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Bush Seeks Additional 4,000 Troops to Overtake CongressMarch 12, 2007 |
Washington, D.C. Whit Pistol Senate Democratic leadership Sen. Harry Reid and Sen. Dick Durbin wearing their best "You're out your goddamned mind" faces in response to presidential troop requests; meanwhile, two Navy S.E.A.L.s (inset) somewhere are waiting to kick their asses into submission.  
Astounded Democratic leadership responded quickly, telling the press Saturday, "Of course, any action that brings greater safety to our nation will be considered. But for crying out loud, of course we're not going to approve that. I mean, get a clue."
Critics of the White House were quick to condemn what they called a "call for a military coup" from the president as "unconstitutional."
The White House responded with a brief memo stating: "We'll let the militarily-supported ...
inding all requests for funding troops in Iraq and Afghanistan impeded by the new Democratic Congress, President Bush resorted to the only weapon at his disposal Friday: Requesting even more troops, more specifically, 4,000 new soldiers with the explicit purpose of conquering Congress. Astounded Democratic leadership responded quickly, telling the press Saturday, "Of course, any action that brings greater safety to our nation will be considered. But for crying out loud, of course we're not going to approve that. I mean, get a clue." Critics of the White House were quick to condemn what they called a "call for a military coup" from the president as "unconstitutional." The White House responded with a brief memo stating: "We'll let the militarily-supported Congress establish what's constitutional and what's not." Some have been quick to characterize the measure as an attempt, however ill-conceived, by the White House to demonstrate the Democratic Congress is unwilling to work with them. Okay, it was just one guy who said that—political and pizza pundit Jefferson Shavers III. "It's really a no-lose situation for the president," said Shavers, revealing his dazzling smile in the quaint atmosphere of his wood-paneled office in mom's garage. "If the Democrats turn down even more requests for troops, even those which would be serving on domestic soil, the president can point to it as further proof Congress just won't cooperate. And if he gives them the troops, they're all going to die. He absolutely can't lose, unless a ridiculously low approval rating demonstrated Americans really aren't supporting the White House military demands anymore." While most in Congress, where the danger lies, continued to remain silent on the request after its announcement, the administration took the offensive by attempting to paint a picture of an anti-troops sentiment in the Democratic party. "I come from a different world than my Democratic colleagues, I suppose," said Vice-President Dick Cheney, the gaping orifice of the White House whenever it has to tell America something truly odious. "Where I come from, we support the troops, we don't try to make political ammunition out of the war they're fighting. We supported them when they're in Vietnam. We should support them when they're fighting in Afghanistan, in Iraq, or standing behind you with a rifle and demanding you vote 'yea' on a flag-burning amendment. That's just the way I was raised." The administration called for an immediate vote on its inappropriately named "Kill Congress" legislation, citing an expected Taliban offensive in the spring that the U.S. would be better prepared for when it could "bypass congressional authority and get as many troops as it needs" to stabilize the region. The bill goes to the House on Monday for a vote, where its chore of passing the house should be comparably to last year's "Snowball in Hell" amendment sponsored by insane Senator Zell Miller (D, GA). The White House refused comment to the commune, as per usual. Republican governor of California Arnold Schwarzenegger was contacted just for an amusing quote in his thick accent, but he turned out to be even more unintelligible over the phone than in person, so we scrapped that plan. the commune news wishes the word "coup" sounded more threatening—frankly, it sounds like something adorable is about to happen. Speaking of adorable, we found pictures of a girl who looks just like Lil Duncan on daddyslittlegirl.net. Actually, it was the naughty outfit she was wearing that reminded us of Lil, and the whole thing's pretty disgusting now that we think about it.
 |  Court Battle Continues as Worms Claim Ownership of Anna Nicole's Body
Woman killed by alligator survives
Harsh critique of new book leaves Clinton heartbroken
Michael Powell leaving FCC; sick of hearing word "titties" on daily basis
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Duke Prosecutor Disbarred, Accepts New Position as National Scapegoat High Gas Prices Threaten Tradition of Setting Homeless People on Fire Bob Barker Ceases to Exist After Retiring From Television Tree Bark Face Turns Out to Be Likeness of Jesus Lookalike Vance Waxman |
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 October 18, 2004
I Must Repress My Memories AgainSir, let the truth ring out from mountaintop to mountaintop, and the desperate vagrant valleys between those mountaintops, too: Some secrets are better left secrets.
A few weeks ago my brother, Gay, made some snide comments about me, and as you might guess, I railed against them and called him a liar. And he is a liar, he's the first to not admit it, but he insisted these particular claims of his were accurate. Since he's a liar, that would have been enough to convince me they weren't true. But he produced pictures, which complicated the matter.
With my resident Chief Debunker Gordon Chumway on hand, I proved the photos were not faked. But were we faked? Replaced with gullible fools who could no longer tell the difference between fakes or legitimate pictures? It seemed possible, and Gordon and I argued with each other, going in circles until we accidentally went back in time, changed history, and erased the existence of our favorite commune correspondent Penny Priddy. This was getting us nowhere. I sought ought professional help.
My usual hypno-regression therapist, Dakota, put me to the ultimate test, and scoured my brain to find deeply repressed memories. And what she found was the worst of all possible conclusions: For a short time, I was a member of the College Republicans.
Oh, hideous fate, readers! It's far worse than the uncovered repressed memories of my multiple molestations by celebrities and alien abductions....
º Last Column: Roughed Up by an Angel
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Sir, let the truth ring out from mountaintop to mountaintop, and the desperate vagrant valleys between those mountaintops, too: Some secrets are better left secrets.
A few weeks ago my brother, Gay, made some snide comments about me, and as you might guess, I railed against them and called him a liar. And he is a liar, he's the first to not admit it, but he insisted these particular claims of his were accurate. Since he's a liar, that would have been enough to convince me they weren't true. But he produced pictures, which complicated the matter.
With my resident Chief Debunker Gordon Chumway on hand, I proved the photos were not faked. But were we faked? Replaced with gullible fools who could no longer tell the difference between fakes or legitimate pictures? It seemed possible, and Gordon and I argued with each other, going in circles until we accidentally went back in time, changed history, and erased the existence of our favorite commune correspondent Penny Priddy. This was getting us nowhere. I sought ought professional help.
My usual hypno-regression therapist, Dakota, put me to the ultimate test, and scoured my brain to find deeply repressed memories. And what she found was the worst of all possible conclusions: For a short time, I was a member of the College Republicans.
Oh, hideous fate, readers! It's far worse than the uncovered repressed memories of my multiple molestations by celebrities and alien abductions. In fact, those occasionally gave my life some meaning. But this…! Sir, I have been duped or railroaded or convinced with sheer logic to join nearly every political organization over the years. I have had flirtations with the Democratic party on numerous occasions, and a nasty dry hump with the Green Party throughout the 1990s; I have supported Libertarians, Anarchists, Communists, Eco- and Social-focused parties over the years. I am a proud Sandwich-Socialist, leading back to the grand old days when I invented the party. But a Republican? I shudder to think.
Not that I deny the horrible truth. Dakota has never led me astray on repressed memories before. Besides, if I dwell on it too long, I'm worried I will eradicate other commune staffers, and we're overworked as it is. No, I believe it's true, especially considering the context it was all placed in. The mid 1950s, attending an ivy league school I'm court-ordered not to name-drop anymore, just off on my own from my father and my unhappy childhood. I had sworn off the smoked buffalo meat business and had my permanent falling out with dear old dad. I needed belonging, conformity. I needed ascots and blazers with emblems and golf courses and yachting clubs. The small stipend father sent to me was enough to make me a rich young man, and I found solace in the inbred classes. And, much to my regret, I did like Ike.
To make it clear, this is not who I am. It's who I was at one time. I fell out of the good graces of the well-to-do by the time the 1960s started, and I found my true calling in developing ghost divining equipment. I rejected father's money and made my own living working in various odd jobs and odd journalistic magazines, like The American Journal of Sand and Bi-Curious. Somewhere, in the midst of making my old life, I must have repressed the old one.
And frankly, I was happy with things the way they are. If anyone provides a re-repression therapy service, please contact these offices immediately. º Last Column: Roughed Up by an Angelº more columns
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|  January 21, 2002
Flush it Down, Charlie BrownNed Nedmiller come from a long line of popular sloganeers. Nary a time has this great nation hoofed it off to war without a snappy Nedmiller slogan a-hummin' in their brain boxes. In the big one it was "Give a Hoot, Smoke a Boot" and in the big one, the sequel, it was "Damn the Gravy Crank, Macie!" Them Korean War wouldna been near as keen were it not for "Loose Anus, Shank the Dentist" and who can think of Vietnam without remarkin' to themselves "Gimmie a Slice a' Mermaid Pie!" Not quite as many people as you'd think.
Ned's daddy, and the fella who shot Ned's daddy out his pee-hole (Steve) both was popular sloganeers also. Them presided over the golden age of sloganeerin', and nobody not far or near confused them with anything but the best. Dad Nedmiller often would tell stories of them days of his four fathers back when them slogans was classic and simple, and of the time when his pappercorn invented the world's most famous slogan: "Okay, Bill." That was the ringer that cemented his undying fame and created them family fortune you've been readin' about on the bubblegum wrappers and whatnot. It was the slogan against which all others would be judgemencated, and harshly so.
But that's not to say Dadmiller and Grandcracker didna dream up any no other slogans of international famousness. "Don't Wet My Bagpipe!" "A Man, A Tarpaulin, A Combustible Weasel Throne: Sioux Falls," "I Can't Believe I Porked the Pope!" "The Rancid Backbeaver State," "Don't Eat...
º Last Column: Ringing in the Root Beer
º more columns
Ned Nedmiller come from a long line of popular sloganeers. Nary a time has this great nation hoofed it off to war without a snappy Nedmiller slogan a-hummin' in their brain boxes. In the big one it was "Give a Hoot, Smoke a Boot" and in the big one, the sequel, it was "Damn the Gravy Crank, Macie!" Them Korean War wouldna been near as keen were it not for "Loose Anus, Shank the Dentist" and who can think of Vietnam without remarkin' to themselves "Gimmie a Slice a' Mermaid Pie!" Not quite as many people as you'd think.
Ned's daddy, and the fella who shot Ned's daddy out his pee-hole (Steve) both was popular sloganeers also. Them presided over the golden age of sloganeerin', and nobody not far or near confused them with anything but the best. Dad Nedmiller often would tell stories of them days of his four fathers back when them slogans was classic and simple, and of the time when his pappercorn invented the world's most famous slogan: "Okay, Bill." That was the ringer that cemented his undying fame and created them family fortune you've been readin' about on the bubblegum wrappers and whatnot. It was the slogan against which all others would be judgemencated, and harshly so.
But that's not to say Dadmiller and Grandcracker didna dream up any no other slogans of international famousness. "Don't Wet My Bagpipe!" "A Man, A Tarpaulin, A Combustible Weasel Throne: Sioux Falls," "I Can't Believe I Porked the Pope!" "The Rancid Backbeaver State," "Don't Eat the TNT," "Remember the Alamo and Some Milk," "Give Me Liberty or Give Me Electric Sex Goggles," "We Have Nothing to Fear But Martian Sodomy Squads," and "Rowdy's Soup is Mm Mm Wet," are all to their credits. A fine legacy that's one tough horse and pony show to follow, if you don't mind me sayin'.
Ned Nedmiller has done his best to follow in their novelty-sized footsteps. Nedder made his name early with such rememberable slogans as "A Friend in Needles is in Nevada," "I'm With Stupid," "Shit Stinks," "Go Up, Space Moron," "Smells Like Kindercare," "Rachet Down the Tuna Shaker," "Asthmatics Have More Fun," "Dribble Glass, My Ass," and "Don't Spaz the Curb Monkey!" But Neddle didn't really hit his stride until he penned the counterculture hit slogan of them 60's: "Flush it Down, Charlie Brown." Them slogan captured the imagniariums of a whole generation and put Nedder on the map, as them cartographers is fond of sayin'. Ned got himself a tickletape parade for that caper, and is still beloved by acid burn-outs of all ages, yessir.
Sloganeerin' is quite a pursuit, bringing you much famousness when done right and the satisfaction of givin' folks something to say when they got nothing to say on their own. Quite a charm. And don't let a contradictionary word be spoke about the eternal nature of them very best slogans. You know what them robotic space dinosaurs will say in a billion and one years when they dig up them fossils of you and your neighbors. That's right. "Flashdance in Grover Cleveland's Ass!" º Last Column: Ringing in the Root Beerº more columns
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Quote of the Day“I can't quit you babe… you got me locked into a 24-month exclusive contraaaaact… oh yes you do oh yes you do… your early termination fees are givin' me the blues… I been on hold so long baby now so long now ba-by yeah… I know you're on the line with a-nother man and it's breakin my heeeeart in two…”
-Naked Mole Rat JeffersonFortune 500 CookieYou will find true love this week, but you'll return it because it smells funny. Try using words like "adage" and "usage" less frequently; you think it makes you sound smart, everybody else thinks you're turning into Pauly Shore. Don't hesitate to fire blindly into a crowd of strangers this week: hesitation can be deadly. This week's lucky trucks: ice cream, any variety being washed by bikini babes, Gaelic Motors' 4WD Clover, any whose manufacturers don't run commercials claiming they're "like Iraq."
Try again later.Least Effective Protest Signs| 1. | Stop Iraq War and Tooth Decay | | 2. | France is Against It! | | 3. | Smooth Move, Ex-Lax | | 4. | Prevent Tyrannical Military Action and Stop U.S. Globaliz— (see other side) | | 5. | Bush is Just Lame Nirvana Wanna-Be | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY B. Brown Dullard 7/18/2005 ScieneticsSince the beginning of the dawn of time, science man has longed for the answer to the questions of the mind and the science of thinking. From the French peasant to the uppity French king, men of all walks of life, regardless of how much coin they pocket, have asked these questions: Who am I? Who is that guy? Why am I so unhappy? What is keeping me from the things I want? Why don’t I have a goddamn pot to piss in and Cheurvier, that cocky shit, he has that chapeau down on Napoleon Street?
At last, someone has created a science to answer those questions: Scienetics.
Scienetics isn’t some phony voodoo, like voodoo or psychiatry; Scienetics is a fully-copyrighted blueprint of how the mind works, or fails to work, and how we can kick our own minds in the ass or...
Since the beginning of the dawn of time, science man has longed for the answer to the questions of the mind and the science of thinking. From the French peasant to the uppity French king, men of all walks of life, regardless of how much coin they pocket, have asked these questions: Who am I? Who is that guy? Why am I so unhappy? What is keeping me from the things I want? Why don’t I have a goddamn pot to piss in and Cheurvier, that cocky shit, he has that chapeau down on Napoleon Street?
At last, someone has created a science to answer those questions: Scienetics.
Scienetics isn’t some phony voodoo, like voodoo or psychiatry; Scienetics is a fully-copyrighted blueprint of how the mind works, or fails to work, and how we can kick our own minds in the ass or threaten to pinkslip them if they don’t get back to work. And best of all, Scienetics works.
How do I know Scienetics works? Because I do. I’ve been to every corner of this square earth and seen man in all his various degrees. I’ve slept under trees with the bushmen of the Calihari desert, under the thankless moon and the cold onslaught of desert winds. I’ve rested on the couch of presidents, from Eisenhower to Reagan, until I was politely asked to leave. I’ve shared beds with strange men from the suburbs—you name the type of person, I’ve probably had some sort of sleeping arrangement worked out with them. This is because I had no money for several years.
During these moneyless times, I’ve had opportunity to study mankind, and a lot of women, don’t mistake that. I’ve seen him at his peak and I’ve seen him lying in piss under a bus stop bench. I’ve heard stories of success and I’ve smelled the urine. But any fool can do this. What I’ve done is blueprinted the human brain, and some monkey brains, just for fun; I’ve seen what makes us succeed and what makes us fail. I’ve drawn intricate topographical maps and marked the expensive areas to live in, if we were brain cells. Why? Because it’s fun. And because it’s the science to making us the people we’ve always wanted to be.
Make no mistake, this is no $20 fly-by-night self-help method dispelled by enigmatic gurus with no background in science. Scienetics costs much more than that. Yet it’s worth every penny, because it works. I’ve taken complete idiots, morons, bellowing manchilds with no intelligence and no self-respect, and I gave them jobs working for my brother-in-law. I’ve turned around the weakest of minds, and shown them the way to what the Buddha would call "enlightenment." And I can call it that, too, because the Buddha never heard of copyrighting.
The secret right here, and this is the only secret I’m giving away before you buy the book, is one thing: the subactive mind. What is the subactive mind? Well, it’s copyrighted, that’s for damn sure. But it’s more than that. It’s also the instinctive, the sub-level reacting part of our personalities that harbors the nastiest and most petty part of ourselves. It’s that portion of our mind that works against us. Freud called it the subconscious, because he was a junkie moron. But where he got it wrong, I’ve got it right.
The best part of Scienetics is, no matter what you’re problem, we can cure you—unlike psychiatry. If you have an IQ of 70 or 145, or higher like mine, we can take you. If you have an uncle who sexually abused you, and who doesn’t, or a bad series of romantic relationships, we can take you. If you have a wallet full of $7 million or $7, we can take you.
And it’s tax-free.
For more of this insightful non-fiction, buy B. Brown Dullard’s book Scienetics.   |
