Doritos Reveals New Human Tracking Chips

orrowing a page from every cautionary future tale ever written and 60% of all science fiction films to date, the Frito-Lay Corporation today unveiled Trakos, a new line of Doritos brand “human tracking chips� designed to thwart kidnappings and various other ugly crimes in four delicious varieties.

The new chips, offered in Ranch Attack, Hellapeño, Nacho Bacon, and Four Course Meal flavors, use cutting edge technology to embed edible microchips into the snack food. These microchips can then be tracked by satellite and hand-held scanning devices worldwide, providing a huge aid in missing-persons cases involving recent snack chip consumption. The high-tech snacks are being offered in response to recent public demands for improved homeland security and a snack food that tastes like nacho-flavored bacon.

“The public has been resistant to this tracking technology for years, but now we’ve made it delicious,� explained Doritos head Ken Abenly.

“People may balk at the idea of being implanted with a tracking device, but we think the time has come to put those outmoded fears to rest,� said Abenly. “The threat of an embarrassing public death at the hands of some crazed terrorist or your cheating husband is just too great these days. Criminals may still resist the concept of being tracked through microchips floating around in their bile, but we’re confident we’ve made these chips delicious enough to overcome any objections.�

Chip-hating privacy advocates have protested the trend, citing fears of a Big Brotherly government agency using the American public’s weakness for tasty snack foods to create a vast surveillance network, leading inevitably to political oppression and embarrassing high-water jumpsuits for all.

“The rest of our chips have been known for years to be major contributors to obesity, heart disease and stroke, yet that hasn’t stopped anyone from pounding the things like they were going out of style,� continued Abenly. “So we don’t foresee privacy concerns being a major deterrent. After all, which would you rather have: A tiny, painless microtransmitter in your gullet, or a spaghetti tangle of gross heart tubes coming out of your chest? Yuck. Sounds like a no-brainer to me. Plus we made sure they taste like nacho-flavored bacon, which the people seem to love.�

Despite protests, the technology appears to be a likely hit. Plans are already in the works for several other tracking foods, including Grandma Come Home pitted prunes from Sunkist and Ralson Purina’s upcoming Trackin’ Wagon dog food to aid in the search for missing pets.

Sadly, the technology has not yet advanced to the point of aiding in the search for pets or loved ones who are already missing, though unsubstantiated reports have Hershey Foods working on a time-traveling chocolate bar that might allow consumers to go back in time and feed tracking foods to their currently missing pets before they disappear. Dim-witted focus groups have also drawn attention to the need for intelligence regarding what kinds of snack foods car keys might enjoy, so that they can be fed tracking snacks and never be lost again.

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 president—you know, non-Republicans—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.

You know what really pisses me off? People who can't whistle but still do. Talk about begging to be beaten about the head and neck areas. Whistling isn't even that enjoyable when it's good. Even if you're stuck in an elevator with the Stradivarius of whistlers, the Grand Dragon or whatever they call the dude who wins the World Whistling Championships down in Arkansas or wherever they have that crap, next door to the freaks who can play banjo like some inbred Jimi Hendrix, even if it's THAT dude and he can whistle like God himself farting out a melody, he's still probably gonna be whistling some song you don't like. In fact, that's a pretty safe bet since it's rare that somebody whistles any song you actually want to hear, anything hardass like "Ironman," instead it's usually the Andy Griffith theme or "Butterfly Kisses" or some gay bullshit like that.

According to commune answerman and office Sorry champion Griswald Dreck, whistling was invented by the Nazis in WWII as a way of drawing Allied snipers out of their hiding places. The German soldiers who were pinned down would whistle "Oye Como Va" and other annoying German songs off-key for days on end until the sniper finally went batshit and came charging out, yelling like "Alright fuckwad! Who wants to get bitchslapped all the way back to Hamburg?" If the Nazis spoke English at all, a hilarious fistfight would ensue since the Germans only knew Nazi karate, and that just involved stepping really high and heil-Hitlering to block everything until you either got your ass kicked or the other guy fell down laughing. If the German soldiers didn't speak any English, then they'd just shoot the guy.

Disgruntled American vets who didn't get the promised pot to piss in and cherry Mustang in every garage upon returning home from the war brought whistling back with them as a subtle revenge, and before long it spread like an embarrassing nickname all across the country. They even changed the name of the thing from a "Nazi face blow" to the less disgusting term "whistling" to make it more marketable, and soon happy assholes everywhere were whistling away, without even knowing they were giving Adolph Hitler a hard-on in his grave.

Some shit happened in the intervening years, bottom line is eventually whistling spread to my neighbor Dale, which is the worst thing that could have happened. This goddamned guy whistles day and night, and when it's hot I can't even close my windows or spray him with a fire extinguisher and blame it on the weather. Remember that Stradivarius whistler I was talking about earlier? Dale's what it would be like if that guy got kicked in the head by a moose and still thought he could whistle great but actually sucked a giant dick.

The other day I was sitting at home, trying to explain to Osaka why it would be great if she bought a rickshaw to pull me around in (solving both my transportation and never-been-pulled-around-in-a-rickshaw problems in one brilliant move) when my train of thought was totally cocked in the ass by that tone-deaf Sinatra in his back yard, whistling the theme to Simon & Simon while he turtle-waxed his patio chairs. I think it was the Simon & Simon theme, but to be honest he tends to medley shit together and none of it is right anyway so I can never be sure what specifically I'm pissed about. Could've been "Save the Best for Last," but I guess I still give the dick more credit than that.

So my concentration is shot, and one of the all-time great convincing arguments is lost to the sands of time. Talk about an extra-large crock. Enough is enough, and it's time to go on the offensive. It was one thing that Dale insists on calling me "O.B." even though that's just a tampon joke waiting to happen. Now he was messing with my bidness, as the badasses in the movies like to say when they're black badasses.

I'm thinking of having my bathroom wall replaced with Plexiglas so every time Dale looks out his window he gets an eyeful of Omar Bricks' bathroom business. I'm not sure if watching your neighbor take his morning shit is on par with having to put up with some moron whistling ABBA all the time, but hanging a B.A. out the bathroom window every now and again clearly isn't getting the message across. And nothing sounds better in a memorial service than a story about the time you scared a neighbor into an early grave by pressing ham on your Plexiglas bathroom wall one morning in July.

If that doesn't work, I'm sure I can pay some neighborhood kids to shoot some of those insanely loud whistling fireworks in the dude's bedroom window while he's sleeping. That's the kind of experience that can change a man. Not that you heard that from me, when it happens remember I was speaking hypothetically. Bricks out.

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