Australian Hijacker Thwarted, Drained of Blood

man attacked two flight attendants with wooden stakes on a Qantas airlines flight between Melbourne and Tasmania Thursday, in an apparent attempt to storm the cockpit and crash the plane. The man was subdued by the flight crew and passengers, and subdued so violently that the entire cabin was drenched in vivid red gore after the incident.

According to reports, shortly after the flight took off from Melbourne the man stood, brandished both the wooden stakes and a large antique crucifix, and began to chant in an unknown tongue. When two flight attendants, a man in his 30s and a woman in her 20s, tried to explain to the man that the lavatory would be unoccupied shortly, he attacked both with the wooden stakes. Before he could drive the stakes through their breastplates and into their cold flight-attending hearts, the assailant was quickly overwhelmed by passengers and crew, and according to some reports, drained of all his blood.

"This appears to be a premeditated attack, though not an act of terrorism," stated Transportation Minister John Anderson, a man so uptight his pants were almost sucked into his body by the vacuum created inside his ass.

"The assailant was one and the same, quite an unstable man of not-sane proclivities, given to unprovoked violence," continued Anderson at the half-assed press conference in Melbourne. "Though little is known now and it is far too early to determine his motivations, I think it is safe to say this incident had absolutely nothing to do with vampires."

The minister's comments were met with a confused silence, at which point he walked away from the podium with a seat cushion humorously stuck to his posterior.

Eyewitnesses reported seeing the assailant being led away by the authorities in Melbourne, appearing dazed and a ghostly pale white, yet strangely unweakened by the severe blood loss. His only comments to the press involved a mumbled desire to join the Qantas flight team in the future.

Qantas head Geoff Dixon explained how it was determined that the man planned on crashing the plane despite the fact that he never even made it into the cockpit. "It's simple, really. I mean, what the hell else was he going to do? Ask them to fly over his house and wave to the wife? I think not. The next thing I know you're going to be suggesting the entire Qantas crew are undead Nosferatu-types who sucked this chap dry like a juice box. Ha. Then you'd start insinuating all of Australia has been overrun by vampires, wouldn't you? That's a laugh. What a silly thing you could have said."

"It's clear this bloke was a, a what have you, an Alzheimers, you know, the terrorists, that bunch," said pilot Brett Myers, wiping a dribble of blood off his chin.

Once the flight turned around and landed back in Melbourne, outsiders to Australia were shocked by the violence with which the assailant had been subdued. However, such incidents are not uncommon in the nation, as last year on a Qantas flight an unruly passenger was kicked and stomped by fellow passengers and crew members for over 45 minutes after suggesting a cabin-wide sing along of tunes from Mary Poppins.

"We here in Australia look out for our own," said Dixon, allegedly referring to the passenger uprising but also eyeing this reporter's neck in a thoroughly creepy fashion.

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With all the fervor about cloned cats and cloned pigs and cloned sheep burping too much methane gas into the atmosphere lately, we've almost forgotten to consider the inevitable future of sci-fi bullshit come true: human cloning. Fertility researching eggheads have announced that an impotent husband's DNA sample fuel-injected into his wife's attention-starved egg can result in her giving birth to an exact clone of the husband, lousy slacking-off sperm and all. No shit! And word on the street is that human cloning has already occurred, and that they're a boy band named O-town. I've never heard of them, but I wouldn't put it past whoever would be in charge of that kind of thing.

Some are calling this the next frontier, as they talk into women's leg razors painted black and make strange hand signals to their other dorky friends. Personally, I think they've jumped the gun a bit: I say the real future is in celebrity cloning. What woman wouldn't pay through the nose to have her son turn out like Robert Redford instead of her boring husband, who's a nice guy and all, and has a great head of hair… on his back! Yeeeeick. I think the number may run in the millions.

Because of this, you have to assume we're going to see a booming market in confiscated celebrity biological material in the future. You won't be able to go to a benefit for Tibetan date rape victims or a boat show without seeing people fist fighting like wild dogs over discarded celebrity eyelashes and toenail clippings. Mark my words, eBay is going to have to create three different categories for nose hair alone.

I mean, what kind of loser spends her time pouring over old issues of People magazine for blurbs about Brad Pitt when, with a dash of ingenuity, she could have a little Pitt growing inside her? Then she's just a wig of Chinese women's hair and a name change to "Jennifer" away from being shot dead in the shower whilst clutching a Ginsu, making that beautiful dream complete.

Finally we won't have to put up with the disappointing progeny of celebrities any more, sucking their way through life and failing to live up to the talents and all-around fabulousness of their revered parents. No more eagerly waiting, with baited breath, for them to show some glimmer of hope that they'll be just like their parent, only young and sexy again. No more crushing disappointment in them turning out spoiled, odd-looking, untalented and arrested for drugs in an unexciting fashion.

In this brave new world, once Brad Pitt is too old and fat to titillate our feminine sides, we can just turn our attention to the eldest Mini-Pitt clone, who will just be coming into his prime hunky years without having to get his cock stuck in A River Runs Through It to get our attention. Thank God.

Granted, few celebrities will welcome being replaced by a younger version of themselves who they can't control or smother with unwelcome affection after a lifetime of childhood neglect, like they do with their kids. Undoubtedly it will become the in-vogue thing to see celebrities walking around in ridiculous baggy moon-suits to prevent having any of their DNA stolen. Photographers will swarm around anyone they see in a moon suit until they read the ID tag on the lapel and realize it's just Buzz Aldrin.

As a result of this, the majority of stars will request that they be replaced in their movie roles by computer-generated facsimiles of themselves, since except for a few isolated examples, most roles would require them to take off their moon suits. And fat chance of that, lest some intern on the set has dreams of selling lip skin he scraped off of coffee cups on eBay. Understandably, this will give new meaning to the term "phoning in a performance," though of course the lingo will be updated to the techno-chic term "downloading." "Did you see J-Lo in the new Farrelly Brothers movie? Boy did she suck." "No shit, she must have downloaded that one while she was having her butt waxed."

Obviously this will cause a huge shake-up in the Hollywood power structure, with whiz-kid programmers coming into high demand and replacing acting coaches to make sure that even CindyCrawford.exe can turn in a convincing performance as something other than an overpaid bimbo. Granted, there will still be problems, like CatherineZetaJones.exe conflicting with all of the other software, MarlonBrando.exe being too large for system memory and RobertDowneyJr.exe showing up all corrupted and with the wrong drivers. But I have great faith they'll iron out all of these problems in time to make another great buddy cop picture, which is what it's all about in the end.

In the mean time, Omar Bricks has a trend to head off at the pass. If you hear in the news next week that some mustachioed mystery man has made off with cells from Balthazar Getty's stomach lining, just smile knowingly to yourselves and wish me good luck on my yacht shopping. Bricks out!

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Time to set the record straight, Pop'n Fresh. Who's in the kitchen with Dinah? Neddikins Nedmiller, them's the cat! Surprise! Long time this mystery puzzled them noodles of them noodle-headed school marmots. "Whoozit?" they askin. "Whoozat strummin that banjo?". Sure ain't Poor Henry, nor Lonesome Tom, them out trappin' coons! Sures ain't Fat Teddy Wedkins, him out eatin' pies offa windowsills. Ain't neither Ralf the cat-eater nor Surly Joe, them went to town for the bark-strippin contest. "Whoosat leave left?" them melon-headed childrens askin. "Who's in that kitchen we know?". Well the time's up, you paint-eatin' imbeciles, and Neddy's left holdin the banjo. You all owe me a nickel.

Summertime's the time Ned likes to strap on a pair of latex jogging trunks and hit the slopes, them Korean bastards took Ned's tonsils in the great war. Rub-a-dub-dub there's a shark in my tub, that's what I always say! Memorial Day's the time to remembrin all them things you never remembered, like gettin' your porcupine sharpened or where you left your mother that cold wintry day. Veteran's day's the time when you take your horse in to get his elbows checked for white dwarfs, that's the day.

Newsflash! Sub sandwiches float! Jig's up, Kruschiev!

When Nedinski was six years old of the equinox, his momma take him out in the deep woods of them black forest to teach him 'bout them magic-talkin tree midgets. Ned learn that day 'bout the city of them trees, and them midgets who frolic and play there with them tree rats, and them scream like freight trains and fling their scat like Sandy Kofax when they're sad. Ned learn that day not to make the tree midgets sad, so today he passes that wisdom on to you. Don't make them tree midgets sad.

Ned remember them summertimes when he was knee-high to a boa constrictor, runnin' round in the yard like a Chinaman celebratin' China Day. None of them neighborhood families had money for none of them Water Witch lawn toys or no Crazy Clown neither, so Neddy and his buddies Ron-Ron and The Gooch would tie the garden hose to that epo-leptic kid Stanley and chase him 'round with flashlights, turning 'em on and off an off an on until he'd start doin' the 'lectric wiggle like a honeybee mappin' out the way to the treasure. Then we frolic and play in the water, til them vultures start to circle overhead. That's when it's time for some chocolate milk 'n grape nuts, by gum.

Summertime's also the time for them eye-bogglin' great scientific advances, like Nedmiller's beach catapault. Nothin' quite matched the joy wrapped up inna small boy's scream as he's rocketed out of his swim jimmies and kerplunked into the ocean 'bout a quarter mile out to sea. Also works for family dogs, too, but warning: NASA loses their sense of humor faster than a jellyfish in a weasel condom when they pick up flying schnauzer formations on their radarmascope. This year Nedrums is workin' on his sister-invention, the sea-catapault! Doublin' the pleasure 'n fun when you see sharks and manta rays and small whales flung up onto the beach and highway! Hot damn!

Back to the lab with Neddington P. Bear! Lotsa hours to spend, wrappin' malamutes in apple cores and Polydent, and checkin' the summer sausage for a hernia. I hope the best to you and yours with your summer projects, and may all your hornet's nests be kosher! TTFN!

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