Hmmm...

Nah -- it couldn't be. Could it?

Another installment of..."Re-lettering Wolverine Pages

Lifted from Wolverine #46:

Kepcher -- axed?

What the hell? Did Trump really trash Carolyn Kepcher, one of the few moons in his orbit who seemed to know what was up? Great move, Count Trumpula.

Whither my T.V. mom...

Slimming Katie

CBS was busted for working a little Photoshop chicanery on their new golden girl Katie Couric. Apparently, they condensed the pic to take some girth away from Ms. Couric. While not as bad as the Lebanon thing, this still smacks of impropriety and sexism.

What's worse is the original picture of Katie that they Photoshopped-up in the first place:

Poor, Miserable Bastard of the Week (3,056th edition)

This is a particularly heinous story that's been haunting me since I unfolded the Times this morning: the travails of Malika Soltayeva, a lovely young Chechen who happened to run afoul of the rather Soviet police force that the pro-Russian Chechen government has roaming the streets, enforcing its own brand of paramilitary justice.

The poor woman was accused by her husband of adultery (a groundless charge, she counters) and reported to the authorities. The police of regional nutburger Ramzan Kadyrov, Putin's puppet Premier, picked her up and... well, I'll let the Times explain it:

What followed was no investigation. In a law enforcement compound in this town in east-central Chechnya, the men who served as Argun’s police sheared away her hair and her eyebrows and painted her scalp green, the color associated with Islam. A thumb-thick cross was smeared on her brow.

Ms. Soltayeva, a Muslim, had slept with a Christian Russian serviceman, they said. Her scarlet letter would be an emerald cross. She was forced to confess, ordered to strip, and beaten with wooden rods and hoses on her buttocks, arms, legs, hands, stomach and back.

“Turn and be condemned by Allah,” one of her tormentors said, demanding that she position herself so he could strike her more squarely.

Nice. She was pregnant at the time; as you can imagine, she miscarried two days later. Also, the tinpot police recorded the whole fucking thing on their cameraphones, as seen in the image above. That still -- a woman terrified of assault, or rape, or worse, scalp painted green. What goddamn horror.

People still treat each other like this, in far-off places in the world. Puscillanimous bastards. And to think, I was getting upset that Paris Hilton's album scored a "B" in most major media outlets.

So, what am I going to do about it?

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Who is Cletis Tout?

Yeah, just who is he anyway?

Sorceror

One jaunt across. It'll hold. One jaunt -- push the gas down, get it moving.

The diesel engine of the truck idled loudly as fat raindrops slapped and burst against the windshield. They dropped fast and plentifully, as the humid sky over the jungle canopy was filled to the bursting with moisture. But, no matter how much rain fell, the temperature and humidity remained, unabated.

It'll hold.

Mario's hands gripped the wheel at eleven-and-two, fingers massaging the grip, moist with sweat. Sweat -- everywhere. Rivulets running down his brow. Filling his eyebrows. Soaking his back. Pitting his shirt. Sweat -- everywhere.

Water -- falling outside. Water -- raging in the gorge below. The river was cresting, roaring. Water -- violent spumes of white.

His foot bobbed on the gas unconsciously, racing the engine ever so slightly with each slight push. The truck lurched forward a bit with each surge of gas, but rolled back to a rest each time. Gas, surge, but no movement. As if, the vehicle was bolted to the ground.

It'll hold. It'll hold the weight. Three days around the other way -- have to go this route.

The diesel truck was pointed towards a bridge -- a wood bridge spanning the gorge. The way looked unreliable -- an old bridge, eaten by time and age. It was once hardy, but now, tenuous.

Water battered the old beams plunging downward stabbing into the silty, shifting riverbed.

Will it hold?

What was called cursed at the outset was now downright damned.

Three days around the other way... can't spare the time. Time is too sensitive.

A bead of sweat fell out of his brow and into his right eye. He released the wheel and wiped the drip aside, returning his hand calmly in the wheel -- resuming the white-knuckle grip.

The way across the bridge hinged on its steadiness. It will hold, it won't hold. But what of the cargo?

Five-hundred gallons of nitroglyercine. One shake -- bad shake -- 20 acres of jungle are atomized.

Five-hundred gallons of liquid explosive, jostling in the back of the diesel. Unstable -- volatile.

A fool's errand. A dead man's errand.

Mario lifted his foot off the clutch, threw the vehicle into gear, and applied pressure to the gas pedal. The gap between the bridge and the truck closed, slowly. Slowly...

Five meters.

Four meters.

Three meters.

Two meters... one. And comes the contact: Tire on wood.

[Based upon Le Salaire De La Peur by Georges Arnaud]

From a position of bitterness

The Wife Ness Monster likes to sing along to her iPod while she's running in the morning, and as such, I have a ringside seat for her pop and hip-hop stylings from my own vantage point in crunch position. Lately, she's added Toni Braxton's "He Wasn't Man Enough" to the repertoire -- an empowered woman anthem, maybe, but look at the lyrics:

What are you thinking?
Do you know about us back then?
Do you know i dumped your husband, girlfriend?
I'm not thinking 'bout him
But you married him
Do know I made him leave
Do you know he begged to stay with me
He wasn't man enough for me

Sure, Ms. Braxton is dishing on her former beau by saying that he wasn't good (or "man," if you will) enough to hold Braxton's attention; she's doing the pride thing, proclaiming how much self-worth she has. But look closer -- this is a bitter screed written from a position of disadvantage.

Somehow, her old relationship went down the shitter, and she is just cross enough now to defame her old flame to his new love. "I dumped your husband, girlfriend," she boasts. "I made him leave," she adds. Big talk -- if it were true. Which it isn't. Why would you start kicking dirt like Billy Martin with a hangover if you didn't still have a severe mad-on about the guy?

Let's reframe this: I say the guy hit the road, and Braxton has declared a fatwa as the spurnee. Hence, the public derision -- You hurt me, so I'll hit you where you live. That's how upset and irrational I am.

Next week, the Salad Bowl will deconstruct Bobby Brown's "Tender Roni."

Killblade's lament

Every time I open the Daily Gazette to read about my criminal exploits, I'm always taken aback by the way they choose to describe me: "A member of Luminous Man's rogue's gallery, Killblade, robbed the First Trust & Loan Bank yesterday afternoon..."

That's it? I'm reduced to being a member of a "rogue's gallery"? As if my entire criminal career has been pinioned on attracting the attention of Luminous Man, that glowing fruitcake. I've been cutting through armored cars and bank vaults with my repertoire of spinning cobalt-tipped buzzsaws for at least five months before Luminous Man even arrived here in the teeming metropolis of Cityston Heights. It's not like I came out of the woodwork to challenge that lighter-than-air do-gooder. That's what this city has The Haberdasher for -- that villainous fucker never comes up with anything original. Always with the hypno-hats, machine gun-hats, acid-spitting-hats... millinery asshole.

Some newspaper jagoff sitting in a rolley-chair, wearing a bad tie, and drinking oily coffee decides to punch up his shitty 500 word article at my expense. Like I have anything to do with the rest of the pissheads who terrorize this city -- Chilblain, Ordinance Nightmare, The Insectivore, Helicopter Horror, or The Prosector, to name a few. As if we all sit around The Motor Master's apartment, eating shitty Chinese food, wondering how we can piss off Luminous Man yet again for the thirtieth time this month.

I started this life of crime with one big idea in mind -- I wanted to steal enough money to pay for my pop's expensive chemotherapy treatment. The damn H.M.O. denied his claim, so I had to turn my technical know-how and mechanical wizardry towards a life of crime. Yeah, I know, cliche, cliche, cliche. What can I say -- I also just love taking shit that ain't mine. But it's not like I'm trying to poison the entire fucking water supply, like The Wicked Smile. That cocksucker is fucking nuts!

So the next time you see my name in print associated with all those other wankers, try to separate ol' Killblade from the Aquaticuses and the Pie-Men of the world. It'd do a world of good for my ego.

Mailbag

Dear Killingstuff Industry,

NO! NO-NO-NO-NO! BAD! NO-NO! WRONG!

I don't want an NRA membership, and I don't want to test "hunting products," I don't want to kill, shoot, or killshoot anything. ANYTHING! I don't want to be around firearms, and I certainly don't want to point them at anything (contrary to what this space seems to indicate six days out of seven). I don't want to stab, gut, skin, flay, carve, slice, garotte, keel-haul, murderize, burninate, or terminate anything with extreme prejudice. (For the record, I enjoy my prejudice "moderate.")

How do you guys even have my address and name anyway? Did you get my info via my subscription to "Soldier of Fortune" magazine?

From the desk of: Sumner Redstone

From: Sumner Redstone, CEO, Viacom Company

To: Tom Cruise

Tom,

First, I'd like to start out by apologizing for the way this whole tilt got out of hand. We hever meant to call you crazy, or anything like that. It's just that there's a large game of telephone going on over at Paramount, and by the time word gets down to the dregs of publicity, it's a shitstorm.

Look, Tommy (can I call you that?), we've worked together for a long time, and made a lot of shekels in the process, believe you me. I was there when you were sliding on a hardwood floor in your socks singing those damn rock songs back in "Risky Business," and I was there when you were tossing around bottles of Stoli with that Australian jerkoff in "Cocktail." Fuck, Tommy, I even gave you a pass for that shitty "Oi'rish" accent you faked all throughout "Far and Away." (By the way, let me just congratulate you on that little red-headed piece of trim you lined up after that shitty race car movie... what's her name, Nichelle Nichols? Nicole Red-Man? Whatever... prime P.O.A., son.)

This pissing match has gotten totally out of hand, kid. I'm sure we've each said things that we regret... OK, maybe just me... but I don't want to trash 20 years of movie/moneymaking. So, I'll just come out and say what everyone's already thinking anyway:

It's these people you're in bed with. What are they called? Scienticians? Scientaries?

Whoever they are, they frighten people. Mothers and their babies don't want to hear about "silent births" and Travolta flying jumbo jets to New Zealand. Mothers and babies don't give a fuck about "Battlestar Galactica," or whatever your damn bible is called. Mothers and babies are frightened when you quite literally chew scenery on the Oprah Show. And you know who buys movie tickets, Tom? That's right -- mothers and babies. Maybe not babies, but we're trying to build brand loyalty, in any case.

Consider this a wake-up call, bubbe. I want you to put down the Robert Heinlein koran you worship, let go of that "Dawson's Creek" kid you got duct-taped to a chair in Malibu, and get back to living a life people actually give a fuck about. No one cares if you're gay, or dyslexic, or fucking Presbyterian -- just don't confuse the morons.

Sincerely,

Uncle Sum-Sum

The atomic structure of my nightmares

MAKE IT STOP!!! This is scarier than the clown in "Poltergeist"! FOR THE LOVE OF ALLOY, PLEASE MAKE IT STOP!

Man-made light

11:49 p.m., Friday, August 25: Who can resist anything that green?

McCarthyism

I just got done watching "Good Night and Good Luck", the story of Edward R. Murrow's titanic showdown in the court of public perception with that notorious demogogue, Charlie McCarthy.

I especially enjoyed the scenes where George Clooney's character drank a glass of water while the Junior Senator from Wisconsin recited the alphabet and sang "Camptown Races."

De amor

We're watching "Flavor of Love" this week, and when Flav is handing out clocks to the week's winners, he offers one to contestant "Like Dat." He summons her by saying "It's LIKE DAT!" She responds by saying, "IT'S LIKE DAT!" Flav then says, "And that's the WAY it is."

Then they both say, "HUUUH!"

At which point, the wife -- noting their camaraderie -- says, "Flav and her are only friends. He's not going to pick her."

Hammer-time!

Fuck the Emmys... this wins the award for best televised program of the new baby century.

Star Tunnel!

Belt in, buckaroos! Take a flight with your Uncle Salad through the STAR TUNNEL!

Oh, the fun we'll have! Just sidle up to my rocket and hop over the railing... all you have to do is hold on tight and stay in your seat, and OFF WE GO! Your Uncle Salad is going to take you on an all-expense paid trip around the cosmos; white glove service and king's treatment are all-inclusive. You don't have to worry about a thing other than the fun we're going to have on this adventure!

The Star Tunnel will whip us past the Pleiades, gallop through the Horsehead Nebula, corkscrew around the Spiral Galaxy, and dive through the Big Dipper! We'll hitch a ride on the head of an icy comet on the way to the Oort Cloud. Then, on to the Asteroid Belt!

Whoopee! We're having fun now! The stars are streaking by, and the dark matter is blowing through our hair... watch out for that Black Hole! Whoa! Almost got us! We have to grab the wheel extra tight next time.

Where has the time gone? We're almost at our final destination, the Milky Way. Hold on to your handrails, because it could be a little bumpy as we fight gravity. I gotta say, this trip in the Star Tunnel has been great, folks, but I gotta get back to doing what I was doing before we embarked on our amazing journey...

Separate but stupid

In a curious move, CBS has announced that the next season of Survivor, set in the Cook Islands, will feature race-based teams, at least initially. They've cleaved the contestant according to gender and age before, natch, but only now has Mark Burnett sprouted balls big enough to pit blacks against Asians against whites against latinos.

Imagine the size of Burnett's nuts: A scrotum as large as a furry, deployed parachute, leathery and dry, spread out across a twenty-foot perimeter, filled with two gelatinous, testicular orbs the size of Mini Coopers.

Of course, because this is a consequence-free reality show, it's not going to show us anything valuable or ennobling about the human spirit. Nor, I imagine, will there be clumsily-themed immunity challenges keyed upon dopey racial stereotypes, i.e. difficult M-CAT questions that the Asians can go to town on. What's more, this arrangement only lasts midway through the season, at which point we have the merge -- or, as they might call it, an "integration" of the race teams.

Just think -- Burnett can bring on a Cook Islander dressed like George Wallace to stand outside of tribal council, barring all but whites. Would you be happy then, Mark?

Shithouse

You know, no matter how many times I hear the sound of several metric tons of bricks and large-scale construction debris tossed out of a three-story window into an empty 100 yard dumpster at seven in the morning, I never seem to get tired of it!

DIE! DIE TEN MISERABLE DEATHS AND SUFFER THE SCALDING HEAT OF A THOUSAND BURNING SUNS, YOU BASTARD CONSTRUCTION-MONKEYS! FEEL MY WRATH!

Guru

EEEEE-UUURHHH!

Wow, that's great advice, mule.

EEEEE-UUURHHH!

I feel much better about that decision now.

EEEEE-UUURHHH!

No, I don't think so. It looks like a good place to work for a little while longer, at least.

EEEEE-UUURHHH!

Whoa, you think I need to lose a few pounds?

EEEEE-UUURHHH!

I just bought those pants!

EEEEE-UUURHHH!

You're right. I should have taken you shopping with me.

EEEEE-UUURHHH!

But pilates classes are too expensive for my budget.

EEEEE-UUURHHH!

I don't know, mule, I'm kinda short of cash right now. I wasn't looking to do any investing at the moment.

snort...

I'm not comfortable picking stocks... I have poor financial savvy.

EEEEE-UUURHHH!

O.K., O.K., mule, I'll do it. If you're really sure about this.

EEEEE-UUURHHH!

That's a weird question. Um, two girlfriends in the last ten years.

grunt...

No, I take great care of my teeth.

EEEEE-UUURHHH!

I seriously doubt it's my haircut... I mean, I haven't changed it in a while.

*poot*

People say I have a nice personality. I'm very "nonthreatening." Actual comment I heard, once.

EEEEE-UUURHHH!

There's no room for steroids in my training regimen, mule. It's like eating poison.

EEEEE-UUURHHH!

Of course I want people to like me. That's why I'm pouring my heart out to a pack animal.

snort...

You have yet to be wrong, mule. I'll give you that.

EEEEE-UUURHHH!

One carrot, coming right up. Mule, you're like the furry, vaguely feculent uncle I never had. As opposed to the one I did have.

House of pain

Look what happens when you Photoshop the cover lines off an old D.C. Superman issue -- you give a whole new meaning to "Action" Comics.

Lifted from The Beat, Heidi MacDonald, who got it from Lee Barnett, who got it from etc...

Restless spirits

Do you have that lady in your office -- the one who issues strange moans and grunts throughout the workday? She's probably only about 53, but she looks like she's 70. You're sure she tipples (read=guzzles) when she goes home, most likely the distillation of the juniper berry. She has no idea she's making a German spectacle of herself, but everyone else around her cringes when she gasps... or sighs... or grunts.

Herpetological air travel

That movie... y'know, the one... with Sam Jackson... I'm not even going to mention the name anymore. It went tits-up this weekend. Every major media venue I've read today seems to be at a loss to explain how it happened, given all the advance publicity.

Paul Dergarabedian of Exhibitor Relations, a B.O. trafficking company, says, “If you’re a heavy blogger, or Internet user, maybe you’re not a heavy moviegoer.”

Or, maybe the internet hype was ENTIRELY FUCKING IRONIC. Seriously, do they even have "irony" on the New Line Pictures lot? No one was ever going to see this bag of shit, but the funniest part is how the studio seriously expected the vast droves of internet ass-porn surfers to mobilize and put down $12 a head just to see the longest running gag of 2006. "Oh, no thanks, New Line -- I think I'll stay here at home and download 'The Illusionist' off a peer-to-peer client rather than reward you for your busted-ass, lazy thinking."

In dreams

I had a dream last night where I'm driving along a busy road with my brother, and as we come over a hill we see a jumbo jetliner flying low overhead. It's in distress, and trying to land on the road. What's most disconcerting is how slowly it's moving in the air.

We watch the massive object fly over and past us and start to touch down on the asphalt. But, before the wheels can make contact, the plane explodes. The entire thing immolates and ruptures, from wheel to wing.

As I stand by watching it, I'm not struck by a feeling of miserable disaster, but rather spectacle. As in, holy shit, I can't believe I just watched that. When I woke up, I realized how weirdly satisfying it would be to witness something massive like that in real life. Horrifying, yes -- but also bearing a strange you are there component in the balance.

My stepfather is a former city fireman, and he's witnessed TWO plane crashes, aside from 9/11. Two crashes -- I wonder if you feel blasé after crash number two.

Surprises every day

I saw this gem linked off of Liam Crackeneany's blog. The Brits are crafting send-up marvelously these days -- just as America developed industry at the turn of the 19th century, our cousins across the sea are at the vanguard of comedy technology.

Comedians Matthew Holness and Richard Ayoade cooked up this delight, "Garth Marenghi's DarkPlace." The conceit is a fictional Barker/Koontz-esque windbag horror author who had produced his own "Dark Shadows"-meets-"St. Elsewhere" mystery-type show back in the 1980s. The acting is gloriously wooden, and the direction and production values are soapier than belief permits.

Ballgame over

Our hearts are heavy today -- this is the end of an era. There's no way to quantify how much we've all lost.

Tom Bosley's cooking me eggs

Me: *Snxxxx... snore....*

Tom Bosley: Bill...

Me: *Snxxxx... snore.... pptthhht... snxxx*

Tom Bosley: Wake up, Bill. [nudge] Wake up.

Me: Hrmmm... hummm... what? [blinking, rubbing eyes]

Tom Bosley: It's me, Bill. Come with me into the kitchen.

Me: Tom... Bosley? Why're you in my bedroom -- at three in the morning?

Tom Bosley: Come with me. Be careful not to wake Janice up.

Me: O.K.

[Padding out the bedroom, into the kitchen.]

Tom Bosley: I'm glad I found you again.

Me: Whaddya mean again? Did you break into my apartment?

Tom Bosley: It's not like that, William. I have something important to tell you. But first, how do you like your eggs?

Me: Eggs? It's too early for breakfast... it's 3 a.m.

Tom Bosley: As you're fond of noting. The only way I can't make them is poached, but everything else is on the table, so to speak.

Me: Um... over easy?

Tom Bosley: Pour yourself some milk and get comfortable.

Me: [Pouring some skim into a tumbler.] Aside from the obvious strangeness of T.V.'s Howard Cunningham being in my apartment in the middle of the night -- what do you have to say to me?

Tom Bosley: You don't remember the other times?

Me: What other times?

Tom Bosley: The other times I've visited you. You were very young.

Me: When?

Tom Bosley: 1980, for instance? And again in 1985... but you slept straight through that one.

Me: What's going on here?

Tom Bosley: I come and check up on you, periodically. To make sure you're OK. Here, your eggs are ready. [Plates eggs.] No bacon -- sorry.

Me: You're checking up on me now.

Tom Bosley: Right. But, you're a man now, not a little boy anymore. I can't protect you like I did way back when, but I can tell you something that will be just as good: It's going to be O.K.

Me: What will?

Tom Bosley: It. You're going to be alright.

Me: But, there's so much... my brother, my job... it really feels like it's pouring now.

Tom Bosley: You have to listen to me -- you're going to be O.K. It's going to be alright.

Me: Really?

Tom Bosley: That's the truth, Bill. It's why I'm here.

Me: I'll be O.K., Tom?

Tom Bosley: Really. You're OK. You're alright. You're in a good place here. And I don't think I'll have to come back after tonight.

Me: *Munch... mrpph* These eggs are great.

The hobbling

I'm tired of being trapped on stairs behind women who are unable to traverse inclines because of their poor choice of footwear -- the flip-flop.

My ire at the so-called "thong sandal" has been well-documented in these pages. There is nothing less-attuned to an urban life rife with bacteria, offal, fecal matter, rivers and bogs of urine, more offal, steel-toe boots, and crumbling World Trade Center towers than the ugly, impractical flip-flop.

It's bad enough that you're forcing me to live in the same world as your calloused and arthritic-looking feet. If your ass can't even walk down the street or mount staircases because your balance and footing is unsound, then we have a serious issue.

Likewise -- I don't necessarily like our current president, but I think the office of Chief Executive deserves a little more veneration than a bunch of women lacrosse players tromping through the Oval Office in flip-flops during their meeting with Gee-Dub.

Close encounters

Sometimes it looks like a fallen spacecraft, smoldering in a watery crater, ready to release its wonderful cargo of universal knowledge accumulated from the vast reaches of space upon the world.

Other times, it's a chunk of dry ice boiling in a puddle.

Planetary Memo

From: Blerptar, regional manager of Solar System Gamma-Alpha-9

To: All intergalactic staff

--------------

Friends, enemies, and clouds of gaseous vapor,

As noted in the daily human periodical The New York Times, the squishy pink things we take so much delight in probing anally have convened a meeting of their top brain-bearers to set the matter of Pluto qualifying as a planet to rest.

Our official position -- whoop-dee-dizzle. The League of Various Lifeform Thingies has long recognized that barren hunk of ice as a sessile comet, and not as a planet... and not even as a planetoid. (Oh, SNAP -- take that Glebtron-7 from the planet Playtex! The council will never go along with your toid-crazy subclassifications!)

While I'm on the subject of Pluto, I'd just like to apprise our membership of the progress we're making on the DestructoPlex, the Pluto-based particle beam weapon we're building to obliterate the planet Earth: it goes well.

Now, in unrelated news, I'd like to take a moment out to mention Pheetlebrok from the planet Heineken-8. Most of you know him as the shambling purple guy with the tentacles in the corner of the copyroom who exudes toxic phermones. We'd like to congratulate Pheetlebrok on 250 cento-annums of service to the council; accordingly, there will be an ammonia-nickel crumb ring in the kitchen until close-of-business tonight to celebrate the occasion.

The last note of business today is the growing problem that's increasingly finding its way into the complaint box -- lifeforms in our administrative zero-gravity cubicle complex are playing their foodlightmusic too loud. Again. I mentioned this briefly in the last memo, but apparently 20,000 entire species being jettisoned out of the airlock into the vacuum of space wasn't enough of a hint. Turn it down. Not everyone enjoys tasting the sound of your Leo Sayer compliations. (Yes, I'm directing this at you in particular, Elasmoblast the Dreaded.)

That's all for now. Also, don't forget to put your name (or digital-nomenclature) into the Secret Santa pool -- the Tree-Related Holiday Interval Festival is going to be a blast this year! (We're still trying to forget last year's fracas, when Penumbra the Sun-Eater destroyed the Horsehead Nebula after imbibing too much eggnog.)

Metatext

Seen from the west side of Manhattan, Wednesday afternoon: A plane-pulled banner advertising "Snakes on a Plane." I love the irony of "Snakes on a Plane" advertised via plane... or maybe it's not ironic. Maybe there... were.. actually... snakes! On that plane! Motherfucker!

Window

Leo: What are you looking at?

Velvet: I don't know. What are you looking at?

Leo: I don't see anything.

Velvet: Hey, Minky, what are you looking at?

Leo: Yeah, what are you looking at?

Minky. Um... a... fish.

Lebanon by the pixel

Well, since this whole Smoke-Gate picture thingie has exploded in the face of AP, Reuters, and the New York Times, said news organizations would seem to have egg on their faces. They ran photos embellishing (and even mischaracterizing) the damage done to Lebanon, all to make Israel look bad.

It's like everyone's complained about for years -- the "Jew-run" media has finally been caught red-handed actively giving aid and comfort to... Hezbollah?

Running with GW

"If you are the president and you start a club, you get to make the rules. So it is with the 100-Degree Club, founded by Mr. Bush several years ago to promote exercise, or perhaps to test staff members' grit, in -- you guessed it -- the scorching Central Texas heat. The rules are simple: members run 3 miles, or bike for 10, when the thermometer hits triple digits. The reward for finishing: a photo with the president and a gray Under Armour athletic shirt (retail $19.99) emblazoned with a Texas star encircled by the words 'The President's 100-Degree Club.' "
-The New York Times, Thursday, 8/10

* * * *


Me: huff-huff-huff... I was... huff-huff-huff... GeeDub, we need to huff-huff-huff... slow down... huff-huff-huff... cardiac... Cheney... me...

Bush: What's the prob, Whiskers? Ya can't keep up with Ol' G, now can ya?

Me: huff-huff-huff... At least... huff-huff-huff... slow... death... pretzel...

Bush: Aw, ya little skirt. We can rein it in a bit. Ya want that shirt or not, Scarecrow?

Me: I thought my nickname... huff-huff-huff... was "Smackie"?

Bush: Mebbe yesterday, but today ya look like a "Poop Storm" to me.

Me: There's something I need to... huff-huff... ask you...

Bush: Always with the learnin' and the quest-ee-own-ays. Alright, Lucky Strike, fire away.

Me: It seems that the U.S. foreign policy in... huff-huff the matter huff-huff... of Middle East peace seems to be... huff-huff more pro-Israel than earlier administrations... huff-huff... almost resoundingly so!

Bush: Whatcha gettin' at, Stumpy?

Me: I guess I'm just questioning the... huff-huff wisdom of such an extreme departure... huff-huff... from the norm in this... huff-huff... extreme world climate.

Bush: I go with my gut, Killjoy. If it don't feel right, I toss it. If I like it, if it makes sense, I throw it to Dick. End-o-story.

Me: That seems like an arbitrary reason... Mister President... huff-huff...

Bush: Can't we just run and have a lil' bit of fun, Heidi Klum? I didn't think ya were gonna get all serious-like on ol' Gee-Whiz over here.

Me: I'm just trying to huff-huff understand what my government is doing... huff-huff...

Bush: Do ya like fondue, Woody?

Me: huff-huff... Come again, Mister President?

Bush: Fondue. Either ya fondue or ya fon-don't.

Me: Is that a joke huff-huff... sir?

Bush: I love fondue. Can't get enough of it.

Me: I like fondue, too huff-huff...

Bush: There's something I betcha didn't know ya had in common with me, Buzz. Let's rein it in and run back to the ranch. I got a jones on for some fondue like ya wouldn't believe.

Me: Heh heh... huff-huff... that sounds deelish, Gee-Dub. Count ol' Scratch and Sniff in!

Bush: Now that's more like it! Leave no snack behind, s'what I always say.

Bin Laden is in my fantasy football draft

The Army and the Marines have been scouring Afghanistan and Pakistan looking for the mastermind of the September 11th attacks, Osama bin Laden, with little success. They can't seem to find him, and maybe that's because they're not looking in the right place -- bin Laden was at my fantasy football draft.

We all got together after work two weeks ago at the Chili's in Jersey City, after weeks of planning and collecting the cash. When Steve called and the last minute and said he was bringing his friend Osama bin Laden with him, we didn't think anything of it. We figgered Steve had a good reason to bring him along, so what the fuck? Why not? What we weren't expecting Steve to get to the bar earlier than his guest -- and then Steve wanted us to wait for Osama to get there before we began.

We sat around for another 40 minutes for bin Laden to show up, and when he did finally get there, he tossed off some bullshit excuse about "tunnel traffic." As if... Steve told us bin Laden was coming from north Jersey. Fucking asshole.

So, we finally got rolling. We got three orders of potato skins, cheese sticks, and other appys to share -- but fucking bin Laden pulls the plate of buffalo wings to himself and starts going to town on the whole goddamn platter, like we ordered it for him. I nudged Steve, and he got the idea -- he asked bin Laden what he was doing eating all of our wings. Fucking Osama has the balls to say something about the tater skins having bacon on them, and some dogshit about dietary contraints. Asshole figures the wings were the only thing he was going to be able to eat. Steve fucking corrects him, and we continue.

As we go around the table, making picks, bin Laden keeps remarking how shitty he thinks each of our moves are. Like, he knows so fucking much living in that goddamn Tora Bora cave. And besides, he's not even picking, he's just watching. It's a goddamn favor to Steve that he's sitting in at all. And to top it off, the prick keeps telling us to take Tye Hill, the cornerback from Clemson. Fucking assface wouldn't shut the fuck up about the kid. "Tye Hill, gotta take Tye Hill. Hill is the man. Gotta take the man." He wouldn't shut the fuck up and drop it. I shot daggers at Steve, telling him to rein his fucking pal the fuck in.

We make it through five rounds, and Osama is getting totally shitfaced. He's into, like, eight Heinekens by this point, and he caps it off with a shot of Maker's. We're just trying to wrap this shit up, and bin Laden is (badly) trying to talk to this table full of secretaries off to the right. It's bad enough that the one brunette is clearly not interested -- she kept saying she didn't want anything to do with the world's most notorious fugitive -- bin Laden moves on to the blonde next to her, who keeps flashing her wedding ring to ward him off.

Minutes later, I'm helping Steve to pour bin Laden into a cab to take him back to Bergen county. Dumb bastard threw up in the planter box outside, seconds before the hack arrived, thank god. We hand the driver a $50 bill and tell him to take the leader of al Qaeda back home, please. As the cab pulls away, I punch Steve in the arm and ask him what the fuck he was thinking -- and Steve only offers that he thought bin Laden was going to be cool about it.

That's what we get for letting an asshat war criminal sit in on our fucking fantasy draft.

Delicious death from above

Sure, there's a ban on liquids in your carry-on luggage right now -- authorities have been tipped off to how easy explosives can be used in fluid form. So, while things like shampoo, water, soft drinks, cosmetics, and cleaning products have been banned from airline flights, there's one substance we haven't yet heard about...

Salad dressing.

Think about it. Where's the threat? Salad dressing is one of nature's purest forms of ambrosia, nectar of the gods... if you enjoy said nectar with chuncks of tangy Maytag bleu cheese. I have a long-standing affinity for dressing, dating back to childhood. Whenever I wanted to dig in to a cool, crisp bed of romaine, or a pile of lemony, peppery baby greens, salad dressing has always been there for me. Like the basily, vinegary big brother I never had.

In our hour of greatest need, I think that me, you, and the entire aerospace industry can safely rely on salad dressing as the one liquid of choice to bring aboard flights. Now isn't the time to listen to the corporate interests of "Big Water," or "Big Shampoo," or even "Big Toothpaste." There's only one creamy, mustardy, tart 16-fluid-ounce friend we can count on in troubling times.

Save us, salad dressing. Oh pure, noble salad dressing. I've been hurt before by salsa and club soda. I don't even want to talk about my brief dalliance with mint jelly. Those bruises came from... the stairs, when I fell down them, I mean.

I need you back, salad dressing. I was so wrong -- I've been an idiot. Please! I'll do anything! I'll drown my kids! You hate them, right? Gone -- POOF! They're gone! Just don't ask where they are, afterwards. I need this. I'm sick. I'm sick... I'll... hurt myself. I'll do it. If you don't call me tonight, I'll kill myself. Call me, salad dressing. Call me -- I'm serious. I'll do it.

Momentum

I wish I had thought of this yesterday, but some bastard beat me to it.

The Stephen Hawking Podcast

HEL-LO. I AM STE-PHEN HAW-KING. THIS IS MY POD-CAST. THERE IS SO MUCH TO TALK A-BOUT LATE-LY, SO LET'S NOT DE-LAY ANY FURTHER.

I WAS RECENT-LY QUOTED BY NEWS ORGAN-I-ZATIONS AS SAY-ING THAT MANKIND COULD NOT SUR-VIVE THE NEXT ONE-HUN-DRED YEARS ON PLANET EARTH. I WOULD LIKE TO AMEND MY EST-I-MATION -- MAKE THAT FIF-TY YEARS. THERE IS NO HOPE FOR US ALL. CER-TAIN DOOM AWAITS MAN-KIND, SO MUCH SO THAT MY OWN LIFE-LESS FATE OF PU-TRI-FYING IN THIS WHEEL-CHAIR WILL LOOK FOR-TUN-ATE.

SURE, MAN-KIND MAY HAVE A SCAL-DING FUTURE OF BUR-NING, HOT SUN-LIGHT, AN OXY-GEN-LESS AT-MOS-PHERE, CIVIL WARS, AND PERIODS OF INTENSE IN-TER-SPE-CIES VIO-LENCE, BUT BUCK UP. THERE ARE STILL THINGS YOU CAN DO TO ALTER THE COURSE OF WORLD EVENTS.

FOR IN-STANCE, I SUG-GEST YOU START BY DROW-NING YOUR CHILDREN IN THE BATH-TUB, PREF-ER-ABLY BY FILLING THE TUB ONE QUAR-TER THE WAY FULL OF BRACK-ISH, CHILLY WATER, AND PUSH-ING THEIR LI-TTLE, HELP-LESS FACES UNDER THE SUR-FACE. YOU ARE DOING THEM THE FAVOR OF SPAR-ING THEIR FOR-SAK-EN LIVES FROM DE-CADES OF HOR-ROR AND MI-SERY. A WA-TER-Y GRAVE IS MORE MERCY THAN THOSE LAST FEW SUR-VIV-ORS OF THE END-TIME CA-TAS-TRO-PHE WILL RE-CEIVE.

ALSO, NOW IS THE TIME TO STOCK UP ON AM-MU-NI-TION AND GIN. WELD STEEL AND AL-U-MIN-IUM PLATES TO EVERY ENTRY INTO YOUR HOUSE. BAR ANY VI-SI-TORS -- THEY ARE LOO-KING FOR POT-A-BLE WATER, AND THEY ARE A THREAT TO YOUR VE-RY SUR-VI-VAL.

I MIGHT ALSO RE-CO-MEND JOI-NING A DOOMS-DAY CULT AND COM-MIT-ING SUI-CIDE BY APP-LE-SAUCE AND BAR-BIT-U-ATE OVER-DOSE. MAKE SURE TO CHECK OUT YOUR LOCAL FOOT-WEAR PUR-VEY-OR FOR STY-LISH BLACK NIKE HIGH-TOPS.

WELL, MY TIME IS UP FOR TODAY. MAKE SURE YOU TUNE IN TO NEXT WEEK'S POD-CAST, WHERE I WILL BE DIS-CUS-ING PET A-DOP-TION. UN-TIL THEN, EX-CEL-SI-OR.

Octopod

It's coming! It's swimming in our waterways! It's coming to get us all!

Watch your faces! Gird yourself from its sucker-laden arms!! Arrrggghhh!

Laughs, lack of

Something reminded me of "B.C." today, that nonentertaining, prediluvian "comic" strip about a bunch of cavemen who pray to Jesus for three panels a day. Remember? That thing fucking sucks. Why is it allowed to continue? It is total screechy preachy bullshit, seven times a week, with the same corny jokes that weren't funny the first time cartoonist Johnny Hart drew them in 1977.

I love the comics pages -- read as many as I can on the web every day. With the sheer variety of great strips out there, why are hacks like Johnny Hart and Lynn Johnston still in syndication? "For Better or For Worse" is the most syrupy, sappy, treacly ziplock-bag full of orangutan rectal cancer ever committed to print.

Howdy neighbor! I was just... BLAM!

There was a delightful story in the New Jork Times jesterday about a number of states expanding their "shoot first" laws. The first time I heard about this was when Florida started cooking its own law up -- in short, you no longer need to flee when a lethal threat comes along. You can shoot first if you have the inkling of a threat. Also, it seems, you can shoot merely to defend property, even if no life is at stake.

Awesome! What could possibly go wrong?

The article goes on to talk about some specific cases of people who were gunned down, and how their murders were never prosecuted or even investigated. The word of the shooter is good enough for Jeb Bush's people.

Again, awesome! Aaaasphynctersezwut?

The best part was the dude who was shooted by a neighbor while arguing over placement of garbage bags on the curb. If mis-sorting recyclables isn't grounds for excusable attempted homicide, then I don't even want to live in your forsaken, blighted, cultureless, exurban hellscape!

"Middle East Week," with Jimmy Doohan

Hello, I'm Jimmy Doohan from the year 1966, and I'm the host of "Middle East Week." You may know me better as T.V.'s Chief Engineer Montgomery "Scotty" Scott of the Starship Enterprise, but in real life I'm kind of a news buff -- and in particular, I'm following this warfare between Israel and Lebanon with a keen eye towards history repeating itself.

It seems as if no major world political entities can't come down on the fighting right now, because they are fixed in doing it in such a way that would admonish one side over another. Why does it have to be that way? Isn't the killing of people -- any people -- not quite right? It was extremely poor judgment on the part of Hezbollah that lead to the border excursion that kicked off this quagmire, and it should be held accountable. Likewise, Israel has been fairly unfettered in its payback of Hezbollah, with the point of destroying it wholesale and leaving a threat deterrent as a legacy.

I don't like it when warfare targets civilians, no matter their stripe. It's a shame that this is allowed to continue unabated. This reminds me of episode 26, "Devil in the Dark," where Captain Kirk encounters a creature called "The Horta," which pretty much resembles a guy crawling around under a shag rug. It turns out this alien creature is killing space miners who are unwittingly harming her eggs -- all a big understanding -- until Spock mind-melds with the creature and overcomes interspecies communication issues, to everyone's satisfaction.

And that's what we need now -- people who listen without admonishment, without fear of punishment. Have we not lost so much humanity already? We can't even begin to quantify winners and losers. Nor should we -- we're all losers.

It hurts

It hurts when your spam writes noir better than you can. Read on:


""Annie - "You killed him.

"Annie, are you all right?

He had tasted it and knew.

"Not that I was surprised.

The sheet was turning red.

He had tasted it and knew.

Id guthole a few of them!

Has she been buried alive?

"Did ye speak, young sair?

Shed gotten away with it.

He hoped he would be okay.

He hoped he would be okay.

"Let me offer again, Paul.

Has she been buried alive?

but then the gotta set in.

He had a pack on his back.

"She turned on the faucet.

"Did ye speak, young sair?

"But mostly I just scream.

He had a pack on his back.

He had a pack on his back.

breathe goddammit BREATHE!

but then the gotta set in.

but then the gotta set in.

He had a pack on his back.

The Kleenex came away wet.

The sheet was turning red.

New from Tokyo... "What's For Dinner"

MOTHER ASKS CHILD: "ARE YOU HUNGRY?"

CHILD SAY BACK: "YYYYYYYYYYYES!!"

CHILD ATTACK MOTHER WITH DRILL ARMS!

FATHER COMES COMES FROM WORK AND TRANSFORMS INTO ROBOT MASTERMAN!

FIGHT!

COMBAT! IN KITCHEN, NO DINNER IS MADE?

HOW CAN IT BE?

SEND OUT ARMYS PLANE! SEND OUT ARMYS TANK! DESTROY ALL FAMILY WITH LASER! AND BRING BACK DINNER FROM PREFECTURE!

FIGHT!

AND YAKISOBA AS WELL! THANK YOU MOTHER!

FATHER SAY, POCKY IS DELICIOUS AND TASTY!

YOU DARE TO COMBAT? MAKE PEACE OR TO DESTROYED!

Bad sneakers and a pina colada

Hold the phone -- there's nothing like a new bomb-ass pair of running shoes to kick the ass out of the same old stupid running routine. A visit to an athletic purveyor called Jackrabbit culminated in the purchase, which came as a result of a recorded jog on their test treadmill. The kindly salesperson examined my gait for clues as to which shoe would be best.

The good news: I do not pronate. Repeat, NOT pronate.

My science is too tight for you to deny. I'ma run away now on two leathery marshmallows. Or at least, that's what it feels like, suckahs.

Report: Lindsay Lohan wants to go to Iraq

On the subject:

"I've been trying to go to Iraq with Hillary Clinton for so long. Hillary was trying to work it out, but it seemed too dangerous," Lohan said in an interview in the September issue of Elle magazine, to be released Wednesday.

The 20-year old actress and pop singer said she hoped to emulate Marilyn Monroe, who performed shows for about 100,000 troops stationed in Korea in 1954. "It's so amazing seeing that one woman just going somewhere, this beautiful sex kitten, who's basically a pinup, which is what I've always aspired to be," Lohan said, adding that she would prepare for her trip to Iraq by taking shooting lessons with her security guard.

* * * *

Setting: A shooting range outside of Malibu... BLAM-BLAM-BLAM, the loud reports of a .357 Magnum go, rattling the concrete-lined shooting gallery as Lindsay Lohan fires the pistol repeatedly before emptying the chamber of the spent bullet casings.

Lindsay Lohan: Awww... c'mon! I SO want to go to Iraq! It's, like, the Bagdhad of the Middle East. Everybody's talking about it! I SO wanna go. Let's get Seth Green and Mischa Barton in on this too.

Yaron Chaivetz (Lohan's Mossad-trained guard): They will not let you, Linz. And besides, you didn't even manage to hit the target, even once.

LL: This stupid gun is too small. I need a bigger one. [The sound of Eric Carmen's "All By Myself," her ring tone, comes muffled out from Lohan's purse.] OK, shut up, let me take this call... [Click open] Hello? Oh hi Mischa! I was just talking about you! ... Uh huh... Yeah.... I saw that. They totally camp out in front of my place. What?... You just think I should put a goddamn bathrobe on? Eff that, Meesh! Look, that's not important right now. We gotta... what?.... No, it's not called a "seven-ball." I'll explain later. Look, Meesh -- we haveta get into the Green Zone. It's the hottest... yeah.... exactly! Right! Wait, I gotta go. Ronnie is staring daggers at me everytime I wave this gat around.... Who? Yeah, Yaron. That guy I told you about. Look, can't talk, gotta go. [Click shut]

YC: Did you call that pistol a "gat?"

LL: So effin what, Ronnie? You need to lighten up -- why don't you call Jamie Kennedy for a blowjob.

YC: I'm not gay, Linz.

LL: Neither is J.K. Are you going to get me a bigger gun or do I have to call Dina?

YC: I do not like that you call your mother by her first name.

LL: Get over yourself, West Bank. I've been scoring million dollar grosses since you were selling diamonds in Manhattan. I bought Dina that Maybach you see her driving around in. I'll call her Little-effin-Jon, if I want to.

YC: "West Bank"? I do not think you know what that means. I'm Israeli, not Palestinian.

LL: Look who's so effin smart! I watched CNN for, like, 45 minutes yesterday. I crammed up on Pakistine so I'd know what I'm talking about. Now, where's my effin gun? I am about to have an ASTHMA ATTACK, big time, if I don't score some cop-killer bullets. AS. IN. NOW.

YC: [Aside] Just take her money and shut your brain off. You can do this.

LL: Are you back talking? Don't effin BACK-TALK me!

YC: No, no, I was just clearing my throat.

LL: I know for A FACT that Marilyn Monroe took shooting lessons with President John Kennedy before she visited the troops in Vietnam. That's ALL I'm asking for! Can you DO that for ME?

YC: Sigh... Of course, Linz. I think I have an Uzi in my trunk.

LL: That's more effin like it. And look happy while you're doing it, Mohammed.

Timeless advertising

Anyone else notice that fucking Doritos are using the totally lame 1998 iguana version of Godzilla from the awful Roland Emmerich movie to sell their stupid chips? Is that supposed to make me wanna buy something?

Why doesn't Frito-Lay just dredge up Eric Nies to star in a commercial scored with RedNex's "Cotton-Eyed Joe"?