he whole world, or at least a very small percentage of us into geeky astronomy stuff, was floored by the discovery recently of an object that may well be a new planet. If anyone's still paying attention, they might be happy to know scientists have at last agreed the object is a planet, and furthermore, the scientific community has agreed on a name: "Tyler."

The discovery was originally made by the Spitzer Science Center, where a kid can be a dork, but was quickly verified by observatories all over the world, which frankly had little else to do. While the debate lingered on as to whether the object was a planet or just some shit stuck on the glass, the majority of the scientific community came together over the weekend to agree on the object's planet status. Attention quickly turned to naming it, with many renowned scientists claiming they had called dibs on the next planet long, long ago.

"Frankly, we haven't had a planet to name in a few centuries," said Astronomer and amateur astrologist Benton Leatherbelt. "That name-hog Galileo took up a lot of them. Mostly all the planet-namers went the Greek god angle, with Mars and Mercury and Neptune and what. But to name a planet something like that nowadays would be a waste, not to mention anachronistic. Plus, we're out of the best Greek god names. Unless they want to go with Hercules. I could see planet Hercules."

Many professional astronomers agreed, except for that "Hercules" bullshit. Super-hot U Ignorant professor of astronomy Bubbles Corkran:

"It's taken years of hard sky-looking, but finally we have a ninth or tenth planet. I can never remember which," said Bubbles, laughing intoxicatingly. "And I, for one, want to see a name that matches that little cutie. It was me who suggested 'Tyler,' because I wanted something that represents our modern age and to show that today's astromonists have their eyes to the future. Plus, I love Aerosmith. Who doesn't love Aerosmith?"

Professor Corkran's choice received much support among horny astronomers, but wasn't without challenges. Other top contenders were "Jacob," "Joshua," "Dylan," or "Abigail" if it turned out to be a rare female planet. Some were notably upset with the choice of name for the new planet, like Arizona State astronomy professor Wilson Bernardi.

"Naming the greatest scientific discovery of this new century 'Tyler' was unbelievably short-sighted and irresponsible. We had a burden upon us to apply a proper label to this new celestial body, and could have taken the proper amount of time to consider all potential choices. 'Isis' would have been a possibility… all I'm saying is, 'Tyler' seems like a very temporary and forgettable name. And I know you're going to hear stories, but this is not just because people didn't choose the name I proposed: Planet Faggot."

The debate continued into the first week after the planet's naming, but others among the world's astronomers called for a healing of the rift.

"We've all spent too much time and effort on the relatively unimportant process of naming this fantastic new discovery," smirked Lawana Kirk, professor of astronomy at the University of Colorado. "It's time to settle down with the name and concentrate on more important aspects: Who will be the first to conquer this new planet? I've already got my things packed, and I've begun construction on the world's fastest rocket to get me there before all you other carpetbaggers. Anyone want to call 'shotgun' on the window seat?"

he world remains shocked and eerily obsessed with the mortal departure of ABC news anchor Peter Jennings after his short but well-publicized battle with cancer. With several primetime memorial specials, newspaper editorials, and lots of merchandise on the way to local stores, people are remembering the legacy of the deceased newsman. But no matter what else people might say about the mark he left, one thing all can agree on: He read the news.

"He not only changed the way we thought about the news, but the way we watched the news," said media kiss-ass Earl Shmonster. "I have no examples to back that up. But you name any news event in the past twenty years, you can bet Peter Jennings covered it. Or introduced us to the guy who was covering it. He was faithfully at his desk whenever something happened that the nation needed to be told about."

Jennings' death, both tragic and timely, has seized the consciousness of a nation that had all but given up on paying attention to the news. His terminal illness has been a dazzling source of conversation and meditation on our own mortality. While some people are already talking about who will be the next ABC news anchor, one thing is patently clear: They will have to die in a really horrific way to steal back the nation's focus from the late Peter Jennings.

"Jennings was a consummate reporter," said a national news editorial copied nearly word for word a thousand times over since the anchor man's death. "He was always in the field, when he wasn't behind the anchor desk. His soothing voice and rugged good looks kept us all calm and placated while he told us about AIDS, rising poverty, election fraud, space shuttles blowing up, and, more recently, terrorism. He was more than the face of ABC network news: He was its voice, too."

The Peter Jennings' death frenzy has carried over beyond a hurricane of media coverage, including a bevy of Jennings-related items for sale on eBay and a series of Jennings news pieces headed for DVD to offer consolation to grief-stricken Jennings fans who possess money. But Jennings' death has affected the world in non-marketable ways, too, convincing several in the population to find out more information about lung cancer. The first thing most of them learn from Jennings' experience: Don't get it.

Spokesperson Nanny Freedmont from the Rubb-Houston Center for Celebrity Deaths: "The death of Peter Jennings was more than the loss of a father, husband, and media professional: It was the loss of someone famous. A person who we saw regularly on the TV every night for years, and whom we've developed a perfectly healthy attachment to. We considered him a friend, and we feel the void he's left behind, and will continue to until at least the next celebrity passes away tragically."

Jennings' departure sparked hundreds of responses from people everywhere, but since we've never heard of most of them, we only selected a few to cover. Like this one from the American Cancer Association:

"Hundreds of thousands of people die from lung cancer every year. But none of them were famous. God bless ye, Peter Jennings, America's nightly news Jesus."

Another fond farewell came from colleague and friendly nightly news rival Dan Rather.

"Jennings was a fine newsman and always read the news without error. He was never stymied by the more challenging words, like 'fiduciary responsibility.' He will be missed. Me, on the other hand, going out in a puff of smoke and a blaze of scandal. I mean, what the fuck, America? What would it take to get a simple friendly good-bye from you people? I'm not on the news anymore either, you know. I guess I'll have to burst into fucking flame or something to get a 'So long and fuck off, Dan!'"

Speaking of bursting into fucking flame, the commune news pays its own final tribute to the world's greatest news reader, Peter Jennings: Out, out, brief candle.

As long as there have been statements of truth, there have been lies. In fact, lies have been around a bit longer, since in early days there wasn't much of a good reason to tell the truth about anything at all, because it was near the beginning of time and nobody knew anything anyway. It took decades for normalcy to be established and for those original lies to come back and bite the liars on their early asses, creating a motivation not for honesty, but rather more clever lies that were less likely to boomerang back and fuck shit up later on.

After a few generations, someone told the truth, mostly on accident, and an entirely new category for these mysterious "not lies" had to be created. These were deemed highly unusual and somewhat unsettling, and no one was entirely sure what these statements of non-falsity might be good for. In the end, it turned out, the answer was not much.

Early caveman lies were charmingly quaint and simple, with the original lie, "It wasn't me!" still a popular favorite today. After a few hundred years the second lie, "It was him!" was invented, contributing greatly to the growing complexity of social interactions. The third lie, "No, you look great," marked the dawning of modern male-female relations, which have progressed little in the intervening 160 million years.

Lies grew more complex in Egyptian times, with the great lie of that age being the Pharaoh's "Seriously, we're building this pyramid for everybody to use!" But the modern lie didn't reach full maturity until the time of the Roman Empire, when the Romans went over 200 years without telling anyone the truth, ever. This became a running joke in Rome, since if you bought a ticket to the Coliseum, the time listed on the ticket only really told you the hour the event was guaranteed not to start on. Unlike modern Westerners, the Romans weren't angry at all about being lied to, since to a man they found it uniformly hilarious. Most conversations between Romans were merely contests to see who could tell the biggest lie, and because of this the greatest insult you could pay to a Roman was to compliment him. This cultural misunderstanding led to all but one of the wars Rome was involved in during the nation's reign, the other one being caused by a stray dog with incredible gas.

Some consider Jesus' "I'll be right back!" claim of rapturous return to be the original lie, but that's just foolish religious bias speaking. Men had been pulling each other's legs for millions of years before Jesus laid that turd.

Perhaps the funniest lie ever told in history was the pilgrim's famous "We come in peace!" canard handed to the Indians upon de-boating at Plymouth Rock. The Indians bought this stinker hook, line and sinker, thanks to an unfortunate history of total honesty in Native American communication, since most tribes even lacked the concept of what a lie was, except for the Ocaca ("Shitbird") tribe, who were dirty fucking cheats so crooked their arrows didn't even fly straight.

Fittingly, America was founded on not only the "Let's live together!" bullshit dealt to the Indians, but also the "We're just checking this place out for you guys" whopper that was flung back England's way. This cock-and-bull double-whammy set the precedent for a nation so enamored with tall tales we ended up exporting them to the entire world on flimsy little plastic discs guaranteed to last "forever."

America's favorite lie to date has probably been the fate of JFK; since 40 years have gone by without the truth ever being revealed that there never WAS a president named John F. Kennedy, even though it only took some grainy footage of some random parade unwisely detouring through Compton to convince an entire nation otherwise.

New Coke was a lie. It was actually exactly the same as Old Coke, which makes the soft drink's spectacular failure all the more hilarious. Admittedly, though, a large portion of the drink's failure can be attributed to an early can-printing mishap that led to the first million cans of the soda being shipped with the name "New Cock."

This flub did thrill the small bands of genetic dropped balls known as soda collectors, who rushed to buy up all the cases of the misprinted cola they could get their hands on. The flubbed pop was a giant flop with the general public though, since few people in the early 80's were ready to publicly declare their aching desire to wrap their lips around some New Cock. The soda did sell surprisingly well in Texas, however.

Advertising has overshadowed most of the big public lies of the last century, since not even President Clinton's "It wasn't me!" or President Bush's "Of course they got bombs, they're A-rabs" can really compete with the constant daily inundation of claims that beer will make you strong and that the same old shit is new and improved. In fact, dishonesty became so pervasive in advertising that the only completely honest ad on record, Pan-Am's ill-fated "We Really Hope You Fly With Us, Even Though the Airlines are All Basically the Same, or Else We'll be Up Shit Creek" campaign, led to the prompt bankrupting of the airline within fourteen days.

Other great lies you may have missed? Here's the rundown on what you need to know, courtesy of your Uncle Griswald: Unless you're Jimi Hendrix, nobody in the world likes to listen to you play guitar. Sorry. Underwear? Not really necessary, and the prime reason you haven't been laid in three years. Tomatoes aren't really a fruit, and Castor Oil isn't really good for you. Everybody else was pretending to like Reggae. Masturbation does cause cancer, but only if you keep it a secret. And most importantly of all, reading the commune really does improve both your chances of winning the lotto and being trampled by bison. Do with that knowledge what you will.

º Last Column: Requiem for the Pencil
º more columns