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March 7, 2005

Liquor Expected to Top $25 Per Gallon by Summer

WASHINGTON (DPI) - It looks to be a tough time for American drinkers when they hit the bars for the vacation season, with liquor prices poised to hit record highs. The average price for call brand liquor is currently $19.50 a gallon, about $1.50 below the all-time record hit last May, according to the American Binge-Drinkers Association. Furthermore, ABDA says liquor prices are at their highest level in months and still rising, and that light, sweet crude alcohol could get as high as $150 per barrel, up from about $96 currently. "Thanks to OPEC, it looks like U.S. drinkers will be paying new record high prices again this year," said ABDA spokesman James Beam.

(Reported by Tristan Fabriani)

Drug Trafficker's TV Career Gets Boost From Prison Stay

Bridgeport, Conn. (DPI) - Connecticut drug trafficker, Carlos Jimenez, released from prison Friday, considers his 60-month incarceration the best thing that ever happened to his television career. Flocked by reporters and photographers trailing Jimenez back to his New Haven apartment, Jimenez described his development deal with NBC for a new reality show, The Dealer, and the various magazine proposals awaiting him. "People like a survivor," Jimenez said. "A felon returning from prison to start a new life of fame and fortune is just the kind of feel good story people want to see." Jimenez later brought members of the press samples of his stash to thank them for their well-wishes.

(Reported by Slick Sharkey)

Pope Expected to Rise From Bed By Easter

Clinton Slept With Interns So Elder Bush Wouldn't Have To

Martha Celebrates Freedom With Raucous Late-Night Beating of Her Gardener

Wonder Woman's Plane Forced to Land After Colliding With Flock of Invisible Geese

Quentin Tarantino to Direct/Star In/Fuck Up C.S.I. Episode

Mounting From the Rear Is NOT Anal Sex

A guest Probeatorial
by an Offended Baboon

Given the number of photographers who for some reason seem to like nothing better than snapping hundreds upon hundreds of pictures of us baboons engaging in intercourse, I'm figuring there's hardly a human done breast-feeding that hasn't seen what baboon sex looks like. Evidently, it looks a lot like what you Homo sapiens call "butt sex."

Look, I understand you all are not the quickest primates on the savanna, but let's just get this one thing straight: I'm a male baboon, and we baboons, like the vast majority of mammals, mount our females from the rear. It's how Natural Selection worked it out -- we can procreate while keeping an eye out for predators. But trust me -- we're putting the key in the lock, as it were, no matter what your bizarre human minds may want to think we're doing.

I won't even bother asking you to explain why you would ever even want to do what you seem to think we're doing -- I learned long ago that the Homo sapien mind is way too brutal and twisted to expect a logical explanation. But we baboons are not like that at all, and I'd appreciate it if you'd clear that up in your own heads at least.

One more thing: don't knock grooming until you've eaten a few hundred ticks and fleas. Them's good eating.

(Transcribed by Ishmael Alighieri)

Friday 11th February

Monday 21st February Nerves still shot from visit to the Moder family over the weekend, to pay the first official courtesy call to Julia Roberts Moder and her lovely husband, Hildebrand, now that they have the twins, Armagiddeon and Farfignugen. The babies are blobs, as all young babies are, fair play to them, but the mother is charged with the pheromones of motherhood, if that's the term I want. Her cook, her butler, her driver, her bodyguards, her scullerymaids, parlormaids, housemaids, handyman, poolman, security guard are as quiet as can be to weather the storm that is Julia. R. Moder. She tears through the house, shrieking like a Disney villain. They try to melt into the wall, to will themselves invisible. They commend their souls to God.

"Moth, I didn't get a Godiva box from you on Valentine's Day!" she spits during the air kiss at the door. "No bouquet, not a goddamn thing." "Apologies, dearheart. I was occupied in my mind by an Argentine socialite who favors white halter tops last month. Do you not find that now that you are a mother, no one notices you? That's what my mother always said."

She said nothing in answer, but kicked her waiting manicurist off her stool as we walked by. Harder than usual. The poor woman bore it though, the feudal spirit shining through once again. Mexico must be a great place.

I was asked to hold the ghastly children. I tried to get out of it, but there it was: first one and then the other let loose a volley on the gabardined Moth shoulder. Imagine two month old macaroni and cheese in a Tupperware container put in a Cuisinart with the stuff that gathers at the bottom of trash bags after the cleanup of a riotous party. Then imagine the smell. Saville Row staggers beneath the effects of such youthful vitriol. I laughed it off with a godfatherly wave of the hand, but I am planning my revenge. The next time I visit this queen of the silver screen, I will visit the dog pound and adopt the one with the most virulent diarrhea for the day. Every Moth has his day.

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