President Bush Calls for A "Paranoid, Trigger-Happy America"

rade Center and the Pentagon, President George "Nightmare" Bush has urged for Americans to unite and create a "paranoid, trigger-happy America."

"Now, in this, our greatest moment," the President said Wednesday following the attacks, "it is important that our bloodlust reach critical levels. I'm so fucking angry I could shit a Buick. And I think all of America should follow suit."

Smoking a cigarette with an inch of ash still on the end, nervously loosening his tie and squinting through bloodshot eyes, the president promised swift and "all-out awesome" retaliation against "anybody; make that everybody. They're all going down this time."

"Some Americans have understandably tried to get on with their lives, to grieve for the victims and recapture some sense of normalcy. I urge restraint in this matter at this time. This is not the time to calmly and logically turn to religion, family, or community. Now is the time to pissing apeshit."

Bush finished his press conference by throwing up his desk and punching out a window in the Oval office.

Later, around 4:30 a.m., the president stumbled out onto the lawn with a pistol in hand, firing blindly at the sky and screaming, "I'm right here! I'm right here, you fucking monsters! Come and get it! If you dare!"

A visibly shaken, tearful President Bush was then escorted by Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld back into the White House, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

President Bush continued to encourage the nation from a small, dimly-lit room in an unreleased location three days later.

"The high demand for guns, firearms, flags, and gas has been spectacular. The call has been made for quick, thoughtless action. For rage and violence. The American people, as always, have answered the call.

"What was that?" the president asked with wide eyes darting about the dank cellar. "Did you hear that?"

He then fired several shots into a nearby secret service agent who reportedly had a "weird glint in his eye."

Brit Sailor Apology Video Obviously Just Photo with Superimposed Talking Lips

“.XXX” Domain Reserved for Adult Content Sites, Online Moonshiners

“Female Sex Patch” Nothing But Dermal Tequila Shooters

Constipation Drug Pulled; Results Not Shitty Enough

I hate to sound like a party pooper, or even worse, like I've grown cynical, but I have to admit that this year will be known for me as the year I stopped believing in Santa Claus.

It wasn't any one particular thing, just a series of things that built up until I said, "You know what? I'm fed up. Every year I keep asking for stuff I never get and there's too much proof. There is no Santa Claus."

Kids line up around the block to sit on my lap and tell me what they want for Christmas. And this isn't any one place, it's every town and every city everywhere all over the world. How is Santa supposed to be in all those places at once, you tell me that? It's just physically impossible. Some of them don't even look like me, they'll be Asian guys or black guys or occasionally a woman or something. Nothing wrong with that, of course, I just think it's obvious most of them—oh, let's face it, all of them—are guys in suits pretending to be me. Well, there goes Christmas, kids. You just told some minimum wage former stockboy what you want for Christmas. That helps.

This thing about the flying reindeer, too, it's complete baloney. Reindeer? Flying? Now if the story was that Santa had magical kid-loving dragons whose back he rode on, that would be pretty cool and believable. But you can see reindeer anywhere. Go ahead, push one off a roof, tie one to the back of your Cadillac and pull it five hundred yards at 60 mph, of all the things it will do it won't fly. If there's ever a time to go ahead and fly, that would be it, and they don't.

Who makes all these friggin' toys, too? Sure, in the days of the wooden rocking horse and the worthless rag doll with buttons for eyes, I could see that being the product of some elfin workforce laboring away in freezing conditions, but what about these cell phones, Playstation 2 consoles, Casio keyboards, and computers these kids are getting these days? Forget the difficulty in building toys that require high-tech skill, let's just ask about Star Wars figures or Pokemon cards or something. Not that elves couldn't make that stuff, but they'd be in violation of serious international copyright laws. You're talking about one bad-ass criminal St. Nick there.

He must be trained in some shady business to infiltrate houses all over the world. How many houses have chimneys these days? Santa's out there squeezing down air ventilation pipes, under locked doors, through keyholes, through sealed windows, all sorts of unimaginable stuff. Forget laughing with a "Ho, ho, ho," the Santa they're talking about must be a scary Eugene Tooms X-Files motherfucker.

And how many kids throughout the world? How many houses, how many presents? One guy doing all this stuff in one night? Even including time zones and expanding it out to a full 24 hours to get all this done, one guy, I don't care how mystical his ass is, will be finishing that job. Forget it. Not in one year, certainly not in one day.

I'm not even leaving the house this Christmas. It's too confounding to think about. I'll probably just stay in with Mrs. Claus, sit around the fireplace and lick candycanes, maybe watch that Charlie Brown Christmas special on DVD or something, catch It's A Wonderful Life if it's even playing and just take it easy this year. Get a good night's sleep for once and check out the Day After Christmas sales if I get up early enough on the 26th. The only person I'm going to be asking for anything from is Mrs. Claus. If Santa can do all this other amazing crap he can read minds as well, so maybe he'll bring me that Palm V I've been eyeing in the Office Depot newspaper supplements. But he probably won't be happy because all I'm thinking this year is there is no Santa Claus, sorry if that pisses off the time-bending B&E reindeer pilot himself.

º Last Column: Nick at Nite Marathons are Responsible for My Life
º more columns

By 1550, the Spanish, British and French were engaged in a linguistic arms race to secure for their countries the truly longest word in the world. Over the next several decades the crown of word longness was passed back and forth between the three nations, as each discovered more and more excessively long verbiage.

First, Spain took the lead with their discovery of the 49-letter Dutch word kindercarnavalsoptochtvoorbereiding- swerkzaamheden in 1551, meaning "I banged the holy shit out of Helen at the children's carnival." This word held the title for some time and was considered invincible by a generation of Spaniards. The Dutch were particularly pleased with their fame, since they previously had only been known as the punchline of a joke about fire fighters wearing wooden shoes.

Then around 1579, the English pulled a rabbit out of their asses with the discovery of the slightly longer Mohawk word tkanuhstasrihsanuhwe'tsraaksahsrakaratattsrayeri, which means "the inside of the evil of the housing for the having of the taking of the talking of the meat."

Their glory was short-lived, however, when the French discovered a Welch village in England's own back yard named Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch, 58 letters of Wales-speak that meant "Saint Mary's Church in the hollow of the ground near trees with a rapid whirlpool to the left of the red cave and down the street from the Church of Saint Steuben." This was particularly embarrassing to the English, who tried briefly to claim the Welch town's name didn't count, since its namer had died at the typewriter, resulting in an overlong mash of key-strikes that created the unbelievably long name.

The English didn't have long to argue, however, since a year later the Spanish topped them again with another Welch town, this one called Gorsafawddachaidraigodanheddogleddolonpenrhynareurd- raethceredigion, a 66-letter way of saying "The Mawddach station that looks like dragon teeth if you stand on your head facing from the Northern Penrhyn Road on the nice sunny beach by that beautiful place called Cardigan bay."

Thoroughly demoralized, the English fired their word-searching officials and passed a decree that the Welch couldn't name any more of their towns without English supervision.

Eager to piss another quart onto England's etymological grave, Spain took their turn in 1600 with the discovery of the incredible German word donaudampfschiffahrtselektrizitaetenhauptbetrieb- swerkbauunterbeamtengesellschaft, meaning "a club for men."

Though certainly impressive at 80 letters and clearly representative of the German sickness for excessive word-lengths, England got their revenge and topped them all with the discovery of a hill in New Zealand called Tetaumatawhakatangihangakoauaota- mateaurehaeaturipukapihimaungahoronukupokaiwhenuaakitana- rahu. Though some accused the English of naming the hill this just to win the competition, the English insisted it was a real aborigine name meaning "This is the top of the hill where bony-kneed Tammy, that land-eating bitch, sat down, slid on her ass, climbed back up, swallowed some mountains and clouds, then played her nose flute until everyone was annoyed."

But just when England was getting their air of dry superiority back, Sweden came out of nowhere with their own longest word, the 130-letter behemoth nordöstersjökustartilleriflygspaningssimulatoran- läggningsmaterielunderhållsuppföljningssystemdiskussionsinläggs- förberedelsearbeten, which according to the Swedes meant "the longest word in the whole goddamned world."

Shortly after England declared war on Sweden, the Thai snuck in the back door and laid their proudest redundant verbiage on the table, the true motherfucker of a word Krungthepmahanakorna- mornratanakosinmahintarayutthayamahadilokphopnopparatraja- thaniburiromudomrajaniwesmahasatharnamornphimarnavatarn- sathitsakkattiyavisanukamprasit. One-hundred and sixty-three letters, and Thai as the night is long.

Though it was claimed at the time that the word was the name of a city in Thailand, all of the westerners present that day came away with the distinct impression that the word actually meant "Eat shit and die, England." Whatever the word's true meaning, its revelation plunged the world into chaos and strife for several hundred years as England attempted to make the whole world its bitch out of a deep insecurity over its word-length prowess.

American comedian Red Skelton entered the fray in 1946, re-opening the debate with his observation that the longest word is the word that follows the announcement, "And now a word from our sponsor!" Skelton was killed by an English assassin minutes after making the comment, so it remains unclear whether he was working for the Spanish or French at the time.

All of it proved moot, however, when modern technology allowed for the creation of new words beyond the wildest dreams of even the Germans. In 1961, an asshole epidemiologist named Theo Dingley from Vermont coined the name Acetylseryltyrosylseryliso- leucylthreonylserylprolylserylglutaminylphenylalanylvalylpheny- lalanylleucylserylserylvalyltryptophylalanylaspartylprolyliso- leucylglutamylleucylleucylasparaginylvalylcysteinylthreonylsery- lserylleucylglycylasparaginylglutaminylphenylalanylglutaminyl- threonylglutaminylglutaminylalanylarginylthreonylthreonylgluta- minylvalylglutaminylglutaminylphenylalanylserylglutaminylvalyl- tryptophyllysylprolylphenylalanylprolylglutaminylserylthreonyl- valylarginylphenylalanylprolylglycylaspartylvalyltyrosyllysylva- lyltyrosylarginyltyrosylasparaginylalanylvalylleucylaspartyl- prolylleucylisoleucylthreonylalanylleucylleucylglycylthreonyl- phenylalanylaspartylthreonylarginylasparaginylarginylisoleucy- lisoleucylglutamylvalylglutamylasparaginylglutaminylglutaminy- lserylprolylthreonylthreonylalanylglutamylthreonylleucylasparty- lalanylthreonylarginylarginylvalylaspartylaspartylalanylthre- onylvalylalanylisoleucylarginylserylalanylasparaginylisoleu- cylasparaginylleucylvalylasparaginylglutamylleucylvalylarginyl- glycylthreonylglycylleucyltyrosylasparaginylglutaminylaspara- ginylthreonylphenylalanylglutamylserylmethionylserylglycylleu- cylvalyltryptophylthreonylserylalanylprolylalanylserine for the Dahlemense Strain of the Tobacco Mosaic Virus, because he hated his research assistant and knew she would have to write the 1,185 letter name out several times a day by hand. Dingley also refused to accept any abbreviations when referring to his virus in conversations, which eventually led to him being beaten to death with bars of soap rolled up in hand towels during the International Epidemiologists convention in 1971.

So the next time some wise-ass tells you he knows the longest word in the world, or he's just a moron who takes the song "Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious" too seriously, you can kick him in the balls with the confidence that you're doing the right thing. Until next time, I'm Griswald Dreck.

º Last Column: The Longest Word in the World (Part One)
º more columns