Mike Rashoff reports from the nation's capitol on the FDA's approval of Fukitol, followed by an immediate retroactive upgrade by Moody's and S&P of its manufacturer, Fuck You PLC, eleven years after its introduction.
Fuck You have since noted that the ad campaign will be amended to delete the reference to "Job Suck?".
Meanwhile, the National Arts Council has updated Rudyard Kipling's classically obsolete Victorian exhortation, "If," as follows:
If you can start the day without caffeine,
If you can get going without pep pills,
If you can always be cheerful, ignoring aches and pains,
If you can resist complaining and boring people with your troubles,
If you can eat the same food everyday and be grateful for it,
If you can understand when your loved ones are too busy to give you any time,
If you can take criticism and blame without resentment,
If you can conquer tension without medical help,
If you can relax without liquor,
If you can sleep without the aid of drugs,
Then you, my son, are the family dog.
.
If (Manchurian Electorate Remix)
Ed Zachary's White Knuckler
Ed Zachary had just settled into his seat next to the window on the plane when another gentleman sat down in the aisle seat and had his black Labrador Retriever jump up onto the middle seat between the two men.
Ed looked quizzically at the dog, then asked the gentleman how the dog was allowed on the plane.
The gentleman explained that he was a DEA agent and that the dog was a 'sniffing dog.'
"His name is Snifter and he's the best there is. I'll show you how he does it once we're airborne."
The plane took off and once it had leveled out, the agent turned to Snifter and said, "Snifter, search!"
Snifter jumped down, strode up and down the aisle and finally sat purposefully next to a woman for several seconds.
Snifter then returned to his seat and put one paw on the agent's arm.
The agent said, "Good boy!", unwrapped a substantial piece of room-temperature Camembert from out of his coat pocket, placed it in Snifter's mouth and then turned to Ed and said, 'That woman is in possession of marijuana--I'm making a note of her seat number and the authorities will bust her ass when we land."
"Goddamn," said Ed, "what a dog!"
Again, the agent sent Snifter down the aisle on reconnaissance. The lab sniffed about, sat down beside a man for a few seconds, returned to its seat, and this time he placed two paws on the agent's arm.
The agent said: "That man is holding coke, so again, I'm making a note of his seat number and he'll be taking it up the ass in the shower room for the next 20 years, heh heh."
"I am incredibly impressed," gushed Ed.
This time the agent extracted a comely portion of Pont L'Evesque, unwrapped it, slipped it into Snifter's drooling mouth and then instructed him to search once more.
Snifter strode back and forth on the aisle for 2.6 minutes, then sat down next to a male passenger for a moment, then tore off out of the seat and came racing back to the agent, whereupon he jumped up onto the middle seat and immediately shit himself and his adjacent passengers copiously.
Ed ejaculated: "Whoa! What the fuck???"
The agent replied in a choked voice: "He just found a bomb."
Salty Conundrum
"If it were possible to cross an agnostic with an insomniac dyslexic," writes Salty Slivers, The Journal's Perfidious Albion Bureau Chief, pictured right, "would this result in someone who lies awake at night wondering if there's a dog?"
Born Hymen Ziegfeld Shapiro in 1898 to an Irish emigre family in Upper Hants, Salty Slivers was forcibly sex-changed at age 7 on the basis that it was either a clitoridectomy or else removal of both hands. Pursuant to a bad war dodging constant gunfire from members of her extended family, it graduated from King's College Cambridge where he distinguished herself by being the first woman to take a First in Fellatio. She was voted Epiglottis of the Year in 1952. Following a torrid affair with Kim Philby, during which time it starred in James Jesus Angleton's classic noir Dick Tater of the Proletariat, she hire-purchased religious conversion in 1961, going on to serve ten years in the Franciscan monastery at Gdansk, Polack where she serviced the labor movement, Solidarnosc. He lives today in the West Country of a large island off the coast of France.
Dear Diary
The Dog's Diary:
8:00am-Dog Food!!!! My Favorite Thing...
9:30am-A Car Ride!!!! My Favorite Thing...
9:40am-A walk in the park!!! My Favorite Thing...
10:30am-Got Rubbed and petted!!!!!!!! My Favorite Thing...
12:00pm-Milk Bones!!!!!!!!!!!! My Favorite Thing...
1:00pm-Played in the Yard!!!!!!!!!! My Favorite Thing...
3:00pm-Wagged my tail!!!!!!!!!My Favorite Thing...
5:00pm-Dinner!!!!!!!!!!! My Favorite Thing...
7:00pm-Got to play ball!!!!! My Favorite Thing...
8:00pm Wow! Watched TV with the people!!!!!!!!!! My Favorite Thing...
11:00pm-Sleeping on the bed!!!!!!!!!!! My Favorite Thing...
The Cat's Diary:
Day 983 of my captivity. My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength. The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape....
In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet. Today, I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrated my capabilities. However they merely made condescending comments about what a 'good little hunter' I am. Bastards....
There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was to the power of 'allergies.' I must learn what this means, and how to use it to my advantage.
Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again, but at the top of the stairs. I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches. The dog receives special privileges. He is a regularly released and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded.
The bird must be an informant. I observe him communicating with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe.
For now....
Chairman of the Editorial Waterboard
The Editorial Waterboard regrets to announce the passing of its Chairman, Nuan Prachakorn, on 16th February 2008.
Nuan was twelve (84).
Memorial services to be held into perpetuity at the Rheum Room.
The Board kindly request that, in lieu of flowers, contributions be sent to the National Rifle Association.
Near this spot
Are deposited the Remains of one
Who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
Courage without Ferocity,
And all the Virtues of Man without his Vices.
This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery
If inscribed over human ashes,
Is but a just tribute to the Memory of
Boatswain, a dog
Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803,
And died at Newstead, Nov 18th, 1808.
When some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And storied urns record who rest below:
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,
Not what he was, but what he should have been:
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master's own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth:
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on --- it honours none you wish to mourn:
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise; I never knew but one,
--- and here he lies.
The Zany Adventures of Those Wacky Kids, Bill and Hillary
Hillary calls Bill into her office one day and says, "Bill, I have a great idea. I know how we can win back middle America and secure my god-given right to be elected president in 2008."
"Well that's just great, hon. But how do urban sophisticates like us get away with taking in a bunch of stupid niggers, smelly taco-benders and honky shitheels out there in the middle of nowhere?"
"That's why I'm talking to you, Bill. You got away with it for thirty years."
"Well, you know what I always say, hon. If you can fake sincerity, you got it made!"
"That's right! So what we'll do is head out to one of those unbelievably downscale WalMarts and buy some of those really cheesy clothes and shoes like tax-paying losers out there wear. And then we'll stop at the pound and pick up a Labrador and we'll name him Ralph and throw him away afterwards like we did Socks. Then, when we look like total idiots we'll go to a broken down country bar in middle America and convince the rubes that we actually enjoy the countryside and show admiration and respect for the hard working jerk-offs living there. Now that's what I call a game plan, the fucking media are gonna eat it up--am I going to make a great President or what."
A few days later, all decked out and with the doomed Ralph in the back of the Range Rover, they set off from their country estate in upstate New York in a westerly direction.
Eventually they arrive at just the place they're looking for: Twin Oaks, TN.
With Ralph in tow they walk into the quintessentially rustic watering hole where they step up to the bar.
The bartender does a double-take and says, "Well kiss my patootie! It's Bill and Hillary Clinton!"
Hillary answers, "Yes, it's us and what a lovely town you have here. We were just passing through when Bill suggested we stop and take in some local color."
They then order two mojitos from the bartender and proceed to drink them in a totally contrived manner, all the while chatting up any local who will listen and participate in the photo op, now that the photographers have caught up and are turning the once-sheltering saloon into kindling.
All of a sudden, the bar room door opens and a grizzled old farmer stomps through the media circus and into the barroom. He walks up to Ralph the Labrador, lifts his tail and stares for a good ten seconds at the space thereunder. Then he shrugs his shoulders and walks out the door.
A few minutes later, in walks another old agrarian. He walks up to Ralph, lifts his tail and again spends several moments examining the critical zone. He scratches his head, then leaves the bar.
Over the course of the next hour or so, another four or five bucolics come into the bar and repeat the entire sequence, taking great care to examine the special canine location, then walking out of the saloon with puzzled expressions on their faces.
With the media covering all this with the usual zeal, Hillary and Bill can stand it no longer and call the bartender over.
"Tell me", says Hillary, "Why are all those old farmers coming in to look under the dog's tail like that? Is it some sort of local custom? The media are getting on this like flies on shit, just what we were hoping for, and we'd like to know if you'll agree to be interviewed on camera."
"No problem," says the bartender.
Whereby one of the more terminally perky correspondents on the scene gets set up with the lights and dutifully repeats Hillary's question to the bartender: "Why are all the old farmers coming in to look under Ralph's tail? Is it another charming local custom that those zany Clintons have discovered?"
"Oh no," replies the bartender on camera. "It's just that I sent all the local farmers an e-mail and told 'em to get down here as soon as possible, there was a Labrador Retriever in here with two assholes."
The Ballad of Turner Brown
From the viewpoint of the interdisciplinary investigator into the phenomenon of Transpastic Analysis™, the impact of aluminum foil on the apocryphal career of David Marvin Mailer, shown right, cannot be over- emphasized.
Indeed, an entire branch of criminal forensics, Aluminical Turpitude, is now devoted to this curious variation on ABM™ (Aggravated Bestial Metallicism) and was recently featured on an episode of CSI Miami ("Votre Chien, Mon Amour").
Many is the unfortunate canine in particular--although other species are by no means out of danger--which, caught from behind, as it were, in a public park only finds itself suddenly enveloped in an entire roll of Reynolds Wrap™, hustled off to a remote corner of an obscured area covered in shrubs, thence to be sexually abused without mercy or quarter, Mailer all the while singing "Are You Lonesome Tonight?" in a clear Irish tenor, piercing the chill night air.
Skinny little white guy walks into the elevator, looks up and sees this unbelievably huge black guy standing next to him.
The big guy sees the little guy staring at him, looks down and says: "Seven feet tall, 350 pounds, 20-inch shillelagh, three pound balls, Turner Brown."
The little guy faints and collapses to the floor.
The big guy kneels down and, shaking him, finally brings him to.
"What's wrong with you?" inquires the big guy.
In a weak voice the little guy says, "What exactly did you say to me?"
The big dude says: "I saw the look you gave me and figured I'd just give you the standard answers to the questions everyone always asks me: I'm seven feet tall, I weigh 350 pounds, I have a 20-inch shillelagh, my balls weigh three pounds each and my name is Turner Brown."
The small guy says: "Turner Brown?"
"Yeah."
"Holy Jesus," says the little guy, "I thought you said 'Turn around.'"
The Purina Diet
I was in Wal-Mart buying a large bag of Purina for my dog, Cinder.
While I was waiting in line to check out, the woman behind me asked if I had a dog....
I heard something snap inside my skull so on impulse, I told her No, I was starting the Purina Diet again although I probably shouldn't because last time I'd ended up in the hospital but that I had lost fifty pounds before I'd come to in the intensive care unit with tubes coming out all my orifices and IV's in both arms.
The woman's peculiar eyes bulged out of her dough face.
She was totally buying the health angle so I told her it was an easy, inexpensive diet and that the way it works is to load your pockets or purse with Purina nuggets and simply eat one or two every time you feel hungry. The package said the food is nutritionally complete so I was going to try it again, I needed to lose the weight.
Horrified, the woman asked if I weren't taking a big chance--if something in the dog food hadn't poisoned me with the result I'd ended up hospitalized.
Not at all, I replied. I'd been sitting in the middle of the street licking my dick when a Buick hit me.
The Cat Who Stuttered
A teacher was explaining biology to her 4th grade students.
"Human beings are the only animals that stutter", she said.
A little girl raised her hand. "I had a kitty-cat who stuttered," she
volunteered.
The teacher, knowing how precious some of these stories can become, asked the girl to describe the incident.
"Well," she began, "I was in the back yard with my kitty and the Rottweiler that lives next door got a running start and before we knew it, he jumped over the fence into our yard!"
"That must've been scary!" exclaimed the teacher.
"It sure was," said the little girl.
"My kitty raised his back, went 'Fffffff,Fffffff, Fffffff, Fffffff'...and before he could say "Fuck," the Rottweiler ate him!"
Disease of the Year: CM
Stop the presses. We are just receiving word from Captain Organ....
Lazies and bubblegum, after fourteen minutes of intense debate, UMNO (Unauthorised Malaysian Nocturnal Orgasm) have officially designated 1958 as The Year of Canine Misogyny(CM)!
As dogs are haram, it will come as no surprise that mutts return the favor--in the female case--via the hundesreakzion pictured below.
N.B.: Male Bumiputera fall under the canine category of fire hydrant.
Jocop Factoid: Captain Organ is the first man since Sir Stamford Raffles to walk into a barber shop on the Malayan peninsula and ask for a hair-cut.
Get a Dog
Padraic O'Cossett is a son-of-a-bitch. That is to say, a real son-of-a-bitch--of actual canine genetic extraction. He's not saying which side of the family. But you can see it for yourself in a New York minute if you're ever with him in a parking lot. He will drop trou, assume the doggy position and make his way down a row of SUV's. He'll whiz on a bladder's worth of Goodyears faster than the Commander-in-Chief exiting the Worst President in History Awards Banquet.
Paddy sent these in....
Ever notice how people increasingly spend less time with other people. And more time with their dogs?
Ever wonder why?
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