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June 6, 2005 |
Santa Rosa, CA Junior Bacon Felt ruined more than a few 30-year-old sexual fantasies with his recent disclosure merica’s nuts were chapped a bright red this week with news that former FBI second-in-command W. Mark Felt, 91, had come out of hiding to end a 30-year mystery, announcing that he was Deep Throat, star of the semenal porn film that took the country by storm in 1972.
Americans from all walks of life gagged at the news and the sight of Felt, who has aged poorly since his starring role as the sex kitten known for her plucky personality and propensity for swallowing rod all the way down to the balls.
Despite lacking establishment distribution or any tangible evidence of a script, the 1972 film Deep Throat was a gigantic hit, inspiring excessive repeat business from about a dozen guys who couldn’t get enough of the erotic “art film.” Even a l...
merica’s nuts were chapped a bright red this week with news that former FBI second-in-command W. Mark Felt, 91, had come out of hiding to end a 30-year mystery, announcing that he was Deep Throat, star of the semenal porn film that took the country by storm in 1972.
Americans from all walks of life gagged at the news and the sight of Felt, who has aged poorly since his starring role as the sex kitten known for her plucky personality and propensity for swallowing rod all the way down to the balls.
Despite lacking establishment distribution or any tangible evidence of a script, the 1972 film Deep Throat was a gigantic hit, inspiring excessive repeat business from about a dozen guys who couldn’t get enough of the erotic “art film.” Even a lawsuit from the Sword Swallowers’ Guild over the film’s title couldn’t slow the movie’s success, and it went on to gross over $600 million in musty theaters nationwide.
Over the years, “film buffs” and conspiracy theorists have debated endlessly over Deep Throat’s identity, concocting a long list of likely suspects including White House counsels John Dean and Fred Fielding, speechwriter Pat Buchanan, and Nixon chief of staff Alexander Haig, who colleagues admit looks particularly fetching in a halter top and g-string bikini.
For readers who vomited during that last paragraph, hope remains that this could all be one big misunderstanding. Some have suggested that Felt wasn’t Deep Throat at all, and is merely a sad old man grasping at his last stab at fame before he kicks it. Though such strange sex fantasies coming from an old man may strike some as unlikely, in fact it is not an unusual syndrome, as can be documented by Dr. Nikolai Balsvet of the McClurg Institue.
“Many older gentlemen Mr. Felt’s age have a tendency to confuse porn with reality,” explained Balsvet. “They often re-imagine their lives as tawdry purveyors of humiliating sexual excess, cum-dumpsters, cock-hungry hose hounds drooling for shaft, feeling no shame in their fevered pursuit of raw Johnson.”
“It’s not unusual for a man of Mr. Felt’s age to mistake his life story for that of a dirty slut who spent her life begging for smoking hot man missile,” agreed Dr. Lou Morales of the mail-order clinic. “Most elderly men go through a similar phase. I’ve based my entire practice just treating geriatrics who think they were Traci Lords.”
Industry insiders confirm this trend, pointing out that the 40-year reunion parties for most porn films are attended by more elderly former accountants than they are dried up post-hotties with silicone bags bouncing off their sneakers.
“Back in my day, I couldn’t get enough of the dong,” explained retiree Elmer Bainbridge, purported female star of the 1964 porn epic Muffin-Stuffin’ 3. “I was insatiable,” added Bainbridge, coughing up something wet and abundant into a handkerchief.
Felt’s family is standing behind the former FBI official in spite of the controversy.
“I love my dad regardless of whether he’s a delusional old fart or a former gutter-slut blowjob queen,” explained proud daughter Joan Felt to the media. “Those are all just different sides of the man I call dad.” the commune news has, of course, never seen Deep Throat, we just like to quote lines from it constantly for ironic Gen-X effect. Ramon Nootles was selected to cover this story for his intimate knowledge of the porn industry, and because he was the only staff member insensitive enough to be able to listen to old men talking dirty without tossing his Fritos.
 |  ".XXX" Domain Reserved for Adult Content Sites, Online Moonshiners Microsoft "shitballs" over Windows source code leak
Stocks Plunge- Wait, No, Stocks- Shit- Stocks Soar, Hold On- Stocks- Fuck
Yale bombed, Harvard too drunk to walk home
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Guilty: Libby Takes Blame in Plame Name Game Court Battle Continues as Worms Claim Ownership of Anna Nicole’s Body Finely Aged Winemaker Ernest Gallo Corked Failure of Sirius Radio Blamed on "You Can't be Sirius!" Ad Campaign |
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 May 13, 2002
JESUS: Son of God or Animated Talking Dog? Today's DiscussionGrape. Fuckin'. Nuts.
That's what my mornings are reduced to these days, ladies and gentlemen. A bowl full of rock-hard gravel that's supposed to help me live to 120. Have you ever even seen a 120 year-old? Sweet Bubble-Yum Jesus, I saw a guy who was 118 once and I thought he'd come to tell me about Christmas Past, I almost shit my pants. He looked like he'd died three times already but kept coming back for the buffet. So I'm really starting to wonder at the wisdom of choking down this mole-food.
And yet now I find myself more in the mood for some kind of gooey sugar treat in the shape of a rabbit or bird. How fickle these desires, that tear my soul asunder.
-RIIIIING-
That's right kids! You've found today's magic vocab word, "asunder"! Congratulations!
-drunks cheer-
Now, for the grand prize, can you use today's word in a complete sentence? Let's see:
"Uh, yeah. Here we go: Man, if she gotta assunder that miniskirt, I'll give you TWENTY bucks for an hour!"
-DINGDINGADING-
That's it! Congratulations, you're now the proud owner of "EAT IT!", the board game that makes cleaning out the refrigerator FUN! If you can't name its atomic weight, you're gonna EAT IT!
Ah, what a precarious, flighty thing this day is, like a little bird lofted on the wing, a little, gentle bird, so small and downy, so delicate and...
º Last Column: Ninety Seconds in Hell º more columns
Grape. Fuckin'. Nuts.
That's what my mornings are reduced to these days, ladies and gentlemen. A bowl full of rock-hard gravel that's supposed to help me live to 120. Have you ever even seen a 120 year-old? Sweet Bubble-Yum Jesus, I saw a guy who was 118 once and I thought he'd come to tell me about Christmas Past, I almost shit my pants. He looked like he'd died three times already but kept coming back for the buffet. So I'm really starting to wonder at the wisdom of choking down this mole-food.
And yet now I find myself more in the mood for some kind of gooey sugar treat in the shape of a rabbit or bird. How fickle these desires, that tear my soul asunder.
-RIIIIING-
That's right kids! You've found today's magic vocab word, "asunder"! Congratulations!
-drunks cheer-
Now, for the grand prize, can you use today's word in a complete sentence? Let's see:
"Uh, yeah. Here we go: Man, if she gotta assunder that miniskirt, I'll give you TWENTY bucks for an hour!"
-DINGDINGADING-
That's it! Congratulations, you're now the proud owner of "EAT IT!", the board game that makes cleaning out the refrigerator FUN! If you can't name its atomic weight, you're gonna EAT IT!
Ah, what a precarious, flighty thing this day is, like a little bird lofted on the wing, a little, gentle bird, so small and downy, so delicate and blue-eyed, a precious drop of God's love on this sylvan sphere, like a-JESUS CHRIST, how did I get this gun in my hand? For the last time, I don't know anything about any mass shooting at Chuck E. Cheese's! And for the love of God, tell the voices in my head to stop arguing about football!
Remember kids, if you feel a tingle in your dingle, make sure she's single before you mingle; you know what I'm saying? I've got a scar here that taught me that very lesson, and I'm passing it on to you. Not the scar. Unless you get too close to my Mustang, then all bets are off.
And now, from your friends at Hallmark, a warm greeting:
Rub a double-dumpling
Stick it up your nose
Cease with all your mumbling
And take off your clothes.
Thanks folks, we've been getting a lot of requests for that one, a real throwback to the lyrical styles of yesterweek. I'm Dick Van Patten, and you've been great. Goodnight everyone, and smoke a doobie for Huey P. Newton.
-closing theme aka Darth Vader's Empirial March-º Last Column: Ninety Seconds in Hellº more columns
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|  February 18, 2002
History"My college years were plentiful with fun and new experiences. When I recall people from that time I always think of my European History professor, Mr. Carmel.
'Hartwig,' he once told me—he always called me Hartwig—'Hartwig, history is written by the winners. There are a thousand untold stories from history that have been revised and edited by generations after. People who did not feel the truth was in the best interest of society. We must never forget that.'
He would take a puff off his pipe and continue, 'There are inventions we have lost to the ravages of time because those who inherited them could not see the value, lacking the vision of those who created them. Diseases could have been cured, populations fed and clothed and sheltered, suffering that existed only because those who won the day were strong in might only, not in compassion or wisdom. Cultures have been destroyed, entire races of people who perhaps could have contributed to a better world. Annihilated simply by those who could kill and destroy. Though we may try to forget, we are descended from those people. The murderers, not the creators.'
Actually, I think that's incorrect. Mr. Carmel was a candy bar I used to eat a lot in college. I don't remember who said that about history. Maybe it was my Latin professor, talking about Latin. I'm not sure. I might have to get back to you on this...
º Last Column: Flood º more columns
"My college years were plentiful with fun and new experiences. When I recall people from that time I always think of my European History professor, Mr. Carmel.
'Hartwig,' he once told me—he always called me Hartwig—'Hartwig, history is written by the winners. There are a thousand untold stories from history that have been revised and edited by generations after. People who did not feel the truth was in the best interest of society. We must never forget that.'
He would take a puff off his pipe and continue, 'There are inventions we have lost to the ravages of time because those who inherited them could not see the value, lacking the vision of those who created them. Diseases could have been cured, populations fed and clothed and sheltered, suffering that existed only because those who won the day were strong in might only, not in compassion or wisdom. Cultures have been destroyed, entire races of people who perhaps could have contributed to a better world. Annihilated simply by those who could kill and destroy. Though we may try to forget, we are descended from those people. The murderers, not the creators.'
Actually, I think that's incorrect. Mr. Carmel was a candy bar I used to eat a lot in college. I don't remember who said that about history. Maybe it was my Latin professor, talking about Latin. I'm not sure. I might have to get back to you on this one." º Last Column: Floodº 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.Top 5 commune Features This Week| 1. | Saved By the Bell: Tragedy in America's High Schools | | 2. | Politics and Strange Bedfellows: Who's Sleeping With Farm Animals on Capitol Hill | | 3. | Uncle Macho's Fried-Right-the-First-Time Beans | | 4. | Mark McGwire's All-Nude Review | | 5. | Prince: The Exclusive Interview With the Famous Recluse We Couldn't Get | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Dr. Malcolm Zooter 2/3/2003 The Truth About Ice CubesI've heard ice cubes scream
like unpleasant human beings
when I dunk them into my drink.
I'd say they're alive, don't you think?
Formed in their trays like a nursery,
living their lives brief and cursory,
but is everything quite what it seems?
What do they dream in their cold, frozen dreams?
What could they teach us,
if we were to listen,
mesmerized by the glean of their glisten?
Subtly speaking with clicks on my tumbler…
Speak up! I think this one's a mumbler.
The world's murky secrets revealed
in the cold, cubic truths they conceal…
This one knows why they shot Kennedy!
Oh shit, he melted in my grenadine!
Well this one won't look so glib

I've heard ice cubes scream
like unpleasant human beings
when I dunk them into my drink.
I'd say they're alive, don't you think?
Formed in their trays like a nursery,
living their lives brief and cursory,
but is everything quite what it seems?
What do they dream in their cold, frozen dreams?
What could they teach us,
if we were to listen,
mesmerized by the glean of their glisten?
Subtly speaking with clicks on my tumbler…
Speak up! I think this one's a mumbler.
The world's murky secrets revealed
in the cold, cubic truths they conceal…
This one knows why they shot Kennedy!
Oh shit, he melted in my grenadine!
Well this one won't look so glib
once he's floating in my warm Mr. Pibb.
I think he'll gladly spill his guts
in answer to my who's, when's and what's.
Yes, the truth now is growing far clearer
than the ice cube I nailed to my mirror.
The old, funky ones that smell like fish sticks
are clearly the wise ice cube mystics.
They tell me ice cubes form from the ether
when ideas slow down for a breather
and are trapped into cubes as they're frozen,
until for a beverage they're chosen.
They they're passed on to the drinker,
who promptly then becomes the thinker
of this now liberated idea
(about a new haircut or a pet made of chia)!
So if you see me chomping ice cubes en mass
or you notice no liquid in my glass,
don't think that my brain's gone on disconnect.
I'm just eating my way to great intellect.   |