DARPA Technology Could Aid Oppression of America

ascists everywhere were delighted when news of the Pentagon's DARPA technology sailed predictably beneath the radar when announced to the news media Wednesday. America, believed to be fully absorbed in the release of Legally Blonde 2: Red, White and Blonde and the death of screen legend Katherine Hepburn, hit the snooze alarm on the report, unconcerned what it could mean for antiquated notions such as privacy and government boundaries.

DARPA, the geekish acronym for the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, proudly announced the creation of urban surveillance technology this Wednesday purported necessary in the defense of the country. The defensive surveillance equipment will protect our country by being placed in other countries, where U.S. troops will be found. Pentagon defense plans project the U.S. being completely defendable by 2020, when U.S. troops will be stationed in every country throughout the world except the U.S.

The key component of the surveillance technology, built for urban battlegrounds, lies in the computer software so complex it can identify vehicles by size, shape, color, and license plate number, and can even identify vehicle passengers' faces. Add-ons to the program are being designed to identify the titles of books in vehicles and the contents of passenger wallets, should the need ever suddenly pop up.

"Privacy nuts," previously referred to as "Americans" prior to 2001, challenge the necessity of such equipment and worry the domestic implications are extremely dangerous.

"It's all fine and good to say this technology is only going to be used on foreigners," said privacy watchdog and University of South Hampton, Cambridge custodian Rutherford Mays, "but it only takes another big movie weekend for the government to sneak this technology into major cities and start using it for 'our own safety.' It is not enough that rights to search and seizure have been unconstitutionally bypassed in the name of this War on Terror, or that our computers are being turned into high-tech tagging tools. Now they're developing laser eyes than can pierce your walls and read the dirty magazines under your mattress. And that really pisses me off, because I didn't pay all that money to share those magazines with government laser eye technology."

According to Pentagon spokesperson Col. Gary Gawain, the issue has already been addressed in previous memos concerning the production of the technology from no less a source than former Central Command Gen. Tommy "Frankie" Franks. In short? Frankie says relax.

"All of this fuss over a 'what if' situation is pretty silly," said Gawain, straightening a pipe in his mouth and adjusting a smoking jacket he inexplicably wore to the press meeting. "Technically, a bomb could go off tomorrow and kill everyone in the country and the technology would never be set up—wouldn't you feel like quite the ass then? What you're looking for is a definitive declaration that the surveillance equipment developed by DARPA will never be used against American citizens for political reasons or personal vendettas, and I think it's safe to assure you completely this technology will never be set up domestically before 2004. Possibly even later, the designs are a little sketchy. Now don't you feel befuddled?"

Gawain could not respond to further questions, as he was cackling loudly as he disappeared down a trap door leading who knows where.

Cheney Comrade Injured During Hunt for Bin Laden

Arizona Border Patrol Installing Landmines

Serial Killer’s Neighbor: “He just wouldn’t shut up about serial killing.”

Heather Graham’s Career Found Dead in Apartment

'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house
not one soul was stirring, besides the bodyguard Klaus
as noble Rok Finger and his Russian child bride
sought shelter from the mob with the ol' FBI
it started with gangwars, then things really took off
when the death threats rolled in, all addressed to Rok
"You've killed more Italians in your short troubled time
than a Coppola film and Mussolini combined,
pack your bags, little shit, you're going on a trip
to a room where your neighbors are plankton and fish."
Like a mousetrap sprang Rok from his tiny night bed
and crushed the skull of some poor mouse's head,
"Quick, dear Felchyana," he said to his wife,
"pack your shit quick and run for your life!
Those fat goomba bullies have put me on their list
and they all want a piece of the Rok from St. Nick!"
When who through the door should wondrously appear
but a big mick named Nicky and his black friend Amir.
"It appears you've pissed off the wrong people," he said,
"I'm afraid you'll be spending this Christmas quite dead."
Oh, shit, good people, things looked quite dim
for our three-foot hero and what-ser-name with him
when who should appear, right out of thin air
but Rok Finger's old pal, wheelchair-bound Camembert!
He was not armed, but Cam did scream so non-stop
every neighbor on the block promptly phoned the cops.
They arrived with guns blazing and clubs swinging free
unaware of the danger, but hey, they're N.Y.P.D.
Old Rok spilled his guts in a new record time
and begged for protection from the dear FBI.
They wasted no time, and hauled Rok away
to meet with J. Edgar or whoever runs it today
With the dirt Rok had on Yogi, Mario, and all,
the state prisons will soon be packed wall to wall.
Rok gets probation and time served—how cool!
"It's the way we reward you for being a stool."
And with those kind words the agent disappeared in the night
for survivalists in Montana waited to pick a fight,
For Rok and Felchyana, they planned the best Christmas yet
though they were as far from civilization as you could now get,
"But we'll enjoy the grim situation, no matter what 'tis,
or wherever the hell this 'Fargo' place is."
So with prospects all brighter, things turned out great in the end
except for poor Camembert, sentenced from five to ten.

º Last Column: I Sure Hope it Was the Kiss of Death
º more columns

Nancy, sweet Nancy—my heart beats for you and you alone. To see that smile of yours, though the teeth are somewhat crooked, is the only thing worth living for. I would do anything in the world to show you the vastness of my love, like Brando's ass.

If my heart were made of wood, I would break apart the lumber and build you a house, a house made from my heart. You could live in my heart literally the way you do metaphorically now. Sure, my heart is kind of small, I would have to make the walls extremely thin, and we're not talking any kind of mansion here, but a shack—a shack made of love, from and out of my heart.

Even if this were not the case, if my heart were just my heart as it is now, sinew and muscle, probably more muscle, I'm not really sure of the make-up of the human heart, I would still build you a house. It would likely be grotesque and hideous, and haunt you in your nightmares, and once again, would be extremely small and thin-walled; but it would not stop my building it. I would not stop building it even if you demanded I stop, for that is how much I love you: Enough to not listen to you. The only thing that would stop me would be my death, which likely would have occurred as soon as I ripped my own heart out.

Perhaps I could live on an artificial heart. Artificial, like William Shatner's hair. I understand people can only live so long on artificial hearts, so I definitely would have to work fast. It would be a rush job, this heart house, but I'd get it done. Barring the days needed to recover from surgery, assuming I could even find a surgeon who would remove my heart just so I could use it to build your house. I mentioned it to my psychiatrist last week and he said most of them would turn me away at the door. But that wouldn't stop my search.

Come to think of it, this is a lot to ask, you know. Are you sure you want a heart house? I go through the trouble of ripping my heart out and getting an expensive operation and heart that will only last a few weeks just to build you a shitty heart-shack, you know, it all sounds like I'm doing all the work in this relationship. Why don't you give up your heart as well? Or build me a house? If we put them together we can make a bigger heart house, you know, and we can probably share it. I could even make a porch out of my liver and use your lower leg for stairs—it's not much to ask, one lower leg. I'm giving up my liver for the porch, goddammit. You won't even walk on crutches for me.

You know what? Fuck this whole thing. You're starting to make me feel like a big asshole. It's too bad I can't build a house out of asshole, I'd have more than enough at this point. The smell might bother you at first, but if our regular house isn't good enough, you have no right to complain. And I don't want to hear one word about how shitty my heart house is. If you had given up a few more body parts I could have really decked it out, but noooo, not Nancy, it's fine to cut people up and use their body parts to build adobes as long as it's not her body parts. You can be a real selfish bitch, you know? Like when my friends and I are playing X-Box and you yell from the bedroom to turn the volume down, you have to get up for work in 2 hours. Nice, Nancy, real nice.

I'm sick of this bullshit. You know, I think I'll build you the heart house anyway. Why not? You already saved me the trouble by ripping my heart out for me. Might as well do something with it. But don't expect no mansion, you life-draining succubus.

º Last Column: I Challenge You to a Race Around the World
º more columns