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Shuttle Analysts: Man Was Never Meant to Fly February 17, 2003 |
Houston, Texas UNKNOWN LONG-DEAD PH Early Americans earn Godâs ire by leaving the ground they were destined for. an took a collective step backward, arms behind the back, whistling, and rolling eyes when the space shuttle Columbia exploded over Texas two weeks ago. Texans, used to loud unexpected explosions, were slow to realize exactly what had happened, but some analysts are now saying it was the âfuck youâ heard âround the world.
âMan was never meant to fly,â said shuttle analysts Thursday. âItâs clear the kind of damage that caused the shuttleâs destruction, coupled with all the obvious other signs, that weâve overstepped our bounds greatly. I suggest we all get used to walking.â
Though the reaction may seem extreme, even for space nerds, others are saying duh—itâs about time weâve realized it.
Biblical doomsayer and Readerâ...
an took a collective step backward, arms behind the back, whistling, and rolling eyes when the space shuttle Columbia exploded over Texas two weeks ago. Texans, used to loud unexpected explosions, were slow to realize exactly what had happened, but some analysts are now saying it was the âfuck youâ heard âround the world. âMan was never meant to fly,â said shuttle analysts Thursday. âItâs clear the kind of damage that caused the shuttleâs destruction, coupled with all the obvious other signs, that weâve overstepped our bounds greatly. I suggest we all get used to walking.â Though the reaction may seem extreme, even for space nerds, others are saying duh—itâs about time weâve realized it. Biblical doomsayer and Readerâs Digest editor James Bartle: âItâs taken too long to get this message, folks. All the plane crashes, not to mention the daily hot air balloon disasters that donât even make the news—hasnât it been made clear yet? Man was not meant to fly. Even the Wright Brothers plane didnât fly more than a few seconds. People will say trial-and-error, necessary experimentation, blah, blah, blah. The truth is, we were shaking the apple tree that wasnât meant to be shaked.â But not only religious weirdoes are preaching this gospel now. In the wake of the loss of the shuttle and seven astronauts, people are reconsidering the 1986 Challenger disaster, which also cost the lives of seven astronauts, and even 2001âs use of aircraft by Allah to smite American capitalists. âNobody wanted to believe in the space program more than me,â said NASA helmsman and space aficionado Shansy Miller. âBut the loss of countless craft and lives in the space program has finally become too much to ignore. How many times have we lost good people over the course of these fifty years in our vain attempts to exceed our limitations? Ten? Twenty or more? I think it was three, actually, but you get what Iâm saying. It isnât to be.â Despite the innovations in technology and the potential offered by space travel, many are saying this is the final straw. Man has tried for far too long to explore space and has only gotten so far as the moon, or Mars, if you count unmanned probes, which no one cares about. Itâs time to call it quits. âWe had a good run,â according to former astronaut and space cowboy Maurice Graham. âWe been up into space, we planted a flag on the moon. I donât see any point in doing anything more. All weâre doing is putting good multi-ethnic men and woman at risk and providing years of dead astronaut jokes for playground kids.â âThere will be no further shuttles in the foreseeable future,â said a faceless NASA drone, possibly an android. âI hope we didnât leave anything valuable on the space station because weâre not going back there for a while. Watch out for Predators when we do. Thatâs all Iâm saying.â Currently, the president will be hearing arguments to ground all earth-traveling aircraft such as commercial jets and military planes, but there is no decision expected until at least after Iraq has been thoroughly carpet-bombed. the commune news just wants to fly, put your arms around us, baby. Ramon Nootles was never meant to fly either, at least thatâs what we tell him when we pack him onto a Greyhound when he travels for a story.
 |  "Female Sex Patch" Nothing But Dermal Tequila Shooters  Popular TV Clown Robertson Delivers Weekly Outrageous Banter Saudi Arabian royal impersonator pardons self
Today the 10-year anniversary of the death of alterna-rock
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Media Plugs CIA Leak ne the most potentially controversial stories in recent years was successfully nipped in the bud by the Bush White House and its ever-faithful assistant, the national news media, as the ongoing story of former Cheney Chief of Staff Lewis Libbys indictment, the first of a sitting White House official in history, was relegated to page 3 by bored news directors and other major Republican-driven news stories. Libby, called Scooter by his many enemies, is the first and likely only casualty of the under-covered story of a White House leak, in which the identity of a working CIA operative, conveniently the wife of Bush opponent Joseph Wilson. Wilsons wife Valerie Plame was outed as a spy by a conservative columnist, and his source was traced back to the White House. While liberals hoped the 22-month investigation by Special Counsel Patrick Fitzgerald would reveal the dirty tactic came from a source as high as presidential counselor Karl Rove, the most the Democrats could succeed with was a guy named Scooter. And the victory itself was short-lived. French Protestors Politely Riot urious French protestors continued to riot over the weekend, gently overturning traffic cones and unleashing salvos of pithy wit at assembled riot police across some of the roughest neighborhoods in all of Paris. The riots began the previous week in the Seine-Saint-Denis suburb northeast of Paris, sparked by what officials believe was a disagreement over food. Those incorrigible police buffoons know nothing of fine chocolate! said impassioned teenage rioter Jean Touloc, only in French. The urbane French police were overwhelmed almost before the rioting even began, requiring the French Army to be brought in last week. The army surrendered four hours later, and plans were being drawn up for a transitional government when some joker switched out the treaty-signing pen with a novelty model that laughs electronically when you try to write with it. The rioters, perhaps correctly believing that they were not being taken seriously, stepped up their boisterous chants of We beg to differ! and their disorderly milling-about. Big Ratings Prompts ABC to Seek More Dancing Handicapped Shows Strychnine Dog Food: Where Can You Buy It? |
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 December 9, 2002
One Household Please, and Hold the KidsChristmas is just around the corner, and that can only mean one thing in the Umbrage household: wait a minute, do I even have a household? Does one guy living in a studio apartment with a picture of a potted plant count these days? Usually it seems implied that there are some kids and/or hamsters involved, but I don't know if that's part of the textbook definition. If I count, then some guy living out of a suitcase down at the Y isn't far off, and that's a pretty half-assed household if you ask me. There should be some kind of minimum standards.
Kids I most definitely do not have, and unless the Spirit of Christmas comes around and kicks my ass over it some day I'm not giving it high odds that will change. Why exactly is it that some starving hobo passing out in your entryway is considered a nuisance, yet a pack of bratty little ingrates dominating your whole life, barfing milk left and right and making you listen to Raffi is looked upon as a blessing? I think we've got our priorities in some kind of uncomfortable Twister position there.
The thing that gets me is the people who pretend that they like kids. Right. Just like I love being stung in the dick by a hornet. Nobody likes kids, not even other kids. Put two of them alone in a room together and you won't get ten minutes into a porno before one of them hits the other in the head with a toybox or the corner of a brick. Forget about not letting them see R-rated movies; the average kid kicks more ass...
º Last Column: Conversations Vol. 2 º more columns
Christmas is just around the corner, and that can only mean one thing in the Umbrage household: wait a minute, do I even have a household? Does one guy living in a studio apartment with a picture of a potted plant count these days? Usually it seems implied that there are some kids and/or hamsters involved, but I don't know if that's part of the textbook definition. If I count, then some guy living out of a suitcase down at the Y isn't far off, and that's a pretty half-assed household if you ask me. There should be some kind of minimum standards. Kids I most definitely do not have, and unless the Spirit of Christmas comes around and kicks my ass over it some day I'm not giving it high odds that will change. Why exactly is it that some starving hobo passing out in your entryway is considered a nuisance, yet a pack of bratty little ingrates dominating your whole life, barfing milk left and right and making you listen to Raffi is looked upon as a blessing? I think we've got our priorities in some kind of uncomfortable Twister position there. The thing that gets me is the people who pretend that they like kids. Right. Just like I love being stung in the dick by a hornet. Nobody likes kids, not even other kids. Put two of them alone in a room together and you won't get ten minutes into a porno before one of them hits the other in the head with a toybox or the corner of a brick. Forget about not letting them see R-rated movies; the average kid kicks more ass than Steven Seagal. They just don't have the sound effects and guys back-flipping off the Hoover Dam to make it seem impressive. Face the facts, kids are mean like the Viet Cong. If adults acted like that the whole world would be like Jerry Springer during sweeps week. The show, not the guy. You wouldn't be able to walk out in the rain without someone yelling that you'd peed your pants, and then out of nowhere somebody would pull your shorts down and rub some spaghetti in your hair. Yeah, what a wonderful world indeed. What a freakin' miracle of nature. I was out on a date with a girl the other night and she told me she had babies, all I can say is thank God that window was open or I might not have gotten out of there in time. I found out from a friend later that I'd misheard her and she actually has rabies, got bit by a flying squirrel or something, so I kind of felt bad about flinging myself out of the restaurant like I did. I might give her a call to go out again some time, maybe in a couple weeks when the pills have had time to make sure she's not going to foam from the mouth on my upholstery or anything like that. She was nice, and it's not like she has kids anymore. I want to meet the guy who suckered the world into thinking that having kids is a good idea. Probably the same guy who invented the diaper or PokĂ©mon. All I'm saying is that if this guy holds a seminar, consider me there. If I could get just one tenth of that magic to rub off on me, within a week I'd have people paying me money to watch them kick themselves in the face. Granted, I hope I'd eventually come up with a better money-making scheme than that, since I'd probably get tired of flying all over the country to witness face-kickings and people getting blood on me and all that, but it would be a start. And it illustrated my point pretty well, I think. So yeah, you can keep your "household," if that's what it comes down to. I'll console myself somehow as I recline on my spitup-free couch and sleep in until noon. And I hope you like Candyland, you poor bastards. º Last Column: Conversations Vol. 2º more columns
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|  May 30, 2005
Legends of SuckBaseball fans love nothing more than debating who was the best of the best, and which of the game's many legends are deserving of enshrinement in the hallowed Hall of Fame. Boring, I say. I'd rather see newborn monkeys processed into chewing gum than sit through another of those inane debates. No, what interests me is the exact opposite. Who exactly were the worst of the worst, the most pathetic, inept baboons ever to strap on cleats? Who were the miserable excuses for human evolution that made us retch the most, clutching our privates in wonder at how these crack babies made it to professional ball in the first place?
Who can forget Frank "Gas Can" Whitmore? Frank was famous all across the Caribbean League because bringing him into a game to stop a rally was like trying to piss out a house fire after drinking a gallon of turpentine. In both cases, your dick would catch on fire instantly.
Then there was Lennie "Three Strikes" Driscoll. This human marvel couldn't hit the ocean if he fell out of a submarine. I saw one game where every time Driscoll came up, the ump would give him two strikes just for stepping into the batter's box, to save time. This guy would strike out in batting practice. I saw one game where he was wearing a jersey at least ten sizes too big in hopes the pitcher would hit him accidentally, so he could get on base for the first time all season. Only then the wind picked up and Driscoll ended up taking off like a kite, and he was...
º Last Column: Every Team Stinks This Year º more columns
Baseball fans love nothing more than debating who was the best of the best, and which of the game's many legends are deserving of enshrinement in the hallowed Hall of Fame. Boring, I say. I'd rather see newborn monkeys processed into chewing gum than sit through another of those inane debates. No, what interests me is the exact opposite. Who exactly were the worst of the worst, the most pathetic, inept baboons ever to strap on cleats? Who were the miserable excuses for human evolution that made us retch the most, clutching our privates in wonder at how these crack babies made it to professional ball in the first place?
Who can forget Frank "Gas Can" Whitmore? Frank was famous all across the Caribbean League because bringing him into a game to stop a rally was like trying to piss out a house fire after drinking a gallon of turpentine. In both cases, your dick would catch on fire instantly.
Then there was Lennie "Three Strikes" Driscoll. This human marvel couldn't hit the ocean if he fell out of a submarine. I saw one game where every time Driscoll came up, the ump would give him two strikes just for stepping into the batter's box, to save time. This guy would strike out in batting practice. I saw one game where he was wearing a jersey at least ten sizes too big in hopes the pitcher would hit him accidentally, so he could get on base for the first time all season. Only then the wind picked up and Driscoll ended up taking off like a kite, and he was called out for leaving the batter's box as he flew over the opposing team's dugout, swearing all the way like a foul-mouthed angel.
There was "Shoeless" Joe Montegle and "Cupless" Joe Smitz, the middle infielders for the Flagstaff Fag's Half in 1971, both of whose careers ended on the same messy double-play attempt.
And I haven't even mentioned the worst catcher I ever saw, Phil "Nose Bone" Drummond, who had a nasty habit of jumping out of the way whenever the ball was coming too fast, leading to a fatwa being issued on his head by the Minor League Umpires' Insurance Fund. Phil was also renowned for his hard-nosed play on close plays at the plate, like the time he took out an umpire in a bone-jarring collision when Phil was trying to get out of the way of a runner that was coming home.
Few lists like this would be complete without Blind Willie McTipp, the second baseman for the North Shore Riggers in the mid-seventies. I could write an entire column just on the many problems raised by having a seeing-eye dog on the field. Not only did the dog constantly fight McTipp over the ball, but Willie would be dragged off the field involuntarily every time somebody in the crowd started hucking around a Frisbee, which made the infield defense a little shaky.
Surprisingly, Willie wasn't the only legally blind player ever in pro ball, since Wenchell "Lights Out" Croup was in the same league a few years later, as a first baseman for the Stone Valley Nothings. By then, dogs had been outlawed from most stadiums thanks to the Southby Spineless Weasels' "Neuter Night" promotion mishap in 1980, so Wenchell was on his own, which made things interesting to say the least. For the most part, he depended on his teammates yelling when and where they were throwing the ball, like "NOW! CROTCH!" Croup was almost killed several times in 1982 when the team got a new shortstop from the Dominican Republic who didn't speak any English. But you can bet your concussed ass he learned the important parts of Spanish real quick-like that season.
But inept as they all may be, none of these paragons of motor-skill deformity could hold a candle to Hodge "Black Hole" Lightner, the centerfielder for the Long Island Dutch Ovens for most of the 1960's. Hodge set a minor-league record for going three entire seasons, 1961-1963, without ever touching the ball. By bat, glove, or hand, Hodge remained unsullied by horsehide for three long seasons. Players of the day considered Lightner to be something of a miracle, since the team's entire training staff, mascot, and most of its fans either caught or were hit with the ball at least once during that time span.
But Lightner had a unique talent for making spectacular diving attempts at catches, no matter where on the field or in the stands the ball was hit, and never actually making contact with the ball. Fans loved his hustle and management kept bringing him back, season after season, on the mistaken belief that Lighter was "so close" and just on the verge of "busting out." Those hopes ended one day in 1967, when Lightner was trampled by fans during a "free ice cream" promotion at the Dutch Ovens' home park, Home Field.
There were more terrible players than just those, of course, but even thinking about these guys is giving me indigestion. Butter me up with some Pepto Bismol next time and maybe I'll tell you the rest. º Last Column: Every Team Stinks This Yearº more columns
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Milestones1931: Former commune columnist Sampson L. Hartwig forfeits another "Race Around the World" when it is discovered that he merely hid in a barn for three days, then took a taxi in from the opposite side of town, claiming victory.Now HiringCompulsive Ass-Kisser. Shameless suck-up needed to boost general staff morale and cut down on work days lost to crippling depression. Total lack of discernment required. Insane "Never met a man I didn't like" attitude a plus.Top Bad Gift CDs| 1. | N*Synch Unplugged | | 2. | Songs to Masturbate To | | 3. | Taco: B-Sides and Rarities | | 4. | Uncle Dave's Most Racist BBQ Stories | | 5. | Elvis Chews! | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Orson Welch 3/8/2004 I skipped the Oscars last Sunday, choosing instead to watch the only awards show that matters—the Orson Welch Outstanding Achievements in Cinema Excellence Web Broadcast. It was a little Flash presentation I put together, with all my favorite celebrities, including Agnes Moorehead and Crispin Glover. Not the real celebrities, but amazing likenesses just off enough so as to avoid litigation. Of course, nobody won, since no impressive films were nationally released this year, but you have to admire the untouchable integrity of the awards. That aside, onto the next two weeks worth of DVD releases.
On DVD
Schindler's List
It's against the law in Germany to display Nazi articles these days, and I think out...
I skipped the Oscars last Sunday, choosing instead to watch the only awards show that matters—the Orson Welch Outstanding Achievements in Cinema Excellence Web Broadcast. It was a little Flash presentation I put together, with all my favorite celebrities, including Agnes Moorehead and Crispin Glover. Not the real celebrities, but amazing likenesses just off enough so as to avoid litigation. Of course, nobody won, since no impressive films were nationally released this year, but you have to admire the untouchable integrity of the awards. That aside, onto the next two weeks worth of DVD releases.
On DVD
Schindler's List
It's against the law in Germany to display Nazi articles these days, and I think out of extra guilt they also forbade negative reviews of this 1993 black-and-white guilt trip. Usually I love mopey, film noir cinema, but Spielberg uses sentiment like Cajuns cook with cayenne pepper. Gentiles who sit through it more than once are officially absolved of any wrongdoing in thousands of years of religious oppression. But giving the film credit, it is a harrowing vision of the struggle and spirit of the Jewish people, and how they needed a Catholic kraut to be the subject of a film to really tell the rest of the world their story.
Mona Lisa Smile
Apparently the cause of Mona Lisa's smile was indeed flatulence. Portraits never quite accurately capture those little facts. But this film pays that notion homage with this cinematic squirt in the pants that dredges up the Dead Poets Society genre yet again, this time packed wall to wall with the XX gender. Julia Roberts makes for the perfect film lead in the movie, except for the fact you never buy any school would certify her as a teacher. Her politically-correct way of looking at things years before they invented politically-correctness wins over the vapid student body made up of popular young actresses whose names I haven't bothered to look up. It's worth seeing, if you're writing a graduate thesis on cinema cliché. Otherwise, not on a bet.
21 Grams
Alejandro GonzĂĄlez Iñårritu is a brilliant director—not good, mind you, but brilliant. It was sheer genius to call a sloppily-edited film an artistic exercise in the use of chronological time. I can easily see how the film-illiterate would believe it. The rest of us in the know, however, smile and wink at each other while watching this nonsensical examination of the human spirit starring Oscar mantles Sean Penn and Benecio Del Toro. The director pushes the boundaries of unpolished, lazy filmmaking and gets off scot-free, though I wouldn't equate that to a good movie, of course. I tip my hat to him, though I won't write his name out again because I nearly sprained a finger trying to type it the first time.
That's all our two-week session allows this week. I think you're all getting better, but I'd like to see you for a few more years to make sure your tastes don't backsliding again. There is a new Owen Wilson and Ben Stiller movie doing quite well at the box office, so apparently some people are still in need of tutelage. Good viewing, America.   |