Bad Idea Dept.

Researchers genetically engineered the H5N1 avian influenza virus (aka "bird flu") to make it more deadly to humans to see if it could possibly mutate into a deadlier form. Now that they succeeded, the government is politely asking them to keep their research secret. As anyone who's ever read Stephen King knows, this is a bad idea on many levels.

In a related development, physicists at the Large Hadron Collider launched an attempt to open up a "hell mouth" and allow Satan to enter our plane of reality. "We want to see if it was possible," one was quoted as saying. "That way, we can make sure it'll never happen. We're scientists. We don't believe in your stupid Flying Spaghetti Monster, but we like to be sure just in case. We want to avoid all that scary Book of Revelationsy kind of stuff."

Unfortunately, Satan did enter our plane of reality after one physicist spilled a cup of coffee on the Large Hadron Collider. Satan immediately took the next available flight to Los Angeles and became a late night talk show host with the Sham-Wow Guy in the Ed McMahon Role.

Here's a clip from Satan's opening monologue:

SATAN: How's the show going? Lemme tell you, people, it's Hell. (laughter) It's Hell. Do I have something stuck in my teeth?

SHAM-WOW GUY: No, Satan. You're the best, Satan!

SATAN: !@# my !@#$.

SHAM-WOW GUY bursts into flame.

SHAM-WOW GUY: Eaggghhhhh!

SATAN: Behold humans, my reign of fear and torment begins! Now, let's give a big hand to my first guest ... John Boehner!

Applause.

Buddhist Nirvana

Back in my jolly college days, I signed up for a course in "Buddhist Nirvana" taught by Jeffrey Hopkins at UVA. I mean ... Buddhist Nirvana? Shit. How hard could it be?

The catalog said it was on the fifth floor of Wilson Hall at UVA. I went there, walked up the staircase. It only went up four stories. I came back down. Talked to the cute young babe at the front desk.

"What are you looking for?" she said.

"Buddhist Nirvana," I said.

She gave me a look like a tiny door had opened up in my forehead and a cuckoo bird had just popped out.

"The catalog says it's on the fifth floor at Wilson Hall."

She snickered.

"There is no fifth floor in Wilson Hall."

I walked away.

Evidently, you only make it to the fifth floor when you're ready for Buddhist Nirvana.

Santa is magic

Santa Claus. Well, you know. I had a problem with Santa from the beginning.

The whole backstory was fishy. From both an epistemological and ontological perspective.

I recall being introduced to Santa in the antediluvian world of the early 1960s. Santa was appearing at Sears and Roebucks, a giant blue cube which is now Michael's on East. Santa, Dad told me, would be there in person. I could meet Santa.

This struck me as bullshit. Or the childish equivalent thereof.

I informed my Dad that this appearance wasn't logical. Santa was a major world figure, like JFK or Khrushchev. If Santa was appearing at Sears, there'd be TV cameras and screaming crowds. More importantly, WHY would he appear at Sears? Santa has better things to do.

Dad conceded that it wasn't Santa. As such. It was Santa's helper. One of Santa's many representatives, pervading the world.

OK. I could buy that.

So, I joined the line of snotnosed children at Sears. After an interminable wait, I met Santa's Helper #4,917. I asked him for an end to nuclear war and to make my parents stop fighting. And a bicycle.

But a seed had been planted in my mind. A seed of doubt.

The logical inconsistencies of the Santa story stuck with me.

I thought about it.

Santa had a workshop at the North Pole? There was precedent. Superman maintained his Fortress of Solitude at the North Pole. Santa had a vast army of elves, endlessly working, creating toys in a vast factory.

OK. So, why were the toys under the Christmas tree WRAPPED IN PLASTIC with the stickers obviously pulled off? Was Mattel shipping toys to the North Pole for redelivery by Santa?

If Santa delivered toys to all the good little children, what about the starving children in India? Or Africa? Or Communist China? Did they get toys?

Come to think of it -- leaving the question of surveillance aside -- how could Santa possibly deliver toys to all the good little children on earth in 12 hours? How did he fit all those toys in one sack in one sleigh? It violated the laws of physics.

I confronted my father with these questions. He's like Foghorn Leghorn. I'm like Widow Hen's insane genius baby chicken. Dad thinks. He doesn't want to say "Santa is bullshit." That'd rob me of one of the joys of childhood. Creating this joy explains the adult conspiracy to feed unsuspecting children this bogus story about a fat man in an anti-gravity sleigh distributing toys. So Dad says, "Santa's magic." Or something to that effect.

Good magic or black magic?

Good magic.

Oh, I say. So Santa's working for Jesus!

It's all so logical. It explains why a Turkish Bishop from the fourth century had lived for nearly 2,000 years in a Fortress of Holiday Gifting at the North Pole. Why Santa could circumnavigate the globe in only a night. His sleigh and flying reindeer. His ability to watch you at all times. The computational power implied in dividing all the children of the world into lists of good and bad.

Santa was working for Jesus. After His resurrection, Jesus left the earth and delegated some of His powers to Santa until His return. He extended Santa's lifespan and gave him extrasensory powers. The elves, no doubt, were diminutive Neanderthal Men, whom Jesus resurrected and sent to work for Santa. The cavemen were grateful. "Ugh! We make toys now!" It all made sense now.

Dad looked at me. Appalled. I had just folded the bullshit story of Santa Claus into Christian theology. It was, after all, the only logical explanation. Santa's sleigh flew for the same reason that Moses had parted the waters. It was a miracle. God's power. What else?

The only way to refute this notion was to say, "Uh, sorry son. This whole Santa Claus thing is pure bullshit. Adults like to tell this shit to kids to make their eyes light up on Christmas morning."

He didn't.

"Sure," he said. "That's one way to look at it."

Two years later, I was taking a leak in the boy's restroom at Alta Vista Elementary. I asked some kid what Santa was getting him for Christmas. He snorted. "You still believe in Santa Claus?" No, of course not. I fought back tears. Zipped up. Just joking. Ha-ha. Santa? I don't believe in Santa ...

Jesus, I thought.

If they lied to me about Santa Claus ...

What else are they lying about?

I got a Lionel train set for Christmas.

Star Trek: The Stupid Curtain

INT, BRIDGE, USS ENTERPRISE. ORIGINAL SERIES.

KIRK is asleep.

Red alert. The ship shudders. Everything's bathed in white light. The ship's lights go dead. 

SPOCK: (shaking KIRK's shoulder) Wake up, Captain.

KIRK: Huh? Wh... I thought she was over eighteen, your honor. I had no waying of knowing. The Zoobian year. Is eight months long. (suddenly realizing where he is) Oh. Spock. Uh. Status report.

SPOCK: We're being scanned, Captain. A deep probe, incredibly swift.

UHURA: Mmm-hmmm.

The lights come back up, and a man appears on the view screen. FONZIE.

MCCOY: Jim! Look!

The FONZ is floating in space, thumbs hitched in his leather jacket.

FONZ:  (on viewscreen) Yo. Captain Kirk. Ayyyyy.

KIRK: The Fonz!

FONZ: (on viewscreen) Correctamundo!

KIRK: But …You’re a fictional character!

FONZ: Hey. You’re a fictional character.

McCOY: I have a very bad feeling about this.

KIRK and FONZ (in unison) Wrong franchise,dipstick.

KIRK, SPOCK and McCOY dematerialize.

EXT, DESERT - DAY
Well-known pointy rock formations north of L.A.

KIRK, SPOCK, McCOY and FONZ materialize.

KIRK: Where the hell are we?

SPOCK: Vasquez Rocks, just north of LA, Captain.

KIRK glares at him.

SPOCK: That is to say, a planet with striking similar, uh, meterological and geographic features to said, uh, overused film location.

KIRK: Nicely played, Spock.

ROCK ENTITIES appear, surrounding the party in a circle.

SPOCK: (pointing) Rock entity at one o’clock!

McCOY: Rock entity at two o'clock!

FONZ: Three o'clock rock!

The ROCK ENTITIES start dancing and singing. The FONZ joins in.

ROCK ENTITIES and FONZ: Four O'clock rock, Five, Six, Seven O'clock, Eight O'clock rock. Nine, Ten, Eleven O'clock, Twelve O'clock rock, We're gonna rock around the clock tonight!

One ROCK ENTITY (aka ROCKY) steps forward and waves its heavy fore-claws. 

ROCK ENTITY: Shut up!

The other ROCK ENTITIES stop dancing, shut up and slink away.

ROCKY: Welcome back to Escalbia, Captain.

KIRK: Aw crap. Not this again.

ROCKY: Yes Captain. This. Again.

McCOY: Fredric Brown is rolling in his goddamn grave.

Cut of Frederic Brown, the original SF writer who penned "Arena," actually rolling in his grave.

ROCKY: Now, a new drama unfolds. I see you've met the Fonz.

FONZ: Ayyyy.

ROCKY: Now. Meet your new friends. Elvis.

ELVIS appears. The young ELVIS. He lets loose with a string of dipthongs.

ELVIS: Euhhuehh.

ROCKY: And Fat Elvis.

FAT ELVIS: Woah. Man. This ain’t heaven, huh?

ELVIS: No man. Some fucking planet or sumpin.

FAT ELVIS: Wow man. That’s some strong stuff, tell you what. Taking a dump one second. Bright light. Next thing I know science fiction city.

ROCKY: Gentleman, please. We can do this later ...

FAT ELVIS: Hey. You look familiar man.

ELVIS: I’m you.

FAT ELVIS: Me?

ELVIS: Yeah, man. Elvis.

ROCKY in background getting increasingly pissed.

FAT ELVIS: How do you know I’m Elvis?

ELVIS: Says so on your sissy jacket, man.

FAT ELVIS' sequined jacket, in fact, has the name "Elvis" written on it in glass-bead studs in bulbous cursive handwriting.

ROCKY: We are wasting time here!

ELVIS: Elvis. Hell, that means I’m you. Man you let yourself go.

FAT ELVIS: Screw you, man.

ELVIS: Look like a fruit all those dang things dangling off you.

FAT ELVIS: Chicks dig …

ROCKY: Shut up!

ELVIS and FAT ELVIS: (dirty look) Talking to the Kings man.

FONZ: Yeah. Sit on it!

The ELVI go back to squabbling.

ROCKY: Shut up and I’ll give you some pills!

They shut up.

ROCKY: Well, Kirk. Young Elvis, Fat Elvis and the Fonz. Do you detect the common element, Captain?

KIRK: Ah, Space Christ …

ROCKY: Yes. The human philosophy of "cool." Which is opposed by the philosophy you term "uncool." Such philosophies are alien to us.

KIRK: You ever heard of Wikipedia? Look it up.

ROCKY: We did. The definition is opaque and contradictory.

McCOY: Hell, you dumb rock, everyone knows what cool is.

ROCKY: Very well, doctor. What is cool?

McCOY: It’s, uh … it’s … I’m a doctor, damnit. Not a … clever uh, word-defining guy.

ROCKY: Yes. I thought so. Now … Behold your uncool opponents!

Emo Phillips appears.

ROCKY: Emo Phillips, who endured 15 minutes of degrading fame as whipping boy for Judy Tenuta.

EMO: (muttering) Enjoyed.

ROCKY: Woody Allen, who mocked his lecherous, craven nature and turned out to be even worse.

WOODY: I'm available for children's parties.

ROCKY: Bill Gates, who crushed the souls of millions.

GATES: (snorts) Billions.

ROCK: Now you shall fight. To the death. In the struggle, we shall observe which is stronger. Thus, we shall learn the nature of cool and uncool. It is our way.

SPOCK: Highly illogical.

ROCKY: Excuse me?

SPOCK: First, if you Escalbians can create a simulation of so-called "cool" and "uncool" beings,  it follows logically that you understand the concept. Secondly, trial by combat is only a test of survivability--a test of a single factor, hardly a definition of essence. Thirdly, in terms of sample base, this is a single trial beset with highly random factors and...

ROCKY: Well taken, Mr. Spock. We Escalbians have a saying. Go fuck yourself.

FONZ: Same to you, rock.

ROCKY: Let the battle begin!

KIRK: (to the NERDS) Gentlemen …

The NERDS run away screaming.

EXT, DESERT - DAY
KIRK, McCOY, SPOCK and the COOL ENTITIES sitting around a campfire.

FONZ: It’s quiet.

ELVIS: Too quiet.

FAT ELVIS: Do some singing man.

ELVIS: Now you're talking!

ELVIS, FAT ELVIS and FONZ all leap up. ELVIS snaps his fingers ...

ELVIS: And a one, and a two, and a ...

BILL GATES steps around a rock formation holding a white flag.

GATES: Hi ... everybody I hope I’m not bothering you. Please don’t hit me.

KIRK: I’m not going to hit you.

GATES: (to Kirk) OK. Uh. Wow, I’m such a fanboy … But. Well. We have something in common. Not dying would be the common subset. Thus, negotiations would be appropriate.

KIRK You were notorious, Mr. Gates, for striking at your enemies in the midst of negotiating with them. (rock bounces off his forehead) Ow!

GATES: That wasn’t me.

FONZ: Pants on fire.

GATES: Well, history was written by those stupid Apple commercials. I don’t look good in a turtleneck ... and they make me feel like I'm being strangled. Can we talk?

KIRK: No.

FAT ELVIS: (getting up) Hell, I’ll talk to the little runt. Work something out, man. You got any pills?

GATES: No.

FAT ELVIS: Well let’s talk anway.

FAT ELVIS follows BILL GATES around the rock formation.

A few seconds later ...

FAT ELVIS: (O.S.) Hey, man stop that shit. Yeooowww . Goddamn that hurts. You little peckerwood. You some kinda? Owwww. Hey, man, somebody help!

KIRK and pals get up to help FAT ELVIS. ELVIS stops them.

FAT ELVIS: (O.S.) Hell, ain't even Ann Margret touched there ... no .. Eeeeeeeeeeeyowwwww!

ELVIS: Uh-huh. That ain’t cool. Man. Ain’t no way Elvis yelling out like a little girl. Even old fat Elvis.

FAT ELVIS: Eeeeee (rising in pitch) EEEEEEEE!

FONZ: Well, whoever he is, he needs help.

They all grab sticks and rocks and run around the rock formation.

On the other side they see  --

FAT ELVIS standing right as rain.

FAT ELVIS: Hey, man. I’m just messing with you cats.

ELVIS: You got me good, Fat Elvis.

FAT ELVIS: Heyuhuh, you know. Anyhow, me and this here fella, we made us a deal. We got us a band, man. 2Es and the Fonz -- this squirt's gonna manage. Hitting the space road. You in?

FONZ and ELVIS nod, hell yeah, ayy, agree.

GATES: More to the point, The Microsoft Corporation now owns exclusive marketing rights to the operating system to Escalbia.

ROCKY: What? Why?

GATES: (holding up legal document) This.

ROCKY: A piece of paper?

GATES: (holding up another piece of paper) A court order.

ROCKY: How?

FAT ELVIS: Got us a lawyer, man.

A ROCK ENTITY lawyer gives ROCKY the finger.

ROCKY: This court order. What does it ... say?

GATES: Well. (clears throat) "Due to copyright infringement via duplication of intellectual property of The Estate of Bill Gates in the creation of Bill Gates Entity (and proprietary knowledge of Microsoft products in mind of said entity) created from memories stored in minds of 24th-century humans, said action taken without consent or prior notification of said humans, it is the judgment of this court that, for payment of compensatory and punitive damages, Microsoft Industries (deemed, on basis of "Recreation of Bill Gates by Aliens" clause in The Estate of Bill Gates title document), to be henceforth exclusively both owned and represented by Bill Gates Entity, (as both actual and corporate person) operating in perpetuity through any and all afiliates, shall be granted all legal title, past, present, future and hypothetical, to reality-generating substrate of planet defined as "Escalbia," as well as all representations, demonstrations and future marketing rights."

ROCKY: In plain English, you little shit!

GATES: It’s my planet now. Get off.

ROCKY: That’s uncool!

ROCK ENTITIES drag ROCKY away. "Rock around the Clock" starts playing again. ROCK ENTITIES, "Star Trek" away team and recreated dweebs and pop icons all start dancing.

Hogans Heroes -- What Really Would Have Happened

EXT, STALAG 13 - DAY
A German army truck pulls up, the back covered with a flap. General Burkhalter and Major Hochstetter of the Gestapo emerge from the front cab. They confront Colonel Klink, Sergeant Schultz, and five American POWs – the show’s lead characters -- who, for no logical reason, are all standing in front of the commandant’s office.

HOCHSTETTER: What are these men doing here?

BURKHALTER: Bad writing. What do you think?

KLINK: General Burkhalter. It is a pleasure to see you!

BURKHALTER: The feeling is not mutual, Klink. Are you good at math?

KLINK: What?

BURKHALTER: Your mathematical skills. How are they?

KLINK: Well ...

HOCHSTETTER: Colonel Klink tested 47% percentile at Krautschmuck University. He flunked Probability and Statistics. Twice.

BURKHALTER: You see? The Gestapo is very thorough. Tell Colonel Klink more surprising math facts.

HOCHSTETTER: Within a fifteen kilometer radius of Stalag 13, the incidence of sabotage is 798% greater than the statistical norm within comparable areas of the Third Reich.

KLINK: I am sure there is an explanation.

BURKHALTER: Yes. You are either incompetent or a traitor.

Pulls out Luger -- shoots him.

SCHULTZ: I know nothing!

BURKHALTER: I will carve that on your tombstone.

Shoots him.

BURKHALTER: Guards! Schnell!

A squad of Waffen SS bursts out of the back of the truck, form a line and aim ugly automatic weapons at Hogan and his heroes.

HOGAN: You can’t kill us. That’s against the Geneva Convention.

BURKHALTER: The Geneva Conention can kiss my fat Aryan ass. Oh wait. I forgot. You are all spies. According to the Geneva Convention, I can shoot you. Watch.

LEBEAU: (holding out a streudel) I baked a streudel.

Burkhalter shoots him. LeBeau drops the streudel. Falls.

BURKHALTER: As for the rest of you ...

HOGAN: I'm not afraid to die for my country.

KINCH: Speak for yourself, motherfucker. It’s your fucking country. You die for it.

BURKHALTER: Ah. You Americans misunderstand me. We’re not going to kill you. We’re going to torture you slowly, extract information, break your spirits, and use you swine to send disinformation to the Allies. (shouts) Take them away. We can still win this war. Heil Hitler!

HOCHSTETTER: Heil Hitler!

The Guards strongarm and rifle-butt Hogan and his heroes into the truck. The truck drives away. Burkhalter picks up streudel. Sticks his finger in and eats it.

BURKHALTER: Mmmm. Good streudel!

Sincere Request!

Please excuse inappropriateness of this letter! I am an English major with no marketable skills. Sadly, reading has declined as a leisure activity in the United States of America economy. I have several manuscripts in the Republic of Côte d'Ivoire University which would be extremely salable if translated into Chinese. For this reason, I am asking you to send me ten million United States Dollars.

In other economic news ...

Basically, ever since 2007, the economic news has sounded like an extended Sam Kinison routine. You turn on the radio. The radio says, "AGGHHHHHH! AGGHHHHH!"

Or, in a slightly calmer tone ...

Panic, panic, fear, bubble, panic. Crisis. Crisis leads to panic and more panic leading to fear. Economic downturn. The lack of consumer confidence creates a lack of investor confidence leading to a universal lack of confidence. Experts say there is no hope. The stock market plummets. The Euro plummets. Investors plummet from skyscraper windows. Panic, crisis, bubble, Greece, Euro, panic, bubble. Millions and millions and millions of. Home loans under water. And dead investors on the sidewalk. Experts say put your money in your mattress buy dried food and load your shotgun. Things could get worse. They just did. And, in other economic news ...

AGGHHHHH!

AGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

The crazy monkey theory of comedy

Comedy is a crazy monkey that lives inside your brain. The funny stuff the monkey comes up with always happens "now." The rational brain says, "Hey. That's some funny shit, monkey!" and writes it down. But there was always a time when you thought of the joke for the first time -- when the joke was funny and fresh to YOU. That's where funny comes from.

Good improv comics are in touch with that. You know. Their inner crazy monkey. Bad improv comics fake spontaneity.

The crazy monkey theory explains much.

First, the crazy monkey doesn't want to work for monkey. If you say, "Listen, you !@#$ monkey. I need some material that'll really !@@#$ sell" -- the monkey responds by baring his teeth, going "EEEEEEEEE!" and throwing a big wad of feces in your face.

The crazy monkey ain't into work-for-hire. He works when he wants to work. He's funny when he wants to be funny. He doesn't give a crap about your schedule, ego or debt obligations.

In fact, the crazy monkey likes to do his thing at exactly the wrong moment. Somebody says, "Hey, you're a funny guy! Do something funny!" A circle of gawkers surround you waiting for the hilarity to come. At that point, you got nothing, nada, squat. You're as funny as a !@#$ computer manual.

But, let's say you're in CHURCH. You're showing your due respects to God Himself. Ah, now THAT'S when the crazy monkey starts generating great material. Eeeee, eeee. What if the communion wine had Ex-Lax in it? Eeee, eeee. What if all those people coming out of communion were on a big conveyor belt? Eeeeeeeee. You ever notice how communion resembles those animal treats the Trainer gives Shamu? Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

And then you start snickering. The person next to you on the pew starts snickering. You let fly with an enormous, stained glass window-rattling fart. The entire church starts laughing. You'll have to change religions.

The crazy monkey has won.

Dr. Monster

My name is Dr. Monster,

I live below the streets.

Nasty, nasty is my fame

My vengeance is complete.

“Man must know his place,” they say.

“To play God would be a sin.”

“Some doors weren’t meant to open.”

Fuck that! I kick them in.

My name is Dr. Monster,

I am a man of science.

I can cause horrific pain

With a common home appliance.

"Experiments on beasts are cruel,"

So the folks at PETA say.

I really quite agree, you know.

That’s why you’re in this cage.

My name is Dr. Monster,

I’m a man of many parts.

I harvest them from Chinese slaves,

Kidneys, lungs and hearts.

Sixteen nuns burst into flame.

A cow was disemboweled.

Some “journalist” could well be next.

Best spike that story now.

My name is Dr. Monster,

I’m not as bad as people say.

I have no enemies at all,

Not alive, at anyway.

Yes, go ahead and laugh at me!

You may think I’m funny.

Soon, I’ll be coming up for you.

We’ll see who laughs then, sonny.

Zombie Lane

(to the tune of Paul McCartney's "Penny Lane")

Zombie Lane there is a zombie ripping arms apart

And eating brains from every head that he has known

And all the people who are too slow

Become lunch, you know

On the corner is a banker with a motorcar

The zombie children sink their teeth into his back

He wasn’t ready for their attack

Now he screams in pain

Very strange

Zombie Lane is in my ears and in my eyes

There beneath the radiated skies

I sit, and try to stay alive

In Zombie Lane there is a fireman raising up his axe

Against the undead stalking figure of the Queen

“Sorry, mum” -- and snick!

Her head goes bouncing

Off his clean machine

Well, it used to be

Zombie Lane is in my ears and in my eyes

Walking corpses eating entrails just like pies

What a rude surprise

Behind the shelter in the middle of a roundabout

A pretty nurse has got Bruce Campbell’s chainsaw on her side

The flying limbs form quite a pile

She is full of pride

Zombie Lane the barber cuts his throat disgustingly

Before the zombie horde can get to him

Then the fireman rushes in

“Sorry dad,” he says

Then he runs away

It’s a lousy day

Zombie Lane is in my ears and in my eyes

There beneath the radiated skies

I sit, and try to stay alive

Zombie Lane is in my ears and in my eyes

I stand beneath the radiated skies

I refuse to die

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo Song

(to the tune of Led Zeppelin's 'Immigrant Song')

A-ah-ahh-ah, ah-ah-ahh-ah!

She comes from the land of Ikea stores,

Bergman films and polluted fiords.

Advertising gods! Go sell this chick to new fans …..

Movies out the ass! Video games! Action figures!

Can you say ka-ching?

Cyberpunk, smokes too much …

Dragon tattoo from her neck down to her tush!

Ah-ah-ahh-ah, ah-ah-ahh-ah!

She comes from a land that’s too freaking cold,

Never ever smiles, got a tortured soul.

She’s so fine, she’ll break your spine,

And debug your Unix code before the night is through.

Fanboys love that she’s bisexual too!

Why stop with just three movies? It ain’t that big a chore!

Our only goal will be to sell some more!

She set her dad on fire, killed Nazis and rapists too

It’s too bad the author’s dead—we owe all our cash to you!

Ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh

Ahh, ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh

Ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh

Chumps and rumors of chumps

"And it shall come to pass that a chump with a slide rule will predict the Second Coming. And lo, many shall be the chumps that believe in him, yet though he be wrong again and again, like unto Charlie Brown with the football, they shall trust unto him, for the land will be thick with chumps in those days, even beyond measure."
                                                                                                -- First Evasions, Chapter 11, Verse 1

Pedophilia epidemic explained

Back in the 1960s, Pope Paul VI wanted more foot doctors in the Catholic Church to help with the throbbing, fungus-ridden feet of missionaries in tropical countries. He told his advisors to take out full-page ads in Podiatrist Magazine proclaiming "PRIESTS WANTED. WE NEED YOUR SKILLS!" Sadly, they misunderstood his order ...

... and placed the ad in the wrong magazine.

Osama in the Water Song

(to the tune of Harry Nilsson's "Cocoanut")

Osama took a bullet, yeah he caught it in the eye

A Moe Green special, now where we dump this guy?

You put Osama in the water, just dump him in the drink.

Put Osama in the water, ain’t got time to think.

They dumped his ass in the ocean, he sank below the brine.

The sailors on the deck all cheered and said, “Well ain’t that fine?”

Reporters said, "Hey, what’s the hurry? They’ll all think that it’s a fake.

Who gave the freaking order to deep-six this here sheik?”

Obama said, “Hey man, ease up, you’re just a little bit too late.

He was stinking in the sun and could not escape his fate.”

"Now let me get this straight …

You dumped Osama in the water, just plopped him in the drink.

Put Osama in the water, and you did not stop to think.

Dumped his ass in the ocean, he sank below the brine."

Obama said, “Best think ahead son. We can’t afford a shrine.”

Reporters said, "Obama. They’re gonna say that it’s a fake.

Conspiracy theory crazies, you know, they all will belly ache.

Like UFOs and Hitler’s skull, we’ll deal with this for years."

Obama scowled and said, “I know. You’d best dry up your tears.

I put Osama in the water, just dumped him in the drink.

Put Osama in the water; ain’t had time to think.

Dumped his ass in the ocean; he sank below the brine.

He’s a freaking supervillain – and his name’s too close to mine.”