at Robertson, the American founder of the Christian Coalition who in the past has called for the bombing of the state department and the assassinations of Kim Jong Il and Saddam Hussein, announced this week that the democratically-elected president of Venezuela, Hugo Chávez, must be assassinated because of his potential to spread Marxism and Muslim extremism across South America.

"These violent religious fanatics cannot be tolerated," Robertson explained, ducking under a salvo of gunfire from supporters of this point of view. "And so God has told me he must be murdered."

"What the fuck?" responded Chávez, when reached in Cuba for his reaction.

In a later interview Chávez theorized that Robertson must be thinking of a different Hugo Chávez, since it he and his entire country are either Roman Catholic or Protestant, and Chávez is a very common name.

"I know for a man like Robertson, the entire non-white world must be very confusing," offered Chávez charitably.

After a week of being shit on by the press, and nearly killed in daily assassination attempts, Robertson announced that the world must have misunderstood his comments, or taken them out of context or something.

"When I said 'the United States of America should assassinate Venezuelan president Hugo Chávez,' some people unfortunately misinterpreted this comment to mean I thought the man should be taken out by American covert-ops assassins or something crazy like that," Robertson explained. "This couldn't be further from the truth. Anyone who was really watching The 700 Club that day knows what I really meant: that Jesus loves everybody. End of story."

When confronted with video of the show, Robertson changed his tune, begrudgingly revealing that the episode in question was filmed on the The 700 Club's annual "opposite day."

"You got me! The cat's out of the bag," admitted Robertson. "We were going to have a big contest for viewers and award all kinds of great faith-based prizes for the viewer who could figure out which of our shows had been on opposite day, but not any more. You blew it! Good job, dingus!"

However, this was not the first time Robertson has denied his own remarks in the face of damning VHS evidence.

Last year Robertson claimed that President Bush told him before the invasion of Iraq that there would be no casualties, but that Jesus thought it was going to be messy. This came a few years after the reverend claimed that God allowed 9/11 to happen because the American government allowed abortion and pornography, and because people stopped buying Pat Boone records.

In 2003 came Robertson's infamous 21-day "prayer offensive," when Robertson took a break from being his normal offensive self to beg God to kill three members of the Supreme Court so they could be replaced with justices who would re-criminalize sodomy, thereby ending homosexuality forever.

At the age of five, Robertson organized a kitchen-table meeting to call for the head of his own mother, for the crime of naming him Marion Gordon Robertson, and thereby necessitating the use of a gender-neutral nickname like "Pat" so as to avoid being traded for cigarettes in elementary school. Robertson would later regret not taking on a more masculine fake name, like Bruce, Lance or Barry.

he whole world, or at least a very small percentage of us into geeky astronomy stuff, was floored by the discovery recently of an object that may well be a new planet. If anyone's still paying attention, they might be happy to know scientists have at last agreed the object is a planet, and furthermore, the scientific community has agreed on a name: "Tyler."

The discovery was originally made by the Spitzer Science Center, where a kid can be a dork, but was quickly verified by observatories all over the world, which frankly had little else to do. While the debate lingered on as to whether the object was a planet or just some shit stuck on the glass, the majority of the scientific community came together over the weekend to agree on the object's planet status. Attention quickly turned to naming it, with many renowned scientists claiming they had called dibs on the next planet long, long ago.

"Frankly, we haven't had a planet to name in a few centuries," said Astronomer and amateur astrologist Benton Leatherbelt. "That name-hog Galileo took up a lot of them. Mostly all the planet-namers went the Greek god angle, with Mars and Mercury and Neptune and what. But to name a planet something like that nowadays would be a waste, not to mention anachronistic. Plus, we're out of the best Greek god names. Unless they want to go with Hercules. I could see planet Hercules."

Many professional astronomers agreed, except for that "Hercules" bullshit. Super-hot U Ignorant professor of astronomy Bubbles Corkran:

"It's taken years of hard sky-looking, but finally we have a ninth or tenth planet. I can never remember which," said Bubbles, laughing intoxicatingly. "And I, for one, want to see a name that matches that little cutie. It was me who suggested 'Tyler,' because I wanted something that represents our modern age and to show that today's astromonists have their eyes to the future. Plus, I love Aerosmith. Who doesn't love Aerosmith?"

Professor Corkran's choice received much support among horny astronomers, but wasn't without challenges. Other top contenders were "Jacob," "Joshua," "Dylan," or "Abigail" if it turned out to be a rare female planet. Some were notably upset with the choice of name for the new planet, like Arizona State astronomy professor Wilson Bernardi.

"Naming the greatest scientific discovery of this new century 'Tyler' was unbelievably short-sighted and irresponsible. We had a burden upon us to apply a proper label to this new celestial body, and could have taken the proper amount of time to consider all potential choices. 'Isis' would have been a possibility… all I'm saying is, 'Tyler' seems like a very temporary and forgettable name. And I know you're going to hear stories, but this is not just because people didn't choose the name I proposed: Planet Faggot."

The debate continued into the first week after the planet's naming, but others among the world's astronomers called for a healing of the rift.

"We've all spent too much time and effort on the relatively unimportant process of naming this fantastic new discovery," smirked Lawana Kirk, professor of astronomy at the University of Colorado. "It's time to settle down with the name and concentrate on more important aspects: Who will be the first to conquer this new planet? I've already got my things packed, and I've begun construction on the world's fastest rocket to get me there before all you other carpetbaggers. Anyone want to call 'shotgun' on the window seat?"

Deidrebane, Deidrebane, Deidrebane. My sweet, dear paranoid Deidrebane. I don't know through which orifice crawled in these latest musings that torture your fevered imagination, but I assure you, beyond the wispiest shadow of a doubt, that the Feds are most certainly not on to us.

No, my Deidrebane, not The Fuzz either. Not the pigs, the rookers, Johnny Law, The Man, or the Blue Meanies. None of them, Deidrebane. Not one. The flower delivery man yesterday? Just delivering flowers. No secret camera in his oversized belt-buckle, my dear. I think the young man was just from Texas. I understand that kind of thing is a point of pride down there. I don't know, my dear, perhaps he won a rodeo. Or some kind of pro wrestling title. Regardless, he was not initiating a sophisticated electronic scan of our home's interior, for the purpose of compiling a detailed 3-D holographic model of our home to aid the S.W.A.T. team or armed DEA agents in a raid of our mansion. No, not the ATF either. And I don't think the CTU is a real organization, my dear.

Yes, my dearest Deidrebane, that really was the cable guy. And I don't know why he had that cast on his arm. Perhaps he fell out of a tree. Yes they do, adults fall out of trees all the time. Remember when I fell out of that Sequoia on our vacation last year? I did not think I could fly, Deidrebane, I thought we'd already dispelled that ugly rumor. Fine, I suppose you've never woken up hungry for an owl-egg omelet. Lucky you, my dear.

And no, Deidrebane, it is not possible to bug a toilet. I don't even know where you got that idea. And even if you could, why would you want to? Yes, I suppose it would be an impressive engineering feat. That still doesn't answer my question. I don't think the Federal government does things like that just to prove that they can. Look, I can't stop you from using our neighbor's restroom, but I can't guarantee they're going to be thrilled about the idea. Ever since I ran over the Chunderbuns' doghouse, those people have had a serious case of the holier-than-thous. Yes, Deidrebane, I realize it was full of dogs at the time. I don't remember shouting anything about how the wood was barking. That sounds exactly like the kind of thing you would make up after a few cocktails.

Have you been watching the movies again? I suspect you have, you always get like this after one of your movie nights. Remember back when you saw E.T. and became convinced there was an alien locked in our pantry? I don't think our son ever really recovered from that broom attack, my dear. And he was practically diabetic after you'd pushed all those Reese's pieces underneath the door. No, I don't remember his name either. I think he played tennis. Perhaps shuffleboard. He definitely did something outdoors. Might have been a fireman.

And no, I don't think it's a good idea to get rid of my drug stash in case the feds come bursting through the windows in rappelling equipment, firing German shepherds in from the lawn by catapult. Do you have any idea what that would entail, my dear? I suspect that part of this house may have been constructed from illegal narcotics; I can't vouch for my state of mind at the time that I was drawing up the plans. That reminds me; if the house ever catches on fire, stay away from the upstairs bathroom. I don't think a single human being was ever meant to smoke an entire bathtub made from tar heroin.

No my dear, when the S.W.A.T. team comes, they won't ring the doorbell, and they won't be disguised as gardeners or insurance salesmen or ninjas. I don't think they have a budget commensurate to those Mission Impossible films you love so. Okay, they might have a battering ram. Would that make you happy? I swear, Deidrebane, you're starting to alarm the children. Send them outside to play with the gardeners before you give these children a complex. Yes, my dear, the gardeners have always had walkie-talkies. I swear, Deidrebane, sometimes you're like the Joan of Arc of paranoia.

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