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Pat Robertson Asks Viewers to Pray for 50-Foot RobotTelevangelist seeks divine intervention to arm Christian lobbyists July 21, 2003 |
Pat Robertson, detailing the technical specs of the robot's explosive brass balls riday night's broadcast of The 700 Club brought a fresh new prayer request from host Pat Robertson, following Wednesday's request viewers pray for "three liberal justices" on the Supreme Court to retire. Friday's prayer request: A 50-foot combat-ready robot.
Robertson's initial calls to prayer began on the CBN website as part of his so-called "Operation Supreme Court Freedom," taking a cue from Christian Coalition hand-puppets in the White House. The rallies against the Supreme Court were sparked by recent decisions to strike down state sodomy laws and the declaration two weeks ago in a majority decision the institution of marriage is "really gay."
The television evangelist felt it necessary to clarify his remarks Thursday after some accused him of singli...
riday night's broadcast of The 700 Club brought a fresh new prayer request from host Pat Robertson, following Wednesday's request viewers pray for "three liberal justices" on the Supreme Court to retire. Friday's prayer request: A 50-foot combat-ready robot.
Robertson's initial calls to prayer began on the CBN website as part of his so-called "Operation Supreme Court Freedom," taking a cue from Christian Coalition hand-puppets in the White House. The rallies against the Supreme Court were sparked by recent decisions to strike down state sodomy laws and the declaration two weeks ago in a majority decision the institution of marriage is "really gay."
The television evangelist felt it necessary to clarify his remarks Thursday after some accused him of singling out justices for derision from his Christian audience, stating he did not have a preference which three of six alleged liberal justices retire, as long as the three conservatives stay on. Robertson also asked God if God could see his way fit to stock the Supreme Court with non-judges like Robertson or his son, or any televangelist who could "really shake things up," it would be "icing on the cake."
Apparently, however, the Supreme Court prayers were only the beginning for the former Republican presidential nominee and noted God jockey. On a broadcast Friday night on ABC Family's The 700 Club, Robertson asked viewers to plead Jesus deliver him more pro-Christian goodies, the more remarkable being a 50-foot remote-controlled robot.
"Lord, we ask you," stated Robertson in the broadcast, eyes closed and hand up in his perfunctory God-begging pose, "the righteous need your action at this time. As the morals of America are tested and evil is all snaked up in the cracks of even our judicial institutions, deliver unto your faithful what is required to carry on the good fight. If you cannot sway the hearts of evil men, Dear Lord, I only ask you to give me the tools to do it. I ask you, Lord, for a large robot, to bring us that robot, Lord, and make him of a stature 50-feet so that all those who would doubt you can see him coming."
Robertson carried out his prayer further, with specifics on the design and armaments of the requested robot. Any three of the suggested artillery were acceptable by Robertson's standards, including a chest-mounted cannon, thigh-seated machine guns, a flame thrower, eye-beam lasers, a fist that can be fired like a weapon like the old Shogun Warrior robots had, and shoulders decorated with heat-seeking missiles. The televangelist specified the robot would be agreeable if it came with a remote control that could be operated from long distances, but the best-case scenario robot would be a robot with an internal cockpit in the head to allow Robertson to commandeer it.
Not limiting himself to the robot request, Robertson also asked his flock to make back-up prayers for a talking burning bush to command Congress to amend the separation of church and state; the holy imprinting of all non-believers with a "Jesus fish" tattoo on their foreheads; and all city of New York and state of California residents voluntarily giving up their right to vote. the commune news works in mysterious ways, but we shirk work in even more mysterious ways. Ramrod Hurley is pleased as punch to be back on the reporting beat again. We punched him, and it pleased us.
| Bush Vows Attack on LibrariansLatest presidential boner to screw CIA for good July 21, 2003 |
Washington, D.C. Lazlo Homales President Bush, about to board the dream blimp to Narnia resident Bush shocked and awed the nation's library employees this week with tough talk about a possible U.S. intervention into the current librarian situation. Apparently confused by developments in the African nation of Liberia, where a rebel insurrection has left the war-torn country in chaos, Bush vowed to use any and all means necessary to bring America's 20,000 librarians to justice.
These latest statements brought even more scrutiny upon the beleaguered CIA, an organization that has obviously shared precious little of its intelligence with the president during his term, and possibly since birth. Bush thrilled sports fans everywhere last week by passing the buck like John Elway on crack, blaming the CIA for failing to slap the stupid out of his mouth before he could make...
resident Bush shocked and awed the nation's library employees this week with tough talk about a possible U.S. intervention into the current librarian situation. Apparently confused by developments in the African nation of Liberia, where a rebel insurrection has left the war-torn country in chaos, Bush vowed to use any and all means necessary to bring America's 20,000 librarians to justice.
These latest statements brought even more scrutiny upon the beleaguered CIA, an organization that has obviously shared precious little of its intelligence with the president during his term, and possibly since birth. Bush thrilled sports fans everywhere last week by passing the buck like John Elway on crack, blaming the CIA for failing to slap the stupid out of his mouth before he could make misleading statements regarding the Iraqi threat during his State of the Union address.
In response to the latest shit shower to hit the presidential fan, the White House also claimed that the wet-nurse organization had failed to prevent the president from making over 1,722 embarrassing statements since coming into office; 1,723 if you count the recent librarian gaffe.
"Anyone who's listened to the president speak, either publicly or privately, knows that the CIA has been shirking its duties to a perverse degree for quite some time now," stated White House spokesman Scott McClellan.
"More than any other recent president, Mr. Bush counts on the Central Intelligence Agency to make him sound intelligent," explained U.S. National Security Adviser Condoleezza Rice. "You don't hear anything about a Bureau of Acting Tough or the National Registry of Down-Homeisms, do you? That's because the president has those bases covered. And how. Mr. Bush does not, however, come from an intelligent background, and that's where the CIA is supposed to come in. These people are paid well to keep the president from using terms like 'fucking towelheads' or speaking with his mouth full of salami, and today it's clear they have dropped their duties like a greased bowling ball."
"I think I've got pretty darn good intelligence!" defended the president, speaking up from across the room while wiping barbecue sauce on his bib.
"The CIA definitely cleared the use of the term 'misunderestimated' in that speech the president gave last year, and 'uncontranationary' as well," McClellan detailed, reading from a list. "Likewise with 'learnworthy,' 'economal' and 'immigrater.' Plus any references to the nations of Urethra, Pillsboro and Spam, which do not exist. That was the CIA too. And when he said his favorite Beatles song is 'Lucy Is This Guy That I Know.' Total CIA all the way."
Regarding the president's baffling recent statements about the nation's librarians, Rice was outspoken in Bush's defense.
"The president did not knowingly say anything that we knew to be false, as he didn't know what he was saying. It is not the president's practice to speechify any falsic statement. All these countries and people with funny names, who can keep it straight? Intelligent people sometimes even have trouble," Rice elaborated, apparently with full CIA clearance.
"The president also didn't knowingly know anything he didn't know, and knowing what he knew didn't knowingly know any non-known knowledge," Seussifed Rice further. "Oh, and the CIA also cleared President Bush's impromptu recital of the tongue twister 'Pickled Peter's pecker poked a pooter' during his visit to Africa this month," Rice added on the fly.
Early reports indicate the nation's librarians, knowing Bush to be serious, have taken conservative spit valve Rush Limbaugh hostage in a pre-emptive strike. the commune news blames all of our misstatements and discredited stories on deposed commune intern Sheppy Monroe, who made that Jayson Blair guy look like Walter Effin' Cronkite, we assure you. Ivana Folger-Balzac has all her public statements checked for accuracy by the mysterious law firm of Khis & Mias, who we thus far haven't been able to find in the phonebook.
| Yale bombed, Harvard too drunk to walk home Study finds low I.Q. causes lead paint eating, not other way around |
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July 21, 2003 Boris is PointingThanks to thing which is dollar store, Boris is now having pointer. Is thing for rich persons. Yes, like Boris. In homeland, Boris is always pointing at thing with finger, which is for poor persons to do. Other persons do laugh at this stupid pointing thing that is finger. "What is Boris pointing at?" They do not know. "Maybe him is like big idiot." Is such a bad time for Boris.
But not today in America, where Boris point with button and red light. Now persons know where to look when Boris say to look at person who's butt does not fit inside their pants. Because there is red light like "Oh, that is the butt" or "Oh, those is the dogs which is having sex." There is no more mystery or question like if Boris is full of bologna meat.
This is the way for rich persons t...
º Last Column: Summertimes º more columns
Thanks to thing which is dollar store, Boris is now having pointer. Is thing for rich persons. Yes, like Boris. In homeland, Boris is always pointing at thing with finger, which is for poor persons to do. Other persons do laugh at this stupid pointing thing that is finger. "What is Boris pointing at?" They do not know. "Maybe him is like big idiot." Is such a bad time for Boris.
But not today in America, where Boris point with button and red light. Now persons know where to look when Boris say to look at person who's butt does not fit inside their pants. Because there is red light like "Oh, that is the butt" or "Oh, those is the dogs which is having sex." There is no more mystery or question like if Boris is full of bologna meat.
This is the way for rich persons to live in America, only having time for electric pointing. Rich person walks around and electric points all day, like "I will buy this and this, and you! You are for parking my car!" This is the fun of being rich persons.
Boris does love such life of walking and pointing. But problem is persons does not do these things like getting Boris car when him is pointing. Them wanting money, which Boris doesn't not have so much. Is sucks to be rich with no moneys.
But rich Boris can still point, which is still best part of being rich. Is easy to make friends this way, by pointing like "You are friend of Boris! So are you!" Is like popular magic.
Some things does not likes to be pointed. Like airplane. Boris feels silly when him does yell "Look at airplane!" but little red pointer ball gets lost on way up to plane. Oh, shits. Where you go, ball? Is not time for hiding, trust Boris! Oh great. Where is for Boris to hide from embarrassment?
Also, womens does not like pointer ball on jugs. Boris try to explain is just magics, does not stain shirt red color, but them still say to take pervert ball off of jugs all the time. So hard to understand womens, or as Louis say, "crazy bitches."
Boris also learn some persons does not like for others to look at their eyeball. Persons is so shy and yelling to take pointer out of eye. Is sad when world is not to share their pretty blue eyeballs.
Pointer thing also is good fun for reading. Reading tells Boris all about who is on televisions today, but is sometimes boring when words talk about serious thing like kids is dead with cancer. But with pointer, there is fun bouncing ball on page like sing-along movie. This make reading fun like game, and Boris love to go around singing Kids Dead With Cancer song until person in vest say not to sing in supermarket. Is so hard to remember all supermarket rules sometimes. º Last Column: Summertimesº more columns |
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Quote of the Day“All the world's a stage, and unfortunately everyone's doing improv and they think they're so fucking funny. But you know what? LAME.”
-Bill ShacksperdFortune 500 CookieTop dentists all agree: You need teeth, so in short, allow the gargantuan redneck arguing over who did that "Life is a Highway" song to win the disagreement. Sometimes life feels like a TV show, and this week it feels like Red Shoe Diaries—the nudity is all too brief and all your sex will be simulated. Taste taser, motherfucker. Lucky moods are alright, not too bad/you?, feelin' frisky, and I seriously can't go on living no more.
Try again later.Top Tax Filing Mistakes1. | Classifying hooker money as charitable donations | 2. | Taxes owed paid in solid gold krugerrands | 3. | Claiming Willie Nelson already paid your taxes | 4. | Online tax-filing with X-Box 360 Live account | 5. | Attempting to personally deliver tax forms to president himself, accompanied by bonus ass-whupping | |
| Claudette Ravages Texas Coast Like Mean-Hearted Woman in Blues SongBY nathan howser 7/21/2003 Hamilton CastlewaiteIt was a dreadful mess, washing up on an uncharted desert isle out in the middle of nowhere. But 'tis most usually the case with uncharted desert isles. You seldom find them just five miles west of San Francisco or anything, some earnest young go-getter having long-since charted it with gusto.
Such worries were no longer my concern. My frigate had capsized in the dreadful storm, and most of my crew were drowned. Some of them were even white men. A frightful experience, being near-drowned. My valiant crewmen even tried to save me, though they mistakenly dunked my head under the sea water numerous times in the effort. How you make the mistake is quite beyond me. But the strained feeling in my lungs aside, I did manage to cling to a piece of floating driftwood kept just for such oc...
It was a dreadful mess, washing up on an uncharted desert isle out in the middle of nowhere. But 'tis most usually the case with uncharted desert isles. You seldom find them just five miles west of San Francisco or anything, some earnest young go-getter having long-since charted it with gusto. Such worries were no longer my concern. My frigate had capsized in the dreadful storm, and most of my crew were drowned. Some of them were even white men. A frightful experience, being near-drowned. My valiant crewmen even tried to save me, though they mistakenly dunked my head under the sea water numerous times in the effort. How you make the mistake is quite beyond me. But the strained feeling in my lungs aside, I did manage to cling to a piece of floating driftwood kept just for such occasions. My safety was in doubt, however, until I reached the crystalline white coast of said isle. It was beautiful, I would have said at any other time, but the prospect of spending unpredictable days on this ball of sand did not make it appetizing. I might say the idea of washing up nearly any estimable place to be stranded for days on end did not appeal to me; then I considered washing up in a distillery or young girls' finishing school. The fantasies alone were enough to feed me the first day. I rose early the next day, with the sun beating on me like an Irish housewife. Before my eyes even fully opened my thoughts turned to breakfast, and the imagined picture of crisp crackling bacon and flaky yellow scrambled eggs made my stomach growl. I was then quite surprised to turn and find a large dark-skinned savage standing over me. "Yo, dude. Name's Pete. You hit breakers or something? Where's your boat?" The tribesman wore strange garb and his babbling dialect was entirely indecipherable. I tried frantic sign language to communicate, but it only appeared to frighten him. From his repeated utterances I could construct his friendly moniker for the white man was "Shitfarbranes"—which is how he referred to me. I calmed my actions and tried to reach him through friendly body language. Despite the lack of civility in his jungle nature, I found him noble and charming, in his own way. I dubbed him "Sandwich." As I mentioned, I was starving. Sandwich and I walked the beach for countless hours. Upward, far off from the water, he led me to a small, disheveled bungalow constructed of concrete and wood, and perhaps drywall, with fresh paint and a shingled roof. We crawled inside, him standing fully upright, and shared a happy drink, some canned bubbling liquid substance he had made and stored himself. It was caustic and hard to endure, but it was enough to keep my thirst quenched. After my relaxing morning, I set about to construct my own shelter like Sandwich's. I was not as fortunate in finding similar materials, but I managed a crude facsimile out of dead wood, mud, seashells, sand, and dog shit. When I was finished I decided it was easier to crash on Sandwich's floor, and he seemed agreeable to it. He warned me, in his crude broken English, that I had to be out by the weekend since his place was not a "flophouse," which I take is some sort of unpresentable cave. The savage was good company for those lonely first few days on the isle. The nights were hardest, for when the sea quieted and one could drown out the sounds of his own heartbeat and breath, you could hear the mighty monsters who lived just beyond the woods, high toward the mountain. Their beeps and honks made me terrified to the point I wished I had been as lucky as my crew, lying on the bottom of the sea. |