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Suspicious White Powder Turns Out to Be CocaineAuthorities relieved to see massive shipment of illegal narcotics November 12, 2001 |
El Squatro, CA Junior Bacon The police, in too big a goddamn hurry to wait for the photographer to get there
"We were awful worried at first," said Sheriff Fluff Drivel of nearby Littlehead City. "These days everyone's on edge whenever they see white powder. Hell, my wife refuses to bake anything that involves using flour right now."
Drivel's partner, Officer Roy Dither, added, "I was the one to investigate the powder itself. You remember that TV show, I think...
truck laden with hundreds of packages of a mysterious white powder attempted to cross the border here today, drawing scrutiny from the Border Patrol and local law enforcement officers concerned that it could be just the latest in a series of terrorist attacks involving Anthrax. After closer investigation, a spokesman revealed, with some relief, that the substance turned out to be simply 94% pure Colombian cocaine.
"We were awful worried at first," said Sheriff Fluff Drivel of nearby Littlehead City. "These days everyone's on edge whenever they see white powder. Hell, my wife refuses to bake anything that involves using flour right now."
Drivel's partner, Officer Roy Dither, added, "I was the one to investigate the powder itself. You remember that TV show, I think it was 'Banacek' or maybe it was 'Mannix,' that one back in the '70s? Anyway, it was just like that episode of 'The Streets of San Francisco,' where they caught that guy with the big bag of white powder, and George Peppard or Karl Malden or whoever stuck his finger in the bag, right up to his knuckle, and then tasted the powder and said 'Pure horse.' Well, I just went ahead and scooped up a big handful of the powder in question, and I was all ready to say that, to say 'Pure horse,' but before I could, my mouth had got all numb and everything, and then I was thinking about how my neighbor used to have horses when I was a kid, and he used to race them, and I used to see him giving them some white powder before the races, and that got me to thinking, well, maybe it was something else. Then I remembered how these ants used to be all over the stable where he kept the horses, these really interesting little black ants, you know, and they would just all follow each other in a big long line up the wall, and I always wondered what made them do that, and then-"
Sheriff Drivel then gently interrupted his partner with a friendly, two-handed smack to the side of the head with his baton. Officer Dither reeled off, twitching spasmodically, his arms flailing and blood streaming from his nose and ear, while Sheriff Drivel continued.
"To make a long story short, we had the powder analyzed, and it turned out that it wasn't Anthrax at all. It also wasn't 'pure horse,'" he snorted, casting a glance at his still-convulsing partner. "All it turned out to be was your plain old garden-variety cocaine, so we sent these jokers on their merry way. I can tell you, we were awfully glad to find out it wasn't Anthrax, though. We hate that kind of music down here." Look for Wallace Watermelon's award-winning volume of poetry, "Reflections on a Gift of Chutney Pickle from Myself, Since You Heartless, Soulless Bastards Never Give Me Anything," as soon as he finishes writing it, and it gets published and wins some awards.
 | Mistress Nancy New House DominatrixPeniso first female to head up The House in its long and storied history. November 12, 2001 |
Washington, DC Rip Van Bueren Senator Orrin Hatch leading his usual gaggle of underage girls on a field trip to The House
Taking over the reins from former Master David Boneya, Mistress Nancy Peniso is the first female to head up The House in its long and storied history. It's a change that she says was a long time coming, much like many of the clients.
"In today's climate of pan-sexuality, it only makes sense that we have a shared dynamic in heading up this bastion of pain and pleasure, you insignificant little worm," Peniso was quoted as saying through gritted teeth. "Now lick my patent-leather boots until they shine, slave!" she added.
Citing The House's beginnings as a strictly gay male club that specialized in infantilism and fetishes, ...
t the notorious brothel in our nation's capital known simply as The House, there's a new madam ready to crack the whip. Literally.
Taking over the reins from former Master David Boneya, Mistress Nancy Peniso is the first female to head up The House in its long and storied history. It's a change that she says was a long time coming, much like many of the clients.
"In today's climate of pan-sexuality, it only makes sense that we have a shared dynamic in heading up this bastion of pain and pleasure, you insignificant little worm," Peniso was quoted as saying through gritted teeth. "Now lick my patent-leather boots until they shine, slave!" she added.
Citing The House's beginnings as a strictly gay male club that specialized in infantilism and fetishes, Peniso went on to say that "It's about time some of those tired old sissy-Marys get their come-uppance. We're entering a new century, and S&M is the new norm. Women have a role to play, and it isn't just as submissives tied to a rack for a little light whipping, or the occasional use as a cigar humidor. From now on, these members of the old boy network will have to beg Mistress's permission to go sticking their tongues into just any old orifice that happens to present itself."
Former Master Boneya, who is moving on to become President and CEO of Glory Hole Video Booths, Inc., was moved to tears in the ritual ceremony relinquishing power to Mistress Nancy.
"This is one of the most – ow! -- pleasurable and – urf!! – painful days of my life," Boneya cried, assuming the classic submissive position and receiving a thorough caning as he passed on the ceremonial whip, ball gag and buttplug to the Mistress. "I hope she serves all you – ooooh! – slaves and bitches well. Ow, Jesus, Mary and Joseph!!"
Visibly shaken, Boneya was then led away in leather restraints while Peniso busied herself with a few hooded lobbyists and a red-hot branding iron.
"We're going to lay down some laws now, boys," she said with a twinkle in her eye and an evil grin. "The House is in session!" Boner Cunningham works both sides of the fence, but admits to a penchant for young blonde females and overripe honeydew melons. His idol is Frank, the Dennis Hopper character in "Blue Velvet," who screamed "I'll fuck anything that moves!" Mr. Cunningham, however, does not necessarily require motion.
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 April 28, 2003 Sierra Mistthe commune's Homer VanSlyke is lost in the supermarket, only not like the Clash song I for one miss the good old days when you could go to the store and know what the hell you were buying. Back then, there were two brands of everything: the kind you bought and the kind your no-class neighbors from Philly would buy because they didn't know any better. They'd save two cents and end up with garbage bags that were water soluble and dog food that was made from lawn clippings.
In those days, it was always easy to tell which brand was which. The good stuff had some smiling white guy with a butchwax haircut on the box. Nice. The other one always had a genie or some shit on it, a laughing monkey. And the crap products always had dead give-away names like Chintz or Uncle Otto's Screwjob.
Nowadays, you don't know what to buy. There are over 800 different kin...
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I for one miss the good old days when you could go to the store and know what the hell you were buying. Back then, there were two brands of everything: the kind you bought and the kind your no-class neighbors from Philly would buy because they didn't know any better. They'd save two cents and end up with garbage bags that were water soluble and dog food that was made from lawn clippings.
In those days, it was always easy to tell which brand was which. The good stuff had some smiling white guy with a butchwax haircut on the box. Nice. The other one always had a genie or some shit on it, a laughing monkey. And the crap products always had dead give-away names like Chintz or Uncle Otto's Screwjob.
Nowadays, you don't know what to buy. There are over 800 different kinds of crackers alone. I just want something to put in my mouth, I don't know if I want it stone-ground or not. And half the boxes have Catdog on them, whatever the hell that is. I don't know if that's the modern-day equivalent of the laughing monkey or not. They should've at least kept the butchwax guy on the good crackers, so we'd at least be able to tell what a Catdog means.
You can forget about buying cereal, too, unless you fancy pulling out your eyeballs through your own ass right there in the grocery aisle. Half the boxes aren't even cereal, they're boobytraps filled with leprechauns and all kinds of silly horseshit. At least the bad ones are easy to avoid, as I've never felt comfortable buying cereal from the Irish.
When I was a boy, there were two different kinds of pop: brown pop and water. And if you knew what the hell you were doing, you ordered the brown pop. Water was for the stupid kids who didn't know the difference, they gave that out so as not to waste the brown pop on idiots.
Nowadays you can go into a restaurant and just make up the name of a pop, and chances are they'll have something called that. I haven't been stumped yet, though I do enjoy the challenge. Words to the wise: steer clear of Anal Route Soda and Crampman's Best, those two colas are particularly vile.
And what in the hell is "Sierra Mist" anyway? It sounds like a bad camping euphemism for when a raccoon pisses on your car.
"Shit, it looks like a couple of jellyfish fucked all over the hood of my Omni!"
"No way dude, that's just the Sierra Mist."
"Fuck you, Kenny, next time we're taking your car."
If things keep up at this pace, in a few years we'll each have our own line of products that we're obligated to buy. That may sound like fun to you, but with my luck they'd assign me a cereal with raisins in it. And I hate raisins. Even more so than grapes.
If that's the future, you can have it. º Last Column: Dolphin Heavenº more columns | 
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Milestones1492: Christopher Columbus discovered America. Actually, it was Oct. 12, and it was really the Bahamas, so he discovered the Caribbean, and there were already lots of indigenous people there. All we know is the bank is closed today, so fuck the guy.Now HiringBuffalo Bill. We don't really have a lot of buffalo roaming around that need slaughtering or anything, but the copydesk tends to order large amounts of delivery buffalo wings and somebody has got to figure out who pays what when the guy shows up. Respond promptly, we hear a car out front.Top Justifications for Iraq War| 1. | France don't tell us we can't do something | | 2. | Saddam said California was totally gay, for real | | 3. | Thought country offered frequent invader incentives | | 4. | Kuwait had "bad feeling" about some guys along the border | | 5. | CIA had strong evidence of uncounted Florida ballots in Tikrit | |
|   commune Reporter Lil Duncan Contracts Syphilis BY squirrel robinson 12/9/2002 PLuGged UpScreamin' firecrackers were going off in my head. Pop pop pop. That's how firecrackers sound.
I literally fell out of the chair, and metaphorically threw up. I stood with a scream, a loud, "Arrrrggh!" That's what a scream sounds like. The clients grabbed me and strapped me back into the chair.
"You big gaywad," said Toro-san, the Japanese businessman who led this pack o' goons. "Fredddy Hotwire, if you can't take the heat, get out of the electronic kitchen."
Fredddy Hotwire, that's me. If you need someone to store all your memories, all your brainwaves, everything that makes you a person—that's me. I carry people's personalities in my head, like a backup disk. It's a luxury only the rich can afford, and if you're rich and dying like Toro-san, for ex...
Screamin' firecrackers were going off in my head. Pop pop pop. That's how firecrackers sound.
I literally fell out of the chair, and metaphorically threw up. I stood with a scream, a loud, "Arrrrggh!" That's what a scream sounds like. The clients grabbed me and strapped me back into the chair.
"You big gaywad," said Toro-san, the Japanese businessman who led this pack o' goons. "Fredddy Hotwire, if you can't take the heat, get out of the electronic kitchen."
Fredddy Hotwire, that's me. If you need someone to store all your memories, all your brainwaves, everything that makes you a person—that's me. I carry people's personalities in my head, like a backup disk. It's a luxury only the rich can afford, and if you're rich and dying like Toro-san, for example, it's a necessity.
Toro-san is not an old dude, he's a young dude, like me. But he's a dude that pissed off the wrong dudes, if you catch what I'm slinging, and he's about to be a dead dude. So he needs a righteous dude like myself, a memory-storage unit dude, to store all his memories until a new dude can be sacrificed to receive an overwrite of his old memory data. Dude.
I barely had a chance to get a solid breath before the doors burst open in rings of flame. It was a flamethrower, duh, held by Frankie Pyro. Pyro was a 7-foot fruitcake with nuts on top—metaphorically—who took big checks to wax anybody who got in someone else's way, and his waxing style of choice was a flame thrower. As the firespitter stepped into the room, behind him came Gyro Jim, the schizophrenic cyber-head who offed people with a rotating food processor gun. Also with them was their associate Karl. I got no beef with Karl, really, we get along alright.
"Long time no see, Fredddy Hotwire!" said Pyro.
"Your mother's a fucking bitch-whore!" I shouted to my old enemy. I like cursing.
"You won't be so silver-tongued when I cut it out of you," Gyro Jim said.
Hey! I just noticed—Pyro and Gyro. Their names rhyme. But that was the least of my problems right now. Still, pretty cool and all.
Pyro and Gyro came charging at me as I sat like a sitting duck in my duck chair, or nest or whatever. Now, I may look like hot shit, but I ain't able to take on two bad-asses at once, and Karl, whom I've got no beef with, even if I was hot shit. And I was about to become real hot shit in a second, if Pyro got me with that torch.
Just then, as opposed to much later after an ass-whipping, Toro-san stepped in the way of Pyro's torch and burst into flames. At first I thought he was being all kind and shit, and I didn't get him even a birthday card. Really, I didn't know when his birthday was, though he kinda looks like a Taurus. Probably just because his name sounds like Taurus. But no, Toro fell to the floor by my feet as his bodyguards held off Pyro, Gyro, and Karl.
"Fredddy," he groaned, words smoking off his lips as they crackled and sizzled like Canadian bacon. "You have my memories. All that's left of me is in your head now. Take care of us… get me out of here! Hello, Dolly!"
Strange last words, but the dude ran in front of a flame thrower, not the kind of guy you can easily explain. Toro-san turned his head to the side, coughed, and a penny came out. Dead.
I didn't need to be told twice, or even once, it just so happens I was ready to leave when dumbass-san stopped me to tell me with his dying words to leave. I did a triple flip out of the chair and landed behind Gyro Jim—thank DataGod for my cybernetic calf implants! I shouted a quick "hi" and "bye" to Karl on my way out, then I was on the run—to the NetDome.   |
