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February 17, 2005

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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)

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)

Riding Shotgun  
With Adventure  

by Ron Langston  

Ron Langston

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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