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.”
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 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!
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 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.
compiled and edited by WOO
Found in the early morning, the person finding her was reportedly calling, “♫ Amy Amy Aaaaamy ♫”, but received no response. The smell of her rapidly decomposing career is said to have led to the discovery. Long known for her usage of cocaine, her last words were reportedly recorded in her home studio as, “♫ They try ta make me go to Rehab, but I said noooo noooo *croak* ♫.” Courtney Love, known for similar habits, tweeted: “Pshh… what an amateur! #Winehouse.”
Who has an anniversary coming up? We do! We’re wondering if we can get our Salad Tong in CyberSkin, or maybe bedazzled with plastic gems? Have they created DoubleTongs yet? Erm…
by KB MARION
edited by ANDREW HICKS and WOO
I absolutely cannot stand the progressive mentality. Progress is not always the best thing for society. Take, for instance, the Internet. Yes, it allows us to download free music and keep up with the latest ever-so-important celebrity gossip, but the web is also a widespread tool for degenerates with an exorbitant amount of resources. Prior to the Internet, you could always tell the perverts by their wiry grin, ’70s mustache and windowless van. Well, unfortunately, progressivism is butting its ugly head into my stash. There is a movement to legalize marijuana, and as a weed smoker, I am against it.
Many people have stated that the marijuana crop will help with our nation’s deficit. However, for every action, there is an opposite and equal reaction (or so I’ve heard). Proponents of legalization are idealistic and too trusting of the American government. Anything that has value in the United States always garner greedy lobbyists who ruin it for everyone except the few who would benefit — in this case, Wall Street and the would-be corporate growers. This is already occurring in California, where medical marijuana growers helped vote down the legalization bill. Nope, marijuana ain’t just for hippies anymore. Our beloved green has been going corporate, and this is just the beginning.
edited by ANDREW HICKS
If at first you don’t succeed, try something you don’t suck at.
by ERTEL GRAY
edited by ANDREW HICKS
Ever have a friend come up to you and say, “Man, you look EXACTLY like ______ who works at _______”? My buddy recently told me there was a dude at a Sunoco convenience store who was my twin. I couldn’t figure out for the life of me who in his right mind would want to look like me. Was it a lack-of-self-respect thing? Did this other me not realize I already had the market cornered on the disheveled, night-fry-cook-at-Denny’s look?
Totally off the subject, but a waiter once remarked to me that I look a lot like “an older Elton John.” An older Elton? That fucker’s like 65. I left the dude a .000001% tip, which was less than a penny, so I actually left him a rudely worded IOU instead of a tip. However, in honor of the Tiny Dancer himself, I’m going to name my nameless body double “Reg,” which was Elton’s nickname before he was Elton.
In my head, I kept hearing the phrase, “You look just like____” until it consumed me. I started having visions of Highlander-style epic sword battles with my doppelganger*. So, after a sensible breakfast, some impromptu sword training courtesy of Nintendo Wii tennis, and a bagged lunch of various condiment packages I stole from Wendy’s, I had to drive to the Sunoco store to meet Reg.
by JAMES DRAPER
edited by ANDREW HICKS
Comedy is the world’s last true form of wizardry. There are no smoke or mirrors to make you think something has changed or happened. There’s simply a wave of the hand, or magic words said and poof, you’ve become something else. Your physical being has changed in an instant. You begin breathing hard and fast. You start exclaiming out loud with laughter. You feel a connection, and something has magically tickled your brain, stomach, and heart. Out of thin air, you are now happy or, in some cases, pissed off. You might be terribly offended, or you may feel a little awkward or left out. Something is now there that, moments ago, wasn’t.
Comedy also makes many things disappear, such as sadness or contentment. In most cases, it can obliterate boredom. These “spells” can last for days or weeks. Even years later, you will remember something so damn funny or offensive that you’ll repeat it to others, making the magic spread even further than the room it was delivered in. Your thoughts and emotions have been twisted by the magical arrangement of words and movement. The hypnotic rhythm of the delivery and its poignancy grasped you, and you’re changed in some way, whether you wanted it to happen or not.