Bush Decrees Iraqi Uranium Intelligence Gaffs

Penalty of Something Horrible imposed on naysayers

July 21, 2003

Washington, D.C.

Snapper McGee

The President makes his mean face in an effort to dissuade Congress from bringing up unpleasant matters of intelligence, or lack thereof.

n a staunch memo from the White House, written on the president's customized Wild Thornberrys stationary with the head "From the Desk of George II," the president issued a decree confirming the controversy over intelligence errors was at an end.

"Let it ring forth from the Oval Office, loyal Americans," the memo stated, all i's dotted with smiley faces, "that the alleged problem with intelligence has been resolved. We shall not address these topics again under penalty of whatever we can do to you."

The stern warning stems from revelations that Bush used unconfirmed reports of Saddam Hussein attempting to buy uranium in Africa in a Jan. 28 State of the Union address. The report later proved a forgery, and not even a good forgery, forgery critics have reviewed. The misstatement is the first public proof of inaccuracy in Iraq intelligence claims against the president, if you exclude the obvious lack of weapons of mass destruction in Iraq at all. Critics of the presidentâ€”you know, non-Republicansâ€”were quick to attack the false claim in the wake of recent information.

"Mr. President, for the American people, I ask you, Where are these weapons of mass destruction?" accused Democratic presidential nominee Dennis Kucinich in a fund-raiser only he attended.

White House officials were caught off guard by the public story revealing the inaccuracy of the uranium claim, and pointed to the CIA as the culprit. In their estimation, the CIA is responsible for verifying every statement the president is to say before he says it, or make it true in the aftermath once he has said it. CIA Director George Tenet, as captain of the rotting ship, took full responsibility for the error. According to other CIA insiders, Tenet had previously made White House speechwriters remove an Oct. 7 reference to the same forged documents until it could be verified, but failed to intercede on the president's behalf in January.
The backlash came in a form of public outcry about the legitimacy of intelligence collected by the CIA, and a frustrated Bush responded by saying he retained faith in Tenet, who was responsible for his false declarations, and that American intelligence was in good hands, describing it as "darn good." Political pundits were on the offensive again however, noticing that Bush stopped short of calling the intelligence "the bee's knees" or "rootin' tootin'."

The presidential decree, the first of its kind, was released Saturday, following a failed attempt the week before to urge the nation into silence by calling the matter "closed." The decree, while not a Constitutionally-viable change in public policy and holding no legal ramifications for the disobedient, could be the first in a series of presidential changes in lawmaking to enforce the will of the president over his subjects. Which is how Bush sometimes refers to his constituents.

White House mouthpiece and new meat Scott McClellan defended what some considered a presidential overstepping of duties.

"His will is divine and not for us to question," said McClellan Saturday. "He is merciful and wise. Your opinions to him are like the gnats buzzing around the head of the large and noble wildebeest of the Serengeti plain."

It could be neither confirmed nor denied at press time whether wildebeests roamed the Serengeti.

the commune news is issuing a decree, a Bachelor's of Science, to all our reporters and their high journalistic standards. White House correspondent Lil Duncan's own high standards apparently don't keep her from dating smelly men with mustaches, judging by what she brought into the office last week.

Pat Robertson Asks Viewers to Pray for 50-Foot Robot

Televangelist seeks divine intervention to arm Christian lobbyists

July 21, 2003

Virginia, VA

Junior Bacon

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 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.

Yale bombed, Harvard too drunk to walk home

Study finds low I.Q. causes lead paint eating, not other way around

July 21, 2003

Boris is Pointing

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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.

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Milestones

1979: A young Omar Bricks writes the first incarnation of what will eventually become his "My Friend Polio" column, originally titled "Why I Peed in the Water Fountain."

Now Hiring

Web Site Designer. Must have little to no professional experience, critical eye, delusions of grandeur, and think every current website sucks big ass compared to own Helmet fan page with FAQ. Starting pay of $90k to $250k, based on sheer swagger. Position will replace current asshole Neal, who should be finding out about thisâ€¦ just aboutâ€¦ now.

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Bush Vows Attack on Librarians

BY nathan howser

7/21/2003

Hamilton Castlewaite
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 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"â€”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.