|  | 
Top-Secret Hank Williams Jr. Song Will End Terrorism ForeverOctober 29, 2001 |
Sexest, TX SKEETER GOMEZ/AP Hank Williams Jr. fixin’ to show America the way
“Y’all don’t even know what the Man With the Plan is gonna unveil,” Bobby Ray Humpstein, a representative from Williams, Jr.’s South Will Rise Again corporation. “I’ll tell you what: This is it. For all o’ them terrorists and whats.”
Williams, Jr. has lit the way for U.S. response to attacks and threats from abroad. Since the 1980s, Williams, Jr. songs have provided much-needed direction against such enemies as the Soviet Union, Libya, Syria, Iran, Iraq, Manuel Noriega, Bosnian Serbs, drug dealers, and ...
he long-awaited response from Hank Williams, Jr. to all the terrorist events since Sept. 11th is due out Tuesday, and spokesbillies for Williams, Jr. state that it is the much-sought secret weapon that will end the battle against terrorism. “Y’all don’t even know what the Man With the Plan is gonna unveil,” Bobby Ray Humpstein, a representative from Williams, Jr.’s South Will Rise Again corporation. “I’ll tell you what: This is it. For all o’ them terrorists and whats.” Williams, Jr. has lit the way for U.S. response to attacks and threats from abroad. Since the 1980s, Williams, Jr. songs have provided much-needed direction against such enemies as the Soviet Union, Libya, Syria, Iran, Iraq, Manuel Noriega, Bosnian Serbs, drug dealers, and Democrats. The latest song has been the most awaited and needed, as America seeks ways to angrily retaliate and know exactly what kind of bomb should be dropped on who and at what time. Consequently, fearing terrorist attempts to destroy any lyric sheets or even Williams, Jr. himself, all information regarding the song has been kept “besecreted” by Williams, Jr. and all his rowdy friends. Early reports from insiders suggest that bin Laden will be referred to as a “jackass” or a “donkey-ridin’ instigator.” U.S. policy makers and Williams, Jr. experts suggest that the song will urge retaliation in the form of dropping a big ol’ bomb right down that bastard’s throat. Undoubtedly, the song will be instrumental not only in leading any new U.S. policy against Afghanistan and bin Laden, but also inspiring thousands of Americans back into large hats and belt buckles. the commune news is not to be mistaken for that lousy pop group from the 80's and for the last time, caller, Huey Newton doesn't work here. Ted Ted wants to know that if Chevy Trucks live up to their slogan "Like Iraq", does that mean his Silverado is going to gas his family while they sleep? If that's the case Ted Ted wishes he'd bought a Daihatsu.
 |
Erectile dysfunction O.K., happens to everybody
 MySpace Premieres in Communist China as OurSpace
Women have advanced enough to drive around in circles
Wal-Mart replaces traditional "Merry Christmas" with "Buy More Shit Already" slogan
|
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 Libby’s 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. Wilson’s 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. Aides Urge Bush to Stop Referring to Iraqi Majority as “Shits” Sheryl Crow Takes Cancer in Lance Armstrong Split |
| |
| 
 October 29, 2001
Penpal"In my younger days I had a penpal named LeShandy. He was a boy roughly the same age and lived in a faraway place I had never heard of called Iceland.
Sometimes he would mention, to my surprise, that Iceland was very, very green. And he had been to Greenland once and it was covered with ice. He asked his father why this was the case and his father had told him that the Vikings once plundered both Iceland and Greenland.
They had gone to Greenland and found it unpleasant, rough terrain. They went to Iceland next and liked it very much, like that little bear with the just-right porridge and all. They didn't want anybody to take the place they wanted to live, so they called the green land Iceland and the ice land Greenland.
I told LeShandy his dad was a liar and he had made the entire story up because he didn't know why. LeShandy got very angry and never wrote me back, either that or he lost my address or died or something.
I've never had a penpal since, unless you count that little girl from El Salvador that I sent all that pocket change to. I can't remember her name but I know she needed a lot of innoculations and ate her weight in grain every week, the squat little...
º Last Column: Penny Candy
º more columns
"In my younger days I had a penpal named LeShandy. He was a boy roughly the same age and lived in a faraway place I had never heard of called Iceland.
Sometimes he would mention, to my surprise, that Iceland was very, very green. And he had been to Greenland once and it was covered with ice. He asked his father why this was the case and his father had told him that the Vikings once plundered both Iceland and Greenland.
They had gone to Greenland and found it unpleasant, rough terrain. They went to Iceland next and liked it very much, like that little bear with the just-right porridge and all. They didn't want anybody to take the place they wanted to live, so they called the green land Iceland and the ice land Greenland.
I told LeShandy his dad was a liar and he had made the entire story up because he didn't know why. LeShandy got very angry and never wrote me back, either that or he lost my address or died or something.
I've never had a penpal since, unless you count that little girl from El Salvador that I sent all that pocket change to. I can't remember her name but I know she needed a lot of innoculations and ate her weight in grain every week, the squat little pig." º Last Column: Penny Candyº more columns
| 
|  August 3, 2001
The Milkman's BoyHey, Shorty, get me a glass o' buttermilk, will ya? Ah, thanks… nothin' like a nice cold glass o' buttermilk, no sir. Hey, I ever tell you the one about the milkman's boy? No? Well, listen up a spell…
You remember that ol' boy Floyd that used to deliver the milk, don't you? Long time ago. Guy was always pissed off at everybody, couldn't nobody talk to him for very long or he'd go off on 'em? You remember. Anyway, it turns out that ol' Cecil , who brings the milk now, is his son. I know, he's Moira's boy, rest her soul, and no, it didn't happen the natural way. Ol' Floyd was too mean and lowdown to ever spend enough time with a woman for that. And crazy Moira… well, you know I don't like to speak unkind of the dead. But anyway, here's what happened…
See, Floyd, he was always pissed off about something, like I said. And for a long time he held a grudge against Moira and her sister Penelope. Somethin' about 'em not givin' him a Christmas tip or some damn thing, I don't know. The thing was, he was in a position to do somethin' about his grudges if he wanted, and I guess he did, too. What I heard was that he used to take a bottle o' milk and get in the back o' the truck and whack himself, then he'd stick it in the bottle and get his duck butter all in there with the milk. He called it a "protein shake," and if you was on his shit list, pardon my French, you had to watch out that he didn't deliver you a protein shake with your regular order.
º Last Column: Penny Candy
º more columns
Hey, Shorty, get me a glass o' buttermilk, will ya? Ah, thanks… nothin' like a nice cold glass o' buttermilk, no sir. Hey, I ever tell you the one about the milkman's boy? No? Well, listen up a spell…
You remember that ol' boy Floyd that used to deliver the milk, don't you? Long time ago. Guy was always pissed off at everybody, couldn't nobody talk to him for very long or he'd go off on 'em? You remember. Anyway, it turns out that ol' Cecil , who brings the milk now, is his son. I know, he's Moira's boy, rest her soul, and no, it didn't happen the natural way. Ol' Floyd was too mean and lowdown to ever spend enough time with a woman for that. And crazy Moira… well, you know I don't like to speak unkind of the dead. But anyway, here's what happened…
See, Floyd, he was always pissed off about something, like I said. And for a long time he held a grudge against Moira and her sister Penelope. Somethin' about 'em not givin' him a Christmas tip or some damn thing, I don't know. The thing was, he was in a position to do somethin' about his grudges if he wanted, and I guess he did, too. What I heard was that he used to take a bottle o' milk and get in the back o' the truck and whack himself, then he'd stick it in the bottle and get his duck butter all in there with the milk. He called it a "protein shake," and if you was on his shit list, pardon my French, you had to watch out that he didn't deliver you a protein shake with your regular order.
Well, I guess he had been givin' them ol' girls Moira and Penelope some o' them protein shakes for quite a while. And the way Penelope tells it, Moira didn't always use the milk to pour on her corn flakes. She said that if Moira coulda afforded it, she woulda bought enough milk to take a milk bath every morning. Now you know, them ol' girls wasn't rich, so Moira never did get enough milk at one time for that. Instead, she used to take one bottle each morning and wash her lady parts with it. Dutchy, I think they call it. So anyhow, turns out that she uses one or two o' them protein shakes and dutchies herself with 'em, and bingo, whaddaya think? Couple months go by and she realizes she's fragrant.
I'm tellin' ya, Shorty, no one in town could believe it, and not just because Moira and Penelope were about as ugly as monkfish left out to dry for a week. Thing was, they never had no truck with the men in this town, none of 'em. And they didn't have no truck with no men from no other towns, neither, far as anyone knew. They was suspected of being lebanese, to be perfectly honest.
That ol' Moira, though, she didn't try to hide it or nothin'. She said it was a sign from God, a whaddaya call it, one o' them unmasculate deceptions. She walked around town like she was givin' a watermelon a ride, just as proud as could be. Then when ol' Cecil gets born and grows up, whaddaya know, he's the spittin' image o' Floyd. Damnedest thing I ever heard, but it's one hunnert percent true. Ask anybody.
'Course now, Cecil, he's a little easier to deal with than ol' Floyd was, but that don't mean he don't got a temper. You just gotta stay on his good side, that's all.
Hey Shorty, you ever notice how chunky buttermilk gets sometimes? º Last Column: Penny Candyº more columns
|
| |
Milestones2001: Bogus office psychic Mazie the chicken predicts radical arab terrorists will attack giant silver towers and a military stronghold on Sept. 10th. An angry Red Bagel eventually takes away her predictions column.Now HiringNanny. Traditional English dress and accent required, none of that rough Brooklyn flower bullshit. Strong musical training and good voice a must. Should be able to rhyme easily, even if only creating nonsensical words in most of songs. We provide spoonfuls of sugar and medicine, as well as company umbrella. Three references needed. 5 Worst Katrina-Related Headlines| 1. | Everything Possible Done by President (Fox News) | | 2. | Tabasco Shortage Reaches Drastic Proportions | | 3. | Cancun Prepares for Huge Rise in Mardi Gras Reservations | | 4. | Bubba Gump Still Missing in Disaster | | 5. | Saints Season Ticket Holders Hit Hardest by Tragedy | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY B. Brown Dullard 7/18/2005 ScieneticsSince the beginning of the dawn of time, science man has longed for the answer to the questions of the mind and the science of thinking. From the French peasant to the uppity French king, men of all walks of life, regardless of how much coin they pocket, have asked these questions: Who am I? Who is that guy? Why am I so unhappy? What is keeping me from the things I want? Why don’t I have a goddamn pot to piss in and Cheurvier, that cocky shit, he has that chapeau down on Napoleon Street?
At last, someone has created a science to answer those questions: Scienetics.
Scienetics isn’t some phony voodoo, like voodoo or psychiatry; Scienetics is a fully-copyrighted blueprint of how the mind works, or fails to work, and how we can kick our own minds in the ass or...
Since the beginning of the dawn of time, science man has longed for the answer to the questions of the mind and the science of thinking. From the French peasant to the uppity French king, men of all walks of life, regardless of how much coin they pocket, have asked these questions: Who am I? Who is that guy? Why am I so unhappy? What is keeping me from the things I want? Why don’t I have a goddamn pot to piss in and Cheurvier, that cocky shit, he has that chapeau down on Napoleon Street?
At last, someone has created a science to answer those questions: Scienetics.
Scienetics isn’t some phony voodoo, like voodoo or psychiatry; Scienetics is a fully-copyrighted blueprint of how the mind works, or fails to work, and how we can kick our own minds in the ass or threaten to pinkslip them if they don’t get back to work. And best of all, Scienetics works.
How do I know Scienetics works? Because I do. I’ve been to every corner of this square earth and seen man in all his various degrees. I’ve slept under trees with the bushmen of the Calihari desert, under the thankless moon and the cold onslaught of desert winds. I’ve rested on the couch of presidents, from Eisenhower to Reagan, until I was politely asked to leave. I’ve shared beds with strange men from the suburbs—you name the type of person, I’ve probably had some sort of sleeping arrangement worked out with them. This is because I had no money for several years.
During these moneyless times, I’ve had opportunity to study mankind, and a lot of women, don’t mistake that. I’ve seen him at his peak and I’ve seen him lying in piss under a bus stop bench. I’ve heard stories of success and I’ve smelled the urine. But any fool can do this. What I’ve done is blueprinted the human brain, and some monkey brains, just for fun; I’ve seen what makes us succeed and what makes us fail. I’ve drawn intricate topographical maps and marked the expensive areas to live in, if we were brain cells. Why? Because it’s fun. And because it’s the science to making us the people we’ve always wanted to be.
Make no mistake, this is no $20 fly-by-night self-help method dispelled by enigmatic gurus with no background in science. Scienetics costs much more than that. Yet it’s worth every penny, because it works. I’ve taken complete idiots, morons, bellowing manchilds with no intelligence and no self-respect, and I gave them jobs working for my brother-in-law. I’ve turned around the weakest of minds, and shown them the way to what the Buddha would call "enlightenment." And I can call it that, too, because the Buddha never heard of copyrighting.
The secret right here, and this is the only secret I’m giving away before you buy the book, is one thing: the subactive mind. What is the subactive mind? Well, it’s copyrighted, that’s for damn sure. But it’s more than that. It’s also the instinctive, the sub-level reacting part of our personalities that harbors the nastiest and most petty part of ourselves. It’s that portion of our mind that works against us. Freud called it the subconscious, because he was a junkie moron. But where he got it wrong, I’ve got it right.
The best part of Scienetics is, no matter what you’re problem, we can cure you—unlike psychiatry. If you have an IQ of 70 or 145, or higher like mine, we can take you. If you have an uncle who sexually abused you, and who doesn’t, or a bad series of romantic relationships, we can take you. If you have a wallet full of $7 million or $7, we can take you.
And it’s tax-free.
For more of this insightful non-fiction, buy B. Brown Dullard’s book Scienetics.   |
