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Failed Experiment Produces Hideous Miniature CloneJanuary 6, 2003 |
Los Angeles, California Raelian K-mart Grotesque humanoid deformity reminds world of the dangers of playing God.
"They have attempted to play god, and they have failed," said someone in our newsroom.
The cloning was carried out by Clonaid, a terribly on-the-nose named company founded by members of the Raelian sect, who believe human beings were created by alien scientists years ago. In case you're wondering, yes, they are being completely sincere when they say that. Members of the socially unapproved religion announced their disappointment when the experiment yielded a clone one-eighth the size of the original, hairless, fatty, and with inhibited intelligence and language skills.
"Imagine our dismay when our optimistic at...
enetic science took a step backward last week when the creation of a bald, chubby failed clone was revealed by members of the Raelian sect.
"They have attempted to play god, and they have failed," said someone in our newsroom.
The cloning was carried out by Clonaid, a terribly on-the-nose named company founded by members of the Raelian sect, who believe human beings were created by alien scientists years ago. In case you're wondering, yes, they are being completely sincere when they say that. Members of the socially unapproved religion announced their disappointment when the experiment yielded a clone one-eighth the size of the original, hairless, fatty, and with inhibited intelligence and language skills.
"Imagine our dismay when our optimistic attempts resulted in a hideous, miniature version of the DNA donor," said Clonaid spokesperson Brigitte Boisselier. "Perhaps we have exceeded the limits of human capability, but our intentions were good. And we are not giving up yet. The next clones we are producing are due for next week, and we are waiting to see if they are successful."
Though Clonaid revealed little of its methodology, they did speculate the process of incubating the clone in the DNA donor's body for nine months may have been a misstep in the procedure. According to outside calculations, simple physics dictate an exact duplicate could not be produced within the original since the amount of space needed to house a duplicate of equal size would have to be bigger than the original.
Clonaid scientists considered the possibility of the clone outgrowing the host and bursting right through the body, like that scene in Alien or Pras in that "Ghetto Supastar" video, and the scientists considered it had begun to happen, but instead the failed experiment escaped through an existing orifice after hours of laborious effort. It was then they realized the experiment had failed, producing a smallish, demonesque humanoid of sub-human intelligence.
"We have not given up hope that the creature may offer us some insight as to what went wrong, and we have continued attempts to communicate with it," said Boisselier at a press conference. "So far the monstrosity only emits ear-piercing screaming and claws at any who approach it. Our scientists are working to decode its screams and construct a common language, but the sounds are animalistic and will likely be a dead avenue. It is probably just crying out in pain, begging to be put out of its misery."
When asked if there were a chance the creature was unrelated to the clone experiment, Boisselier said the possibility was considered and rejected.
"It is quite clearly a clone of some form, though definitely not what we intended. We brought in the DNA donor for identification, and the creature definitely has the donor's eyes, as well as her cute little nose and dimples. We were going to risk contact between the donor and the creature, but then the small one made a boom boom."
The experiment may have other results as well, pushing lawmakers to create legislation in response to the first human clone, besides possible Tom Cruise clone Peter Facinelli, and evoking edicts from the world's religious leaders.
"Life is sacred, and it is not man's place to play God," said the Pope, mumbling in Latin. "I'm not one to say I told you so, but…" the commune news has warned everyone of the danger of clones ever since the release of the putrid Judge Dredd. Boner Cunningham is an earnest young reporter, or at least a clone of an earnest young reporter we probably couldn't afford.
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 January 7, 2002
I Was Real Funny Before Everybody Got Politically CorrectEveryone I know is funny. Or at least they think they're funny. And I can understand that, 'cause I used to be real funny, too. And then everyone went and got so "politically correct" on me. Now I can't get a butt to crack a smile.
It probably started back in high school. I was a senior and about to graduate when all of a sudden people stopped laughing at my "plantation slave" character voice I did. It was real funny, too. I'd stick my lips out and say, "Yessuh, boss, suh!" whenever anybody asked me for anything. I'd be in class and the teacher would call on me and I'd do that and nobody would laugh, not one person. My dad and his buddies always cracked up when I did that, now nothing. One guy sort of cracked a smile and then went straight-faced again when no one else did. My teacher later said, "You know, that's very offensive." She told me no one talks like that and so it's offensive and I have to admit it's probably true because I never met a plantation slave. I think they ablemished slavery back in the '60s or something.
Well, that was fine, a gifted comedian like me has quite an arsenal of material to draw from. But then, one by one, all my great gags were taken from me.
My first week in college (okay, my only week in college) I got a lot of angry stares and boos whenever an Asian student would come into the room and I'd do my little "dunna dunna dun dun DUN dun dun" Chinese music. Sometimes an Asian would answer a question the...
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Everyone I know is funny. Or at least they think they're funny. And I can understand that, 'cause I used to be real funny, too. And then everyone went and got so "politically correct" on me. Now I can't get a butt to crack a smile. It probably started back in high school. I was a senior and about to graduate when all of a sudden people stopped laughing at my "plantation slave" character voice I did. It was real funny, too. I'd stick my lips out and say, "Yessuh, boss, suh!" whenever anybody asked me for anything. I'd be in class and the teacher would call on me and I'd do that and nobody would laugh, not one person. My dad and his buddies always cracked up when I did that, now nothing. One guy sort of cracked a smile and then went straight-faced again when no one else did. My teacher later said, "You know, that's very offensive." She told me no one talks like that and so it's offensive and I have to admit it's probably true because I never met a plantation slave. I think they ablemished slavery back in the '60s or something. Well, that was fine, a gifted comedian like me has quite an arsenal of material to draw from. But then, one by one, all my great gags were taken from me. My first week in college (okay, my only week in college) I got a lot of angry stares and boos whenever an Asian student would come into the room and I'd do my little "dunna dunna dun dun DUN dun dun" Chinese music. Sometimes an Asian would answer a question the teacher asked and say thank you and I'd squint and say, "Sank you velly much-ah!" Once again, nothing. One guy even called me something I won't repeat, since I don't like to work "blue." All of this is crazy enough, but next thing I know, I can't even have fun at a baseball game. My favorite team, the Braves, are really kicking some butt against the other team and I start my war whooping yell and my "HI-yuh HI-yuh HI-yuh" dance and all the fans would shout me down. Well, all the fans of the other team would. I guess it's not so bad, at least all my friends and family still think I'm hilarious, but it's just not the same. I knew things were bad when I went to the public library and a guy came in with a pink shirt. I started to sashay up and down the aisles, lisping loudly and making cat noises. Nothing, nada. The librarian asked me to leave, I mean, but nothing like laughter. It's like now white people don't have anything to laugh about. Before you know it you probably won't even be able to make fun of women, Arabs, and rednecks. I guess I was born at the wrong time to be a big comedian. Everything's going to hell in society. Hell, even Jesse Helms is retiring now. º Last Column: I Don't Believe in Santa Claus Anymoreº more columns
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|  February 23, 2004
Work SucksIt is high time, as a teller of uncomfortable truths, I admitted one of the most obvious: the commune sucks. Or perhaps I should clarify that working at the commune sucks. The distinction might be thought important by some.
Shit you I do not, as Yoda might say. I admit my role in working at the commune has changed several times over the years, and more often than not I am a background character, like the old man who hung out at Cheers, but when brother Gay loomed his large, smarmy head in a few months ago and made a play to take over the publication, I put my nose to the grindstone and basically skinned the hell out of my nose. I worked extra hard, 24-7, 24 minutes of every hour, 7 hours a day, and this shit was not for me, sir. I am not made for a 7-hour work day. I don't know how everyone else here manages the five they do.
I will accept I perhaps have it better than some others, since I own the whole shebang, at least if I can keep Gay at bay, and I receive all the profits, should we ever make any. But it does not change the fact work completely sucks. The severe sucking nature of work cannot even be disputed at this point.
When I started the commune, or changed it from a quarterly Indian reservation newsletter to an alternative news publication, I only wanted to spread as much of the truth as I saw it as I could fit onto the back of pamphlets lifted from teen centers and free clinics. It was fun then, before I had a staff,...
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It is high time, as a teller of uncomfortable truths, I admitted one of the most obvious: the commune sucks. Or perhaps I should clarify that working at the commune sucks. The distinction might be thought important by some.
Shit you I do not, as Yoda might say. I admit my role in working at the commune has changed several times over the years, and more often than not I am a background character, like the old man who hung out at Cheers, but when brother Gay loomed his large, smarmy head in a few months ago and made a play to take over the publication, I put my nose to the grindstone and basically skinned the hell out of my nose. I worked extra hard, 24-7, 24 minutes of every hour, 7 hours a day, and this shit was not for me, sir. I am not made for a 7-hour work day. I don't know how everyone else here manages the five they do.
I will accept I perhaps have it better than some others, since I own the whole shebang, at least if I can keep Gay at bay, and I receive all the profits, should we ever make any. But it does not change the fact work completely sucks. The severe sucking nature of work cannot even be disputed at this point.
When I started the commune, or changed it from a quarterly Indian reservation newsletter to an alternative news publication, I only wanted to spread as much of the truth as I saw it as I could fit onto the back of pamphlets lifted from teen centers and free clinics. It was fun then, before I had a staff, a budget to be concerned with, and deadlines to heed. I sometimes wish I could go back to those days. Me and Sully, experimenting with mind-expanding medicinal herbs while I wrote my first column about how the 1969 moon landing was just an elaborate Tonight Show sketch aired out of context. Before I had snippy copy-editors knocking on my door to tell me I misspelled simple words and spilled bongwater on all my pages.
Gay Bagel, of course, challenged the commune to show profit as part of his new job as Ulterior Motive Manager, Class VII, and I thought the natural solution was to do what we do that wasn't showing a profit more often and at greater expense. So I took the commune to a weekly schedule and included extra pairs of irregular-fitting jeans as an pay incentive every week. All that has done, it seems, is give me more work to do. Gay doesn't know the first thing about publishing an alternative news website—have fun! The second thing being, of course, never malign Carol Burnett without ample photo evidence to back you up. But the first thing has been completely lost under Herr Bagel. Herr Bagel being Gay, instead of me, for once.
These days I'm in the office up to six days a week, instead of six times a month with the old commune management style. In a way, I suppose I feel I have to answer to Gay now when before I had no boss, I was able to just hang out in my office whenever I felt like it, pants or no pants. After all, if I don't show a major increase in profits, meaning make a profit of any type soon, he'll resume his legal battle to take over the commune again.
Bah. If I had half a brain in my head, which my staff is quick to assure me I do, I would let him have the damn commune. Dig Sully out of those boxes I packed him up in and light up the peace pipe once more. Go back to the old desktop publishing guerilla-style journalism I started with.
Still, I suppose things aren't all that bad. After all, if I can reach one reader, inform him of the deadly conspiracies and hidden injustices of this world, all my work has been worth it. And according to last month's website statistics, we finally successfully reached that one reader. º Last Column: Working on Commissionº more columns
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Quote of the Day“Fascism is not the devices and mechanisms that force us to our knees, but those who operate in the shadows and convince us "on our knees" is the place we're born. And the first seed of fascism is rent.”
-Crosby in 3F, every first of the monthFortune 500 CookieToday is not your day, buddy—by a horrible bit of luck, your day was exactly six weeks before you were conceived. The good news is you look a lot like William Daniels; the bad news is that doesn't pay much these days. Watch out Thursday, when you're nearly buried in a deluge of Fangoria magazines that have been building up in your closet. Lucky numbers? You want luck? Eat me, sadsack.
Try again later.Top Eric Rudolph Hiding Places| 1. | Rabbit's house. | | 2. | Worked at an Arby's for a while. | | 3. | Inside Laura Bush's vagina. | | 4. | Star of an ABC sitcom. | | 5. | North Carolina. Nobody ever looks there. | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 4/16/2007 Hola shit, gringos. It’s south- of-the- border Roland McShyster coming to you from our continental neighbors, Mexico. Cancun is all ablaze with its usual brilliance as young people flock by the hundreds to the international Wordloaf festival. That means sharp spelling, wit, and cerveza by the cold cases. Roland McShyster is all over ivy tower intellectual fare like that. But it doesn’t mean I can neglect my movie-reviewing duties, and I don’t have to since directors all send Roland M. their movies on DVD screeners, just hoping for that review blurb that will land the asses in the seats. Watch as I don’t fail to disappoint.
Disturbia
Oh, yeah, let’s kick it cool style with another gripping and gritty story of a real-life rapper who made his way to...
Hola shit, gringos. It’s south- of-the- border Roland McShyster coming to you from our continental neighbors, Mexico. Cancun is all ablaze with its usual brilliance as young people flock by the hundreds to the international Wordloaf festival. That means sharp spelling, wit, and cerveza by the cold cases. Roland McShyster is all over ivy tower intellectual fare like that. But it doesn’t mean I can neglect my movie-reviewing duties, and I don’t have to since directors all send Roland M. their movies on DVD screeners, just hoping for that review blurb that will land the asses in the seats. Watch as I don’t fail to disappoint.
Disturbia
Oh, yeah, let’s kick it cool style with another gripping and gritty story of a real-life rapper who made his way to fame from the streets. Distrubia plays himself, and also wrote the screenplay, and also did the entire soundtrack, and I think he actually slept with all the actresses himself, he’s just that kind of cross-media entertainer. The direction isn’t Jim Sheridan’s Get Rick Or Die Tryin’, but with Disturbia’s ultra-large bloodshot eyes and creepy Fu Manchu, few rappers could match his unsettling physical appearance with the best direction. Dolly Parton rounds out the cast, but not in this film.
The Hoax
When did Hollywood get so brazen? They used to at least put out an actual film, even a crappy one, to get your money. Now in this case they just secured the money to make a movie and split it between the producers and promised not to tell anyone else. Whoever else is in on the joke, they’re not quick to admit it. This film, based on a lie some writer told his mother about a script he wasn’t working on, is the first film shot entirely on no kind of film stock. It doesn’t exist, it doesn’t have a cast, nor does it have a director, and the plot is pretty threadbare, too. Most people who go to see it will probably be a little surprised when they sit in a theater for 2 hours waiting for a movie that never starts, but maybe they’ll be good sports about it. I was, even though I only received a DVD screener with pure static on it, not quite the same as spending $45 or however much a movie costs non-reviewer people. Truth-in-advertising laws forced them to title it thusly, but don’t expect that big fucking clue to keep people out of the theater. They mostly go just for a dark place to feel up their girlfriends or boyfriends, and this movie adequately fills the bill.
Perfect Stranger
I have to admit I was real excited for Bronson Pinchot’s big-screen return, and seeing the much-beloved character Balki one more. It turned out to be a hideous letdown. Pinchot hasn’t aged well, and I think they even had a stunt double doing the world-famous "Dance of Joy" in those scenes. I was heartbroken, after years of waiting to see the story of a sheep-loving immigrant who is stunned by American culture, a project so ripe for the bigscreen. Who would have believed last year’s documentary Borta would have so excellently told the same story? It certainly didn’t help that Cousin Larry held out for serious payola. Too many ingredients were missing, and too long had passed since Balki’s last visit. The magic has gone.
Are We Done, Yeti?
Now here’s a movie the guys can enjoy. Ice Cube, in quite convincing make-up, plays a Yeti with a taste for human blood. He befriends Ice T only so he can take him up to a secluded wooded area and hunt him for sport, but T is too smart for that, yo. We learn of Ice Cube’s real motivations in the opening sequences, when he hunts down rapper/actor Ice Box and carves him into a frozen treat. But things are different for Ice T, who hooks up with the only hunted game to ever escape the Yeti, Ice Pick. Together the two, with a little help from hitchhiker Ice Storm, turn the tables and make the Yeti their bitch. Oh, it is on!
Speaking of getting it on, I think they’re doing Scrabble shots down in the lounge, so I’m checking out of my bungalow for the rich intellectual nightlife of Cancun. Keep it reel, folks—no, that wasn’t a misspelling, it was a play on the terms real and reel.   |
