Scientists Say No, Really, Universe Shaped Like Soccer Ball

ccording to U.S. and French researchers reporting in the science journal Nature last Thursday, the universe is shaped like a giant soccer ball, patched together out of a dozen spherical pentagons. No, really.

Data from NASA's Wilkinson Microwave Anisotropy Probe, a device the researchers insist is made entirely of tapioca, has indicated that the universe is finite and symmetrical. The probe maps background radiation left over from the Big Bang, the interstellar genesis event that occurred over 20 years ago, according to researchers.

The same researchers also indicated that regularly ingesting expensive sugar pills will cause your cock to grow big and hard like a redwood. Other revelations discovered by the researchers last week: grizzly bears are terrified of clowns, nobody can see you if you have your eyes closed, and if you stick your tongue against the railroad tracks in February, no way will it get stuck there.

The argument for a dodecahedral universe, made up of twelve pentagons forming a sphere, is a radical departure from earlier theories. It would also seem to end the fierce debate in the scientific community over whether or not God likes soccer. Previous suggestions about the universe's shape, from Boellinger's Taco Theory to Neumann's assertion that the cosmos is shaped kind of like an abstract pelican, have been proved absurd by this latest data.

"We were just shitting you when we said last year the universe is shaped like Lon Chaney's dong," admitted researcher George Ellis. "It's actually shaped like a soccer ball. Scout's honor!"

Fellow researchers Jeffrey Weeks and Domar Segui, still high from the rush of their groundbreaking discovery, greeted Ellis' announcement with a sustained jag of scientific giggling.

"Totally!" agreed Segui. "A big-ass soccer ball, filled up inside with galaxies shaped like blueberry muffins."

"Oh yeah!" remembered Ellis. "I almost forgot about the muffin galaxies! Most of them are shaped like that, except the one that's shaped like a high-heeled shoe and is made of braunschweiger."

"And candy!" nodded Segui, choking on a licorice whip. "The stars are made of candy and Mars is made of chocolate and nougat!"

"And the Milky Way was douched out of the vagina of the giant space-goddess in 1942!" shouted Weeks above the cacophony, which quickly died down. "Okay, that was going too far," admitted an embarrassed Weeks.

he Tuesday polls have closed, the ballots are still being counted, but estimates make the outcome clear: California has lost the recall election.

California voters turned out in record, ignorant numbers Oct. 7 to make their confused voices heard, and the answer was a resounding, "What's this all about again?" As voters chose to recall Gov. Gray Davis, elected only 11 months earlier, and replace him with female-violating, Hitler-loving pure beef slab Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Not that a truly inept politician can't ruin an entire political system in less than a year. The current president only needed 9 months before the world as we knew it fell into a shitcan. And Gray Davis, described by friends as "a necessary evil," probably deserved a good pink-slipping. But to replace the deviously crafty with the hopelessly out-of-their-league, a trend already set at the presidential level, left California in the position of the biggest loser in the U.S.

Early estimates show the recall winning by 55%, with Schwarzenegger leading the recall candidates by a sizable margin. Among the opponents not just doing it for shits and giggles, Lt. Gov. "Tom" Cruz Bustamente, Sen. Tom McClintock, apparently not the character from the John Wayne movie of the same name, and a Green Party candidate who pushed a referendum where new ballots were cast with hemp. Schwarzenegger's 7,000+ votes over the next nearest candidate was called "overwhelming" by some overly-excited reporters. After all, here is a difficult foreign name they already know how to pronounce.

McClintock conceded happily to his fellow plus-sized Republican, calling it a "great day for California."

"In response to a common danger, the people of California rose to their duties and ordered a new direction for our state," said the well-rehearsed GOP mouthpiece. The message on that direction couldn't be less clear: We want the dumbest, most sexually-excitable candidate who runs a chain of failed over-hyped restaurants to do for us what he did for The Last Action Hero.

The white media, plagued with their fascination with celebrity, lauded the Schwarzenegger victory in many subtle ways, some calling it a "Hollywood ending." Leaving one compelled to remind reporters Dr. Strangelove and Taxi Driver had Hollywood endings, too.

Exit polls showed many voters disappointed with the failure of Gray Davis to mend California's budget problems during his 11 months in office. "It's not like the whole country's in a recession here," said one angry voter, drooling on this reporter's tape recorder.

The results of the California recall do little to surprise most pollsters, who predicted the election weeks in advance with their preemptive announcement of recall results beforehand. When asked what features they were looking for in a state governor, most Californians cited a vague understanding of the problems afflicting the state, poor pronunciation of English, and having appeared in at least one horrible Batman movie.

In a concession speech, Gray Davis called for everyone to "get behind" the governor-elect. What Davis neglected to add, but surely was thinking, was either that, 1, you could then proceed to push him off a cliff and into the Pacific Ocean, or 2, he's a big guy and you'll need the shade when the air conditioning dies after every power grid goes out, you fickle yellow-bellied traitors.

Schwarzenegger's new lieutenant governor, a bronze bust of former president Ronald Reagan, could not be reached for comment, as it's incapable of speech.

You're reading a man who, by all rights, should be dead, good people. And I don't just mean according to the doctors who do my physical. A few days ago I came this close (indicate approximately a foot and a half) to death. So close I could smell its breath, and let's just say death could use a Certs.

The hand-indicated distance is a fair estimate of how close the bullet of Boguslaw Sadowski came to killing me. I shit you not, good people. Apparently the mad "Russian" misjudged my height by just enough, not doubt thanks to the cowboy boots I had been wearing all last week prior to the duel.

Luck alone should not get all the credit, my lack of modesty prohibits. I was somewhat of a tactical genius in the art of dueling, extremely good for my first time out. One brilliant tactical maneuver was using the slap with the dueling glove to put one of Boguslaw's eyes out of commission for the duration of the duel. As I predicted, it went to my benefit. Let's just say I planned it that way and avoid further examination.

And never let it be said the Moonwalk is good for nothing. I knew my weeks spent learning to dance would eventually come in handy, and Moonwalking during a duel is a very handy way to close the distance between you and an opponent. Bigmouth Camembert may have insisted it was cheating, in the interest of fair play, but Boguslaw's English is not the best, and I believe he thinks "cheating" is the fastest of the earth-bound animals. In a way, that helped, too, because he was looking over his shoulders frantically when I fired my shot.

Never let it be said Rok Finger has no mercy, though. I would also appreciate it if you would make them quit calling me "queerbait." However, when it comes to the mercy, I had it in spades, as I only wounded Boguslaw with my shot. I attempted to aim for his heart, not because I'm such a bad shot, but because I knew it was the smallest target in the cruel bastard and I would most likely miss. Unfortunately, when I brought my gun up in my quick dueling manner, I did not realize how close in proximity we were, and fired my gun into his lower waist area. I believe "the goodies" is the medical term.

Well, let's just say he's not going to insult Rok Finger anymore. Not as a man, anyway. I even offered to go halfsies on his Swedish surgery, but he was too busy cursing in that Slavic language of his to appreciate it. Which is fine, more surgery for me.

The best part of all this was the respect I earned from Yogi, my whatever-in-law, Felchyana's cousin, and head of the vaguely-Russian mob. He complimented my unusual dueling tactics and said I fight like a Nazi, which is a good thing to them, I suppose. He slapped me on the back, and then when I tried to shoot him in the crotch, disarmed me, telling me he wanted me to save my strength to be a new lieutenant in his mob. Which is no small feat, as I did not know how to spell lieutenant before the promotion and had to look it up. I told him I would think it over, and promptly accepted, just to let him know who was boss. I'm not sure the point of it all, but it did keep him on his toes.

I know what you're thinking, good people: "But, Rok, how can you join the mob?" To which I say, fuck you. You've always been trying to keep me down. However, if you then said, "But, Rok, I mean, isn't it a moral quagmire at best? How do you feel about the idea of committing crimes after years of being an establishment tool?"

I respond, first, what's a quagmire? Then I thank you for your backhanded compliment, and admit I agree with you. What to do, good people? I have no doubt the mob is up to some less-than-legal activities. Now that I consider it, I'm not sure shooting a man in the jewels is completely on the up-and-up. I may already be on the slip-and-slide to hell. It is a question.

But don't give up on me yet, good people. I won the duel against all odds, maybe I'll be able to come out on top in the end after all. By the way, thanks all the same for all the funeral flowers and condolences sent to my home. I'll donate them to some dead people's charity.

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