Rightfully So

Ringo Starr released a new album entitled Liverpool 8 this week. Ringo is widely known as the fourth most talented Beatle and the second most alive.

Pakistani President Musharraf today announced the findings of his investigation into the death of opposition leader Benazir Bhutto at an election rally in Rawalpindi on December 27. Wearing his “What, Me Worry?” t-shirt and novelty glasses with the eyes that dangle on the end of springs, Pakistan’s General of the Army, President-for-Life and Keeper-of-the-Supply-Cabinet-Key gave the following statement to reporters:

“It is with great sadness that I announce the findings of our inquiry into the (giggling) untimely death of Ms. Bhutto last month. After reviewing all the forensic evidence and interviews with nearly two whole witnesses, we believe Ms. Bhutto died not from the explosion that killed twenty other people around her, or hitting her head on the roof of her motorcade. No, Benazir Bhutto succumbed to boredom.”

After several moments of open-mouthed disbelief, reporters gathered themselves to question the President about his findings. “Sir, how is this even possible? Are you saying the suicide bomber had nothing to do with the Bhutto’s death?”

“To be sure, it is an unfortunate coincidence,” Musharraf replied. “It is entirely possible that, had she not died of ennui, Ms. Bhutto would soon have been ripped to shreds by the cowardly explosion that I can assure you I had nothing…NOTHING to do with. However, it is beyond a shadow of a doubt that she had already been dead for several minutes before the explosion. The only reason she was even seen standing up in her car was because she had been propped up by supporters who wanted to make it look as though she were still alive. Much like that hilarious movie “Weekend at Bernies,” only, you know, with a tragic bombing at the end.”

“Mr. President, why would anyone do such a ridiculous thing?”

“To continue their insidious plot against me!” Musharraf said in an eerie German accent. “Bhutto’s followers knew without her they would be powerless. They planned to keep up this charade as long as necessary, like those guys in New York who took their dead friend to the bank in a wheelbarrow so they could cash his check. Only, you know, in this case a delicate house of international diplomatic cards that could plunge the world into a terrorist nightmare is at stake instead of some bums looking to score beer money.”

“But sir, boredom?”

“Indeed. And here is the proof!” With a flourish, President Musharraf pulled a piece of paper from his sleeve like a magician. “Here, in her own handwriting, is Ms. Bhutto’s final note, written just before she died. ‘Dear Everyone: I am so totally bored. This whole thing about returning from exile to bring a hope of Democracy back to my beloved homeland and remove this tyrant from power is actually kind of dull. I’m feeling rather blase about it, like I might die. In fact, Musharraf is rather awesome. You should let him do whatever he wants.’ Signed, “Bubbles.”

“Bubbles?”

“Yes, Bubbles.”

“Sir, what about the blood that was washed from the scene before investigators could arrive? Is that illegal breach of criminal protocol going to be addressed? Will anyone be punished?”

“The blood had to be removed immediately. The government had recently received word that a swarm of, um, blood…liking…mutant-things was near by. If the blood had been allowed to remain, everyone there would have risked being attacked by a pack of space-trolls that would have devoured their faces with giant teeth that grow out of their foreheads.”

“Trolls? I thought you said mutants.”

“Mutant trolls, that is correct.”

Before any more questions could be asked, President Musharraf disappeared in a puff of smoke.

The scene outside the Elk’s Lodge in Sloan, Iowa was straight out of a movie: Secret Service agents hurriedly ushering a terrified, frazzled President of the United States through a crazed mob, forcing him into the back of a limousine that then sped away to safety. But this was no Hollywood fiction: this was real life, and President Bush undoubtedly hopes it never gets so real again.

It was an ignoble end to what started off as a pleasant photo opportunity for the President as he begins his yearlong “Look At Me, I’ve Been President For Eight Years And I Didn’t Run The Country Into The Ground” tour. Members of the local Philosopher’s Union 142 had scored quite a coup by being the first stop on the POTUS jag. But the erstwhile farmer-thinkers had serious questions for Mr. Bush, and from all apperances, the leader of the free world was caught off guard.

Wearing his now standard jewel-studded crown and wife-beater t-shirt with PREZ emblazoned across the front, Mr. Bush gave a brief speech about the good people of Iowa and how their corn-fueled moonshine had seen him through some rough times in his younger years. This was apparently all that had been scheduled for the event, but the President was in such a good mood that he waved off his handlers and recognized a burly fellow in the back row who raised his hand for a question.

“Mr. President,” the man said, nervously stroking a walrus moustache and adjusting his John Deere baseball cap as he prepared to address the most powerful man on the planet, “My name is Henry Jacobs, I have 400 acres over to the south side of the county. We’re gettin’ by but I do have some concerns for the future. Namely, how do we reconcile Russian geo-constructo-criticism with the obvious dialectical fallacies of Billingham’s axiom of internal dualism?”

President Bush stared blankly for a second. “Oh, if you mean Senator Blandingham’s farm bill, I can assure you…”

“No sir, not Senator Blandingham, I’m referring to Alexander Billingham, from the University of Chicago. His theory of internal dualism? Man’s bi-consciousness and it’s effect upon our perceptions of self? It’s in direct conflict with this latest trend in Russia. It has me worried.”

Soon another man, this one a wiry young man wearing a cowboy hat, stood up. “I agree Mr. President. It’s going to be tough for us farmers if we’re caught in the middle of another classic Swillinger’s Hammock. Especially with my bad back and all.” This elicited a chuckle from the crowd.

Witnesses say the President began to sweat and uttered his trademark nervous laugh. “Wow, uh, I thought you boys were going to be speakin’ English. Don’t you want to ask me something about 9/11?”

A weary looking old gentlement in the front row stood up with the help of his cane. The others in the room seemed to give deference to him and allowed him several silent moments to refill his tobacco plug. “I have a question about 9/11 Mr. President,” the man said. “Do you adhere to the ideas of the German Jurgen Habermas who believes that economic entities threaten to colonize our life-world, or do you side with the Frenchman Derrida and his theory that our response to terror is an auto-immune sickness that only makes the terror problem worse?”

In a flash, all the farmers were on their feet shouting questions at the President. Over the crowd one could here Mr. Bush valiantly trying to answer their questions with proclomations of “Permanent tax cuts!” and “Mission Accomplished!” But within seconds the scene was out of control. Security Agents swiftly removed the President as he was followed by a crowd of thoughtful farmers asking the kinds of questions that have no answers. No word yet on whether the President resorted to his usual tough-day remedy of having his memory erased and replaced with images of that t.v. movie of “The Facts of Life” where they go to France.

Just when the citizens of Gotham thought they were safe, another hideous beast has rampaged through the city leaving a bloody trail of destruction it it’s wake. And we’re not talking about the annual Deformed Obsese Transvestite Parade. That’s not until July.

No, mere months after the city was devastated by a bio-engineered plague that killed off nearly all it’s inhabitants and turned the remaining few into blood-thirsty zombies that even Will Smith couldn’t conquer, the resilient denizens of Manhattan were besieged by yet another monster that attacked the city right in the middle of a yuppie party in a really cool loft on the lower east side.

Long-time Manhattanites are fed up. “Seriously, are all of these monsters attacking from the east?” asked deli-owner Norm Stantz. “Eleven times in twenty years I’ve had my deli smashed to the ground by some snarling lizard. And how come they never wind up any further along the Atlantic seaboard? Would it kill one of them to take a swipe at those jerk-offs in Boston? The Bruins suck!”

Similar sentiments were expressed by other survivors of the latest rampage. Ninety-eight year old Esmerelda Wiggins sat on the front stoop of her brownstone, recently swept of debris, perusing a scrapbook she’s kept of the travails that have befallen her hometown over the last near century. “It all started with that damn ape,” she said pointing to a black-and-white photo of an enormous gorilla standing atop the Empire State Building swatting at bi-planes. “They brought him here from some damn island or something. Folks lined up to see him because it was the Depression and we were starved for something to take our minds off our misery. But then they brought another ape in the 70’s. And then again just a couple of years ago! Why with all the apes? And every time he goes nuts and climbs a tower and then falls off. Do you know what kind of havoc that causes? We got enough construction around here without cleaning up after ape disasters.”

Ms. Wiggins went on to document the stunning array of misfortune her city has seen, from recent scourges such as Godzilla and the Sta-Puft Marshmellow Man, to an unruly gang of Muppets determined to make it on Broadway. “And don’t forget the time Woody Allen got arrested for statutory rape with Mariel Hemingway. Poor thing, he dumped her and then went running all the way across town to try and win her back. Even tried to talk her out of going to school in London. The selfish bastard, you’re forty years older than her for Christ’s sake! Date someone your own age!”

Perhaps the most distressing aspect of the city’s monster-magnetism is the fact that it draws attention from other cities that suffer similar attacks. Chamber of Commerce spokesman Ed Koningsberg says many foreigners have the false impression that New York has some odd curse on it that makes it the only choice for crazed, mutated beasts. “Plenty of other American cities have been attacked by various beings throughout the years, but they don’t get the press coverage we do. People always seem to enjoy watching us get kicked around. I mean, the entire city of Columbus, Ohio was wiped out by a fire-breathing were-sloth from the planet Razzmatazz in 1957, but no one even knows about it. Seriously, there’s just a huge smoking hole in the ground. How come you never see that in the movies?”

Whatever the reasons for the city’s rotten luck, New Yorkers remain faithful to their hometown. Knowing full well that it’s only a matter of time before some other weird-ass thingamabob comes swooping down on them and destroys their property values, millions of people proudly continue to call the borough home. “Plagues, monsters, Irish, we’ve seen ‘em all, but eventually they leave and we’re still standing,” Koningsberg says. “It’s an existential nightmare, but it’s our existential nightmare.” With that, Koningsberg turned and strode proudly down the tree-lined streets of the neighborhood where he’d lived his whole life, only to be suddenly pummelled to death by an army of truck-sized glowing frogs with acid for blood that sprang out of nowhere. New York, New York, it’s a helluva town.

Officials for the Summer 2008 Olympics to be held in Beijing today introduced the young women who would serve as presenters during the medal ceremonies, a cadre of fine Asian hotties guaranteed to put a little Kung-Pow in this year’s games, if you know what I mean.

Young women from all across China have spent the last several months training to become the curvy, buxomy dream-girls that would be the very public face of the games. Demonstrating centuries of cultural poise and courtesy, the girls paraded across the stage for international journalists like a voluptuous army of Stepford-ian sexbots. In a land known for its many tasty delicacies, there were no limp noodles in the house after this demonstration, if you catch my drift.

Some in the international community decried the sexualization of the young women, saying the presentation of such perfect, imminently humpable young nubiles discriminated against women in general and perpetuated an unhealthy stereotype of the female form. The organizer of today’s event responded with a statement that, roughly translated, said, “Uh, duh.” to which he also added, “No shit, Sherlock.”

The Chinese Ambassador to the United States also issued a statement in defense of his country’s actions. “I find it very hypocritical that the United States, a country that drinks congealed bacon fat for breakfast yet idolizes 80 pound supermodels, would accuse us presenting an unhealthily ideal woman. These young women are China’s future, our sexy, sexy future. Our doctors, lawyers, scientists, and political leaders of tomorrow. It is merely an added bonus that they’re the kind of woman you would want to bend over the hood of your car and make sweet love to until the bovines return to the place where they live. Am I saying that right?”

Indeed, as the journalists covering today’s event filed out of the auditorium, many already thought they had caught a serious case of “yellow fever.” “I liked the one on the end,” said a European newspaperman. “I’m quite a cook, I’d like to take her back to my apartment and let her try some of my Hung Way Low, if you catch my unsubtle sexual innuendo.”

Some really flattering pictures of Ms. Lohan over at Lindsay Lohan is Such a Modest Girl.

Maybe it’s because I’m not a celebrity, but I think I’d show a little more restraint. Plus, that dude looks pretty rough, I’d think she’d be able to do better.

It has been debated for ages: can geeks, nerds, or guys named “Ed” actually produce offspring? Until recently, the scientific consensus was “Bwaaaaa ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! What a ludicrous notion!”

Revealed here, for the first time ever on the internet, is incontrovertible evidence to the contrary. Just check out this picture, where we see numerous geek-, nerd- and Ed-produced kids, all gathered into one space for this one photo.

Pictured, left to right, are Collins, Crider 2, Sommer, Crider 1, Villines 2, and Villines 1.

Experts tell us that the photo is doctored, using elaborate Photoshop techniques, and stand-in kids collected from various MySpace and Facebook pages.

“Just look at that so-called Collins kid,” says Maria van Dinkel, Executive Director of the Internet. “There’s no way such a darling little child could originate from her supposed father.”

Hoax, or for real? Sound off in the comments section.

I would like to know when someone decided the following were Christmas songs. They are not, and it is not debatable. Nor is it the ranting of some random Internet loon. It is fact. Much like Die Hard is Christmas movie.

• My Favorite Things - I’m sure some marketing executive was lying awake at night, wonder how he could make Christmas more materialistic, when instead of visions of sugar plums, Julie Andrews spoke to him. “My favorite things… Buy me my favorite things.” Of course, asking for kitten’s whiskers is a little sadistic.
• Angels Among Us - Yes, Angels are involved with Christmas, but they are heralding the birth of a king, not helping some kid who got lost taking a shortcut on the way home.
• Canon in D - I have no idea why this song has been played as a Christmas song. First it was creeping into the playlists of weddings everywhere, and now it’s a Christmas song? My goal is to have it played at my funeral. Then maybe people will equate it with death and stop playing it at weddings and at Christmas.