isaster and certain robot servitude were averted earlier this week when a summit between U.S. President Bush and our soon-to-be robot overlords ended in an embarrassing technical glitch, with all seven of the gigantic city-destroying machines freezing in place simultaneously, each displaying a perplexing message of “LOAD PLAIN LETTER� on their ominously glowing LCD display panels.

According to confidential information from our office copier Xero, these robot invaders come to us from the planet Shmoob, orbiting a distant star in the left-hand part of the sky. After landing in a huge crater that flattened the entire state of Wyoming, the robots apparently were disappointed that their arrival garnered no attention whatsoever and proceeded to destroy major American cities outside Wyoming as a means of getting the nation’s attention.

The first of the robots was spotted Saturday in Illinois, devouring railroad tracks and downing entire rivers like they were rivers of cola. Another was spotted bathing in Lake Mead later that day, and yet another reportedly took a dump in the Nelson Aquifer.

By day’s end all seven robots had made their presence known in various humorously destructive ways. After our robot guests completely razed Chicago, destroyed Miami, and in a strange twist, took time out of their busy schedules to stomp the small town of Hurkle, Iowa into the dust, they made their way en masse to Washington D.C. to demand the immediate surrender of our tiny, flesh-based government.

At first, Bush administration officials believed they could fool the robots by turning out all the lights in the White House and hiding behind couches and other furniture, believing the robots would take the bait and assume that no one was home. Unfortunately for the White House strategists, however, these weren’t your run-of-the-mill stupid killer robots, and their highly advanced neural mesh quad-processors made short work of the administration’s subterfuge. After the robots had torn the roof off of the Oval Office, and one of the invaders began wearing it comically as a hat, it became clear that our leaders would have to address this crisis in a more adult fashion.

But first, President Bush reportedly resorted to his time-honored “What in the hell is THAT!� running away ploy, which ended quickly when the president ate shit into a ditch and cracked his safety helmet.

Early hopes that the robots just wanted to use the White House john were dashed when the machines issued their ultimatum on weird stock-market ticker tape that issued forth from the smallest robot’s crotch. Regardless of the hilarious means by which they issued their demands, the robots earned the respect of all present after engaging in a rousing game of hacky sack with the corpse of the late Vice President, Dickson Cheney.

Following the unexpected freezing of the robot invaders, President Bush and what remained of his top administration officials sat in silence for several minutes, until Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice took the cue to approach one of the robots and start jiggering with various hatches and levers, trying to find the source of the error.

In the days since, the White House has had technicians working on the downed bots day and night to correct this strange malfunction, a circumstance that many have complained is anticlimactic, to say the least.

“We’ll get these gigantic, thundering beasts back on their feet in no time,� promised a confident Rice. “And then we’ll finally answer the mystery of where they came from and what they did with Ed Begley Jr. I for one am dying to find out what their deal is.�

n a congressional hearing reminiscent of the McCarthy hearings, only filled with really beefy guys, baseball record-setter Mark McGwire clumsily deflected questions about his own history with steroids while damning the drugs on one side and on the other warning about the failure of those involved with the sport to stop it. Sweetie McGwire, standing at a hulking 8 feet tall and nearly 4 feet wide, refused to directly deny using artificial means to induce the strength to hit his then record-setting 70 homeruns.

“I’m not here to talk about the past,� said the monstrous humanoid homerun-hitter, “I’m here to be positive.� McGwire did not invoke his Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination, and congressmen involved appeared unwilling to play hardball with a beloved American athlete while all the cameras were running.

Offering more information was another baseball heavyweight, retired player and former superhunk Jose Canseco, firmly off steroids and now shrunken to a 5-foot-1 imitation of a pale raisin. Canseco confessed to having used performance-enhancing substances to improve his game, also naming names in his hot new book Juicied, available for sale at Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble Online.

“Steroids were part of the game, and I don’t think anybody really wanted to take a stance on it,� said the small, hideous man, pointing with a frantic gesture. “If Congress does nothing about this issue, it will go on forever.� In his haste to make a point, Canseco’s finger then snapped off and flew into the face of Rep. Elijah Cummings (D-Maryland). Sister, that thing was so funny he should’ve charged money!

“We don’t blame the players,� said ranking Committee Democrat Henry Waxman (California). “We blame the countless faceless officials of the baseball union, reserving some blame for the rich owners who the people already hate. No, the players are innocent pawns in all this. And we most definitely do not blame the many millions of baseball fans who turn out in record numbers to watch mysteriously large and beefy men knock baseballs out of the park in numbers unheard of in the early days of the game. We are all shocked and outraged by the claims in Mr. Canseco’s book, and not at all one little bit were expecting someone to admit such a thing sooner or later. Once this congressional probe has thoroughly asked inane questions about the matter, we hope America will be able to go back to its blind faith in its inhuman athletic stars.�

Sidestepping inquiries about his own steroid use has already fanned the hulking monster controversy around McGwire, who in 1998 won out a season-spanning homerun race between himself and Sammy Sosa by hitting 70 dingers, breaking Roger Maris’ old record of 61. The record didn’t last too long, child, as another beefy uberman named Barry Bonds, also frequently mentioned in the same sentence with the s-word, broke McGwire’s record in 2001. The record was most recently broken by Seattle Mariners third-stringer Mitcho Klursky, who batted 78 homeruns out of the park during all this season’s practice sessions. The record is expected to be broken again before the end of the season, and possibly before this article concludes.

The hearings are expected to end sometime this week with some ever-popular backpatting and glorious nostalgic reflection on how great baseball is, with possible inclusion of apple pie, mothers, and America itself. This reporter, for one, would like to make it known that even as Jose Canseco’s nuts continue to shrink into BB rifle stock, she’d still do him. Mm-mmm, hon.

Exhibit A:
Hair rockers with a conscience Extreme's 1990 hit "More Than Words"

Lasting Cultural Impact:
Joy, hope, and black nail polish for the masses.

Separated at Birth:
Anything by the Everly Brothers.

Verdict:
Extreme-ly moving.

Lyric Sample:
Saying I love you
Is not the words I want to hear from you
It's not that I want you
Not to say, but if you only knew
How easy it would be to show me how you feel
More than words is all you have to do to make it real
Then you wouldn't have to say that you love me
Cos I'd already know


Analysis:
If you're anything like me, this has to be one of your all-time favorite records and without doubt one of the enduring songs of the modern age. Long after fads like Schubert and Rachmaninoff have been justly forgotten to the sands of time, future historians will still be debating the everlasting impact of Extreme. Their flame burnt all too briefly, it is true, but with a piercing brightness that can only be compared to that of the earth's very genesis.

Standing out even more absurdly when surrounded by the superficial garbage being released in its day, trashy CDs even pressed on cheap and nasty plastic with cases that would not close completely, Extreme's entire Extreme II: Pornograffitti album was a rare treasure that made the year 1990 seem even more like it were only a blissful dream.

Those wishing to lend a guiding hand to today's aspiring songwriters – or if you yourself would like to be an aspiring songwriter! – should take this album as their own personal bible. Don't just listen to it—fools! Study it, and feel your music muscles grow. Live with it, and as the years pass by it will reveal its secrets to you, like a highly-secretive woman.

The album's signature track, "More than Words," was an experiment. And it was wildly successful. Extreme gambled that the record-buying public was ready for a break from their normal punishing hair-metal sound, and the result served as an elegant baroque turn that caught the public completely off-guard, like a sucker-punch in the shower. Somewhat to my relief, the rest of the album still rocked in customary Extreme fashion. But "More than Words," this was a special moment indeed. A quiet moment of reflection at the pinnacle of rock, climbed by intrepid glam-fags bent on discovering the truth at life's very core.

What would you do if my heart was torn in two
More than words to show you feel
That your love for me is real
What would you say if I took those words away
Then you couldn't make things new
Just by saying I love you


Lead singer and band hair consultant Gary Cherone lent his vocal talents and remarkable coif to this beautiful ballad, adding textured layers of meaning to guitar virtuoso and band soul-possessor Nuno Bettencourt's breathtaking composition. The intricate game of chess that exists between Cherone's vocal phrasings and Bettencourt's smoldering acoustic strumming cannot be fully explored even in twelve thesis papers—believe me, I have tried. Suffice it to say that even the song's beautifully clear and supple lyrics, legendary in their own right and unmatched by any Dylan Thomas scribblings or Wordsworthian drivel, are only but a pale refection of the true genius residing in this song's musical structure.

More than words
Now I've tried to talk to you and make you understand
All you have to do is close your eyes
And just reach out your hands and touch me
Hold me close don't ever let me go
More than words is all I ever needed you to show
Then you wouldn't have to say that you love me
Cos I'd already know


This verse in particular highlights Bettencourt's wonderful sense of humor. He'd already know? Indeed. Many listeners miss this subtlety due to their sense of mesmerized awe over Nuno's vividly realized landscapes of sound.

What would you do if my heart was torn in two
More than words to show you feel
That your love for me is real
What would you say if I took those words away
Then you couldn't make things new
Just by saying I love you


Few with ears can avoid being drawn into this song's intense lyrical beauty, or its equally moving outbursts of extreme brutality and obscenity, vital organs being torn asunder by that cruel mistress that is true love! Like all of us, Bettencourt is trapped: trapped in the universe - and trapped in a body. Like us graceless mortals, too, he desires happiness and is averse to suffering. In this song, he is experiencing the agony of incarnation, the agony of being in a body. Nuno suffers from heat, cold, thirst, hunger, fear, desire, confusion, frustration, loss, pain, injury, terror, and ultimately death, all laid bare for our benefit within the course of a heart-stopping four minutes of pop heaven. Are you listening, Mozart? Perhaps if you'd lived a bit longer, you could have learned a thing or two about music.

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Dr. Joyce Pickles, M.D.P.S.T., received her degree in psychology from U.S. Zoological College in Burnt Harbor, Maine. We're not quite sure why she chooses to contribute to the commune, she's either a fan of the site or she believed us when we said we were calling from The New Yorker.

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