|  | 
 May 31, 2011 |
Oakland, CA Courtesy ACPA7 Harold Camping, seen here live on Alameda County Public Access 7 espousing his firm belief that you can’t keep a bad format down.
HD-DVD, the home video optical disc format launched by Japan’s Toshiba Corp in 2006, spent the entirety of its brief existence engaged in a bitter format war with rival Sony’s Blu-ray. The war came to a sudden, testicle-bashing end in January of 2008, when Warner Bros. announced it would end its policy of supporting both formats and throw its weight behind Blu-ray, because of that technology’s larger capacity and cooler n...
orld famous for his claims that bible math proved the rapture would come on May 22nd, and less famous for his claims a few days later that the rapture actually totally did happen, but it was all meta and conceptual and shit, Harold Camping has emerged from hiding this week to announce his boldest prediction yet: HD-DVD will be coming back on July 27th.
HD-DVD, the home video optical disc format launched by Japan’s Toshiba Corp in 2006, spent the entirety of its brief existence engaged in a bitter format war with rival Sony’s Blu-ray. The war came to a sudden, testicle-bashing end in January of 2008, when Warner Bros. announced it would end its policy of supporting both formats and throw its weight behind Blu-ray, because of that technology’s larger capacity and cooler name. Toshiba vowed to keep up the fight, while immediately stopping HD-DVD player production with its other hand and dispatching ninjas to WB headquarters with a surprise third hand that ended up being a fake made of paper mache. Soon after, the disc format folded like a delivery from Netflix.
"This is the real one," claimed Camping when questioned by the commune as to whether or not this was the real one. "I’ve read the bible twice and there it is, plain as day. Thine format begat by Toshiba shall rise once more, because The Jerk hath never come out on Blu-ray."
When this reporter pointed out that there was no fucking way it says "Toshiba" in the bible, Camping issued me a demerit for swearing and gave me a note to take to my parents. They are dead.
Skeptics of Camping’s revelation were not difficult to find.
"Bullshit," explained movie collector "Rowdy" Ronnie Pepper.
"Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit," he explained further.
And yet, Camping’s devout are convinced their man has it right again, for the first time.
"I totally knew it," boasted Philadelphia layabout Bob Rudolph. "All my friends were re-buying Black Rain on Blu-ray and I was like no way dude, HD-DVD is coming back. It’s in the bible and shit. With numbers."
"Wouldn’t that be awesome?" queried Quad Cities grass painter Mitchell Clung. "Imagine a world where you could buy any movie you wanted in high-def, as long as it was put out by Universal. It would be like heaven."
"The whole rapture fake-out was just a test to weed out the non-believers from the faithful," shouted Wisconsin housewife Mary Snupp, because this reporter had already started to walk across the street to interview someone who didn’t have cartoon cats on their doormat. "Now only the true of heart will know to start bidding on that Bee Movie HD-DVD on eBay."
When asked if Jesus would be returning with HD-DVD, Camping made a joke about The Passion of the Christ and then mumbled something about getting back to us after he’d learned how to do bible fractions. the commune news is still waiting for the return of laserdisc, but when it comes back we’ll be ready and waiting with the gigantic 200-laserdisc changer we’ve been working on in our garage since 1992. Raoul Dunkin is the commune’s key contact with our invaluable underground source, a sketchy figure known only by the alias "Deep Ass."
 |
Blockbuster ends late fees in exchange for 'soul-reaping'
Drunk U.S. pilot still flies better than terrorists
New Apple Power Mac G5 to boost user feelings of superiority 20%
Argument over which hotties men would do turns violent
|
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 |
| |
| 
 October 28, 2002
Viking"When I was a young boy, no older than 24, my uncle asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. He said "Sampson, I want you to touch me right here between my testicles until I tell you to stop."
My answer that day, as it always had been, was that I planned on being a Viking.
Most laughed when I gave this answer, the same way they laughed when I said I'd be the first man to ride a cheetah at the Indy 500. In retrospect, it looks like they got the last laugh on that second part, thanks to restrictive poaching laws that came into effect in the 1940's. But I never cared. "Let them laugh," I'd say to myself. "Maybe they'll laugh so long that I'm the only one who ducks for cover when we get bombed to death by the Chinese." This would make them laugh even harder, and from then on I resolved to think personal thoughts to myself, rather than speaking them aloud.
Most thought that I would eventually give up my dream of being a Viking, as I grew older and wiser in the ways of the world. Many would have bet money on it, had the Hartwig clan not been genetically incapable of winning a money wager. But they were, as was evidenced the year dad bet the family car and the rights to my brother Goose on "Fat Charlie" Walker taking home the gold in the 50-yard dash at the 1952 summer Olympics.
But I proved them all wrong in the autumn of 1961 when I showed up at Minnesota's training camp wearing a ceramic helmet I'd made myself and gave them...
º Last Column: Different
º more columns
"When I was a young boy, no older than 24, my uncle asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. He said "Sampson, I want you to touch me right here between my testicles until I tell you to stop."
My answer that day, as it always had been, was that I planned on being a Viking.
Most laughed when I gave this answer, the same way they laughed when I said I'd be the first man to ride a cheetah at the Indy 500. In retrospect, it looks like they got the last laugh on that second part, thanks to restrictive poaching laws that came into effect in the 1940's. But I never cared. "Let them laugh," I'd say to myself. "Maybe they'll laugh so long that I'm the only one who ducks for cover when we get bombed to death by the Chinese." This would make them laugh even harder, and from then on I resolved to think personal thoughts to myself, rather than speaking them aloud.
Most thought that I would eventually give up my dream of being a Viking, as I grew older and wiser in the ways of the world. Many would have bet money on it, had the Hartwig clan not been genetically incapable of winning a money wager. But they were, as was evidenced the year dad bet the family car and the rights to my brother Goose on "Fat Charlie" Walker taking home the gold in the 50-yard dash at the 1952 summer Olympics.
But I proved them all wrong in the autumn of 1961 when I showed up at Minnesota's training camp wearing a ceramic helmet I'd made myself and gave them the best ten minutes of my life, in an effort to make the team. I may have been driven into the ground like a tent peg, but it was still a dream come true and sweet redemption in the eyes of all the Hartwigs who had looked at Sampson L. Hartwig cockeyed for years.
Later I learned that everyone thought when I said 'Viking' that I meant the guys in the big boats with the horned hats and such, and I understood why they were laughing." º Last Column: Differentº more columns
| 
|  March 17, 2003
Way to Screw Up the Whole World with Your ReligionGod bless Christianity.
What kind of mixed-up, unrepressed world would we have without it?
People eating pizza with chopsticks, talking dogs, upright-walking salmon for president. In a word, it would be fuckin' great.
We'd be able to drive alcohol-fueled funnycars to work, jerk off in the shower, smoke tobacco out of our neighbor's asscrack if we wanted to. It would basically be like living in France, but without all the French people. Shit yeah.
It really makes you want to go all Ramrod Hurley on whoever it was that made the world all Christian in the first place. And I know it's all sacrilegious to say you want to box with the son of God and all, but that's not even what I'm talking about. Even though the thought of Jesus wearing a spandex jumpsuit that says "The Flying Jehovah" or something on it is kind of funny. Nope, Omar Bricks doesn't even blame Christ for the whole Christian thing, because last time I heard, he was real good at serving watered-down wine and making eyeballs out of spit and all that, but he was pretty fuckin' lousy at flying a plane.
Hey, I'm just saying. No need to get all offended. My point is, if were just up to Jesus, Christianity would have stayed over there in Tatooine or wherever all those desert people live. It took some other plane-flying assholes to bring it over to Boca Raton and all over America and whatnot. It would have worked out better for all concerned if they had just...
º Last Column: Sign Me Up For a Frivolous Lawsuit
º more columns
God bless Christianity.
What kind of mixed-up, unrepressed world would we have without it?
People eating pizza with chopsticks, talking dogs, upright-walking salmon for president. In a word, it would be fuckin' great.
We'd be able to drive alcohol-fueled funnycars to work, jerk off in the shower, smoke tobacco out of our neighbor's asscrack if we wanted to. It would basically be like living in France, but without all the French people. Shit yeah.
It really makes you want to go all Ramrod Hurley on whoever it was that made the world all Christian in the first place. And I know it's all sacrilegious to say you want to box with the son of God and all, but that's not even what I'm talking about. Even though the thought of Jesus wearing a spandex jumpsuit that says "The Flying Jehovah" or something on it is kind of funny. Nope, Omar Bricks doesn't even blame Christ for the whole Christian thing, because last time I heard, he was real good at serving watered-down wine and making eyeballs out of spit and all that, but he was pretty fuckin' lousy at flying a plane.
Hey, I'm just saying. No need to get all offended. My point is, if were just up to Jesus, Christianity would have stayed over there in Tatooine or wherever all those desert people live. It took some other plane-flying assholes to bring it over to Boca Raton and all over America and whatnot. It would have worked out better for all concerned if they had just stayed in the desert, since Christianity wouldn't have spread all its butter too thin and those crazy fuckers over there would be crashing their planes into abortion clinics and rap groups and shit instead of having some "think big" Muslim agenda.
But it didn't work out that way, because some self-righteous dipshits had to make some kind of Hot Air Balloon Tour for Christ, spreading Christianity and measles to all the indigenous people all around the world, totally harshing their buzzes and making them wear ridiculous powdered wigs and shit. And before you knew it, they were selling the locals on communion wafers instead of bottled Jamaican monkeyfarts or whatever they were using previously to bend God's ear. The indigenous people didn't care; they thought the shit was Pringles. But eventually they had to all convert to Christianity to get the cure for the measles that the white man brought over in his big happy balloon of death.
So that's the way it shook out and now we're all repressed, thinking it's a big deal if somebody stuck their dick in the pudding at the commune Christmas party (it was Hurley) and calling the cops just because some guy's bowling naked. As if you can be naked while you're wearing bowling shoes. And we've got all kinds of bullshit rules like no borrowing animals from the zoo and a dude can't marry another dude. Omar Bricks is all for dudes getting married unless the two dudes happen to be Phil Collins and Ving Rhames. Cause look out if those two wouldn't make some powerful ugly children, damn.
It all makes you wish you could hop in a time machine and go back in the day to kick some ass. If you wore some football pads and had a broomball bat or something you'd be like an ass-kicking God to those people, because they'd never seen any Bruce Lee movies. Sad for them, but good for your ability to kick some serious missionary ass. They'd probably chuck a couple of bibles at you, but unless they got lucky with a few paper-edge shots to the jugular, you'd do all right.
But all in all, I admit I'm probably getting a little carried away with the whole thing.
I mean, who sells broomball bats anymore? Good luck there. Bricks out. º Last Column: Sign Me Up For a Frivolous Lawsuitº more columns
|
| |
Quote of the Day“Do unto others how you would do unto somebody who you knew for sure would do the same stuff back to you that you did to them, only in reverse. On second thought… just be nice, okay asshole?”
-Beazus Frist, CPAFortune 500 CookieNobody likes a smartass… wait a minute, everybody loves a smartass. It's you they don't like. In an effort to make your personality more rounded and appealing, try learning the Tibetan Touch of Death this week. Remember, God made it hard to get your tongue into your own ass for a good reason. This week's lucky prescriptions: Cockgromax, Deuglycontin, Halitosinex, Slopecia, Lilpenihance, Fucoft.
Try again later.Top Nonsensical Curses| 1. | Motherbumper Fannyfuck | | 2. | Shitwheeler | | 3. | Short-Handled Ass Tank | | 4. | Mop-Handle Michelangelo | | 5. | Pelé! | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Vinder Ferfsson 9/16/2011 The Goth Chick With the Attitude
Tuesday, January 18-Thursday, January 20
The Chief Inspector walked the courtyard, wishing he had worn something more suited to the Icelandic weather, even something slightly more masculine. But they only played The Rocky Horror Picture Show once a month, and he promised himself when he started work as a homicide detective he wasn’t going to give up his personal life for anything. Still, the nylons weren’t as flattering as his plaid trousers.
An outline in the snow marked where the body had fallen.
Grooves marked where it had been dragged away.
To where, nobody knew.
It was a classic "whodunnitandwhere’ditgoaftertheydunnit."
*
Humdrummus Pretentious. In the...
Tuesday, January 18-Thursday, January 20
The Chief Inspector walked the courtyard, wishing he had worn something more suited to the Icelandic weather, even something slightly more masculine. But they only played The Rocky Horror Picture Show once a month, and he promised himself when he started work as a homicide detective he wasn’t going to give up his personal life for anything. Still, the nylons weren’t as flattering as his plaid trousers.
An outline in the snow marked where the body had fallen.
Grooves marked where it had been dragged away.
To where, nobody knew.
It was a classic "whodunnitandwhere’d itgoaftertheydunnit."
*
Humdrummus Pretentious. In the native tongue, it’s known as a crimson willow. It was brought to the continent by African immigrants as far back as 200 A.D. The long off-yellow stem gives the bulbous red petals a perch from which to adjaksdfaskdadjksdasa Oh, shit, did I doze while typing that? Well, fuck me, it’s a flower. You can’t expect me to really care about background information on a flower. Where’d the goddamn murder mystery go? Still waiting for a stupid body. Let’s just pretend we went through the unnecessary flower background, it’s important for a red herring later. Shit, wasn’t supposed to say "red herring." But that does make me hungry. Let me grab lunch.
*
Hansel Bergenbjörgenfurd had lost everything that mattered to him. His keys as well. He had to rent a car to take him up to the Forfürgen Estate. Never in all of his career as a down-and-out crime reporter had he ever seen such a palatial mansion. Everyone at the Forfürgen Estate was so rich they could afford to dress every letter on every sign in umlauts. As a young boy in Reykjavik, Bergenbjörgenfurd had dreamed of having multiple-umlaut wealth. But like his once-promising journalistic career, all of Bergenbjörgenfurd’s dreams had died.
Through the umlaut-laden hallway he passed, admiring the pictures of long-dead relatives who might be important later, I’m just saying. The butler, because I should have mentioned there was a butler, led him into the Lunch Hall, which was adjacent to the Breakfast Hall and on the opposite wing from the Brunch Hall, the Dinner Hall, and one floor beneath the Midnight Snack Hall. There waited Erbst Skafaldingyad.
"Mr. Bergenbjörgenfurd," said Erbst Skafaldingyad.
"Please, call me Hansel," Bergenbjörgenfurd insisted.
"I wouldn’t dream of it, Mr. Bergenbjörgenfurd," said Erbst Skafaldingyad, smoking a Barginfarg brand cigarette. "Let’s cut to business, Mr. Bergenbjörgenfurd: I wish to hire you."
Bergenbjörgenfurd was stunned, and slightly exhausted. "I don’t work as a reporter anymore. I don’t care how much money you have."
"We have all the money," Skafaldingyad said. "All of the money in Iceland."
"Oh, then I do care."
"We have a murder we wish you to investigate," said Skafaldingyad. "If you are successful, it could restore both your name… and your career. But you will need help. The help of a Goth chick. With an attitude."
*
At home with her laptop computer, Muriel Salamander crunched on Snöktjargon cookies and surfed the internet. She had hacked the bank account of a disreputable corporate slimeball and was transferring all his money to NOW, just for laughs. She was always doing such things of a highly moral nature and questionable legal status. It helped her forget the horrible secret in her past, which is revealed on page 435, if you simply can’t wait to find out later.
She was a girl of modest height, with jet-black hair that she dyed even blacker, shining green eyes that all innocence had left, a killer body, several tattoos on her neck of unicorns and lygers, and a giant nosering.
A knock at the door grabbed her attention. Could that be the cops there again? She mistrusted all cops, and all men. Most cops were men, so she mistrusted them twice as hard.
She cracked the door, then figured she could continue her kung fu later, the guy was still knocking. Opening the door only part way, she saw an older man that she was inexplicably hot for.
Bergenbjörgenfurd was shocked by the appearance of the girl inside the apartment, particularly the gold nose ring she wore. I should mention that while it’s 2011 in much of the world, it’s 1988 in Iceland.
"Muriel Salamander? The Goth Chick With the Attitude?" asked Bergenbjörgenfurd. He held up pictures of an empty, body-shaped gouge in the snow. "I need your help finding a dead man. And then solving that dead man’s murder."   |
