|  | 
Michael Jackson Cannibalizes BabyNovember 25, 2002 |
Berlin, Germany Image Courtesy Die Station Jackson revealing the surprise entrée ichael Jackson was caught on video like a red-handed bandit man Tuesday, salaciously nibbling on his youngest son's toe in full view of the German media. Jackson, who was staying in a Berlin hotel while visiting that country for a Save Dem Childrens benefit, waved to the cameras and flashed a "kissy-peace" hand gesture to his fans before he closed the blinds and proceeded to partake in what can only be speculated as an orgy of underage cannibalism.
"It just sickens me when I close my eyes and think about it," sighed small-town cop Bufus Randall, who answers questions 24 hours a day and is like a procrastinating reporter's wet dream. "Just picturing that monster, slurping the baby's entrails like spaghetti, munching his bones like peppermint sticks and licking the baby's...
ichael Jackson was caught on video like a red-handed bandit man Tuesday, salaciously nibbling on his youngest son's toe in full view of the German media. Jackson, who was staying in a Berlin hotel while visiting that country for a Save Dem Childrens benefit, waved to the cameras and flashed a "kissy-peace" hand gesture to his fans before he closed the blinds and proceeded to partake in what can only be speculated as an orgy of underage cannibalism.
"It just sickens me when I close my eyes and think about it," sighed small-town cop Bufus Randall, who answers questions 24 hours a day and is like a procrastinating reporter's wet dream. "Just picturing that monster, slurping the baby's entrails like spaghetti, munching his bones like peppermint sticks and licking the baby's empty hide clean like a goddamned dinner plate. God. I think I'm gonna be sick."
Professional housewife Mandy St. Clair echoed Randall's concerns.
"It's like it makes you, I don't know. Want. Want to do something to make that thing different. You know? Different so he's not eating those babies. Because that's just wrong, even if the babies want to be eaten. Because how could you really know? They might smile and wave their arms around like they want to be eaten, but it might just be because they're remembering something nice from when they're in the womb. Or they might have gas, sometimes babies smile who have gas. So you shouldn't just eat them."
Jackson's fans were quick to defend the troubled star, who recently sort of testified in his own defense in a courtward lawsuit.
"Even if Michael did eat that baby, he only did it for the fans. That's how much he cares," explained Kyoko Matsui, a screaming Tokyo fan of Jackson's appearances on cereal boxes in her home country. "People were yelling, 'We want to meet the baby!' and I guess since it was so noisy, Michael probably thought they were saying 'We want you to eat the baby!' It was just a tragic misunderstanding."
But noted sports psychologist Dr. Mandra Jimsack was wary of letting Jackson off the hook so easily.
"Fans yell out all kinds of crazy requests to stars, that doesn't mean they have to follow them. It's the star's job to set boundaries and know where to draw the line. Signing some autographs or flashing your tits out the sunroof of a limo? That's being a good star. Jerking off in a men's room at the park or shooting a rival recording artist in the testicles? That's just going too far. And also, lighting a fart on fire at the Golden Globes? That's very bad, Mr. Sandler. Very bad."
Activist groups rallied within minutes of the tape airing on the German news, calling for whatever kind of social services Germany might have to step in and take Jackson's remaining children away before dinnertime. Lawyers for German's Die Station news network were also preparing a lawsuit against the singer. According to sources, Jackson caused two of the station's cameramen to fall out of an evergreen tree near the hotel when he refused to leave his blinds open, forcing them to attempt filming through a small opening in the bathroom window.
Hours later, Jackson appeared at a puppet museum with the live toddler in tow, setting off ripples of speculation through the "thought he ate the baby" community. Randall, however, was not so quick to forgive and forget.
"Jesus Christ, how many of those things has he got? Well, I guess we can add human cloning to the list of charges. Fuckin' fruit." the commune news may have fallen off the wagon and into the frying pan, but we're pretty sure this next leap will put us in the clear. Boner Cunningham has always been a big Michael Jackson fan, but he still thinks Purple Rain was overrated.
 | Library being extremely uptight about returning Zen book
Online gambling allows you to lose your home from home
Celebrities donate lip service to needy tsunami victims
Price of imported sports cars on the rise, says real prick
|
‘Black Friday’ Sales Slow; Black People Blamed he nation’s African-American community had to bear another injustice over the weekend as it was revealed the sales on their own personal super-saving shopping event, “Black Friday,” were moderate at best. Undoubtedly, the responsibility for the lower-than-projected sales will fall squarely on the shoulders of the black community. “Sales were not as high as initially expected,” announced economical tool and white person spokesperson Neil Van Hurst of Columbia University’s School of Business. “This is owed mostly to continuing downward spending trends in recent holiday seasons.” And its all the fault of black people, Van Hurst all but said. Child Left Behind recent round of standardized DMAS testing in America’s elementary schools has revealed that in spite of President Bush’s ambitious “No Child Left Behind” education policy, at least one American child has been left way the fuck behind. “I don’t like schoolin’,” explained eight-year-old Topeka, Kansas boy Rodney Camaro, exhibiting numerous symptoms of left-behindedness, including messy, uncombed hair, untied shoelaces, a poor vocabulary and a fondness for pro wrestling. Camaro was brought to the attention of education officials earlier this week when test results revealed that someone had actually scored a zero on last month’s DMAS, a feat previously thought mathematically impossible. Big Ratings Prompts ABC to Seek More Dancing Handicapped Shows Strychnine Dog Food: Where Can You Buy It? |
|  |
 | 
 May 2, 2005
Every Team Stinks This YearI knew one of these seasons it would happen, and that day is finally here: Every team in Major League Baseball stinks this year. Just plain stinks, every last one of them. Sure, somebody still has to win every game, but this year it's less about winning and more about not losing quite as badly as the other team. And I don't have to tell you it's as painful to watch as the rodeo at the Special Olympics.
Granted, some fans see fit to remind me that it's still early in the season, and that for at least a few teams, early suckocity will be transformed into mere mediocrity by season's end. But I don't buy it. Suck is a stink that stays on you for months, if not years, like gas station cologne. And this year, the entire league stinks like "Consternation for Men."
The bitterest part of this pill is the fact that at least a couple of these teams were supposed to be half-way decent this year. The Red Sox just won the World Series, for crying out loud, giving their fans unprecedented high hopes about not having their whole miserable lives remind them of smoking a turd like a cigar for a few short months this season. So naturally, they turned around and "re-vamped" their pitching staff by signing one guy most known for a goatee that looks like a thatched doormat and another so old and out of shape that he recently went on the disabled list with a pulled finger. And the Sox had to fire their team doctor after learning that Curt Shilling made it through last...
º Last Column: That's the Last Time I Go into a Coma in October º more columns
I knew one of these seasons it would happen, and that day is finally here: Every team in Major League Baseball stinks this year. Just plain stinks, every last one of them. Sure, somebody still has to win every game, but this year it's less about winning and more about not losing quite as badly as the other team. And I don't have to tell you it's as painful to watch as the rodeo at the Special Olympics.
Granted, some fans see fit to remind me that it's still early in the season, and that for at least a few teams, early suckocity will be transformed into mere mediocrity by season's end. But I don't buy it. Suck is a stink that stays on you for months, if not years, like gas station cologne. And this year, the entire league stinks like "Consternation for Men."
The bitterest part of this pill is the fact that at least a couple of these teams were supposed to be half-way decent this year. The Red Sox just won the World Series, for crying out loud, giving their fans unprecedented high hopes about not having their whole miserable lives remind them of smoking a turd like a cigar for a few short months this season. So naturally, they turned around and "re-vamped" their pitching staff by signing one guy most known for a goatee that looks like a thatched doormat and another so old and out of shape that he recently went on the disabled list with a pulled finger. And the Sox had to fire their team doctor after learning that Curt Shilling made it through last year's postseason on an ankle held together with glitter glue and spunk. Gross, I know, and I didn't even tell you whose spunk it was.
But truly nobody can statutorily rape high hopes like the New York Yankees. Fielding a team so expensive and inept it should qualify as a socialist government program, the Yankees seem determined to prove just how much caviar a drunk can barf up on the national stage this year. Some see this as the inevitable result of the team's policy about not signing any players who are too young to remember M.A.S.H., but personally I'm more likely to blame it on the fact that the team's run by a character from Seinfeld. Learn your history, folks. That never ends well.
Who else is sucking? Take your pick. The Cubs? Like you needed to ask about the Cubs. That team could field an entire roster of Jesus Christ clones and still find a way to have the whole lot of them go down with sandal splints and blown elbows from high blessing counts and excessive water-to-wine conversions. They've got the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost all on the 60-day disabled list, and I don't think the Holy Ghost will even be back for next season.
Houston's entire team has been too focused on the Social Security debate to keep their minds on the game at all this season, and San Francisco has been crippled by the fact that they traded the best closer in the game for a catcher who could get kicked out of the Hell's Angels for being an asshole. Also, they just got news that doctors found a Fraggle living in Bonds' left knee. I don't know what that says about the whole steroid debate, but those designer Jim Henson Mupplements he's been taking are starting to look mighty suspicious.
Washington? The joke this year is that they gave Washington a team, but haven't given them any equipment yet. Still, those guys are doing pretty well considering they've been using milk cartons for gloves and are playing in their street clothes. Minnesota fell for the old "The season starts on May 1st" gag again this year, so they're already twenty games back, with some serious catching up to do. Atlanta? Fags. Sorry, but they are a bunch of fags. Read the team's press kit if you don't believe me. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
Sure, a few teams may have decent records so far, but don't kid yourself. The Dodgers? The White Sox? Check the records a little closer guys, it wouldn't surprise me if at least one of those teams was being run like Enron and is just writing off dozens of losses as "extended spring training" or some other dodge. You'll know I'm right if they're still 16-6 in August.
But contrary to what some may assume, you won't hear me complaining about the state of things. Not more than usual anyway. I actually kind of like it when teams suck major egg, as a fan it gives you more to talk about. Blathering on about who's pitching great or who just hit a home run so far it killed a hang glider gets real old, real fast. But the details of pathetic performance can be dissected on into infinity with no loss of enjoyment. Just ask a Cubs fan. º Last Column: That's the Last Time I Go into a Coma in Octoberº more columns
| 
|  April 29, 2002
LeeGood people, whatever I said last week, optimistic it up by about 200%. I am feeling much, much better. Maybe it's the smell of fresh cauliflower cooking on Camembert's stove, maybe it's the neighbors and their loud enunciation of Shakespearian dialogue through the walls. Or maybe it's the fact my disruptive energy has crashed into a train of good vibes, as Lee says, and that's what I'm leaning toward.
Lee has yet to be wrong about things like this. It's Lee's opinion that somewhere along the line, in the past year, I've had a burp of negative karma that has totally blemished my natural green. Why? Quit asking me. Ask Lee. He's the genius that knows all of this stuff.
I just asked Lee and he said he's not quite sure, it could be any number of things. Most likely it revolves around my moving my office into the commune headquarters, where as before I worked out of my Dodge parked in front of my house. That was just to be a temporary solution until I could build an addition onto the house, then the addition I built would not stand up and frequently collapsed on me and the cat. I decided it was either hire a professional builder of additions or move into the commune offices, so I did the latter.
And there was the problem. So Lee says. There is a vortex of anti-vurga here that affects some people the wrong way. Namely me and Lee. I'm not quite sure what vurga is or what it's for, but Lee assures me he had not made it up and it exists, and...
º Last Column: Win A Dream Date With Camembert º more columns
Good people, whatever I said last week, optimistic it up by about 200%. I am feeling much, much better. Maybe it's the smell of fresh cauliflower cooking on Camembert's stove, maybe it's the neighbors and their loud enunciation of Shakespearian dialogue through the walls. Or maybe it's the fact my disruptive energy has crashed into a train of good vibes, as Lee says, and that's what I'm leaning toward.
Lee has yet to be wrong about things like this. It's Lee's opinion that somewhere along the line, in the past year, I've had a burp of negative karma that has totally blemished my natural green. Why? Quit asking me. Ask Lee. He's the genius that knows all of this stuff.
I just asked Lee and he said he's not quite sure, it could be any number of things. Most likely it revolves around my moving my office into the commune headquarters, where as before I worked out of my Dodge parked in front of my house. That was just to be a temporary solution until I could build an addition onto the house, then the addition I built would not stand up and frequently collapsed on me and the cat. I decided it was either hire a professional builder of additions or move into the commune offices, so I did the latter.
And there was the problem. So Lee says. There is a vortex of anti-vurga here that affects some people the wrong way. Namely me and Lee. I'm not quite sure what vurga is or what it's for, but Lee assures me he had not made it up and it exists, and mine is being scratched, picked at, violated, and rubbed raw by the anti-vurga vortex I spoke of before. Well, I don't need to hear any more. As soon as possible I'm moving out of the commune offices and making an office at home.
It will be difficult, I'm sure, saying Camembert and my apartment is too small is an understatement, an understatement so large it will not fit in our miniscule apartment. I could not even squeeze it into the space between my bed and the radiator that frequently sets the bed on fire. But what else can I do? Bagel and company won't shell out the money to buy me space across town, they've already tried to sell my space on numerous occasions to tourists. I'll have to make room in the apartment, according to Lee.
Lee suggests that with a matter of such urgency I can afford to make space in the apartment. He said I should diagram the entire apartment on a piece of paper and sort out what can be moved where, and I should do it as soon as I get home. But he won't help, he has meditation this afternoon and doesn't want to get riled up.
Frankly, I don't see what I'm supposed to move and where I should move what I move. There's my bed, my television set-up, my grand piano, my standing closets, my sitting closets I usually refer to as drawers, my portable bathtub, the game of Twister—it's been out so long I'm certainly not going to put it away now, I'll just want to play again tomorrow—and the vaulting horse. Not to mention my workout space. A finely-planned house of cards it all is, I move one piece and everything tumbles down. I definitely cannot fit a desk, computer, and second workout space into my room.
Camembert's room! Of course, why didn't I think of it before I sat down and wrote all the above out? I'll simply annex Camembert's room and make it my office. It might be hard to convince Camembert at first, but he'll come around. I'll put a positive spin on it, that's what Lee always suggests. People are suckers for positive spins, he told me right after borrowing the money for that ass-reduction surgery that was so vital to his five-year plan.
Camembert will be more than happy to give up his room once Lee explains it. He loves Lee living on our couch so far, I heard him telling Lee so yesterday. As it is Camembert's room is a bulky waste of wheelchair rolling space, safety rails and bars and Camembert's personal effects. I can make his bed into a bunkbed and everyone will be happier, it will be like camping. As long as I get the bottom bed for I don't have to roll out of bed and land on that dangerous wheelchair at three in the morning.
I'm starting to look forward to this. Lee's right, a positive spin makes any disaster seem much more tolerable. º Last Column: Win A Dream Date With Camembertº more columns
|

|  |
Quote of the Day“the commune is back? All right! Wait, what the fuck is the commune? What? Now I’m going to kick your ass for getting me excited for nothing.”
-Ron TangleyFortune 500 CookieThis is the week everything changes for you. Yep, even those underwear. Go get a spatula. We all agree that your breasts are attractive, but usually a guy needs a follow-up act to really reel in the ladies. Try learning to play the lute this week, just carrying it around isn’t impressing anyone. This week’s lucky fuckers: Fucker G. Robinson (the world’s second-richest and seventh-most-unfortunately-named man), mother, Megan Fox’s boyfriend, and whoever’s sleeping with that hot girl on the Morton’s Salt container (oh get over it, she’s totally grown up by now).
Try again later.Top Comics Not in Film Development| 1. | Feldspar the Neurotic Ghost | | 2. | Chest-Exercise Men | | 3. | Rats with Tats | | 4. | The Cuddler | | 5. | Vegan Crime Discouragers | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY John Boy Swick 9/2/2002 Gullible TravelsChapter One: A Prince Among Pansies
I set out on the fifth of May, in a sturdy craft packed with provisions. The Metro she was christened, and her maker assured me of many safe returns from far-flung voyages, and chicks like Chamberlain. I was held aloft by her chariot wheels, crafted by the master B.F. Goodrich himself, and I carried forth under the thundering power of nearly seventy horses.
The voyage was itself long and hard, like a Kennedy at a dorm shower window, and carried on for some days. Weather patterns were unfavorable for navigation, and a map confiscated from a fast-food eatery proved unreliable at best. Yet still I traveled on, through the thatch of roadways and bypasses which bore me forward across this great land.

Chapter One: A Prince Among Pansies
I set out on the fifth of May, in a sturdy craft packed with provisions. The Metro she was christened, and her maker assured me of many safe returns from far-flung voyages, and chicks like Chamberlain. I was held aloft by her chariot wheels, crafted by the master B.F. Goodrich himself, and I carried forth under the thundering power of nearly seventy horses.
The voyage was itself long and hard, like a Kennedy at a dorm shower window, and carried on for some days. Weather patterns were unfavorable for navigation, and a map confiscated from a fast-food eatery proved unreliable at best. Yet still I traveled on, through the thatch of roadways and bypasses which bore me forward across this great land.
Brave like an Indian, I sallied forth to lay claim to an uncharted land, one which I could then chart, so as not to be lost all of the time. And though this heretofore-uncharted land would then cease to be as such, it would be my own charted land, as indicated by the flag tied around that tree over there. Yes, the one that looks like an old ripped up work shirt. It is but a humble flag and knows it, your comments are not necessary.
Along my journeys in search of uncharted, or at least unattended, land, I've come across many a fantastic and unbelievable place. Many scoff at my tales of Friscopolis, but I assure you that there is such a location; I have seen it with mine own eyes and have carried the memory of that place in the seat of my pants for many years.
I was headed for the north of Wales when an easterly wind and a sale on box wine blew me off course, and I awoke in a roadside motel in a strange city by a beautiful bay. The people of this place looked to be normal but spoke in a strange, lisping dialect as if their tongues had been clipped in some unspoken primitive ritual. Their customs were also strange to me, and at first inflamed my anus. But with time I became acclimated to their culture and the strange physiology of the people, where many of the men had breasts and the women penises.
Stranger still was the general absence of children, as the women instead spent their time dancing, cooking and donning fantastic wigs for public exhibition. Their means of procreation were unknown to me, as the only children I saw while there were apparently shipped from another land and bore no resemblance to either parent.
I lived with the people of Friscopolis for several weeks in a latex-scented reverie, drinking in the culture and customs, having my hair done several dozen times, and being assaulted by the local police department several times in a string of unrelated misunderstandings. But before the month was out I contracted a strange itching rash around my genitals, which the natives told me was an allergic reaction to the high saline content in the Friscopolis air. Sadly, I had to depart this magical land, as I also owed a lot of money to a local element that could charitably be described as disagreeable.
I left Friscopolis with mine eyes opened to a wider world, and with several piercings and Cher tattoos that would later ensure a hostile reception in the next fantastic land I visited accidentally: Kentuckiana.   |