high school lunch room in Mattawusk, Maine got downright goofy Monday when two teen-agers killed each other in an accidental double-homicide called by witnesses, "Just too damn funny."

The two teenagers, Rupert Harvey and D. Johnny Watkins, two seniors described as "Prime wedgie material" by athletes across the school, were popular victims of practical jokes and teasing for being so unpopular. As convoluted as that statement may sound, one thing was clear--with Harvey and Watkins, sooner or later, something was going to break. Who knew it would be our funny bones?

"They came in and Watkins told everybody, 'Get down!'" said senior and witness Glenda Berman. "At which point Harvey just started to dance, doing the Running Man and then Cabbage-patching. It was so fucking funny I nearly choked. Then Watkins smacked him with his sailor hat."

Watkins, apparently the smarter of the duo, then told everybody they would die for their cruelty, at which point Watkins tried to fire the gun but the safety was on. He looked down the barrel, according to junior Darryl Hardin, who said he could barely contain his laughter since he could guess what would happen next.

"Sure enough," Hardin said, "Watkins blew his own damn head off. That shit was hilarious, I was howling for minutes. It was like Looney Tunes or something. I halfway expected the gun to say 'Acme' on it."

It was at that point, witnesses said, Harvey began to fire his machine gun in fear. The repeating weapon, aimed at the ground, was powerful enough to levitate him feet off the floor as he tried in vain to control it, much to the bemusement of the onlooking not-quite-terrified student body.

"Eventually, Harvey just shot himself in the foot," Principal Don Stewart said. "He was howling and bouncing up and down when--" Stewart took several minutes to keep from crying as he laughed even harder. "He shot Watkins again, in the balls, and Watkins, with his dying breath, tightened his grip on the trigger finger and blew Harvey's head off."

No longer able to restrain his tears, Stewart wept openly. "It was so fucking funny I shit my pants! I swear."

School shootings have steadily been on the increase since 1990, but this was by far the most hilarious incident reported. Hollywood has taken notice as well, already planning a wacky sitcom tentatively titled "Shoot the Mooks" and famed teen scribe John Hughes has reportedly been asking how old Anthony Michael Hall is now, since he would "make a perfect Watkins."

ine-year-old Carlos Montoya has been separated from his father since his mother, aunt, and maternal grandparents smuggled him and themselves across the Mexican-U.S. border in late 1999 to find work across the border. After his mother mysteriously disappeared, believe to be carted away by a pimp named Slappy, Carlos has lived with his aunt and grandparents in a dumpster outside a class in a poverty-stricken area of San Pocos, California.

And, according to Attorney General Janet Reno, Carlos has done little, if anything, to advance the American political agenda.

"I don't want to point any accusatory fingers," Reno said in a recent press conference, as she scowled at the little boy, freshly arrived for the press conference from a filthy cardboard box, "but we could sure use a lot of help with free-trade between ourselves and Mexico. Let's just say Carlos isn't doing much to help."

Reporters were quick to remind Reno the Montoya boy is only nine, but Reno made a "pffft" sound with her lips and said, "Yeah, that's a good excuse. We all know there are kids out there younger than that who are doing a hell of a lot more to help out their country. I mean, I'm not naming names... but you know what I mean."

When asked if Montoya would be returned to his father, Reno shrugged and responded, "If he wants him. Lord knows we aren't going to waste the Supreme Court's time with this matter. Hell, I wouldn't take this little sumbitch to People's Court."

Reno laughed heartily at her own remarks, then belched loudly and said it tasted like eggs.

A disturbing piece of mail has come to my attention lately, and for a change of pace, this one doesn't offer any free AOL hours.

Yes, in my Acting-Editor capacity I sometimes act like I'm opening my mail in the relative safety of my Acting-Office, otherwise known as Red Bagel's office. Usually the mail I open is addressed to the commune Editor, Editor Red Bagel, Bagel Red, Wanna-Be Colonel Sanders, Rudy Bega, Whoever Runs Your Lame-Ass Company, and variations thereof. Imagine my surprise to find a postcard addressed to Ramrod Hurley, Acting-Editor. Now imagine I study this postcard carefully, while being orally pleasured by supermodel Heidi Klum. It's not really necessary, but that's what I'm imagining so I thought we might as well be on the same page.

This postcard charmingly pictured a man holding a pile of dog feces, exclaiming in a word balloon, "Hey, look what I almost stepped in!" Immediately I was curious since I remember receiving the exact same image on a birthday card from Red Bagel last year. Indeed, this card was sent from "A desolate motel room" in Mobile, Alabama, signed by none other than our glorious leader Red Bagel. In effect, the card read:

"Ramrod: The situation is dire. Things proceed to grow more twisted and deceptive, as my unshakeable will continually nears faltering. I'm glad to see the commune is persevering in your hands even as I face an unknown fate in the bravest of ways. I wish you were beside me, instead of Sampson L. Hartwig, who snores loudly. Take heart and take pride, for though I know you would prefer stand by me in my time of need, yours is a greater role—to carry on my legacy if I fail to make it back. Godspeed, Redward Bagel."

That's what it said, in effect. In straight quotation, it read:

"Ramrod, you needledick: What the fuck have you done to my organization? I leave you alone for two goddamn seconds and you let the entire news department go to hell. Is it martial law there yet or not? You will rot in hell for eternity for what you've done to my column alone. Oh, nice job hiring that retarded Russian to write a regular column. Can you not tell when I'm joking? As of this minute I'm putting that numbnuts Raoul Dunkin in charge, and when I get back I'll show you how much I appreciate all the changes made in my absence. In the meantime I have to extract a bullet from Sampson L. Hartwig's back and fashion a temporary tourniquet. You'd better hope they get me before I can get you. Please forgive the smell of gin and unfiltered tobacco on this letter. Suck a skunk's ass, Redward Bagel.

"P.S. This postcard will self-destruct if held too close to a lit match."

This was, as you can guess, extremely alarming to me. Things had been rolling along so smoothly, the changes I implemented seem to be oiling the commune gears so well, now this: A coup attempt.

Fear not, peonic masses. Raoul Dunkin's transparent attempt to rattle my throne will not amount to anything more than a series of unpleasant assignments for a certain infamous turncoat reporter. Next week, Mr. Dunkin has the stellar position of covering the frontlines of the Iraqi-Kuwaiti border. Sure, it will be hard on died-in-the-wool action correspondent Ivan Nacutchacokov, but it's a necessary move. Not to punish Mr. Dunkin, no—if I wanted to do that I'd force him to move in with Rok Finger.

What I need is not vengeance; I need loyalty. If Raoul Dunkin can carry through with this assignment, not out of allegiance to me so much as to the commune, then I'll know I can trust him with the more important duties and assignments. In the meantime, while he's gone I'll need to figure out how he so perfectly duplicated Mr. Bagel's signature.

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