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"You Fucking Moron" Books Target Sub-"Dummies" Demographic
John Wiley & Sons, publishers of the popular "For Dummies" series of
instructional books, announced today a new line of books that aims for those
who find even the "Dummies" series too hard to grasp. "Some people are not
comfortable accepting the label 'Dummy', said spokesman Alan Pazzi, "but
possess such low self-esteem and are so hopelessly incompetent that their
only chance of getting a even minimally complex task done acceptably is by
having books that brow-beat and humiliate them into following directions."
Included in the first set of titles are:
- This is Car Repair, You Fucking Moron!
- Think You Could Maybe Take Care of a Couple Goldfish, You Goddam Ignorant
Sack of Shit?
- Filing Your Own Tax Returns Are So Far Over Your Head, You Mouth-Breathing
Fuckwad, That You'd Be Looking Up My Ass If I Helped You With Them.
(Reported by Ishmael Alighieri)
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NBC Coverage of 2006 Winter Games Begins Next Week
NHL Cancels J. Lo's Tour
Serial Public Masturbator Spills Guts, Seed During Interrogation
Really Busy Music Critic Has It on FFW
Hockey Commissioner Mistakenly Cancels Duck Season
TORONTO (DPI) - National Hockey League Commissioner Gary Bettman
accidentally canceled duck season after getting confused
by a fast-talking representative of the player's
union. Bettman began announcing the cancellation of
the hockey season when union representative, Benoit
"Buggs" Bunet, shouted out, "Duck season!" Bettman
responded that it was the hockey season that was being
canceled, but Bunet insisted that it was actually duck
season being canceled. A stalemate appeared to ensue,
until Bunet cried out, "Hockey season! Hockey season!
I demand that you cancel hockey season!" Not to be
intimidated by Bunet's insistence, Bettman immediately
canceled duck season. Bunet later talked Bettman into
shooting himself in the face.
(Reported by Slick Sharkey)
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Riding Shotgun
With Adventure
by Ron Langston |
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Ch 43: A Bird in Hand
Kern Valley. Here, you can taste the pea soup fog, although calling it
after anything edible, however tenuously, is generous. The damp breeze
sucked in through my barely opened driver's side window held, then
surrendered, the quite tang of sweat-soaked desperation, the bitterness
of dreams viciously ratcheted downward, and the sickly sweet
habanera-jelly kick of doomed hope, ever renewed.
The miasma extends from the weather into the minds of the 250,000 people
who, more or less voluntarily, have chosen to live here, the nowhere
north of L.A. on the other end of the Grape Vine. That mental fog was
spawned by the twin bitch goddesses of Oil and Cheap Water, who
promised, but never delivered, a better life to this scrub-choked
desert. People here get by by never fully awakening from their dreams.
Fueled by a quad-shot Peet's capuccino, light foam, one raw sugar, I
was wide awake and lightly twitching. She was going to be at the Taco
Bell just south of Harris Ranch. It was a given. Her daddy had
guaranteed it as he handed over an envelope that damn well better be
stuffed with cash - I hadn't had a chance to check yet, but, hell, I
know where he lives.
She was easy to pick out of the lunch crowd of farm hands and people on
their hurried way to someplace else - polished, pretty and condescending
in a way that almost everybody mistakes for 'pleasant'. "I had to -- my
bitch sister dared me," she said, before I'd even opened my mouth. "She
said I wouldn't last a day out here." She frowned a prep-girl frown.
"She was right. Take me home." I half carried her to my rental car.
Barbara was going to answer for this, baiting her sister into this crazy
stunt. "It'll be all right, Jenna, the plane is waiting." She sat
suddenly upright. "Wait -- I forgot my chalupa!"
Next week: Ch 44 -- I Said I Want More Hot Sauce, You Cretin!
(Reported by Ishmael Alighieri)
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