acists and peckerwoods everywhere trembled as their vaunted white power fizzled out into nothingness Thursday, surprising only those blind to the inevitable fall of empires everywhere. The absurdly-called "blackout," which started in the middle of the day during perfect daylight, plunged major northeastern urban areas into a state of non-electricity, which the white media presumably prefers to compare to "primitive" black culture with the derogatory "blackout" term.

The twin Northern American albino evils, the governments of the U.S. and Canada, both spent the day blaming each other for the power failure instead of spending their time fixing the power. The working classes and underprivileged were left in the dark Thursday night, with Friday night also no luckier in getting the power turned back on in some areas. White media was "delightfully surprised" that the non-white citizens left in the dark during the night didn't spend all their time looting their own stores and robbing white people—you know, acting civilized. As you know, when non-whites rob white people, it's anti-social crime; when whites rob everyone else, it's called capitalism.

New York City mayor Whitey Whiteberg praised New Yorkers for helping each other out and not killing each other like savage animals, then went home to his out-of-state mansion or high-grade penthouse with the gasoline-powered generator or whatever digs he shammed the people out of. Meanwhile, underprivileged suffering classes in Detroit went home to unbearable heat without power Friday night. Areas of New York, Connecticut, and Ohio with their power restored were forced to refrain from air conditioning in the record heat wave.

Rumors abounded in the immediate wake of the power failures. Though the most likely source of the catastrophe is now pointing to three failed transmission lines that eventually took out the Niagara Mohawk power grid, probably stolen from early industrious Native Americans, alternative unfounded causes were spread through the Internet and urban legend grapevine. Some blamed the power outage on a threatening Internet worm that managed to topple all the nation's power grids, the equivalent of blaming it on the Candyman. Most Americans were more anxious to blame it on the brown people of the Middle East, known as terrorists for not believing in the white man's God.

President and ranking redneck George "Whitey" Bush promised the problem of the electrical outage would be investigated and, if possible, enslaved and oppressed. He went on to call the electrical power grid system "antiquated," though how that makes it different from other revered elements of white culture wasn't explained by the inferior president.

Professor of African-American Electrical Engineering and frequent drinking buddy of this reporter Muhammad Bari offered more realistic interpretations of the grid power failure.

"It's clear the fatted citizens of Rome have trusted in their failing empire far too long," said the six-time winner of home Jeopardy! "The sacred calf is ripe for slaughter, and the time for the reign of a noble citizenry is nearly upon us. Now, I'm not suggesting we go out and rip down Con Edison and the White House or anything, you know. I'm just saying, in the eyes of the great and worthy Allah, we as wage slaves built this city on rock and roll and it's ours to do with as we please."

The white president refused to comment on these perfectly legitimate questions, proving who he's really serving.

espite sounding like a hilarious urban legend, a recently published biography of American actor John Wayne has revealed compelling evidence that Russian dictator and mustache enthusiast Joseph Stalin attempted to have Wayne killed on several occasions in the 1940's. Evidence suggests that Wayne's passionate anti-communist stance infuriated the dictator, whose commitment to going totally batshit in the later years of his reign found him at odds with the American icon.

Several unorthodox attempts were made on Wayne's life during the 1940's and early 1950's, when Stalin ordered Russian spies dressed as FBI agents to kill Wayne by serving him a blueberry sandwich.

"Stalin was terrified of blueberries," commune research editor Griswald Dreck explains. "The KGB wanted to off Wayne by strangling him with piano wire or planting an explosive belt buckle in his wardrobe, but Stalin considered blueberries to be far more deadly. Needless to say, it both angered and terrified him when Wayne thought the sandwich was delicious and sent his agents out to get another one. That's when Stalin started turning to voodoo, since Wayne was obviously some kind of supernatural deity."

Unfortunately for fans of espionage humor, Stalin's various attempts to kill Wayne, including incidents involving a large safe dropped from a high-rise building and enough chili powder put in Wayne's food to cause him to butt-scoot all the way to Mexico while swearing in Spanish, came to an end with the dictator's death in 1953. Stalin was succeeded by Nikita Krushchev, a Wayne fan who bonded with the Duke (born Marion Morrison in 1907) over both of them having to act tough in spite of having really girly names.

Krushchev even met with Wayne in 1958 to reassure the star that Russia's bumbling attempts to kill him had been called off, though he did advise Wayne to be wary of Stalin loyalists who might still attempt to pillow-fight him to death. He also warned the star not to use any toothpaste that smelled like hemorrhoid cream, another common Stalin-era assassination tactic. Wayne was reportedly a little disappointed by the news, since dodging inept Russian assassins over the years had replaced golf as his favorite hobby.

Previously unpublished excerpts from Stalin's diaries indicate the many and varied fantasies the Russian leader indulged concerning Wayne's death. One of the most memorable involves a quick-draw shootout on the streets of Dodge City, where an impeccably dressed Stalin out-draws the Duke and Wayne's gun fails to fire, instead spitting out a little flag that says "ÂÄ�ÓÃ!"

For more on Joseph Stalin, Griswald Dreck recommends reading the biography "Stalin: The 'Crazier Than a Pope Streaking Through Harlem' Years" once it has been written and published.

You know me, I don't like formalities. Let's get right to what's on my mind this minute.

Do you remember in grade school, those cafeteria lunches where they used to hand out a rectangle of pizza? I never got mine.

The best thing you can do in this world is to make your enemy a friend. If you can't do that, kill his pets while he sleeps. Hopefully he'll get the message.

I dreamed I saw Joe Hill last night. Boy, that was a weird dream.

Why is that some remote controls you have to point right at the TV, and others you can point them anywhere and they work. I don't know the specifications of remote control airwaves ownership, but they should make all remote controls like that.

The world's greatest dancer is that Riverdance guy, no question. Kill him, who's left? Really?

You know, if I were to suddenly die tomorrow, I doubt any of my friends would be surprised.

If you got the chance to pick your own nickname, what would it be? Wait—don't jump the gun too soon. Remember, this will have to last you forever. Unless you change it.

I wonder why they didn't decide to call it Kraft Cheese & Macaroni. Seriously, this keeps me up at night. I'm not sleeping well.

I'm going to buy a houseboat. Then I'll get boat owner's insurance and homeowner's insurance. Then, God forbid, I get torpedoed by a lost German sub still fighting the war, I can get paid twice.

You know what I really like? Loose women.

If I could have any band write me a theme song and play it for me everywhere I go, I would choose the Ventures. You know, Hawaii 5-O. Who's better than that, you tell me?

They say loose lips sink ships, but poor hull maintenance does it just as well.

Technically, if you take some video of your nephew falling off a slide, aren't you an independent filmmaker? I believe so, but try telling that to those assholes at Sundance.

I wonder when we're going to get that technology that verifies your identity by lasering your retina, for security purposes. A lot of people have been making long-distance calls on my line lately.

I had lunch at Great Expectations the other day. It wasn't so good.

As an artist, would it personally offend you if your entire catalogue of albums was remastered? It either implies they weren't mastered correctly to begin with or they somehow got reckless over the years and needed to be reigned in. Could you go back and put a harmonica on every track, would that qualify as remastering? Or is that a remix?

Hoot. That's what my nickname would be.

Sometimes I think I'm still paying for the sins of man in the Garden. You know the Garden, that Chinese place on Fifteenth Street. I was smoking in the non-smoking section and got banned.

That's all for this presentation. I'm off to hunt cashews in the wild. I wish you the best of luck, as long as it's not mine.

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