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April 18, 2005

Schiavo Zombie Fitted With Brain Tube

HELL (DPI) - The zombie of recently-dead corpse Terri Schiavo has been ordered by a Ninth-Level-of-Hell judge to be fed brain-slurry through a tube, according to the wishes of her caretaker, Blaspheme the Re-Animator. "Terri must be given the opportunity to prolong the undeath that the great Evil Lord bestowed upon her," said the nine-headed demon in a statement. According to zombie experts, the main difference between the living Terri Schiavo and the undead Terri Schiavo is the nest of bloodsucking bats living in her brain pan.

(Reported by Travis Ruetenik)

Media Returns Focus to Earth's 6.1 Billion Non-Corpses

NEW YORK (DPI) - After a heart-wrenching and tragic week involving four high-profile deaths, the world's media may want to refocus its attention on the six-plus billion humans still alive and kicking. The human family lost a high-profile lawyer, chicken-processing magnate, beloved church leader, and... ummm... Terri Schiavo in a matter of mere days, but after the grieving, there isn't much to see there. Maybe the media could turn its cameras to the rest of the world for a while. Granted, we're mostly average-looking and poor, but we are breathing. Hold on... Peter Jennings has just been diagnosed with lung cancer!

(Reported by Carl Knorr)

Prince Charles Still Fucking Tired of the Bloody Press

London (DPI) - During a photo-op before a polo match, Prince Charles expressed his continued aggravation with the press. "The bloody bastards can snog my bollocks," said Prince Charles, future King of England. "The way the beastly group of wankers follows Camilla and me about, it's enough to cause a man to go mad. The plonkers are more disgusting than the smeg dripping from my royal todger. I wish the whole bloody lot of them would bugger off." After the photo-op, the future King saddled up his new bride, the future Queen Camilla Parker Bowles, fed her a carrot stick and a couple of sugar cubes, and rode her into the stadium. During the match, spectators noticed that Prince Charles still seemed a bit pissed off because he received several warnings for slash whipping his mount. But the match ended on a good note when the Prince scored the winning goal in the final chukker. As he rode off, Prince Charles made an obscene gesture in the direction of the press corps and Camilla Parker Bowles took a dump on the playing field.

(Reported by Dan Burt)

Cheney Reveals NILF List

UNDISCLOSED (DPI) - Vice President Dick Cheney is the latest and most important public figure to found his own weblog. Easily the most interesting offering on the Vice President's blog (web address classified) to date is titled "Big Time's NILF List." NILFs (Nations I'd Like to Free) are nations which the Vice President would most relish liberating -- a list including such oppressive regimes as Sudan, Saudi Arabia and Kazakhstan. Iran, also listed, has four hearts next to its name. Afghanistan and Iraq, while still visible, are crossed out with a side notation reading, "Did her!"

(Reported by Lars Eisenberg)

Eric Rudolph Pleads Not Guilty to Box Office Bomb Gigli

Jackson Attorneys Ready "Different Strokes" Defense

New g~%gg>gg Released Under Freedom of Information Act

Defying Order, Slaw Found on Side

Crest Scientists Make Astounding Yearly Toothpaste Technology Breakthrough

Necrophiliac Confesses Inability to Resist CILF

Hey, Girls! Have You Considered Prostitution?

A guest Probeatorial
by "Shirley Sweet"

Let's face it, I love fucking. Men, women, both at the same time -- as long as I get to revel in the sensation of naked flesh rubbing against naked flesh, I am one happy girl. Now that I'm a licensed intimate service professional at the Mustang Ranch in Las Vegas, I very well could be the happiest girl in the world!

I wasn't always this happy. Back when I lived in Peoria, I was struggling to get by working double-shifts for sub-minimum wage and shitty tips as a waitress at a diner just to make the rent. On those rare occasions that I did get to go out, I wanted to get laid -- end of story -- so I'd just grab the best looking guy at the bar and ask if he wanted a date. More often than not, the nimrod would give me his phone number and say "Call me for dinner." Dinner? Like I want to spend *more* time in a restaurant? I want to fuck, John Boy!

I'm an honest person, so this courting game -- going out four or five times before "allowing" sex, forcing me to spend wads of what little money I make on different outfits and weeks of my life between dickings -- just wasn't for me. Were I to try to speed up the process, the guy would treat me like shit and call me a whore. One time I replied such a charge with "I'm not a whore! Whores get paid for it!" and a light bulb went off.

With a little research I learned that prostitution is legal and regulated in Nevada, so I packed up and moved out to Las Vegas. Within a few months I had my license, and in a few more I had earned a spot at the prestigious Mustang Ranch. The Ranch has a diverse and interesting clientele, all of which pay big money to get all up in my honeypot -- married couples looking for a little spice; wealthy playboys who can afford the best; celebrities and civic leaders willing to pay extra to keep their freakiness a secret -- and I fuck them all with joy in my soul and a smile on my oft-jizz-covered face. Sure, I ball my share of pasty middle-aged insurance salesmen, but when I make their combovers stand on end, the tips are to die for!

This is the life for me… I'm getting laid five times a day and earning about six times what I made as a waitress. If you're concerned about respect, don't be -– Mustang Ranch girls are heralded as minor deities out here. For example: the same man who regularly tipped me 63 cents for a three-egg scramble and bottomless coffee for years in Peoria without ever so much as asking my name just last week left a crisp new $50 as a tip and said "Thank you so much, Shirley" after I rammed his poop chute with my studded strap-on dildo for half an hour.

To him I say: No, thank you... and don't worry: What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. And you aren't gay if a woman does it to you, Reverend.

(Transcribed by Lars Eisenberg)

Ask Zarxnol

The premier child psychologist on his home planet
Xargolia before being called to the service of his
Warrior-God Xargol as a conqueror of lesser worlds, Zarxnol
happilly adresses the child-raising concerns of our readers.

Dear Zarxnol,

Several boys have been bullying our 9-year-old-son physically and verbally since the beginning of this school year. When he went to the principal's office in tears to report the problem, she told him that tears were not the answer and that he had to get over it -- being bullied is just part of life. She then gave our son a pillow to punch, but when he said it didn't help, she gave him a list of comebacks to use on the bullies the next time they tease him. We do not approve of this approach. What do you think?

Angered in Annapolis


Bullying has been an abhorrent facet of human behavior since time immemorial. Even in this allegedly enlightened era of human development, larger children join together into squadrons to purify the playgrounds of lesser urchins whom they deem unworthy to share in what they consider their kingdom and bounty. You may ask, Ms. Gered, why the sages of your socially retarded species have yet to correct this flaw through training, conditioning, pharmaceuticals or genetic engineering. The answer, like the loathsome race of you braggadocious bipedal buffoons, is simple: the bullies grow up to control your planet.

Every wealthy, successful human enterprise on this puny and laughable spheroid is dominated by cartels of powerful man-monkeys uniting for the purposes of eradicating, absorbing and/or assimilating their smaller and weaker challengers. This highly-praised "free enterprise" economic system that your comical race depends on thrives only when entire industries are controlled by corporate oligarchies. Your most celebrated political systems are controlled exclusively by royal families and leviathanic political parties who command nigh-infinite phalanxes of soul-sworn soldiers, be they military, religious or secular.

Ang, your race is banal. Humans are, at the core of their existence, selfish blood-lusting barbarians who love nothing more than wanton destruction. As individuals, however, they are too feeble to conquer anything more powerful than a microwave burrito and too dotterel and insipid to manage that little force at their disposal. Therefore, they join together to conquer as a group, along their paths gathering impotent human barnacles who revel in the vicarious glory of their selected master's conquests. You nauseate me, you deplorable humans! Your utter destruction at the hands of my righteous Xargolian army will be all the more delicious!

As to how I would counsel L'il Gered, squelch his fretting by imparting him the knowledge that your Annapolis shall soon be the under sole province of Zarxnol, Xargolian warrior -- and those bullies who currently fuse his Underoos with his rectal fissure will likely be the first to taste Xargol's destructive might through my sword!


Send your questions to Zarxnol at:

(Translated by Carl Knorr)

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