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NOW DAILY!
Check back every weekday for updates. And spread the word!
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Sex Tourism Industry "Totally Fucked" by Tsunami
BANDA ACEH (DPI) - The Southeast Asian sex tourism industry has been
utterly devastated by the recent tsunami there, according to
the group Sex Tours International. Mike Giustini, the current
president of STI, says it may be years before the industry recovers.
"You don't just order up a new batch of kids, you know," remarked
Giustini. "It takes a while to find them." Fred Mortensen,
an American sex tourist who was staying at Ampu Muang's PP Princess
Resort when the disaster occurred, said he was amog the lucky ones who had time to
visit the whores in the famed red-light districts ringing the resort before
the tsunami hit. Said Mortensen, "I'm totally fucked, too -- but in
a good way." Former sex-trade worker Nusaphong Anaparnapang, who
smothered after he accidentally stumbled into a burial pit while attempting
to kidnap pre-pubescent children in the tiny coastal town of Meulaboh,
described himself as "totally dead."
(Reported by Brian Jones, Tristan Fabriani)
Mail-Room Worker Hailed as Football Prodigy
Austin, Tex. (DPI) - Steven "Stevie" Randolph,
Correspondence Routing Specialist for the Austin firm
Stenzel Anders & Logan, holds the distinction of being
the only person in all of North America to predict all
winners correctly in an office pool for the entire
NFL Playoffs. Where ardent followers of the NFL and
professional sports wagerers failed, Randolph triumphed
with his unorthodox prognostication methodologies. When asked
how he foresaw a stumbling 8-8 Minnesota Vikings team defeating
the red-hot Green Bay Packers, Randolph declared "Purple is pretty!"
Randolph merely stretched his arms straight out and
ran around the office making a "VROOOM!" sound when
asked about his prediction of the inconsistent New
York Jets' victory over the surprising AFC Western
Division Champion San Diego Chargers.
Randolph's streak continued through the Super Bowl,
when he not only predicted the Patriots' win, but also
went against expert opinion in guessing that Sir Paul
McCartney would trot out the worn-out chestnut Hey Jude
for his big finale.
(Reported by Carl Knorr)
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Michael Jackson Hospitalized With Cooties
New 9/11 Report: Bush Repeatedly Warned About Gay Marriage Threat
CBS Warns Shareholders It Will Restate 2003/04 News Stories
Guy Loves Skiing, Hates Snowboarders, Artificial Snow, Ski Traffic, Lift Lines, Ski Lodge Food, Other Skiers, Guys Who Take Their Unskilled Girlfriends up to the Advanced Courses to Show Off and Wind Up Blocking Everybody From Getting Through
Bug Zapped
Bad Cupid: Valetine Cards from the dark side
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Friday 11th February
They can land a probe on the moon of Jupiter, and fly explosives to pop
off on a comet going a zillion galaxies an hour, or so they claim, and yet
they -- yes, the dreaded "they" of phrase and fable, the blasted engineers
who rule our lives with an iron.... er... ruler -- cannot for the lives of
them design a roof that keeps ice dams from forming at the gutters, thus
allowing endless amounts of melted snow inside the once intractable Moth
fortress, collapsing ceilings, ruining walls, fostering house-guttering
mildew, and causing one's own personal stash of eBay-gleaned Dave Clark
Five memorabilia to be destroyed like so many sons of Adam, if that's what
I mean, in the flood. Having to talk to the insurance agent and
contractors is like a petit mort of the soul, sans climax. When I speak
to them I am animated. When they respond, they, the hounds, respond like
dead bumblebees.
Yesterday saw me leaning out the skylight, forty feet above the street,
playing a garden hose shooting hot water out onto the roof, in an attempt
to carve a way for water to actually run off it. In this I was moderately
successful, and only, in the process, caused an additional two hundred
gallons of possessions-wrecking water to enter said domicile before the
craved result was achieved. The neighbors stood in the street and stared,
jeered, pointed like a parcel of apes. A fig for them! Crawling out the
window to the second-worst ice dam, I stood, whacking away at the ten foot
icicles with a broom, my only weapon. The handle snapped. O, despair!
Thy name is on mine own sallow lips, alas! The crumbs gather apace in the
kitchen. I am a beaten man.
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