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February 16, 2005

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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)

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

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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