was approaching its landing perimeter.�

When asked what Great White was doing aboard the shuttle, wise-ass Hucksnell said NASA believes it was “Rock Me.�

Since the announcement, speculation has been thick as to how Great White got aboard the shuttle, why they were playing a set during landing, and how they successfully escaped the shuttle blast to successfully destroy Rhode Island’s night life more than a week later.

“Great White was playing at my club in Jersey shortly afterwards. They used their dangerous pyrotechnics without knowledge of management or any warning to anyone, despite being informed it was against fire safety laws,� said New Jersey night club owner Gary “I Tol’ Ya So� Maxwell.

NASA insiders say early opinion is the video footage is genuine, though it was being closely studied to see if it was a prank by Internet jokesters or jealous Winger supporters. At press time, Great White fans were being sought to help NASA I.D. the band, particularly to distinguish them from Warrant, Slaughter, Whitesnake, and any other groups often mistaken for the quintet.

Experts were not yet prepared to rule out Mr. Big or Firehouse, though neither band has been seen since the early 1990s.

Shuttle design expert and metalhead Garth Study offered explanations.

“If it were Kiss or Iron Maiden or a metal band with some degree of mystic power, you could easily theorize how they escaped a shuttle disaster to be seen shortly afterward, uninjured and completely intact,� said Study, brushing peroxide-blond hair from his sunglassed eyes. “But Great White’s only known power was the ability to rock the house. And they had a hell of a stage show! But I guess that’s kinda inappropriate to bring up now. I would place money on it being a Great White cover band, but the fault in that theory is there are none. The space shuttle has no escape pods and all blast re-enactment programs can’t pinpoint any scenarios for survival of anyone, especially a Robert Plant-esque vocalist, a twin-guitar assault team, and tight rhythm section. It’s mathematically mind-boggling.�

Estimates are that if Great White can be proven culpable in the shuttle disaster as well, their total body count for 2003 would exceed one hundred. They would officially surpass Black Sabbath as the heavy metal band who killed more people, though Sabbath would still hold the record for encouraged suicides and Satanic sacrifices.

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I swear to God you break one little hip, slip into a light four-month coma, and the entire world passes you by. It's like you died, nobody bothers to bring you up to date on the lotto numbers or the once-in-a-lifetime cataclysmic events you missed while you had a feeding tube sticking out of your ass like a goddamned ringtail lemur. The Red Sox? The World Series? For that very reason I'm still unconvinced that I didn't die that day, living ever since in some kind of strange Jacob's Ladder hinterworld. The motherloving Red Sox? That gimpy bunch of fruits? I spend the autumn on the rack at Jiffy Lube and the whole world passes me by like I was driving a Prius in the Indy 500.

While I was in my coma, dreaming about soft foods and My Little Pony, I had some vague awareness that I was probably missing some big events out in the so-called "real" world. I knew if I stayed in there long enough, the usual grab bag of celebrities would probably kick off, and I might just miss the Al-Qaeda razing the city of Chicago like it was the Crusades 2. And I was fine with all that. But I'm still pissed off that nobody though to bust out the electroshock paddles when the Sox came back from 3-0 against the Yankees back in October. Trust me, I would have climbed down off my pretty-hair pony and rejoined the waking world to see that, they wouldn't have had to shock-paddle me more than three or four times. No acrid stink of fried chest hair for this guy. We're talking playoff action here.

Back in my day, doctors could recognize a coma for what it was: a hard-earned vacation for people who hate to travel. They didn't mess around with all these expensive EKGs and CAT-scans. They just tossed a spare blanket on you and left a glass of water on the nightstand for when you eventually woke your ass up. And if there wasn't room at the hospital, thanks to a fireworks fight at the coal mine or war breaking out in the Balkans, there was always some nice family out there proud to host a comatose American. Hell, I had a guy comatose on my couch for three months back in '57. I didn't mind it one bit, he kept the nachos warm while I was in the bathroom.

But that world's as far gone as an underground bunker full of Scientologists, readers. Nowadays, it's screw you and your 86-year World Series curse, old man. As long as your family keeps sending the hard sucking candies, we're keeping you in that coma.

My God, the Red Sox. How did this self described bunch of "fucking morons" defeat the mighty-footed Yankee juggernaut? I've seen the footage on Betamax, and I'm still not sure how it happened. The only sane conclusion is that the 2004 Yankees were, to a man, a bunch of pussies. If I were Steinbrenner, I'd be pissed nobody pointed this out to me earlier. I bet next season the Yankees have some kind of public disclosure rule where that kind of stuff gets exposed, possibly over the public address system. "Now batting, Alex Rodriguez: Pussy. Also plays some third base."

Did anybody else see Rodriguez karate-chop that ball like he thought he was Jackie Baseball Chan or something? What a pussy. If I saw that in a little league game, I'd be down on the field, bitch-slapping some little kids. The ghost of Babe Ruth needed to pry his fat ass out of the grave for about ten minutes and give that Rodriguez guy a serious murph, and pronto.

Kevin Brown? Another big pussy. Only the Yankees could find a way to spend so much money on a guy whose spine is held together with Polydent. This guy gives the elderly a bad name.

Jeter? He's always been a pussy. You can pull all the carnival bullshit you want, throwing some steroid freak out at the plate with a backward pass like you think you're Magic Johnson, but… actually, there's no "but" involved, that alone makes you a pretty big pussy. I've slapped little leaguers for more manly pranks than that.

Mussina? Pussina. That guy belongs in an elementary school library, checking book margins for nude doodles of Minnie Mouse. Matsui? Japanese Baseball Robot. Not a pussy, but not very convincing either. They might have pulled that one over on us if it weren't for all the sponsorship logos printed on his teeth. Bernie Williams? You ever see that cartoon aardvark Arthur? Same guy. Both pussies. And a name like Georgie Posada speaks for itself.

Few would call Gary Sheffield a pussy, but you've got to look at the company a man keeps. Something's not right with this guy. Plus Sheffield swings harder on a bunt than Jack Nicholson saying hello to Scatman Crothers. And they want to know how he ended up with rancid hamburger for a shoulder by the end of the season? After the Twins game when he tried to catch that fly ball in his mouth, it dawned on me that the guy's arms are tied on with twine, like a scarecrow. They're just for looks kids.

And don't get me started on the "Cardinals." Anyone with half a memory knows those guys were the "other" team from the Bad News Bears movies, all growed up. I don't know what they did with the real Cardinals to make sure the Red Sox Cinderella story came true, but Guantanamo Bay is the first place I'd look.

Anyway, bitter rant aside, it's good to be back among the conscious. Thanks for calling, if any of you called. Sorry I wasn't able to answer the phone: coma and everything. But I'm sure subconsciously it meant something to me, on some kind of psychic Caller-ID level. But the next time I get jumped for slapping little-leaguers, I expect a marked improvement in coma management, people. Good day.

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Recently the nerd squad was here at the commune offices, updating all of our computers with Windows XP. Except of course for Rok Finger's computer, which still runs on typewriter ribbons, midnight oil and elbow grease. And believe me, you can smell that thing from down the hall.

I've had it about up to my marble-sack with all of these Windows variations. Windows 3.1, Windows 95, Windows 98, Windows Xtra Tasty Crispy, Windows for the Teenage Soul... enough is enough. Just when I get used to the quirks and massive failures of one version of Windows and start to find them endearing, they come out with another version. It's like finding a stranger in your bed. Or waking up naked in your neighbor's bed, something along those lines. Imagine something you don't like, and then transfer that feeling to what I think of a new version of Windows. You got it? Cool. Let's continue.

Most folks I know liked Windows 98 about as much as I like lawn clippings in a salad bar, or whatever, you know. But I came to like it over the years. I enjoyed countless half-days at work thanks to my computer seizing up from trying to run two instances of calculator at once, or that time I tried to open an image of Estella Warren in Notepad. Also, a word to the wise: Playing your computer keyboard like Schroeder from Peanuts can be fun, sometimes even A LOT OF FUN, but be prepared for problems like prematurely sent emails and system messages like "I FUCK YOU UP, WHITE BOY!". You've been warned.

But as always, my acceptance of the old Windows system was a sure as shit sign that the next version wasn't more than two weeks away. And this time they decided to go straight for the Gen-X crowd with a dangerous-sounding name and a design scheme that's like Candyland on crack. I'm no marketing expert, but I think they may have aimed a little young this time. I had a program crash the other day and I swear to God some little Teletubby popped up to tell me it wasn't my fault and he still loves me. I mean, yeah, it's cool to know, but it made me worried that I might have a radon leak in my office.

Of course, this was all after I got the goddamned package open, they sealed that thing like it contains nuclear secrets. All I can say about that is thank God I keep an electric turkey knife in my desk drawer.

As if that wasn't bad enough, then we start hearing about this programming boner from our buddies over at Microsoft where any yobknob with a dial-up connection can remotely seize control of our computers and give them an annoying attitude like in that "Short Circuit" movie. And sure enough, not long after that announcement the nerd squad finds gigabytes of mixed-race pornography on my hard drive, the obvious product of some sick hackmeister getting off on packing my computer with disturbing contraband.

What's next? Some added deluxe functionality where the hard drive bursts into flames just in case it contained any incriminating information about your illegitimate daughter in Laos? I know they're trying to cold-boot us into the space age and whatnot, bringing about an age where our computers will interact with our appliances and watch SNL for us so we can just hear about the good parts, but what if my refrigerator's an idiot and accidentally deletes all of those dirty haikus I downloaded? I'm not even sure that temperature dial even works, I don't know if it's ready to get online and order pimento olives for me.

And hasn't anybody noticed that in all of those futuristic movies, everything sucks? Sure, you might have a robot that polishes your shoes, but then they're harvesting your daughter's eggs to breed the perfect killing machine. Screw that noise. I mean, have you seen Runaway? That whole movie sucked. I don't want anything to do with any of it. Give me an old-fashioned typewriter that doesn't have emotional problems. Actually, cut out the middleman and give me an old-fashioned secretary that doesn't have emotional problems. Then she can deal with the typewriter when all the keys jam together after a particularly inspired Schroeder impression. Bricks out.

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