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June 27, 2005 |
Cruise and Holmes celebrate the announcement by America’s scientists, while British Prime Minister Tony Blair performs a celebratory robot dance for no discernable reason cientology is in the news again this week, and not just because some green reporter made the mistake of sticking a microphone in front of Tom Cruise again. In a shocking revelation that has rocked the media world, fourteen year old actress and Cruise arm candy Katie Holmes has converted to the oddball religion, leaving the pope speechless and the entire Roman Catholic Church in disarray. But she’s not the only one, and this time it’s not only some weirdly shallow celebrity joining the ranks. In a lesser-publicized footnote, America’s entire scientific community has jumped on the bandwagon, too.
“It’s a natural fit, really,” explained Ralf Menu of the American Association for the Advancement of Science. “Science? Scientology? I’m actually surprised this didn...
cientology is in the news again this week, and not just because some green reporter made the mistake of sticking a microphone in front of Tom Cruise again. In a shocking revelation that has rocked the media world, fourteen year old actress and Cruise arm candy Katie Holmes has converted to the oddball religion, leaving the pope speechless and the entire Roman Catholic Church in disarray. But she’s not the only one, and this time it’s not only some weirdly shallow celebrity joining the ranks. In a lesser-publicized footnote, America’s entire scientific community has jumped on the bandwagon, too.
“It’s a natural fit, really,” explained Ralf Menu of the American Association for the Advancement of Science. “Science? Scientology? I’m actually surprised this didn’t come up earlier. I mean, from all available evidence, it’s really quite obvious that we exist on the seventh ring of the Dunabi, concentric to the Twelfth Dimensional Scrobang. No one seriously debates this.”
“I have to admit, I’d been curious about Scientology ever since I saw that commercial they used to play for Diatnetics,” admitted American Association of Cereal Chemists head Dabney Thomas, because he had to. “You know, with the volcano that’s all erupting and shit and answering questions like ‘Will I see my dog in heaven? Page 47.’ Ever since I saw that I was pretty interested. Because I had a dog when I was a kid, but he was a real bastard so I’m really curious if he got into heaven or not.”
The announcement comes at a crucial time for the funky techno-religion, founded by science fiction writer L. Ron Hubbard in 1951 as a beautiful tax dodge. Scientology has been struggling for credibility after years of reports that it charges members tens of thousands of dollars to reveal its deepest spiritual secrets, all of which turn out to read like a really horrible John Travolta movie. But the concensus seems to be that a lack of credibility is the price one pays for following a religion founded by a man famous for making up implausible tales full of far-fetched ideas and fantasies designed to sell books.
“It’s sort of like having a weight loss program founded by Cookie Monster,” mused religious scholar Barnaby Told, who actually does botanical research but is also quite religious, thereby qualifying him for the title. “That’s a tough credibility gap to span.”
This latest conversion will likely change the way that millions think about Scientology, however, and the agreement of America’s scientists might help as well. But not everyone is thrilled with Holmes’ epic conversion from Catholicism, about which Vatican officials say the pope feels personally betrayed.
“The pope has been listless and non-responsive all week,” explained Vatican spokesperson Arnold Grubb. “He’s not even into mini-golf as much as usual. He seems kind of heartbroken, honestly. I hope she’s worth it, Tom.” the commune news doesn’t doubt that a tyrannical ruler named Xenu wiped out his own 76-world confederation of planets with hydrogen bombs after paralyzing billions of people and tying them to volcanoes 75 billion years ago, the problem we have with Scientology is that dude Hubbard had blue lips. Creep-y. Ivana Folger-Balzac was captured and deprogrammed after filing this story, not because we feared contamination by Scientologist ideology, we just hoped it might make her less of a giant bitch.
 | Fat kids everywhere cheer national trend toward declining P.E. classes
Late Dr. Atkins was big fat liar
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Turkey to Block Offensive Websites; commune Offers Pre-Emptive Fuck You Obama to Change Spelling of Name to oBAMa for Maximum Impact Oasis, Killers Combine Forces to Ruin Sgt. Peppers for Everyone Global Warming Poses Threat to National Parks, Says WWFs Machoman Savage |
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 July 22, 2002
Stalked by Another Former Pro-WrestlerThe situation has darkened, good people. Frequent readers of my column, and despite what everyone says I'm convinced they exist, will remember my recent revelation that I was a pro-wrestler briefly in the '80s. To my surprise, everyone has been extremely warm and receptive about it. I mean, I haven't heard anyone approving of my lifestyle or remarking how brave it was to come out and admit it, but it is pro-wrestling, a little resistance and unspoken prejudice can be expected. Either that or none of them have read any of my columns.
But not everyone has been so accepting. As I discovered Thursday night when I came home and found a note pinned to my door.
It was a hand-scrawled note with sloppy penmanship and spelling. But I knew all-too well who it was from and what it was about. It read:
"Finger! So yur the 4-Feet Nitemare. Yu turd. I new Id find yu sonir or laytir. Im a kill yu like I wud have kild yu then. Yu run away cowird. – MD"
At first I suspected my family physician, Dr. Scrudd. But then I remembered seeing his handwriting on countless prescriptions and it didn't match at all; Scrudd's pen is blue, this one is black. Finally, after hours of meditating, falling asleep, waking up again to start meditating once more, I realized who my anonymous adversary is.
The Masked Dude has come back for revenge.
When I discussed my pro-wrestling secret life, I left out a lot of details so as not...
º Last Column: My Past Life as a Pro-Wrestler Has Come Back to Haunt Me º more columns
The situation has darkened, good people. Frequent readers of my column, and despite what everyone says I'm convinced they exist, will remember my recent revelation that I was a pro-wrestler briefly in the '80s. To my surprise, everyone has been extremely warm and receptive about it. I mean, I haven't heard anyone approving of my lifestyle or remarking how brave it was to come out and admit it, but it is pro-wrestling, a little resistance and unspoken prejudice can be expected. Either that or none of them have read any of my columns.
But not everyone has been so accepting. As I discovered Thursday night when I came home and found a note pinned to my door.
It was a hand-scrawled note with sloppy penmanship and spelling. But I knew all-too well who it was from and what it was about. It read:
"Finger! So yur the 4-Feet Nitemare. Yu turd. I new Id find yu sonir or laytir. Im a kill yu like I wud have kild yu then. Yu run away cowird. – MD"
At first I suspected my family physician, Dr. Scrudd. But then I remembered seeing his handwriting on countless prescriptions and it didn't match at all; Scrudd's pen is blue, this one is black. Finally, after hours of meditating, falling asleep, waking up again to start meditating once more, I realized who my anonymous adversary is.
The Masked Dude has come back for revenge.
When I discussed my pro-wrestling secret life, I left out a lot of details so as not to gross out the general public who is uncomfortable with such information. But one important bit that needed mentioning was my furious antagonist, The Masked Dude. He was five-foot tall, the second-shortest wrestler in the Dandies of America league I was part of, and had a severe complex about it. He was remarkable for many reasons: His glittering sequined spandex pants, his red glossy boots, his hairless, flabby mid-section, and his match record of never having won once.
Usually The Masked Dude was hopelessly overpowered by his opponents. Some of them reaching heights of up to 5'11", with vicious names like The Vicious Scrunch and Eddie "Pin Them Drunk" Vicious, The Masked Dude soon proved to be a laughingstock of the D.O.A., which was already the laughingstock of wrestling fans everywhere, who are the laughingstock of the rest of us, so you can imagine the shame. The Masked Dude was intent on gaining respect, and I soon provided the best possibility of winning a match.
I was a good wrestler. Good? Hell, I was possibly the best God ever created. Really? Thank you, that's sweet. But for all of my talent my winning record was frequently fifty-fifty, meaning I won half my matches and half of that was won by deceitful tendencies. I was merely making up for a game that was stacked against me, me being short and not that good at wrestling the way they wanted to do it. But actual statistical match records were the lowest in the league, next to The Masked Dude. He sought me out obsessively, and thus started our rivalry. I thought it ended when I hung up my tights, sniffed them curiously, then threw them away for good. But apparently not.
I have to admit I'm a little worried. I don't know when and from where and at what time The Masked Dude is coming after me. I assume he's reading this column, since he's the only one who's mentioned my former pro-wrestler status, and I hope to implore him to let bygones be bygones and blowguns be blowguns, to put the past behind us and start anew as friends who share a common history.
But don't mistake this as fear or cowardice, Masked Dude. I will put the smack down on you wicked if you want to get shitty with me. º Last Column: My Past Life as a Pro-Wrestler Has Come Back to Haunt Meº more columns
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|  October 14, 2002
Mouse in My HouseThe mouse in my house
has the run of the land.
He pees in my porridge
and he shits in my hand
while I lie sleeping,
naively unaware
that the mouse in my house
is nibbling on my hair.
And eating my breadcrumbs!
And drinking my pop!
I have asked him nicely,
politely to stop.
But did this dissuade him,
persuade him to cease?
He just ate my cold pizza,
every last doughy piece.
And as if to taunt me
he loves to play
and roll in my bed sheets
while I am away.
He loves to go dipping
in my marinara sauce
and to leave marinara footprints
up, down and across,
and on up the stairs
to the top of my bedspread
where I sleep unawares.
He ate all my baloney!
Now this is no joke.
And he twice left the tops off
my toothpaste and Coke.
One went quite flat,
and the other went hard.
And this mouse in my house
left his bike in my yard!
It's not like it would kill him
to put the toilet seat down,
or wipe the mud off his feet
when he's been mousing around town.
There's just no reason he can't
put his playing cards away
or clean up his jigsaw puzzles
at the end of the day.
Or close the front door
when he's gone out to play.
Or whisper more quietly
when he kneels down to pray.
But...
º Last Column: The Boy From Demon's Bay º more columns
The mouse in my house
has the run of the land.
He pees in my porridge
and he shits in my hand
while I lie sleeping,
naively unaware
that the mouse in my house
is nibbling on my hair.
And eating my breadcrumbs!
And drinking my pop!
I have asked him nicely,
politely to stop.
But did this dissuade him,
persuade him to cease?
He just ate my cold pizza,
every last doughy piece.
And as if to taunt me
he loves to play
and roll in my bed sheets
while I am away.
He loves to go dipping
in my marinara sauce
and to leave marinara footprints
up, down and across,
and on up the stairs
to the top of my bedspread
where I sleep unawares.
He ate all my baloney!
Now this is no joke.
And he twice left the tops off
my toothpaste and Coke.
One went quite flat,
and the other went hard.
And this mouse in my house
left his bike in my yard!
It's not like it would kill him
to put the toilet seat down,
or wipe the mud off his feet
when he's been mousing around town.
There's just no reason he can't
put his playing cards away
or clean up his jigsaw puzzles
at the end of the day.
Or close the front door
when he's gone out to play.
Or whisper more quietly
when he kneels down to pray.
But the one mousey caper
I just cannot forgive
is when he got my sister pregnant.
I hope you like d-Con, mouse. º Last Column: The Boy From Demon's Bayº more columns
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Quote of the Day“If you love someone, set them free. If they do not return, then you were stupid for following my advice.”
-Bachard RichmanFortune 500 CookieDon't blame anyone else for your own problems, blame EVERYONE else. Try a new deodorant this week, your friends agree the theoretical kind hasn't been cutting it. You will meet a small armadillo that will teach you arithmetic, but few will buy that story at the trial. This week's lucky karate moves: The Iron Ostrich, Yun-Wi's Forceful Throat Massage, Western Ballsack Slap, and The Forbidden Tongue Stomp of Zi-Zi Tohp.
Try again later.Least Popular Howard Stern Guests| 1. | Tina Harper, Professional Soccer Mom | | 2. | Pocket Pete, the world's smallest Stern fan | | 3. | Rhonda the Shy Stripper | | 4. | Frank Melton, the lookalike who doesn't look like anybody in particular | | 5. | Don Imus | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY V.D. Whistling 11/25/2002 Harvey Potluck and the Rolling StoneIt was on his twelfth birthday that Harvey Potluck was visited by Gorgeous Gorge, the sex dumpling. A sex dumpling is a very large and burly woman with reverse genitals and a beard, making people consider it a man when in fact it's an it. "Sex dumpling" is a rather unfortunate term, really, but that's what happens when your race is discovered by a large group of drunken fraternity fellows from Jordasche-Upon-Fathips.
Gorgeous Gorge, the sex dumpling, had come from Hogwash Military Academy and Magic Technical School for Harvey Potluck according to his dead parents' wishes. That is to say, the parents made such a plea on Harvey's behalf before their demise. Harvey knew nothing of his parents; he lived with his evil foster parents who kept him living in a bottle as a...
It was on his twelfth birthday that Harvey Potluck was visited by Gorgeous Gorge, the sex dumpling. A sex dumpling is a very large and burly woman with reverse genitals and a beard, making people consider it a man when in fact it's an it. "Sex dumpling" is a rather unfortunate term, really, but that's what happens when your race is discovered by a large group of drunken fraternity fellows from Jordasche-Upon-Fathips.
Gorgeous Gorge, the sex dumpling, had come from Hogwash Military Academy and Magic Technical School for Harvey Potluck according to his dead parents' wishes. That is to say, the parents made such a plea on Harvey's behalf before their demise. Harvey knew nothing of his parents; he lived with his evil foster parents who kept him living in a bottle as a conversation piece. Keep in mind this was not modern-day logical Britain where such cruel parents would be charged with abuse and neglect and sent to prison for the remainder of their natural lives, but some mythological Grimm Brothers Britain where nasty foster parents are allowed to raise book heroes to evoke a natural sympathy for them in their efforts.
Let's just skip the annoying details of how Gorgeous Gorge gave the rueful stepparents their come-uppance and took Harvey to Hogwash Tech so we can get to the really good bits of dragon dogs and the enchanted toilet brush.
Harvey was all bewildered and shit by his entrance into Hogwash Tech. There were many strange things and peculiar sights to witness as soon as he stepped through the crusty iron gates. He saw duplication fights, where one young student would start a fight with another, then duplicate himself into dozens of clones and beat the bejesus out of the other student. There were Bodpickle matches, where students whipped out their Bodpickles and extended them as far as they would go—usually the black witches won without challenge. And, of course, all of them played Magic: The Gathering.
So, so odd to Harvey it all was, little did he dream that ugly birthmark on his ass would mark him as the premiere student of Hogwash Tech, and by the end of the year he would have saved the entire school from destruction, and made the cover of Rolling Stone magazine.
One day, when playing Pukutnip Ball, Harvey spied an adorable little loser named Phil Stalley. Phil was quite ineffective in all the ways Harvey was effective, except for Phil did have an incredible talent for playing Monopoly which might seem completely useless, but will be instrumental later in our tale. In this instance of meeting, Stalley was being picked on by the rich magician's son upstart Bathton Bullwark. Bullwark and his Rogering School of Card Tricks buddies were throwing magic mudballs at Phil with their Bodpickle wands. Harvey stepped in like some kind of Hogwash Tech Jesus.
"Hey, you!" he shouted to the Asian one of the group, You Katanka. "Leave him alone. He's not hurting anyone. He's rather dopey." And it was true.
"Just you stay out of our business, orphan!" shouted Bathton. How he knew Harvey was an orphan has not and will never be established, but his face was mean and scrunchy like a pantyhose wedgie, and his slick blonde hair made him look sort of like Patrick Bateman from American Psycho, only shorter. "Don't challenge us, Potluck! You may be hot snot to all the Hogwash Tech faculty, but that means nothing to us!"
"Piss off!" shouted Harvey, who had tried all routes of peaceful negotiation and was now forced to engage in a Bodpickle duel. How exciting!   |