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Records Indicate Strom Thurmond Died in 1982December 9, 2002 |
Washington, D.C. Junior Bacon News of the Senator's own death reaches him during his 100th birthday celebration epublican Senator Strom Thurmond of South Carolina celebrated his 100th birthday this week, a feat made even more amazing by the fact that he died 20 years ago.
"This striking news is just further evidence of Strom's amazing longevity," opined former Sen. Bob Dole, R-Kan., who himself died after falling down a well in 1996, but came back because he forgot his glasses.
Thurmond, the oldest and whitest senator in history, reached his 100th birthday Thursday surrounded by family, friends, and more zombies than a George Romero film. When asked if they ever expected to see this day after Thurmond's death from a heart attack in 1982, partygoers were philosophical.
"Strom's always pulling shit like that. Hell, he died in my pool last weekend. I thought I was...
epublican Senator Strom Thurmond of South Carolina celebrated his 100th birthday this week, a feat made even more amazing by the fact that he died 20 years ago.
"This striking news is just further evidence of Strom's amazing longevity," opined former Sen. Bob Dole, R-Kan., who himself died after falling down a well in 1996, but came back because he forgot his glasses.
Thurmond, the oldest and whitest senator in history, reached his 100th birthday Thursday surrounded by family, friends, and more zombies than a George Romero film. When asked if they ever expected to see this day after Thurmond's death from a heart attack in 1982, partygoers were philosophical.
"Strom's always pulling shit like that. Hell, he died in my pool last weekend. I thought I was going to have to spend my entire Saturday night at the morgue, but then he got better," explained neighbor Sylvester Coles.
"Sure, dad gave us a scare back in '82, and we even had a funeral, but then one day he just walked in the door, sat down, and started watching cartoons on the TV. Nobody ever really said anything about it or asked him what happened. I mean, how do you bring that up? Ever since then we've just come to accept that dad dies sometimes," said Thurmond's daughter Julie.
Thurmond, who is retiring at the end of this session of Congress because nobody appreciates Polack jokes anymore, served for 48 years, as near as anyone can remember, and goes out the oldest man ever to serve in the Senate and the lifetime record holder for scrambled eggs eaten.
Frail and confined to a wheelchair, Thurmond appeared moved by his hissing bowels and the event held in his honor. "Gaaaaah! Hsssssaaah! Fbbbbbtttsss!" he told the gathering.
Thurmond's career tracked many of the cultural changes that took place in the South he came to represent. He won election to the Senate in 1954, the only write-in candidate ever to capture a Senate seat, after he convinced election officials that he also went by the nicknames "Donald Duck" and "Hugo Fukov." Years later he secured his legacy by originating the "Southurn Manefesto" that urged defiance of the 1954 Supreme Court ruling on school desegregation. In 1957 he spoke for 24 hours on the Senate floor in opposition to civil rights legislation, the longest filibuster in Senate history. Three Senators committed suicide during the speech when Thurmond asked if he'd already told the story about his black friend Danny.
In 1964, Thurmond, then a Democrat, switched to the Republican Party when he realized he was the only Democrat on the "Back to Africa" committee. But once civil rights law became a reality, Thurmond adjusted, learning new jokes about Koreans and the handicapped.
"America outgrew old prejudices. Strom himself came to symbolize a reasoned transformation," Dole said with something like a straight face.
Referring to Thurmond's reputation as a lady's man, Senate Majority Leader Trent Lott dropped a pair of wet dentures down a waitress's cleavage to the delight of onlookers. Thurmond, however, looked terrified when informed that Lott's 89-year-old mother had a crush on him.
The highlight of the night came when Thurmond reenacted his 1982 death by having a massive stroke and slumping into a punch bowl, only to reappear later with his arms full of chocolate bunnies.
"That's dad," shrugged daughter Julie, looking slightly unnerved. the commune news is low in saturated fat but high on diet pills. Lil Duncan is the commune's Washington correspondent, though don't take that to mean that she votes on anything other than the polls at Mademoiselle.com.
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 October 13, 2003
A Shot to the Sweet SpotYou're reading a man who, by all rights, should be dead, good people. And I don't just mean according to the doctors who do my physical. A few days ago I came this close (indicate approximately a foot and a half) to death. So close I could smell its breath, and let's just say death could use a Certs.
The hand-indicated distance is a fair estimate of how close the bullet of Boguslaw Sadowski came to killing me. I shit you not, good people. Apparently the mad "Russian" misjudged my height by just enough, not doubt thanks to the cowboy boots I had been wearing all last week prior to the duel.
Luck alone should not get all the credit, my lack of modesty prohibits. I was somewhat of a tactical genius in the art of dueling, extremely good for my first time out. One brilliant tactical maneuver was using the slap with the dueling glove to put one of Boguslaw's eyes out of commission for the duration of the duel. As I predicted, it went to my benefit. Let's just say I planned it that way and avoid further examination.
And never let it be said the Moonwalk is good for nothing. I knew my weeks spent learning to dance would eventually come in handy, and Moonwalking during a duel is a very handy way to close the distance between you and an opponent. Bigmouth Camembert may have insisted it was cheating, in the interest of fair play, but Boguslaw's English is not the best, and I believe he thinks "cheating" is the fastest of the earth-bound...
º Last Column: Dueling Bandits º more columns
You're reading a man who, by all rights, should be dead, good people. And I don't just mean according to the doctors who do my physical. A few days ago I came this close (indicate approximately a foot and a half) to death. So close I could smell its breath, and let's just say death could use a Certs.
The hand-indicated distance is a fair estimate of how close the bullet of Boguslaw Sadowski came to killing me. I shit you not, good people. Apparently the mad "Russian" misjudged my height by just enough, not doubt thanks to the cowboy boots I had been wearing all last week prior to the duel.
Luck alone should not get all the credit, my lack of modesty prohibits. I was somewhat of a tactical genius in the art of dueling, extremely good for my first time out. One brilliant tactical maneuver was using the slap with the dueling glove to put one of Boguslaw's eyes out of commission for the duration of the duel. As I predicted, it went to my benefit. Let's just say I planned it that way and avoid further examination.
And never let it be said the Moonwalk is good for nothing. I knew my weeks spent learning to dance would eventually come in handy, and Moonwalking during a duel is a very handy way to close the distance between you and an opponent. Bigmouth Camembert may have insisted it was cheating, in the interest of fair play, but Boguslaw's English is not the best, and I believe he thinks "cheating" is the fastest of the earth-bound animals. In a way, that helped, too, because he was looking over his shoulders frantically when I fired my shot.
Never let it be said Rok Finger has no mercy, though. I would also appreciate it if you would make them quit calling me "queerbait." However, when it comes to the mercy, I had it in spades, as I only wounded Boguslaw with my shot. I attempted to aim for his heart, not because I'm such a bad shot, but because I knew it was the smallest target in the cruel bastard and I would most likely miss. Unfortunately, when I brought my gun up in my quick dueling manner, I did not realize how close in proximity we were, and fired my gun into his lower waist area. I believe "the goodies" is the medical term.
Well, let's just say he's not going to insult Rok Finger anymore. Not as a man, anyway. I even offered to go halfsies on his Swedish surgery, but he was too busy cursing in that Slavic language of his to appreciate it. Which is fine, more surgery for me.
The best part of all this was the respect I earned from Yogi, my whatever-in-law, Felchyana's cousin, and head of the vaguely-Russian mob. He complimented my unusual dueling tactics and said I fight like a Nazi, which is a good thing to them, I suppose. He slapped me on the back, and then when I tried to shoot him in the crotch, disarmed me, telling me he wanted me to save my strength to be a new lieutenant in his mob. Which is no small feat, as I did not know how to spell lieutenant before the promotion and had to look it up. I told him I would think it over, and promptly accepted, just to let him know who was boss. I'm not sure the point of it all, but it did keep him on his toes.
I know what you're thinking, good people: "But, Rok, how can you join the mob?" To which I say, fuck you. You've always been trying to keep me down. However, if you then said, "But, Rok, I mean, isn't it a moral quagmire at best? How do you feel about the idea of committing crimes after years of being an establishment tool?"
I respond, first, what's a quagmire? Then I thank you for your backhanded compliment, and admit I agree with you. What to do, good people? I have no doubt the mob is up to some less-than-legal activities. Now that I consider it, I'm not sure shooting a man in the jewels is completely on the up-and-up. I may already be on the slip-and-slide to hell. It is a question.
But don't give up on me yet, good people. I won the duel against all odds, maybe I'll be able to come out on top in the end after all. By the way, thanks all the same for all the funeral flowers and condolences sent to my home. I'll donate them to some dead people's charity. º Last Column: Dueling Banditsº more columns
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|  March 1, 2004
Gay-Rod and the Yankee Growth HormoneWell, it's official, Alex Rodriguez is now a Yankee and that guy chanting "Hey Gay-Rod!" from the outfield seats will have a Boston accent this year. In a move that many are comparing to the last time Yankees owner George Steinbrenner bought whoever the hell he wanted for his team, a few weeks ago, the Yanks have once again stockpiled enough expensive but boring players to ensure their annual subway stop at the playoffs, and inevitable shitty demise at the hands of some little league team from Scranton, Ohio. Teeth have been gnashed, gripes registered, and the Pittsburgh Pirates have gracefully dropped out of the race during their first spring training workout. Early word that the Brewers have surrendered to the French could not be confirmed as of press time.
Regardless, another season will begin, hopes will be dashed, and someone, somewhere, will actually root for the Yankees. This is likely to be the same guy who roots for Microsoft and the Harlem Globetrotters, but we all have our self-esteem issues to contend with.
Meanwhile, Barry Bonds continues to deny taking steroids, despite his personal trainer being caught with enough steroids to grow another Bonds from scratch. But we're all innocent until proven guilty, and Bonds' denial is entirely plausible coming from a mutant so large he could destroy you for suggesting he wasn't born with eyebrow muscles the size of a normal human's thighs. Bonds instead credits his cartoonish physique to workouts...
º Last Column: That's a Great Merkin, Charlie Hustle º more columns
Well, it's official, Alex Rodriguez is now a Yankee and that guy chanting "Hey Gay-Rod!" from the outfield seats will have a Boston accent this year. In a move that many are comparing to the last time Yankees owner George Steinbrenner bought whoever the hell he wanted for his team, a few weeks ago, the Yanks have once again stockpiled enough expensive but boring players to ensure their annual subway stop at the playoffs, and inevitable shitty demise at the hands of some little league team from Scranton, Ohio. Teeth have been gnashed, gripes registered, and the Pittsburgh Pirates have gracefully dropped out of the race during their first spring training workout. Early word that the Brewers have surrendered to the French could not be confirmed as of press time.
Regardless, another season will begin, hopes will be dashed, and someone, somewhere, will actually root for the Yankees. This is likely to be the same guy who roots for Microsoft and the Harlem Globetrotters, but we all have our self-esteem issues to contend with.
Meanwhile, Barry Bonds continues to deny taking steroids, despite his personal trainer being caught with enough steroids to grow another Bonds from scratch. But we're all innocent until proven guilty, and Bonds' denial is entirely plausible coming from a mutant so large he could destroy you for suggesting he wasn't born with eyebrow muscles the size of a normal human's thighs. Bonds instead credits his cartoonish physique to workouts so intense they caused his skull to grow into the size and shape of a football helmet and gave him a chest that seats four. Later, the always-ebullient Bonds charmed reporters with a lighthearted display of bat breaking across his chiseled crotch.
Yankee slugger and fellow steroid defendant Jason Giambi showed up for spring training looking like Shaggy from the old Scooby Doo cartoons, claiming that an improved fast-foodless diet and a new commitment to working out over the offseason helped him shed fifty pounds of muscle and the excess Wendy's fat that was making his head look like it belonged on a He-Man doll. Giambi is looking reasonably human now, though he does occasionally answer reporters' questions out of a small mouth he's grown on his back. The news is good for Yankees fans, however. Whatever home-run power that is likely to be lost by the Bronx slugger shedding his second "overcoat" layer of Michelin Man muscles is likely to be made up for by the decreased likelihood that Giambi's knees will fall off mid-season like they did last year, unable to support the massive pile of Manwich stacked atop his puny human skeletal structure.
Another accused performance drug-abuser, the lovely Gary Sheffield of the Yankees, attempted to disprove steroid claims by huffing three ounces of cocaine and beating a reporter senseless with a toilet seat. Though all present were convinced of his claims, it remains to be seen whether Sheffield will be able to charm the sportsgoing public in the same way.
What does it all mean, if anything, in the big picture? Is there any point when fans will turn their backs, refusing to pay out their fickle dollars to watch a bunch of thick-necked science experiments freebasing human Miracle-Gro, trying to slap baseballs into the grandstands with their bare hands? Will there be anyone left in the stands to notice when the Yankees, a baseball team on steroids with a bulging neckline and $200 million payroll, finally acquire the last of the All-Stars? I can't speak for anyone else, but I'll be there, cheering as always. I want to see these guys tear each other apart and eat each other alive when the psychotic part of their drug cycles kick in. We could be talking about some serious Roman times here, plus hot dogs.
And that sure beats the snot out of network TV in my book. º Last Column: That's a Great Merkin, Charlie Hustleº more columns
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Quote of the Day“Don't run if you can walk. Don't walk if you can stand. Don't stand if you can sit. Don't sit if you can lie down. Don't like down if you can sleep. Don't sleep if you can be put into a medically induced coma. Don't be put into a medically induced coma if you can kick back in an iron lung and have machines shit for you. Don't do any of that if golf is on TV.”
-Lazy Larry LisbaineFortune 500 CookieYou're gonna die this week. Sorry we couldn't put a more clever spin on that. In the meantime, try pouring sugar on your cereal instead of milk. Fuck it, what's anybody gonna do about it now? If it's any consolation, almost everyone in the world doesn't know you're alive anyway. This week's lucky coffin models: Dirt Rocket III, Econo-Sarcophagus Jr, The Spruce Moose, Office Max Moving Box Model 223117, The Bobsled to Hell, Spring-Loaded Jokester's Delight, Seventh Generation Biodegradable Grandma Sack, foot locker in your ex-boyfriend's closet.
Try again later.Least Popular Summer Blockbusters| 1. | The Matrix Redundant | | 2. | X3: X-Men Vs. Triple X, an all-new X-File featuring your ex-wife | | 3. | Finding Chemo | | 4. | Sylvester Stallone starring in (anything) | | 5. | Hollywood Homicide | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Bran Downey 11/1/2004 The Secrets of MichelangeloA ruggedly-handsome, sensitively masculine, manly-beautiful pseudo-archaeologist in his mid-30s, Professor Couth Banger walked right past the Italian police tape and into the Sistine Chapel. He had been here plenty of times, but he never failed to be awed by the roof painting. But he wasn’t here to admire art—he was here to admire the murder.
"You musta be Professor a-Banger," said a tall, thin detective. He had a thick mustache and no hair, like Mussolini, but spoke fluent English, except for a humiliating dialect. "There’s-a da dead man-a, right up-a there."
Banger directed his attention to a man, dead, swinging from a rope from the ceiling. The rope came right down through God’s navel. What a shame. That had been Banger’s favorite part of the...
A ruggedly-handsome, sensitively masculine, manly-beautiful pseudo-archaeologist in his mid-30s, Professor Couth Banger walked right past the Italian police tape and into the Sistine Chapel. He had been here plenty of times, but he never failed to be awed by the roof painting. But he wasn’t here to admire art—he was here to admire the murder.
"You musta be Professor a-Banger," said a tall, thin detective. He had a thick mustache and no hair, like Mussolini, but spoke fluent English, except for a humiliating dialect. "There’s-a da dead man-a, right up-a there."
Banger directed his attention to a man, dead, swinging from a rope from the ceiling. The rope came right down through God’s navel. What a shame. That had been Banger’s favorite part of the painting.
"Yeah, it’s nice, but is it art?" quipped Banger, with a self-satisfied smirk. Then, seriously, he asked a question. "I’m a little confused, Detective Typecastio. I’m an eminent researcher on gang signs and graffiti. Some would say, an expert on hidden meanings and secret in artwork. What does this have to do with me?"
"We-a found a disturbing note-a, with-a da body. Here." He passed the vital crime evidence to the stranger who had just walked into the room. "We appreciate-a you-a coming from America so fast. We have-a held da crime-a scene for-a three days now. It’s-a highly irregular, but-a what da hell. I’m-a up on racketeering charges next-a week anyway."
The note read: "Fuck you, Johnny. If you don’t want pizza, we’ll just the rest of us get one and you can fucking eat whatever you want."
Banger furrowed his sexy brow. "It’s a… code. Of some kind. You were right to call me. I think this note says more than it means. In fact, I think this entire murder fits well into my lifelong obsession with the art of Michelangelo." The professor studied the ceiling again, looking past the stiff dead man swinging like a hard-on in the wind.
Hours went by, and the cryptic message didn’t quite reveal itself. Then, suddenly, like a tiger on a school child, it sprang on Banger: He had uncovered one of Michelangelo’s secrets.
"Shit for breakfast!" exclaimed Banger. "Look!"
The detective, who had been napping while standing up, instantly awoke and followed Banger’s pointing finger.
"That angel in the background… that one right there, third from the left in that one picture."
"Is that an angel or a clown?"
"An angel, I’m pretty sure. Look! He’s trying to fit his whole hand in his mouth. When I first saw it, I thought maybe he was just retarded. In fact, usually when I come to see the Sistine Chapel, I usually just look at the penises, I’ve never noticed that angel. But what if…"
Banger raced across the floor, pulling the keys to his plane from his pocket. "I’ve got to fly to Paris, immediately!"
"They won’t let you in at this hour, if you just want to stare at David’s penis."
"No, I don’t have time for that tonight," said Banger, over his shoulder. "I think I’m onto the biggest conspiracy in the entire history of the twenty-first century!"
For more of this great story, buy Bran Downey’s novel
The Secrets of Michelangelo   |