by CHRISTOPHER WOO
An Anything Goes Comedic Adventure
by CHRISTOPHER WOO
by CHRISTOPHER WOO
This is no surprise
to those of us who know what
drones do after dark.
Lets hope that this one has
a leg to stand on.
Wait a damn minute.
You mean to tell me that this
bitch is still alive?
Diagnosed too late?
The real tragedy is that
there’s no app for that.
Vote for Obama!
Why? It is simple really.
This MoFo knows math!
Editing and artwork by CHRISTOPHER WOO
Contributors: T. Allan Christopher, Michelle Dee, Andrew J. Hicks
by CHRISTOPHER WOO
Nothing to fear here.
You are free as a bee to
chop off your cock sock.
Ha! Is that a euphemism?
Probe this here package!
Ooh, very shiny.
Shoot people and cuss on chat.
Please pass the Cheetos.
‘Imma’ let you finish,
But seriously Kanye,
you make clothing now?
Probably not, huh?
This news is as useless as
this fucking Haiku.
Buzzing? Are you for real?
Bee’s and Buzzing. Ha ha ha!
See what you did there!
Grab your damn pitch-fork,
And fire up the propane grill.
Time to eat the rich.
by CHRISTOPHER WOO
Last minute recall -
Haiku News is due tonight.
Oh well, fuck it then!
Haiku News Haiku -
A Haiku ’bout a Haiku.
by ANNE GARDNER
edited by CHRISTOPHER WOO
by CHRISTOPHER WOO
Conjugal Visit: A tutoring session for grammar, specifically verbs.
Supreme Sacrifice: When you have to give up pizza night to use the money for your kid’s school project.
Shoot Blanks: Tae Bo never worked for me anyway.
Taking A Dirt Nap: What that third union worker is doing over there under the shady tree.
Turn A Trick: I paid $35 for this hooker, I’m damn sure hittin’ it from the front and the back.
Well Hung: Descriptive of level paintings and other artwork.
Sniffing The Maple: At least that’s what your mom calls it.
Hand Over The Coals: No, seriously, hand ‘em over. Fucking coal thief.
Hiring A Russian: It’s the in thing right now, they’re so economical.
Cloning The Mammoth: *Insert yo’ momma joke*
The Departed: Great god damned movie!
Talk To A Man About A “Horse”: What Kevin Smith had to do before filming Clerks 2.
Sleep Around: What bums do.
by CHRISTOPHER WOO
Kill the middle class.
And then call the Kettle black.
Neo-Con trash Pots.
A Pumpkin shortage?
I bet it’s Peter. Peter
Damn Pumpkin Eater.
Same as Win 7
with a fugly Start Menu.
The future is here.
You can’t sue Sony.
I did not know my console
was an H.M.O.
Left Rehab today.
Interview held in Night Club.
Don’t call me ‘Bad Girl.’
Is not only Gamer weight,
but I.Q. as well!
by CHRISTOPHER WOO
Inventory Leakage: What happens when you have too much liquidity in assets.
Hankie Pankie: What happens after all Hank Williams Jr.’s rowdy friends come over.
It Fell Off The Back Of A Truck: Microsoft explanation for why so many XBOX 360′s stopped functioning just outside of their warranty period.
Kick The Bucket: Literal; who the fuck left that there?
Knocked Up: The result of astronauts fighting.
Lose Your Lunch: The all-too-often result of using the shared refrigerator at the office. Thieving puds!
Laid Off: Describes post-coital. For the kinky this sometimes involves ‘Pissed Off’.
Meat Packer: He who puts together a picnic lunch.
Powder Your Nose: Result of lacking care for your appearance after consumption of powdered doughnuts.
Put To Sleep: Brief review of WNF articles written by Andrew Hicks. ;)
Six Feet Under: The location of Verne Troyer in relation to Shaq’s head.
by ANDREW HICKS
SOHO, NEW YORK — A dozen English language words, ranging from the commonly used “Under” and “Pitcher” to the more obscure “Catcher” and “Obscure,” stood onstage together at a press conference Monday to announce that they are gay.
Assembled members of the media congregated near demonstrators holding signs with phrases like “Gay Word Pride” and “Spray, Delay and Walk Away,” the latter of which was apparently an instruction on how to properly apply cologne.
“I’m Vivacious. I’m an attractive and lively male word who just happens to be gay,” Vivacious told reporters after the press conference. “I’m taking this bold public step to inspire the new younger generation of words – ‘Frenemy’ and ‘Staycation,’ for example. Not that I think those words are gay.”
With increased awareness, said Vivacious, traditional barriers will continue to fall within the word community. In 1990, the only openly gay word was “Vogue,” but in 1999, the word “Super” was outed by the South Park movie and forced to follow suit.
“When ‘Super’ came out, I was in an unhappy marriage with ‘Flannel,’” said Pastiche, one of the words to come out at Tuesday’s news event. “But I’m no longer living a lie, and ‘Flannel’ says she’s happier now that she lives as a single woman with a female roommate.”
The Words Come Out event lasted an hour, with various gay words and their supportive friends and family adjourning to Starbucks after the event.
“This has parallels to the civil rights struggle,” said Fa’Shizzle, while sipping a venti-size Hot Caramel Apple Cider. “But you know what? Last year, I got added to their unabridged dictionary, right between ‘Factorum’ and ‘Fatigue.’ I heard ‘Fatigue’ mutter, ‘There goes the neighborhood,’ under his breath. Claimed he was joking.”
Statistics released by pro-homosexual group Words Against Damaging Defamation (or, WADD) state that up to 12 percent of words are gay or bisexual, with up to 15 percent of Spanish words being transgendered.
“I saw Chivalry up on that stage,” remarked Truculent, a single word in her late thirties. “I KNEW he was too good to be true!”
Truculent shook her head and stubbed out her cigarette. Behind her, Frappuccino and Sashay walked hand in hand out of the Starbucks broom closet.
ADDITIONAL CONTRIBUTORS: Eric Dohman and Eve Ventrella
by CHRISTOPHER WOO
What is this “Yahoo!”?
I will have to Google it.
Oh! Ha ha ha ha.
Tried to watch this show.
TV screen was all orange.
Took it for repair.
In this day and age,
A mystery at last we solve.
Is it made of cheese?
Science does not know.
Will need more research funding
for trips to Vegas.
Damn you T.S.A.
A man can’t drop a stink-deuce
seven times per flight?
Damn you silly woman!
Now you totally ruined
my best pick-up line.
by CHRISTOPHER WOO
LITTLE ROCK, ARK. – Today, the Klu Klux Klan announced that it will be going through a bit of an identity change. Spokesman John “Chilli” Mac issues this statement, “After some bit’a consideration, we come to think the youths of today don’t find us hip enough to join up with.”
Membership is down over 85 percent since 1995. Mac blames this on the rapid growth and popularity of the Internet.
“Seems with all the message boards and social media to express your views on, the kids today are much more independent racists. Hell, my own 10-year-old boy would rather shout racial slurs into his Xbox microphone than come to a meet-up,” Mac stated.
With these things in mind, the decision came to re-brand the Klan. It seemed a natural fit to give it a new name, in the style of a web 2.0 business.
“From here on out we’re to be known as ‘K3: The Klan.’ The kids love it, ‘cuz you can make a K and a 3 with your hands. My kids run around hollerin’ “K3 Represent” and tossin’ the K3 sign up all the time.” It seems the irony of the hip-hop ‘gangsta’ culture seeping into Klan life has gone over the head of Mr. Mac.
Along with the name change, K3 has realized its sense of fashion is seriously outdated. Mac says, “We discovered that wearing our bedsheets out, especially after Labor Day, is just not hip at all.”
by CHRISTOPHER WOO
Adult Entertainment: The enjoyment parents get at watching their children suffer through life just like they did.
Asleep With Jesus: Literal; You should really keep track of your wife. And the Gardner.
Au Natural: What you get when you forget to put the cheese packet on your Stouffer’s Au Gratin Potatoes.
Bit The Big One: He won’t even return her phone calls.
Bought The Farm: Addicted to Facebook games.
Carnal Knowledge: Intimacy with a carnival worker.
Crossed Over To The Other Side: Fucking swing voters!
Disinformation: What you are reading right now.
Ethnic Cleansing: Equal-opportunity public showers.
Friendly Fire: The kind you camp near, or have a beer around.
Give Up The Ghost: A conversion to atheism.
Hide The Sausage: Literal; Usually it’s still in the refrigerator, just tucked in with the vegetables in the crisper.
House Of Ill Repute: The White House, post-Clinton.
by TONY FYLER
edited by CHRISTOPHER WOO
I turn 40 in just a few months time. People tell me this means I’m now officially a Grumpy Old Man. I always used to mock the idea that you could only be Grumpy, or indeed Old, once you passed through the mystic portal of fortyness. I’ve been Grumpy since I was 11, when I used to tell my fellow pupils to go buy a brain, or tell adults who insisted on being cretins to go and boil their head. In a vat of Sulphuric acid, if I remember correctly.
But that’s the point. I’m no longer sure I remember correctly. This isn’t a creeping senility, or a momentary lapse of memory. This has been happening on a daily basis since my 35th birthday. Halfway through sentences. Halfway through journeys from one room to another. It’s like someone’s hit me with a baseball bat and I’m in a bit of a daze. I’ve always been known by friends and my wife as Memoryboy, for my freakish ability to remember the most arcane details about things, people, situations. Now I can barely hold a coherent thought from one end to the other.
Goddamnsonofabitch. I know there were other examples of the kind of mental decay that’s been visited on me in the last few years, but I can’t remember now what any of it is!
Oh… that’s right. My wife, stifling giggles, has just reminded me that loud noises… hell, even moderately quiet noises… now make me jumpy. Boy that was fun on Halloween. It was even more fun on Guy Fawkes Day – a kind of 17th Century “Hang A Terrorist” holiday, celebrated to this day by setting off random fireworks. Every banger, whizzer and colour-splashing crack of thunder saw me wince, or cringe, or shift involuntarily out of the way. It’s like my body is trying to tell me something, if I could only remember what it is…
It’s like something has clicked over in my metabolism. I’ve worn slippers without irony. My hands and feet are starting to get inexplicably cold for longer periods of time. Young people have been annoying me since I was one of them, but now, it’s as though the last remaining drops of patience in my soul have been poured out, I want to tell them, as I did as a child, how insane and pointless they are.
Naturally, given the world we live in, I’ve been shouting at the TV for some time now, but I’ve graduated… I used to only shout at the easy targets – the politicians telling us they know what they are doing, the adverts that dared to tell me – short, fat, balding, greasy, hairy-arsed and clueless me – that I’m “worth it too.”
But now it’s everything. Every advert, every programme, every ridiculous flickering parade of mediocrity that passes for entertainment in the arena of the damned. I shout. I point, like that makes some miraculous difference and makes my rage more valid somehow.
The button has clicked over in my brain from “Thirtysomething, clinging to patience and humour and some desperate hope that advertisers are aiming even vaguely at me” to “Bath-chair.” Like I’m suddenly this old and scowling bastard, in my slippers and my Grumpy Old Man face. If I had a stick, I’d hit people with it. In fact, the only reason I’ve refrained from buying a stick is not to get arrested. And somehow, all of a sudden, the fact that people deserve a damn good stick-whacking has become the height – the very pinnacle – of logic and good sense to me. I’ve become my Gran! And suddenly I’m right, they’re wrong!
I feel the gaze of all the proper Grumpy Old Men upon me now, and they are smiling grimly, as though they have been watching my progress and now are happy to call me one of their own. As though they’re telling me “You see? You were always Grumpy-in-waiting, but now you have the urgency, the forgetfulness, the inexplicable back pain – don’t mention it, you’re welcome… Now you are truly one of us, My Son.”
Don’t mess with me. I’m getting too old for this shit.
by ERTEL GRAY
edited by TONY FYLER
It started off like any other trip to the grocery store…
The week leading up to this trip, I spent in preparation. Long, sleepless nights spent staring intently at a blank notepad, a pencil resting uselessly by its side. Frustration builds up quickly when you’re in a creative rut, and in this sense, I was no different from my writing forefathers. Hemingway, Wilde, even Danielle Steele had their creative wheels stuck in the mud, so to speak. But it didn’t matter to me, for I knew inspiration would come. And it did. I finally picked up the pencil.
Soon, my empty page was full of ideas, which I had honed down to a razor-sharp comedic timing. Rough lumps of comedy were honed to fine, crystalline diamonds, in search of the perfect setting. I knew where to put the jokes in, I knew what jokes I wanted to use. Heck, I even cut material that on any other week I would have gladly used! After all that preparation, I had the material that THEY would remember me by.
You see, I’m a comedian. But I don’t work the circuits, and I don’t do open-mic nights at PJ’s Chucklehut, or the Laff Emporium. I’ve got a racket all my own, and I aim to keep it that way.
I work the checkout lines at the grocery store.
Oh sure, my sets are only as long as it takes the cashier to ring me up, but boy… I leave ‘em laughing. And I’d imagine that the cashier thinks quietly to herself during her pre-designated ten-minute break, “Geez, that guy was on FIRE today! A regular Gallagher, minus the senseless destruction of fruit! God, I wonder WHAT he’ll come up with next week!” She’s a fan — even Ray Charles could see that.
This week, I had my A material. I figured I’d start light, with some easy observational humor (checkout lines are FULL of observational fruit, just waiting to be plucked and devoured), maybe work in a few sight gags (a la Carrot Top) with the items I’d buy. I mean, why ELSE would I buy a can of whipped cream, a bunch of banana and a box of condoms?! Or a 30-pack of Coors Light, a jar of Vaseline and a rather large cucumber?
Then, when I had them in the palm of my hand, that’s when I’d spring it on them. Bam! Topical humor: “Geez, what is up with Obama these days?! I mean, come on!” (I actually don’t have a joke prepared for this… I don’t follow the politics too well.)
This would be the set they remembered me by. I could hear them talking about me long after I’d left… this was to be my Citizen Kane!
“Hi… you find everything okay?” Debra asked me. Way to serve up that softball, Debra. You’re about to be part of comedic histo– “Oprah Magazine, huh?! Every time I come in here, she’s on the cover! Is she really that egotistical?!”
Who said that?! I thought to myself. It’s brilliant! Why didn’t I ever notice that before?!
“And what is up with all these rag mags?! Bigfoot spotted on top of Loch Ness Monster with Elvis?! Who reads this crap?!”
This son-of-a-bitch was barging in on my act! And worse than that, he was doing a damn good job of it, too! I craned my head over the candy rack separating lanes 5 and 6 to see who was performing. Apparently, I wasn’t alone on the checkout-line comedy circuit.
I became flushed with panic and started grasping at straws: “What is up with that hairdo, Debra… Oh no, I didn’t mean… I’m sorry. No no, I wasn’t insulting you… Fuck me! Oh no… I don’t mean you Debra, not literally… look, what… where… Paper or plastic… save a plastic tree?” Ugh! God! I’m bombing, and I can’t stop the freefall!
“Would you like a bag?” she asked him. And, with perfect comedic timing, he replied “Oh no, I left her at home!” Bam!
“You son of a bitch!” I cried, as I lunged over the candy rack between our lanes. “This was MY time! I was supposed to be the star!” I picked up a giant jar of pickles and brought them down on his head repeatedly, in a murderous rage.
After the trial, and the sentencing (14 to 30 years, if you’re wondering), I did a lot of soul searching. And finally, I decided to give up my dreams of comedic stardom. Daily mouth rapings will do that to a fella.
I still observe things in my own weird little way, though. Sometimes I even get a chuckle out of my cellie, but mostly I keep them to myself. After all, it’s kinda hard to talk with your mouth full.
NOTE: This is the first post edited by WNF senior contributor Tony Fyler. Be sure to congratulate him on his promotion next time you see him at the water cooler. -Andrew J Hicks.
by CHRISTOPHER WOO
If you must knock out power
Do so in D.C.
Apple® without Jobs
Like Windows® without Blue-screen
Stable but ugly
Well at least in this
can still get a job
Planet of diamond?
In the cosmical street game
That’s baller-ass shit
Worked for us then, not
so much now. Neanderthals
now lower gene pool
Sports article haiku here
Not even worth the brainpower to count syllables on the third line
by ERIC DOHMAN with ANDREW HICKS, EVE VENTRELLA and J.MIZ
You know about our official line of We’re Not Funny T-shirts. Now get crunk WNF-style with our new product roll-out of eight beer brands, ranging in price from “dirt cheap” to “rigoddamdiculous.”
by T. Allan Christopher
Please keep your clothes on
Just not with our name on them
Guido ass bastard
Freaky ass King head
Focus on your plastic fries
Not your plastic mask
Is it weird that I
Still hear “iPad” and think of
They think us evil?
Lets show them bitches evil!
Eat a nuke E.T.!
Wait a damn second
You mean to say it was not
by TONY FYLER
edited by T. Allan Christopher
Hello? Anyone there?
If I’ve learned one thing this week, it is this: Don’t mess with web developers, they’re more powerful and more stupid than they know…
It was a Wednesday morning. Katie, our conference organiser, bursts into the office, all frantic energy and hair, and says, “We’ve got a bloke who can’t use the conference booking system on our website!”
“OK,” I said, “what’s up?”
“He’s from Germany,” she said.
“He’s from Germany…”
“Apparently, Germany’s not listed as a country on our system,” she explained.
“And it won’t let him be from anywhere else, ’cause his address details and phone code don’t match any other country…”
“Well of course not, he’s in Germany.”
“But he can’t be in Germany if Germany doesn’t exist. You can’t be somewhere that’s nowhere, and of course, you can’t be anywhere else, ’cause you’re in the country formerly known – and indeed currently known to most of the world – as Germany.”
“Tricky, I admit.”
“So we need to rebuild the Rhineland.”
“What, just you and me? I’m kind of busy this morning…”
“Dumkopf! Get on to the developers, and get on to them now, tell them to reinstate bloody Germany, so our bloke can officially be there.”
edited by ANDREW HICKS
Today marks the 34th anniversary of me still not giving a shit that Elvis died.
by TONY FYLER
edited by ANDREW J HICKS
[EDITOR'S NOTE: Tony Fyler presents the following definitions with respectful acknowledgement to the great journalist Ambrose Bierce, who wrote the original Devil's Dictionary in 1911. Click here to read Fyler's previous Devil's Guides. -AJH]
Agnosticism: Theological bet-hedging.
Airplane: The dream of gods and heroes, an airplane is a magical conveyance that allows man finally to achieve the goal of flight. So magnificent is it, in fact, that it requires the invention of a special device – the airline – to turn it into a soul-sucking cavalcade of human misery. 21st century airlines are very good at their job.
Alcohol: Evolution’s accelerator pedal.
Bank: A legalised consortium of thieves, scoundrels and extortionists which, against all the laws of mathematics, collectively manages to achieve a moral standard somehow lower than any of its parts.
Baseball: The least imaginative use ever made of a baseball bat.
BFF (Best Friends Forever): A promise made by people too shallow to understand that “forever” extends beyond next week.
Capitalism: Economic system that gives the rights of personhood to corporations and the rights of deities to currencies, in the belief that money, if sufficiently worshipped, will reproduce.
Catholicism: Pyramid scheme with pointy hats and promises.
Celebrity: Egomaniac with entertainment value.
Chocolate: Throughout the whole of recorded history, mystics, alchemists and other assorted hippies have searched and toiled and sweated to discover the distilled elixir of life. Now available at Walmart.
Cocaine: Sugar for those with more money than sense.
Coalition: System of government specifically designed to ensure nobody gets what they want. A finely-tuned misery engine, in essence.
Communism: Economic and political system based on the idea that many idiots are better than one.
Compromise: A 21st century notion by which everybody loses. Originally the invention of desperate parents of multiple siblings, it was never meant to be taken seriously by anyone over the age of 8.
Credit Card: A plastic lie which guarantees not only its own discovery but also its own punishment.
Debt Ceiling: The economic value of exactly how much sincerity can be forced into this statement: “The check is in the mail.”
Ecology: The idea that extinction should be avoided at all costs. Currently unsupported by large groups of people who appear to believe that, so long as everyone else dies first, they win.
Fashion: A subtle co-mixture of style and stupidity.
Fast Food: If you watch chimpanzees eat, several facts become apparent. They eat with their hands, grunt and squeal unintelligibly and will, if the occasion demands it, happily ingest a mouthful of feces. The theory of evolution claims mankind diverged from his chimpanzee cousins some 5-7 million years ago. Fast food restaurants prove that the theory of evolution may not be all it’s cracked up to be.
Gym: A voluntary torture chamber.
Gymnastics: Sadomasochism with a scoring system.
Homeland Security: The notion that the nation can only be truly safe once everyone’s under suspicion.
iMac: The supermodel of computers – very pretty to look at but functionally illiterate.
Infomercial: An extended commercial. Strict linguists are now demanding these be referred to more accurately as “bullshimercials.”
Islam: A relatively immature religion, currently going through its teenage phase of slamming doors, yelling “I never asked to be manifested!” and killing thousands of people for no readily identifiable reason. Many Christians look down on Islam for this kind of behaviour, almost as if the 15th century never happened. Or the 16th century. Or the 17th, come to that.
Journalism: An alternative to earning an honest living.
Looting: Revolution for personal gain.
Microsoft: The ultimate profanity. Known euphemistically as “the M Bomb,” it is generally only used when all other linguistic ordinances have been exhausted. Sadly, the nature of 21st century work means the M Bomb can be heard in every office in the world on a daily basis. Usually around two minutes before an important deadline or meeting.
NASCAR: A popular motorsport, the chief attraction of which appears to be the opportunity to watch hillbillies explode into greasy balls of flame.
Nouvelle Cuisine: The Emperor’s new dinner.
Novelist: A professional liar.
Olympics: The celebration of a collection of sports that no one gave a flying 50-yard fuck about for the past three years and 50 weeks.
O’Reilly, Bill: Proof that 3.5 million people can be wrong after all.
Philosophy: The contemplation of the universe’s navel, and the investment of serious time and effort in trying to describe the fluff found therein.
Ready Meals: Food that should come with a handful of barbiturates or a shotgun to take the taste away.
Resumé: A structured lie.
Romance: Man’s most effective sexual lubricant. Also, in the long run, his most expensive. It is possible there is some sort of mystical connection between these two facts.
Search Engine: Device that makes actual searching entirely obsolete. Should more accurately be described as a command engine. Or a genie.
Sobriety: State of being which allows one to see things as they actually are. The history of mankind has been one long flight from such a ghastly prospect.
Staycation: The fashionable name for sitting your poor ass on the couch.
TiVo: Device that allows you to record television programmes you didn’t care enough about to watch and store them so you can not watch them over and over and over again.
Twitter: Website where those who can only be interesting or funny for 140 characters or fewer are the most successful.
Walmart: Ultimate 21st century practitioner of the Find The Lady trick, the “lady” in this case being sweatshop production labor, de-unionised store labor, minimum-wage exploitation and shoddy product quality. But ooh, look, sneakers for a dollar ninety-five. How do they do that?
WMDs: Weapons of mass destruction. In the 21st century, these were discovered to be not only invisible but actually nonexistent.
The London rioters have pointed to prejudice and poverty as reasons for their actions. They then laughed maniacally and set more buildings ablaze. We hear the rioters are so pissed they might even set sail for new lands and build their own nation.
We think of this story as a very sad reality, and yet, a fucking amazing premise for a sitcom. Something along the lines of “Three’s A Crowd.” Every week there would be wacky struggle to keep the women from knowing the other exists. Perhaps a Mr. Furley-type nosy neighbor as well.
While picking up your cheap vodka and box of condoms, and thinking about the hooker you having waiting out in the car, purchasing a quick HMO or PPO might not be such a bad thing. Although you may be tempted by insignificant health insurance impulse-buy add-ons while you wait to check out. Really, though, Walgreens will be selling insurance? Isn’t that a bit like your heroin dealer opening a rehab?
We are coming after you, rich swindling-ass muthafuckas! Taking advantage of everyday people’s decency. We will bring you to justice by mob rule. But we have to do the laundry first. Man, does that shit pile up quick.
She’s from Iowa, is a congresswomen in Minnesota, and one of her favorite books is about how the South was in the right in the Civil War? Keep up the state pride, Michelle.
Women who fellated their spouses regularly seemed to produce cock-hungry teenagers. Some connection seems to have been made between the use of plastics in sex toys, and the desire for oily fried foods. Perhaps the consideration of using a cucumber in place of a dildo during pregnancy should be strongly considered, given this new evidence.
It would be awesome, since it’s Alaska, if it was just an endless geyser of Orange Julius.
Contributors: Michelle Dee, Andrew J. Hicks, Eve Ventrella, Eric Dohman, J. Miz, Ertel Gray, Scotty Harris
by ANDREW HICKS
1. In first grade, I’m not even 6 years old when the teacher instructs us to speak in tongues. Like it’s a class exercise or something — we just finished our simple addition, now it’s time to talk in tongues. There was a whole room of small children and a middle-aged lady producing spiritual babble on cue. Can’t vouch for the other kids, but I faked it to fit in. Just said random Italian-sounding words. I only remember this happening once. It should seem obvious to both believers or non-believers that you don’t simply tell a kid to have the Holy Spirit come upon him and get spiritually overtaken on demand.
2. Our school cafeteria had the world’s best pretzels with cheese and ice cream sandwiches made from soft, Subway-sized chocolate-chip cookies. You could get a pretzel with cheese AND ice cream sandwich for 75 cents. My health never stood a chance.
3. When I was a sophomore or so, the school booked veteran session guitarist turned Christian solo musician Mike Deasy to perform in chapel for the junior high and high school. They took up a love offering among students to help cover Deasy’s travel and performance expenses, but there wasn’t much love offered, I suppose because everyone was holding onto their cash to buy ice cream sandwiches with. We were all reprimanded by a teacher a few days later, who said she was taking up a collection to mail Deasy a check or something. Keep in mind, this guy had played with the Beach Boys, Byrds, Joe Cocker, Jackson 5, Billy Joel, Little Richard, Elvis, Simon and Garfunkel and Frank Sinatra.
4. We read Shakespeare from a Christian textbook that changed Lady Macbeth’s line, “Out, out, damned spot!” to, “Out, out, foul spot!”
5. At one point, two of the school administrators who ranked higher than our principal interrogated the entire high school one person at a time. We were brought into a downstairs room I’d never seen before to be asked if we were users of alcohol, marijuana, tobacco or smokeless tobacco, or if we knew of anyone who did. It was like a vice version of McCarthyism.
6. I remember my science teacher publicly embarrassing a female student and sending her to the office because the cameltoe in her acid-wash jeans was “showing all your nooks and crannies.” I’m still strangely aroused by acid-wash cameltoe to this day.
7. The entire high school is ushered into the underground tunnel connecting the school to the church for an emergency meeting. By candlelight, in somber tones, a teacher tells us, “Today, [the science teacher] was arrested by the state of Missouri for refusing to teach evolution in her classroom.” A few gasps are heard and tears are shed before it’s revealed to just be a simulation of end-times chaos or something.
8. I am told to go to Hollywood and write more wholesome movies like Sister Act.
9. Before the drama teacher arrived to class, we’d have one student stand guard at the door while the rest of us snuck a peek at pay-per-play UHF music video channel The Box on the TV/VCR AV cart combo. Nine times out of ten, Sir Mix-a-Lot’s “Baby Got Back” would be playing on The Box. Forbidden fruit, indeed!
by TONY FYLER
edited by WOO and ANDREW HICKS
[This week, London and several other cities in the UK erupted into riots and looting. Tony Fyler was there. In his reinforced bunker. Waiting for it all to be over.]
As London and a handful of other British cities put out the fires of this week’s rioting – just in time for Parliament to re-open and the whole thing to kick off again – some of the teenage looters are coming forward to explain why they did it.
“It’s our way of expressing our rage at the authorities,” they’ve said. “We’re showing the police and the authorities we do what we like! Nobody listens to us! Well, they’ll listen now!”
Excuse freaking me, but isn’t that called “being a teenager”?
And correct me if I’m wrong, but being a teenager is an excuse for slamming doors, feeling like nobody understands you, writing maudlin poetry, getting more sex than is good for you, not getting enough sex to be good for you, puking up alcohol in your neighbor’s rosebush, going on an occasional demo and then growing the hell up and realizing what an idiot you were. It is not an excuse for beating people up, breaking into shops or burning down your cities!
Pull that shit at home and the Supernanny’d have you on the Naughty Step before you could say, “I didn’t ask to be born!” Now, suddenly, because you’ve gotten together with your buddies and torched some stuff, we’re supposed to take you seriously? Reeeeeally doesn’t work that way. Put down the matches, Inferno Boy, you’re just a bunch of emo kids with hoodie hair!
Of course, there’s been a lot of talk about the economic deprivation of these times feeding into the rage. ’Scuse me? Number one, you’re a teenager, you haven’t done anything yet that warrants a word like “rage.” Number two, yeah, everyone’s poor, what’s your point? “Oh, but all the rich kids have the coolest toys, and it’s not fair that I don’t have them, so I’m gonna smash things and shout and take what I want, cos that’s fair then!” Whatever happened to, “You can’t have it ‘cos it costs too much, now sit down, shut up and play with this cardboard box”? The sense of ‘outraged’ entitlement is never pretty and never persuasive. How about this – quit your bitchin’, get a job, save up your money and buy whatever the hell you want! Simply “not having stuff” is no good reason to take it from somebody else.
There’s also been talk about the sense of disenfranchisement felt by “the youth.” Well again, let’s look at some facts here. You’re teenagers, you can’t be disenfranchised – most of you haven’t even been enfranchised the first time yet! Honestly, the National Health Service no longer provides the quadruple irony bypass needed to be able to listen to a 14 year old talk about how he doesn’t have the rights and respect he deserves without throwing something at the TV screen. You don’t have rights? How about we talk again when your balls drop or your tits emerge. You don’t get enfranchised untill you’re 18. ‘Till then, our house, our rules, put down the freakin’ gasoline. You’re not disenfranchised, you’re a goddamned teenager.
Oh, and while we’re talking about disenfranchisement, in the last election in this country, nobody – but nobody – voted for a coalition government. So I’ve got news for you kids: being technically enfranchised is no guarantee of getting what you want anymore. The government that nobody voted for has gone on to make the most savage cuts in a generation to healthcare, education, wages, unions, the lot.
So y’know what? We’re all pissed off. But there are ways of doing things. Your way is the way of the toddler. In fact, hell, we’ve had to keep the courts open for extra hours to process all the toddlers who’ve been involved in this lunacy, so how about this for a punishment – make ’em all walk around for one day dressed in romper suits and diapers, with pacifiers in their mouths. If you’re going to act like toddlers when you can’t have your impulses satisfied, we get to treat you like toddlers. Fair?
I think most of ’em would rather die.
The way grownup people deal with things, by the way, has been shown by the crews of volunteer street cleaners that have emerged. Ordinary people are responding to the damage of their community by cleaning it up, even though they had nothing to do with causing the damage. There have, of course, been groups of vigilantes ganging together to actively fight the looters. But the most telling report about them is that, in most cases, “the group of men had been gathering in local pubs since about 2 pm.” These are not proper grownups either; these are drunken morons. They have their own version of the Naughty Step – it’s called Their Lives.
Oh, incidentally, much has been made of the “trigger point” of these riots – the death of a young black man at the hands of the armed police officers. (Yes, really, we do have them over here now.) This would be fair enough if, a) it was news that the police were useless at identifying targets. It isn’t – they shot an unarmed guy stone dead on the Tube just a few years ago because he was wearing a duffle coat when it was hot. This new man, Mark Duggan, was at least armed, so the idea that the officer thought there was a threat to life at least gains a little credibility. And, b) more young people weren’t killed every year by other young people with knives and guns than are killed by the police. Bottom line, it’s sad that he died, but claiming his death was the trigger point for these riots is disingenuous given the stated motivations of the looters themselves. These riots were sparked by opportunism, a misplaced sense of entitlement and the chance to nab an iPad 2 in the melee.
You lot, Naughty Step, NOW!
by ERTEL GRAY
edited by ANDREW HICKS
PARENT ALERT…..there is somebody called Harry Graham requesting kids on facebook to be his friend. He is posing as a 14yr old when actually he is a 48 yr.old man. He is known to the police. Please be aware and tell everyone you know. We must keep our kids safe…..please, please copy and paste.
–Recent false Facebook status forward
We all have idiot Facebook friends who forward unsubstantiated lies like these as gospel truth. They just post this stuff, of course. They never try to research or dirt-dig or verify facts. And see, I go on Facebook to read exciting things. I take pride in my friend group, and I want to hear about, for instance, a baby oil/Twister threesome with conjoined amputee twins. Then I want to leave a comment below the status asking, “Is sex with conjoined amputees really a threesome?”
Instead, my news feed is clogged with this crap. They invade my Facebook like Germany invaded Poland. These copy-’n-paste statuses are basically barometers to gauge how many of your friends chew with their mouths open, refer to Walmart as “Wally World” and write lengthy erotic short stories involving the cast of “Hee Haw” in contrived porno scenarios. More people on the Internet than you might think immortalize their elaborate sex fantasies about long-cancelled TV shows in 2,000-word fan-fiction prose.
So, in an effort to dispel yet another Facebook chain post, with a little detective work, I decided to pick this one apart, phrase by phrase:
Yes, parents, please take some time away from Farmville and do your civic duty. Alert your neighbors and relatives to the latest menace stalking Facebook. We everyday folk have to spread the word because the FBI aren’t getting on Facebook themselves to tell us. Government agencies are lazy and technologically backward. *ahem* What?! No, we’re not talking about you, Deparment of Homeland Security!
there is somebody [bad grammar] called Harry Graham requesting kids on facebook to be his friend.
I did a quick Google search on this dastardly Harry Graham. The top match is for English poet Harry Graham, 1873-1936 — which, if this is the Harry Graham in question, your first question should be, “How are you communicating to us from beyond the grave?” Then you should tell resurrected English poet Harry Graham, “I read on your Wikipedia page that Harry is only a nickname for you, and your real name is Jocelyn. That’s a sissy name. Why are you trying to friend my 13 year old, sissy?” The next top match is Scottish professional cricketer Harry Graham, 1887-? This Mr. Graham is more suspect, since no determined date of death is known, though it is generally accepted that he died sometime after 1925. Which clearly makes him “hide yo kids, hide yo wife” material.
He is posing as a 14yr old when actually he is a 48 yr.old man.
True story: I saw a “hipster dad” the other day, black cargo shorts, hair dyed jet black, pierced lip, etc. I found it especially ironic and stunning that a man who was clearly older than me preferred Escape the Fate (the post-hardcore band pictured on his T-shirt) to Foghat. I thought maybe I’d entered some strange vortex melding and skewing the timelines I was used to. Shouldn’t this guy be telling me that Bad Company’s first album was their best? I thought to myself, Where… are… we? That it only took the thought of Nancy Reagan sitting on Mr. T’s lap to ease my anxiety is a testament to how far we’ve come in pop culture-related therapy exercises.
He is known to the police
Apparently, his band, Harry Graham and The 14/48 Year Olds opened for The Police at two dates during their ’79 Red Light Tour. Sting was quoted at the time as saying, “Really guys, we couldn’t get Dire Straits to open?”
Please be aware and tell everyone you know. We must keep our kids safe…..
Yes, we must keep our kids safe. That’s indisputable. If not morally, then by law we’re bound to keep children safe. So let’s let them make profiles they can easily hide from us as parents, since we’re not as tech-savvy as they are.
please, please copy and paste.
I imagined this closing line delivered in ultra-dramatic, Lifetime Channel Original Movie-style by Sally Field, Meredith Baxter-Birney or perhaps even Buddah’s fantasy gal Valerie Bertinelli.
In conclusion, I’d like Sally, Meredith and Valerie to dig deep into their emotion-filled past and implore the users of Facebook to please PLEASE think twice before copying and pasting status updates that make you look like an uneducated dullard.
Repost if you AGREE!
Peaceful happy farm
What is that I see coming?
Hanging people acceptable
Truck nuts cross the line
If Google owns everything
Search more accurate
Boehner on Monday?
Vagiehna wants it right NOW
See what I did there?
Been near sixty years
Since Chuck Berry erected
Saint Louis – look out!
by EMILY TOOPS
edited by ANDREW HICKS
Let me start this confession of sorts with a brief disclaimer that is common knowledge to those who know me personally: I am basically a 13-year-old boy on the inside. I adore fart jokes, monster truck rallies and the first two Transformers movies. I secretly wet myself every time I see trailers for upcoming Oscar-worthy tour de force of cinema Cowboys & Aliens. I don’t mind admitting any of that. But what I am about to tell you, I am almost never willing to reveal to friends and acquaintances without some pretty insistent prodding simply because I know it’s meant to be a guilty pleasure, not a dark obsession a la Dexter.
But to hell with it, I knew my cool kid act would never work on you people, so I’m going to come clean: I am a fan of the WWE. A big fan. Like, so much so that I have Alberto Del Rio’s theme as a ringtone on my phone. I watch Smackdown every Friday night on SyFy and Raw every Monday on USA. I yell at the screen when things don’t go my way. I went to a WWE event in Champaign, Ill., this past semester and cried tears of fan-girl joy at the realization that I am not the only girl under 200 pounds in Central Illinois who screams when she sees The Miz in person.
by ERTEL GRAY
edited by ANDREW HICKS
Have you ever run into people who actually FIT a certain stereotype? Like the archetypical redneck, aka Guy Voted Most Likely To Be Arrested on COPS While Shirtless in a Pair of Cutoffs, Cigarette Dangling From His Thickly Moustached Lips, Spreadeagle in a Stained La-Z-Boy Recliner With a Glazed-Over, Not-Shocked-in-the-Least-To-See-the-Police-Within-the-Confines-of-His-Modular-Home Look in His Eyes?
Or perhaps you’ve borne witness to the dumb, post-high school jock who STILL insists on calling you Squirt Stain 15 years after he supposedly “caught” you masturbating onto a urinal cake in the boys bathroom, when all you were really trying to do was zip your pants up?
I have, and boy, it ain’t pretty at all. I should also state for the record: Arizona Jeans are shoddily crafted.
by TONY FYLER
edited by WOO
[Editors Note: Words of Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ here contained in red.]
And after Jesus and The Twelve had been in Jerusalem some days, they stopped one night, to rest themselves and wipe away the cares of the day in wine and bread. And being men of many stations and minds, the conversation then fell off, and all was quiet, each avoiding the other’s eye. And Simon Peter, who never could abide a silence, addressed the Lord, saying:
“For God’s sake, let’s liven it up a bit. Rabbi, tell us one of your stories.”
But Jesus did refuse him, saying,
“You’re kidding, right? Healing lepers not enough for you now?”
“Raising the dead?”
“It’s a showstopper, to be sure. I just asked if-”
“If I wouldn’t mind doing half an hour? What do you think this is, dinner theater?”
And Simon Peter was chastened, and said no more. But the Lord looked upon him with compassionate eyes, and sighed.
“One more then, just for you,” said the Lord, and Simon Peter’s heart was filled with joy.
The Lord paused for thought, and all eyes were upon him.
“Consider the dinosaurs…” he said. “They neither toil in the fields, nor do they-”
“The what?” said Judas Iscariot, interrupting.
The Lord turned to him, and his face was wroth.
“The dinosaurs,” he said again.
“What about them?”
The Lord sighed.