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 April 11, 2005 |
Ames, IA Bolchek University Microscope Weirdo foreign virus responsible for Marburg haemorrhagic fever, too much of a scaredy puss to butt heads with corn-fed U.S.A. DNA.
The news comes as a great relief to weary earth-dwellers in the United States, as word came of a deadly Ebola-like virus continuing its rampage through Angola, some country most Americans aren't familiar with in Africa. The World Health Organization (WHO, sometimes known as the Teenage Wasteland Group) announced shortly before the Bolchek press release that 173 people in Angola have died from the viru...
report released Friday disclosed that savage viruses that shred most human flesh and destroy normal mortal bodies will not even mess with people on American soil. The study, researched at Bolchek University in Ames, Iowa, and financed by the American Family First organization, had been going on for more than five weeks when it made its findings public in Friday's press release.
The news comes as a great relief to weary earth-dwellers in the United States, as word came of a deadly Ebola-like virus continuing its rampage through Angola, some country most Americans aren't familiar with in Africa. The World Health Organization (WHO, sometimes known as the Teenage Wasteland Group) announced shortly before the Bolchek press release that 173 people in Angola have died from the virus known as Marburg, and four more non-U.S. countries have been placed on the warning list.
News media assured American citizens the country will be alright, since they have something of a track record for surviving problems without U.S. intervention, and have even survived some caused by them.
The Bolchek study findings, however, provided a large relief from worry about viral invasions by other dangerous contagions such as Marberg and Ebola, including CCHF, Dengue, SARS, Lassa fever, and the Kinks. According to research, done in Bolchek's famous $3 million Sid Caesar Facility, virus cells, when given the choice between healthy cells of different nationalities, will always shy away from American DNA.
"It's totally awesome," said project head, 18-year-old super-genius Nills Van Raftan. "We stumbled on it a bit by accident. We were testing the effect of Ebola on the blood cells of African mice—since we wanted to save the American mice for better experiments—when one of the team members had a nosebleed and accidentally contaminated the sample. Imagine our surprise when we saw the Ebola contagions were scared shitless of messing with the American cells. And who can blame 'em?"
If the results are verified, and frankly nobody's doubting the outcome of a second test much, it answers a great number of questions for the world's nerdy virus-following community. Such as why have SARS and Mad Cow and other disease variants been too chickenshit to mess with the U.S. of A.?
"For any number of reasons," posited spindly weakling Van Raftan, "virus cells simply will not infect American cells, at least those of the United States. It could be because U.S. cells don't brook backtalk from foreign viruses. But, if my personification of American cells is way off, it might also be because viruses know that if they mess with American cells, they're risking a massive investment of money in destroying their asses. They can work their way through Africa, Asia, and even Eastern Europe for years, and we'll leave them alone—but first time they start infecting Americans on American soil, they're on our list. Companies even drop all the new dick pill technology they're working on and concentrate on the hot new market for pharmaceuticals to keep Americans healthier than foreigners."
When asked about AIDS, a virus long plaguing even American citizens, Van Raftan made a squeal, smiled sheepishly with his braces on display, and shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe some viruses are retarded. But it does give us something to work on when we get frustrated with erection research." the commune news owes its exceptional health to a lifetime of jogging, swimming, and eating right, as well as refusing to drink unknown substances from petri dishes. Mordecai "Three-Finger" Brown owes his long afterlife to the fact he died years ago.
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At Least One
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 July 8, 2002
Leland Was a FleaLeland was a flea who was enchanted by the unlimited possibilities of life. He roamed the earth, bounding like, well really like nothing other than a healthy flea, because when you take relative size into consideration there really isn't anything on this earth or any other that jumps anything like a flea, you'd have to have some kind of super-engineered hybrid kangaroo or something with titanium knees to even get close, because even if you shot a regular kangaroo that high out of a cannon, you'd have a serious mess of kangaroo eggs over-easy when it hit the ground.
And that's just if it was a female kangaroo. A male kangaroo would spank his nuts so hard on the ground you'd hear the bark in Antarctica. And that's only if they landed on their feet, otherwise you'd just have a big kangaroo-shaped hole in the ground with some kangaroo jambalaya at the bottom of the pit. Yikes. That's the part they never show in the cartoons.
So really, I don't know how fleas do it, but those sumbitches can jump. And Leland was no different. He liked nothing better than bounding across the land, or carpet, or a dog's back or wherever he actually was bounding. That's the problem with being that small, really the downside of the coin to being able to jump like a freakin' madman without hitting the ground at pulverizing speeds, is that you're too small to really see or comprehend where you are in the big picture, if you're out in a field or if it's just some coyote's ass...
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Leland was a flea who was enchanted by the unlimited possibilities of life. He roamed the earth, bounding like, well really like nothing other than a healthy flea, because when you take relative size into consideration there really isn't anything on this earth or any other that jumps anything like a flea, you'd have to have some kind of super-engineered hybrid kangaroo or something with titanium knees to even get close, because even if you shot a regular kangaroo that high out of a cannon, you'd have a serious mess of kangaroo eggs over-easy when it hit the ground.
And that's just if it was a female kangaroo. A male kangaroo would spank his nuts so hard on the ground you'd hear the bark in Antarctica. And that's only if they landed on their feet, otherwise you'd just have a big kangaroo-shaped hole in the ground with some kangaroo jambalaya at the bottom of the pit. Yikes. That's the part they never show in the cartoons.
So really, I don't know how fleas do it, but those sumbitches can jump. And Leland was no different. He liked nothing better than bounding across the land, or carpet, or a dog's back or wherever he actually was bounding. That's the problem with being that small, really the downside of the coin to being able to jump like a freakin' madman without hitting the ground at pulverizing speeds, is that you're too small to really see or comprehend where you are in the big picture, if you're out in a field or if it's just some coyote's ass hair, you just aren't in a position to know. And that has to be a bummer because you can get all of these romantic concepts about where you're hopping around, all poetic and whatnot, and it can turn out that you're actually stuck in a discarded sweat sock or wherever.
But although he wouldn't have known better himself, take my word for it that Leland was in nobody's sweat sock, and he really was out bounding through some romantic field in Italy or some romantic place like that. He loved nothing more than bounding along and feeling the wind whipping through whatever it is that fleas have instead of hair. I mean, I can't imagine that they actually have hair, since that would require a scalp and I can't even wrap my mind around the idea of fleas having skin at all, that just seems wrong. What have they got? Armor? I imagine it's some kind of bug thing where their skeleton's on the outside and they're just bug paste on the inside, some kind of freaky nightmare like that. So I guess Leland had ridges in his skeleton-armor or little bumps or something he could sense the wind with, and it pleased him.
Leland spent his days bounding along, enjoying the breeze and biting things that were too big to really even see him and definitely too big to bite him back. He wasn't sure why he liked biting things, it was some kind of flea tradition that dated way back and he wasn't really the kind of flea to rock the boat on the whole biting issue. So he hopped around and enjoyed the breeze and bit things, and did his best not to get eaten by anything bigger than him. It was tough, since really virtually anything could eat him, he was pretty small and wasn't possessed of horns or poison or any kind of effective porcupine-quill-type defenses. The bigger question was what would actually want to eat him intentionally, and what kinds of things eat fleas at all.
He wasn't sure. Birds? Possible, but that would have to be one eagle-eyed damn bird to see him hopping along and swoop down out of the sky to grab him. That didn't seem terribly likely. Maybe an anteater? That seemed somewhat more likely but those things always looked pretty slow and you never exactly saw one of them flicking its tongue out at lighting speeds to snap up a bug like a frog would.
A frog! Now that was definitely something to look out for. Man, you always forget about the frog.
Leland hopped about and looked around for frogs for the rest of the day. Then he died because fleas don't live all that long. º Last Column: Toudle-Lou & Toudle-Leeº more columns
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|  October 1, 2001
Fortune 4From mammoths to giant ground sloths, they buried caches of precious materials-- radiocarbon, obsidian, jasper, Idaho and Anthony T. Bouldurian, hundreds of miles from the Rosetta Stone. The violet-crowned Nero, spanning Cyclopean passers-by, "grave circle A" to the place of the Mycenae, picked up a mushroom from the ground. In the distant Acropolis, no roof over their heads, drinking the joy water over the course of 15 minutes, sat Wall Street millionaire E.F. Hutton and his wife, Postum heiress Marjorie Merriweather Post. Our first clue that this was a tomb was when the Dane paused on his homeward journey to salute the Hybrid Human. To these lands came the corn men, deciphering Venus who stood and watched over their hours, designed and bound in traditional cloth. Beautifully illustrated in color... let's hear it for ancient women!
You will walk through time. Try again...
º Last Column: Fortune 3
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From mammoths to giant ground sloths, they buried caches of precious materials-- radiocarbon, obsidian, jasper, Idaho and Anthony T. Bouldurian, hundreds of miles from the Rosetta Stone. The violet-crowned Nero, spanning Cyclopean passers-by, "grave circle A" to the place of the Mycenae, picked up a mushroom from the ground. In the distant Acropolis, no roof over their heads, drinking the joy water over the course of 15 minutes, sat Wall Street millionaire E.F. Hutton and his wife, Postum heiress Marjorie Merriweather Post. Our first clue that this was a tomb was when the Dane paused on his homeward journey to salute the Hybrid Human. To these lands came the corn men, deciphering Venus who stood and watched over their hours, designed and bound in traditional cloth. Beautifully illustrated in color... let's hear it for ancient women!
You will walk through time. Try again later. º Last Column: Fortune 3º more columns
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Quote of the Day“1.327493 is the loneliest number. Technically.”
-Inglebert Thomas, Professor of MathematicsFortune 500 CookieYou will quit smoking, but only in hospital nurseries. One step at a time, baby. You will finally lose that unwanted 50 pounds, thanks to a fortuitous kidnapping. The bank won't be your only withdrawal this week, drugnuts. You will believe everything you read.
Try again later.Favorite Porn Magazines| 1. | Meat | | 2. | Swing | | 3. | Grunt | | 4. | Pump | | 5. | Tink | | 6. | Flute | | 7. | Smam | | 8. | Push | | 9. | Kinkle | | 10. | (tie) Tubes, Flap | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 3/31/2003 Holy movie overload, America! Like most of us, Hollywood is doing a little spring-cleaning this week, but instead of dragging unused exercise equipment and boxes of used pornography to the curb, they're dragging their excess cinema to the, well… Cinema. That's what they call movie theaters over in Europe, unless they're showing skin flicks. They call those places Fuckhausen, which if you ask me is much better than the obvious alternative of Skinema. Because that just sounds gross. Enough of that though, we have no time to waste on Europe this week. Too many movies!
In Theaters
Ass! Ass! National Tango!
Either a bold career move by star Robert Duvall, or else the product of a Duvallian...
Holy movie overload, America! Like most of us, Hollywood is doing a little spring-cleaning this week, but instead of dragging unused exercise equipment and boxes of used pornography to the curb, they're dragging their excess cinema to the, well… Cinema. That's what they call movie theaters over in Europe, unless they're showing skin flicks. They call those places Fuckhausen, which if you ask me is much better than the obvious alternative of Skinema. Because that just sounds gross. Enough of that though, we have no time to waste on Europe this week. Too many movies!
In Theaters
Ass! Ass! National Tango!
Either a bold career move by star Robert Duvall, or else the product of a Duvallian drunk-fest lost weekend, Ass! Ass! National Tango! is a stupefyingly bizarre new film that establishes writer/director/star Duvall as the Japanese David Lynch. And yeah, I know he's not Japanese, but how else can you explain that title? Or the fact that half of the roles in the film are played by roller-skating apes? Reviewing this film is like trying to review a dream, or a sexual encounter with a great white shark. Good luck there. Over half the film is instruction on what you should bring with you if you want to have a nice picnic. The rest is like a cross between Last Tango in Paris, Tango & Cash and the commercial where that guy wakes up hung-over in bed with the Budweiser Clydesdales. Weird.
Bringing Down the House
Steve Martin's trail of tears continues, as apparently whoever has been picking his scripts for him lately still has Martin's wife and kids in an undisclosed location with guns to their heads. You've got to feel bad for Martin, no doubt, but the real victims in all of this are his fans, since I highly doubt Steve has actually sat through any of the shitty movies he's been in lately. Sure, you wouldn't be crazy to suggest that his kidnapped family are victims too, that's fair enough. But wherever they are, they still probably haven't seen Bringing Down the House, since even kidnappers have a conscience. That, and I imagine it's pretty difficult to bring kidnapping victims to the movies, as people have enough trouble with their own kids and elderly relatives. Having someone hog-tied and with a pillowcase over their head tagging along while you're trying to find a seat in the dark and then they need you to carry them to the bathroom would probably sour you on the whole experience even before the Coke commercials were over.
Dreamcatcher
You know gay cinema has hit a saturation point when they start naming big-budget films after gay slang terms that most breeders would completely miss. The name fits the film however, a bizarre parable about the search for Mr. Right. Only in this case Mr. Right turns out to be some weird alien thing that explodes out of people's asses and makes everyone in a one-mile radius overact. I'm not sure exactly what symbolic significance this has within the gay dating culture, but the alien is pretty badass.
The Hunted
CrĂĽe drummer Tommy Lee and Benecio Del Toro of riding mower fame star in this remake of the popular "stupid French skunk in love" cartoons from the 1940's. The stunt casting might seem a misfit at first, but Del Toro is perfect as the horn-dogging Pepe and Lee is scarily convincing as the hot chick skunk who always seems to have a headache.
Piglet's Big Movement
Residents of The Hundred Acre Woods are suffering from a serious case of the heebie jeebies after Piglet takes a shit the size of an El Camino. Everybody wants to ask him about it, for the sake of curiosity and the public health; only nobody knows a tactful way to bring it up. A lot of soul-searching ensues before Pooh is finally elected to solve the mystery, since with his name the matter seems to fall under his jurisdiction. After some funny misunderstandings and adventures, Pooh finally discovers that Piglet didn't shit at all; Eeyore just fell asleep in a mud bath. Disney's latest is fun for the whole family, though it make be too graphic for any conservative senators in the family.
Tears of the Sun
Let me be the first, or at least the most recent, to say that this is a really stupid name for a movie. It sounds all poetic at first, and you imagine Bruce Willis saying some shit so beautiful it makes the sun cry, like he does in all his movies. But then when you stop and think about it, it's just insane. Even if the sun really did come to life with a face and start flinging scoops of raisins all over the place, and then Bruce said some sappy high-school graduation speech nonsense that made the sun cry, it wouldn't be some beautiful poignant moment like you'd think. It would be hell on earth! Those would be some molten, flaming tears that would fuck up everything in sight, burning right through houses and orphanages and there'd be car alarms going off all over the place. Thanks a lot, Bruce! Asshole.
Willard
I always knew there was something not quite right with Willard Scott, but I never would have imagined he controlled a huge legion of nasty killer rats. I just thought he probably wore panties or was secretly in the KKK or something. The grisly truth snuck up on me like I was a drunk virgin on prom night. I guess it just goes to show that just because you're optimistic and give people the benefit of the doubt, that doesn't mean they're going to play along just to keep you from looking stupid.
That's the column this week, gents and gentiles. The Oscars are worm-food until next year, but we're still frolicking through the meadow, picking delicious movie melons from the melon tree. Be sure to check back next issue for more of the smoky bacon flavor you've come to crave.   |
