 | 
Woman Sues Wal-Mart Over Snippy GreeterIrate shopper trouble with a capital T December 24, 2001 |
Cankersore, IN Chelton Rancor Mrs. Wang returning a $5 bill to Walmart customer service because of "unacceptable doodling"
Mrs. Anita Wang, of nearby Uvulaville, said that she had been in Wal-Mart three times in the last week, and that the greeter, a Ms. Diana Dwart, had ignored her on one occasion, greeted her with "just a flat smile and a close-mouthed 'mm-hmm'" on another visit, and was "downright snippy" the last time she went in the store.
"I mean, what do they pay that woman to do? To greet people, right?" asked Mrs. Wang. "Then why doesn't she greet me when I walk in there? Why doesn't she say hello, how are you, or something like that? I've watched her, and she always says ...
frequent Wal-Mart shopper alleges that the woman hired as a greeter at her local outlet is "not very friendly" to her, and is taking the chain to court for restitution for what she terms "mental distress."
Mrs. Anita Wang, of nearby Uvulaville, said that she had been in Wal-Mart three times in the last week, and that the greeter, a Ms. Diana Dwart, had ignored her on one occasion, greeted her with "just a flat smile and a close-mouthed 'mm-hmm'" on another visit, and was "downright snippy" the last time she went in the store.
"I mean, what do they pay that woman to do? To greet people, right?" asked Mrs. Wang. "Then why doesn't she greet me when I walk in there? Why doesn't she say hello, how are you, or something like that? I've watched her, and she always says hello to other shoppers. But when I come in, you'd think I was bringing the plague in with me. She looks the other way, she turns her nose up, and the last time I was there – and this was really the last straw for me – she actually sneered when I said hello first! Well, I just couldn't believe that Wal-Mart would hire someone that rude, but when I went to complain to the manager, he just looked at me like I was crazy. Like it was my fault that their employee was nasty to me! That's when I decided to take my case to court."
Asked to comment, Ms. Dwart said that Mrs. Wang has been a long-time problem at that particular store, and is well-known to management as "trouble with a capital T."
"She's been a burr in my bee-hind for years now," said Dwart. "If you ask me, she's not right in the head. She comes in here every week and complains about something. Last week, she went off about us not having 'blue-light specials' anymore. When we told her that was K-Mart, and not Wal-Mart, she started raising holy heck, and told us she was going to sue us all. The week before that, it was something about the soft-serve ice cream being too soft. It's always something with her."
When informed of Ms. Dwart's comments, Mrs. Wang responded by jumping up and down and shrieking, "She said that? Oooh, I'm going to sue all of them, I'm going to sue them until I own that company, and then I'm going to fire her fat b-u-t-t!" After approximately twenty minutes of this behavior, paramedics were called and Mrs. Wang was given a heavy dose of tranquilizers.
No court date has yet been announced for Mrs. Wang's civil action. Bludney Plud is The Reporter Formerly Known as Wallace E. Watermelon. When announcing his name change, Watermelon/Plud said, to no one in particular, "I know none of you bastards ever gave two shits about me before, but now there's a new Mr. Macho in town, and his name is Plud. Bludney Plud! Let's see how you treat me NOW!"He made a few subsequent comments, but was drowned out by the chirping of nearby crickets.
 | Osama bin Laden Captured After Rubber Band Connecting Torso to Legs SnapsLong national news-watch finally over December 10, 2001 |
Washington, DC Ralf Mook/AP Osama bin Laden, when he was whole
Reports differ as to the reason behind the failure of bin Laden's rubber band. American military personnel claim to have witnessed and awesome battle to the death between bin Laden and anti-terrorist ranger Beachhead, a former Advisor at the Covert Ops School in Central America...
inally bringing to an end weeks of guano-infested cave searching by American marines, along with weeks of slightly anxious channel surfing by the American public, Osama bin Laden was captured by U.S. forces on Saturday. After months of successfully dodging U.S. military efforts and covert-ops "snatch and grab" missions, bin Laden was ultimately done in by a faulty rubber band in his midsection, which snapped, causing his torso and legs to separate. Escape was then near impossible for the Saudi militant.
Reports differ as to the reason behind the failure of bin Laden's rubber band. American military personnel claim to have witnessed and awesome battle to the death between bin Laden and anti-terrorist ranger Beachhead, a former Advisor at the Covert Ops School in Central America. According to eyewitness accounts, Beachhead found bin Laden's secret sandbox base, and caught him off guard with the butt of Sci-Fi's laser rifle, which he'd been carrying ever since Sci-Fi's legs got chewed off by a dog. ( Ed. note: Sci-Fi is currently carrying Spirit's arrowhead gun, since Spirit never came back from a sleep-over and Joey Dombrowsi's house and nobody really understands how that gun is supposed to work anyway.) After stunning the terrorist mastermind, Beachhead reportedly scissorlocked bin Laden's head and flipped him over onto a rock, the resultant stress snapping bin Laden's rubber band and reducing him to a separate torso, pair of legs attached by a little hook, and a free-floating crotch segment. Some eyewitnesses claim that a Beachhead pile driver was actually the culprit, but these reports are in the minority.
Taliban supporters have taken great issue with the U.S. reports, however, and are unified in their claims that bin Laden's rubber band snappage was the direct result of "the weight of the monstrously awe-inspiring Arab donger that Allah saw fit to bestow on him as a reward for his courage in facing the infidels." Preliminary coroner's reports have made no mention of such a donger, though part of bin Laden's free-floating crotch segment is said to have resembled a moderately-sized donger, according to some witnesses.
Yet another opinion is held by the American Red Cross, who's workers have gone on record saying that this tragedy could have been averted with proper rest, a little oil and far less sandbox duty for bin Laden himself.
Regardless of the cause, U.N. medical personnel are working around the clock to reattach bin Laden's legs, and may have to resort to an elasticy hair thingy or twist-tie if an appropriate replacement band cannot be found in time. A panel of impartial Arab doctors are overseeing the operation as well, to make sure that bin Laden's crotch segment is not mistakenly left out of the reconstruction process.
In a speech carried live by all major networks Sunday afternoon, President Bush called development a major victory in the war against terrorism, and added a personal message for Cobra Commander himself:
"We know you're out there, you lisping freak of nature. The American people will stand for your aggression no longer. You may have brainwashed Stormshadow, but now we have one of yours as well. You can only hide behind that weird bald guy for so long. We're going to kick you in the ass so hard you poop kidneys. You heard me. Give up now and we'll see about digging up some magic spores to turn you back into a dude, or if that fails, we'll get you into the reptile house of a nice zoo. If I have to fly out there and pull that tea cozy off your head myself the deal won't be nearly as sweet, I guarantee you. Sleep tight on your heating rock, jerkballs." the commune's Ivan Nacutchacokov wants everyone to know that in the spirit of American unity, he is donating a sizeable portion of his income this month to the Red Crotch. No one here is quite sure if he meant to say the Red Cross, or if he's just been spending a lot of money at a Russian porno wholesaler lately.
| |
|
| 
 May 26, 2003 Little Deuce Coupby Ramrod Hurley To those of you out there who think you can bust down my heavily barricaded office door with your flimsy limbs and pathetic, jerryrigged battering devices, I say bring it on. Unless you happen to be a huge and well-built muscleman, in which case I say don't come in here, I'm naked. And if you'd like to pick up some spare change for your supplements and muscle fuel, kindly pound the rest of my staff into quivering, mutinous jelly while you're out there.
Welcome to day two of the commune staff's soon-to-be-unsuccessful coup against yours truly, Acting-Editor Ramrod Hurley. They may think they can outlast me out there, what with their access to the outside world and all, but I have a secret weapon those dolts don't even know about: a case of army rations from WWII that Red Bagel ...
º Last Column: The President Needs a Wingman
º more columns
To those of you out there who think you can bust down my heavily barricaded office door with your flimsy limbs and pathetic, jerryrigged battering devices, I say bring it on. Unless you happen to be a huge and well-built muscleman, in which case I say don't come in here, I'm naked. And if you'd like to pick up some spare change for your supplements and muscle fuel, kindly pound the rest of my staff into quivering, mutinous jelly while you're out there.
Welcome to day two of the commune staff's soon-to-be-unsuccessful coup against yours truly, Acting-Editor Ramrod Hurley. They may think they can outlast me out there, what with their access to the outside world and all, but I have a secret weapon those dolts don't even know about: a case of army rations from WWII that Red Bagel had stashed away under the suspicion that they contained alien fetuses. Whatever kind of fetuses they have in them, they're delicious.
So don't expect me to crawl out of this office on my hands and knees waving a white flag any time soon, communers. Sure, I could use some medical attention for a gangrenous paper cut on my ankle, and using the windowsill for a toilet got old about 30 hours ago, but they can have this office when they pry my stiff, emaciated corpse out from behind the file cabinet, where I've built a makeshift fort in case the outer wall is breached.
It all started last week, when I found the office staff gathered around a television set playing grainy home-video footage of a mysterious figure striding across a street in some unnamed US city. Nobody wanted to say anything while I was in the room, but it was obvious everyone knew what this was.
Red Bagel. Alive.
It was then that I began to feel my igloo of lies collapsing in around me. Sure, I'll admit it, I'd been telling the staff Bagel died within a month of his disappearance, in a gas station bathroom during a botched abortion attempt. It was the only way I could demand the respect and obedience of the staff, get them to stop calling me "dickface" and end the childish outbursts of "You're not my real editor! I'll stay up as late as I want!" all the time. And now my roosters had come home to roost. Proof of Bagel's survival, writ large on the small screen.
Leave it to the commune staff to get all up in my head with mind games, like pretending there hasn't been a coup at all. That the coffee has always been this bad and that the staff was just watching Signs last week, the creature seen waltzing across the street on TV just some bugged-out space alien from the film. Nice try, commune staff. But anyone who's sat a mile in Red Bagel's office chair knows that he would never risk techno-viral infection by setting foot on a Hollywood movie set. Hurley: 1, Coupers: 0.
Besides, I've seen the effigy of my likeness they had strung up in the office last week, and I don't buy the claims that it was just a piñata. I know a piñata when I see one, and that thing was clearly a jackass, an obvious reference to the staff's term of endearment for me, Acting-Editor Ramrod Hurley.
So let's drop the charade and bring the noise, commune staff. I'm stocked to weather this storm. And I'll be here waiting to accept your unconditional surrender once you realize the hopelessness of your situation, on one condition: That you bring pizza, beer and toilet paper with you. And don't forget the TP. º Last Column: The President Needs a Wingmanº more columns | 
|
| |
Quote of the Day“The Devil finds work for idle hands. It's all part-time clerical work, but the pay is kick-ass. The Devil is no longer hiring for assembly work.”
-Ted's Big Book of BibleFortune 500 CookieThis week you'll finally get that pot to piss in, but before you start unzipping, we should warn you it's second-hand. Turn on, tune in, and drop out—you've missed too many days in that computer programming class. Look for a bright-eyed Aries to take away all your troubles when she shoots you in the throat. Lucky scams this week: Pyramid, carnival ring toss, Florida voter roll purges, and it's okay, I had a vasectomy.
Try again later.Least Popular
Internet Videos| 1. | Fat kid re-enacting his favorite scenes from Citizen Kane | | 2. | World of Warcraft online players expressing crippling loneliness they feel | | 3. | Totally hot chick in skirt does routine car maintenance | | 4. | Trailer for Julia Roberts' Mary Reilly 2 | | 5. | Manson gets one side of Rubik's Cube all red | |
|   Spacey and Oscar: Together Forever BY c.e.s. pool 1/6/2003 That Was School, This is the TheaterMy name's Horsebutt. That's a weird name, I know, but my parents was kinda weird. They named my oldest brother Pugsley and my other oldest brother Seltzer. I got two other brothers, one named Ipso-Facto and the last one named some unpronounceable grunting sound, but both of them's in jail for killing my parents.
We run with kind of a gang, me 'n' my brothers. All the other kids at school call us the Trogs—Pugsley, he's real smart, he says it stands for the Trotskyites in the Russian Revolution, they was devoted to true communism and the rights of the working class. But one of the Socks said "Trogs" was short for Trogolodytes, but he didn't tell me what kinda revolution they fought in.
The Socks, that's what we call the rich kids and their gang. Fancy-pantses, al...
My name's Horsebutt. That's a weird name, I know, but my parents was kinda weird. They named my oldest brother Pugsley and my other oldest brother Seltzer. I got two other brothers, one named Ipso-Facto and the last one named some unpronounceable grunting sound, but both of them's in jail for killing my parents.
We run with kind of a gang, me 'n' my brothers. All the other kids at school call us the Trogs—Pugsley, he's real smart, he says it stands for the Trotskyites in the Russian Revolution, they was devoted to true communism and the rights of the working class. But one of the Socks said "Trogs" was short for Trogolodytes, but he didn't tell me what kinda revolution they fought in.
The Socks, that's what we call the rich kids and their gang. Fancy-pantses, always strutting around in their high-water jeans, showing off their la-de-da socks to the world. I hate the Socks. Everybody in the Trogs hates the Socks. Except for Santo, he don't speak enough English to tell us what he hates. He just keeps going on about some Spanish thing called "la Cameron Diaz" and making humping motions.
I love my brothers, but most of the time they's working jobs and don't hang out with me. So I hang out with Massapequa and Steven. My best friend is Steven, 'cause he's kinda weird, like me and my family. His family named him Steven and then told him to pronounce it in one syllable. I can almost do it, but Steven stutters sometime so it's really hard to get him down to even three syllables on it.
Massapequa, he's a hard call. He grew up the poorest of all of us—his dad was the first guy to create an online site to compete with the brick-and-mortar stores, selling brick and mortar. He was also the first victim of the dot-com boom, back in 1994. He just shot himself last year with a borrowed gun after saving up for years to buy the bullet. He didn't kill himself, but he blew out real important parts of his brain and now he thinks Tom Green is the funniest guy on earth. It's pretty sad. Massapequa hates him and don't visit him at the asylum no more.
Things are going good for me, though, 'cause Pugsley said I was old enough for the rumble tonight. A rumble's real fun, where everyone gets together and fights each other until the last ones is standing. Pugsley said if we lived in the West Bank over in the Middle East we could rumble all the time, which would be sweet.
Pugsley and Seltzer were workin' the day before the afternoon before the rumble, so Steven and Massapequa and me was hanging out at the movie.
"This movie's gay," yelled Massapequa at the movie, and the audience shushed him. The movie was a re-release of The Boys in the Band, and me and Steven thought it was pretty good. Massapequa got all mad, though, and got up and told us, "I'm going for smoke. You gonna come with me or watch this gay-ass movie?"
We decided to go with Massapequa, though I wanted to see the rest of the movie. Out in the lobby was a pretty girl—she was dressed real fancy, with bright red socks. Massapequa saw me staring at her and he laughed.
"Hey, look, Se'en. Horsebutt's got the hots for a Socks!" Steven laughed, and stuttered. Then, Massapequa got real seriously intense and looked kinda like James Dean for a minute, and he said, "Don't even think about it, Horse. There ain't no Socks would go out with a Trog. She'd stab ya just as soon as look at ya."
I knew the girl from my school, though. Her name was Sponge, just like the song. She kinda seemed a little cold to everybody, but I knew it was just 'cause she was shy. We worked on a science project a few months ago and I knew she was nice when ya got to know her.
"Hi there, Sponge," I said, kinda smiling a little shy myself.
She stabbed me right in the neck with a nail file. I fell down, all bleeding and stuff. But I knew it was just 'cause her friends were there, and she really did like me.   |
