Bureaucratic Genocide: Iowa Politicians Attempt to Kill Off Elders with Acronym

The Iowa Assembly has set the stage for an epic battle-to-the-metaphoric-death between the state’s elderly population and the up-and-coming elected power mongers. Fearing the Elders may usurp their power, Iowa Lawmakers approved a bill changing the state’s Department of Elderly Affairs (DEA), not to be confused with the fed’s Drug Enforcement Agency, to the Department of Aging – or more aptly Dead on Arrival (DOA).

Recently appointed Head of D.O.A., Will T. Corpse, moves into new office in State Coroner's basement

Recently appointed Head of D.O.A., Will T. Corpse, moves into new office in State Coroner's basement

Despite the age-old prophecy espoused by the Blind Prophet, Iowametheus, that one day a group of power-hungry legislators, armed with a deadly acronym, will rise up and destroy the Elders, the latter refuses to relinquish their walkers and allow their power to be usurped.

Masking their true intentions, Des Moines Democrat Rep. Janet Petersen, 38, claimed that the move was needed, because some people don’t like the word “elderly.”

And they would prefer being labeled DOA?

WTF?

BTW: What’s in an acronym?

When the slang acronym WTF? (What The F*CK) started popping up on e-mail and text messages, neither the World Turkey Federation or World Taekwondo Foundation caved in and changed their acronym to alleviate any confusions on behalf of the acronym-challenged. Ironically, this was not the case with the World Wrestling Federation, which threw in the white towel to its arch nemesis, the World Wildlife Foundation, which threatened to sue them after people had a hard time differentiating between George “The Animal” Steele and a Canadian black bear.

"Please Don't Feed or Recesitdate Black Bears. -- Canadian Park Rangers (CPR)"

"Please Don't Feed or Recesitdate Black Bears. -- Canadian Park Rangers (CPR)"

During my formative years, I had the deepest respect for my Elders, thanks to the ‘70s television shows “Kung Fu” and “Shazam!” The only reason I wanted to be a Shaolin monk like Kwai Chang Caine and go on adventures was so I could spiritually evolve and become an Elder and give young, apprentice monks names like “Grasshopper,” or “Dung Beetle.”

In second grade when my hack optometrist diagnosed me with a severe stigmatism and prescribed lenses that looked like the bottoms of Coca-Cola bottles (hence the nickname “Coke Bottles Lindsey” at swim camp), I knew I had taken my first step into a larger world. Everyone knows if you want to be a credible prophet or a wise elder, you have to be blind, for it is written in the LARGE PRINT BOOKS.

And the only reason I wanted to be Shazam, other than probing the Elders for infinite wisdom and yelling “Shazam!” every time I needed a magic lightning bolt boost to fight evil or kick-start me after my afternoon cat nap, was so I could get into Isis’ pants.

Oh zephyr winds which blow on high,
Lift me now, so I can fly
With Almighty Isis to a motor lodge, nearby.

Come fly with me as the crow flies, Isis...

Come fly with me as the crow flies, Isis...

Unfortunately, I think it was the high frequency of impure thoughts such as these that helped kill any future as a prophet or wise elder, pounding the final nails into my coffin labeled with big, black stenciled letters spray-painted on the side: D.O.A.

Top Ten Bernie Madoff Tips for Investing (An Exercise in Futility)

For a cool $50 billion, Bernie Madoff managed to buy Satan's vacated seat in hell

For a cool $50 billion, Bernie Madoff managed to buy Satan's vacated seat in hell

Unlike trying to find a consistent pattern in winning Powerball lottery numbers, the Late Show’s Online Top Ten Contest winners have become increasingly more predictable in recent weeks. All of the Big Three — Joaquin Phoenix, Paul Blart, and Bernie Madoff – reared their heads in last week’s winning list.

However, I am starting to think the Top Ten Contest, like the Powerball, is rigged. Everyone knows that Big Brother created and rigs the Powerball Lottery to keep the masses distracted from perpetual metaphoric wars, covert and otherwise, and to pump a steady stream of hope into the poor masses — so they don’t rise up and overthrow the government. Duh…

Following suit, Letterman’s producers created the Top Ten Contest to give online readers the illusion that CBS actually cares what we think, or in my case, feeding my illusions of grandeur that one day Letterman’s people will discover me and offer me a job writing for the “Late Show.”

Last week, I incorporated two-thirds of the Big Three in my list of possible entries for the topic, “Top Ten Surprising Items in the Economic Bailout Plan,” but did not submit either one of them to the official contest. Instead I submitted the only vote-getter: “All banking CEOs get to pass Go and collect $2 million, split Free Parking pot and will receive one get-out-of-jail-free card.”

Fast forward to this week, and I refuse to be tempted by the Big Three, however, I have no choice this week since the list’s topic is an homage to Bernie Madoff. Moreover, I’m unwilling to let go of my illusions of grandeur, for this is what compels me to get out of bed every morning – at least I think it’s a bed.

Due to the recent demise of voter turnout among SSF readers, my quest to win the Holy “Online Late Show” t-shirt has devolved from an obsession to an exercise-in-futility. That said, here’s my top-ten list of possible entries to this week’s Top Ten contest. Once again, I’m soliciting your help – or not. I’ve written ten possible entries for this week’s list, and it’s up to you to help me select the CHOSEN ONE from the list (for I can only submit one) that you think has the best chance of winning.

Just think, with your help, all of this could be mine

Just think, with your help, all of this could be mine

This week’s list: Top Ten Bernie Madoff Tips for Investing

10. It takes other peoples’ money to make money

9. Buy stock in prisons

8. Everything I know about investing I learned from Jim Cramer on CNBC’s “Mad Money”

7. When the Feds come a knockin, start flushin’ the stock down

6. Screw Amway, think Ponzi

5. Avoid brokers with un-fortuitous names like Les Steele, Ben Had, or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named

4. When SEC’s not looking, switch Invisible Hand with Invisible Monkey’s Paw

3. Buy low, sell often

2. Trade all shares labeled “Made in USA” for shares labeled “Owned by China”

1. Send me a check for $10,000, and I will send you the real top ten tips

Don’t forget to indicate (in the Comments) which ONE of these I should submit to the Top Ten Contest.

Spring Forward: Daylight Savings Next Casualty in Economic Downturn

The Clock Also Rises

The Clock Also Rises

In states that still participate in Daylight Savings, which may soon be nationalized by the federal government if Americans continue to lose confidence in daylight and are reluctant to spend their time, everyone bemoans the loss of an hour – namely because they could have used the hour to reset all the clocks in the house.

But seriously, what would they have done any differently had they had that extra hour this weekend? I’m sure if we conducted a family-feudal survey, the survey’s number one answer would be: sleep. Of course this assumes that those surveyed do not have children or milk cows, whose biological clocks resist man-made cosmic alterations in the Timexian universe. By the time these biological clocks are completely recalibrated, it will be time to “Fall Back.”

In Iowa the designated witching-hour to either spring forward or fall back centers the 2 a.m. bar-closing time, thus clearing up any confusion among alcohol peddlers as to when they should stop nursing the drunks passed out at the bar. The delayed time-switch also provides the lonely beer-goggle populace an extra hour to lose even more focus as they zero in on their intended target, preferably the one in the middle – even though they’ve only locked in on one target.

Local drunk attempts to pull back clock's big hand to extend bars' "last call"

Local drunk attempts to pull back clock's big hand to extend "last call"

So why do we still have Daylight Savings, which allows Mother Nature’s invisible hand to unhinge our time-structured world without any government oversight and/or transparency? Better yet, what are some of the advantages and disadvantages of Daylight Savings and the age-old prospect of Springing Forward?

ADVANTAGES:

Less time for our Do-Nothing Congress to do less of nothing

More daylight in the evening to watch your new Plasma television

Provides excuse to take off for lunch an hour earlier or justify extending your afternoon cat nap: “Really, it’s an hour later, so…”

Get your newspaper an hour earlier, so your metabolism can get a jump start digesting all of the depressing news

Milk cows, whose teats aren’t prematurely pulled, are less likely to conspire with the pigs and the horses in overthrowing the Animal Farm and/or the government

DISADVANGAGES:

More time for the GOP-arm of our Do-Nothing Congress to obstruct Congress from doing less of nothing

If you die before ‘Fall Back,” you’ll be robbed of an hour of precious life, assuming every hour of your life is not already preciousssssssssss…

More daylight in the evening to shed even more light on the melancholic faces of those folks who have lost their jobs, homes, dignity, or thought injecting botulism into their foreheads ten years ago seemed like a good idea at the time

More time for Rush Limbaugh’s shadow to eclipse the sun, especially after he has succeeded in fully consuming the GOP

Insomniac’s more likely to join Fight Club, but we’ll never really know, because the first rule of Fight Club is never talking about Fight Club (looks like my membership has just been revoked; now what Tyler?)

Fear and Exploding in the Real World: THIS IS NOT A BILL

Caution: contents may be hazardous to your health

Caution: contents may be hazardous to your health

Despite Therapist Bob’s new-age psychotherapy treatments, my fear of mailboxes returned last week. Albeit this fear may be irrational, since it’s not mailboxes themselves that I’m afraid of, rather what’s in them is what scares the living bejesus out of me.

Sometimes I feel blessed having stepped foot into the real world — leaving behind 18 imagined years of pain and suffering, frustrations stemming from having been exiled from the real world, a desire to run for the mere sake of running, a steady supply of hormonal Molotov cocktails calibrated by some sadistic power to go off at the most inopportune times (e.g. teacher calls on me to solve pi on the chalk board or stand up and give an impromptu speech on egg fertilization), and a misguided faith that the Cubs will one day win the World Series.

What a long, strange trip from the womb it’s been. Thank Flying Spaghetti Monster I had enough sense to wake up from this dream in time to register for the Selective Service on my 18th birthday.

Other times I regret having made the descent into the real world, especially when I’m shadowed and stalked by William (a.k.a. Bill) since my descent into the real world. Now the good William works in mysterious ways, often times sending out reconnaissance patrols to prepare intended targets for the eventual knock-out blow. He makes this clear with emboldened letters at the top of his message: “This is Not a Bill.” Not yet, anyhow.

Last week I received one of these non-Bills in my mailbox sandwiched between a stack of real Bills, which somehow, like me, managed to survive the imagined world. The difference between us, however, is that William survived adolescence with the express purpose of wreaking havoc on my reality, forcing me to long for the nostalgic pre-real world days.

The non-Bill in question was from my health insurance provider, Wellmark BlueCross Blueshield of Iowa and the heading of the recon-message read in all caps:

PREMIUM CHANGE NOTICE

THIS IS NOT A BILL

Given what the first paragraph said, the heading should have read:

BE PREPARED TO BE GREASED, WHACKED, OR SLOWLY BLED TO DEATH VIA WOODCHIPPER IN THE NEAR FUTURE

Welmark actuary caught on film crunching more numbers in woodchipper to help justify exponential premium increases

Welmark actuary caught on film crunching more numbers in woodchipper to help justify exponential premium increases

The Health-Insurance Syndicate wants to raise my monthly premium 17.3 percent from $529 to $629. My initial thought was that this was some sort of April Fools’ Day joke, since the effective change date is April 1. What reputable, LEGAL business can jack their price up 17 percent and still stay in business during an economic crisis? Reputability aside, the Big Health Insurance and Big Pharma are the only industries that can pull this off, while our employers, The Big Three Branches of Government, haggle over policy proposals as their bosses sit by and watch our savings accounts bleed to death, one painful payment at a time.

I plan on sending my Senators a letter voicing my concerns about the health industry’s price gouging and using the following heading:

PROFITTING FROM HUMAN MISERY IS IMMORAL

THIS IS NOT A THREAT

But my fear of mailboxes did not initially manifest with William’s Army, rather it stems back to 2002, when the community I lived in became a target for the “Smiley Face” piper bomber. In 2002, while living on a farm outside the small town of Tipton, Iowa, Luke Helder, 22, planted pipe bombs in peoples’ mailboxes. When later captured in New Mexico, Helder admitted to the terrorist crimes and said he did it, because he was angry at the the government.

To show his anger, Helder ironically planted pipe bombs across the country in a ‘smiley face’ pattern. Tragically, a bomb did explode in the face of one of the Tipton locals, Delores Werling, 70, who received third-degree burns. For the next week or so, we had to leave our mailboxes open at all times, thus ensuring nobody had tampered with them. Helder never stood trial for his deeds, because the courts labeled him mentally incompacitated.

Not only did this incident exacerbate my fear of mailboxes, but it led to my irrational fear of smiley faces. While I refuse to shop at Wal-Mart for several reasons, their smiley-face symbol helped solidify my self-exile from the Epicenter of Cheap Crap and Labor Exploitation. Moreover, I’m reluctant to go and see the new “Watchmen” film because of the smiley-face symbol with blood dripping from its forehead. Forget about all the violence, rape, and immoral activities in the graphic novel version, it’s the damned smiley face that will keep me away from seeing the comic unfold on the big screen.

Who is watching the Watchmen watching our mailboxes?

Who is watching the Watchmen watching our mailboxes?

While so many other Americans ensnared in the current economic crisis are afraid to open their Bills or investment updates, I imagine mailbox phobia is growing exponentially. If I weren’t one of them, I guarantee I would start my own mail-opening business and serve as the middle-man between the victim and the impending financial blow waiting to spring out of the envelop like a jack-in-the-box. Don’t worry, mom; I would wear a helmet.

But what I’m really wondering now is: If a mailbox phobia, like planting bombs in shape of smiley face, is a legitimate mental health issue and I never opened my mail, do I really ever have Bills?

I guess there is only one way to find out (sinister laugh here)…

mailbox-overstufffed

Top Ten Surprising Items in the Economic Bailout Plan

Uncle Sam's New Improved Economic Bailout Plan: Just add more tax $$$ (drowning CEO stooges sold separately)

Uncle Sam's New Improved Economic Bailout Plan: Just add more tax $$$ (drowning CEOs sold separately)

Looks like it’s politics-as-usual over at David Letterman’s Online Top Ten Contest Headquarters. The Paul Blart Mall Cop lobby has influenced this week’s winning entries once again by sleeping outside of its Hollywood caste and slummin’ with the independent film “Slumdog Millionaire.”

Paul Blart reared his head at the No. 3 spot in last week’s list, “Top Ten Things Overheard at the Academy Awards,” with “Just read my new script. It’s called ‘Slumdog Mall Cop.'” Moreover, the Online Top Ten Contest lists of the Late-Show past have seeped into one another as Joaquin Phoenix and Christina Bale made cameo appearances, proving once again that negative campaigning does work.

I took the Slumdog route and submitted “Who let the Slumdogs out? Woof! Woof!,” but to no avail.

I defy you Paul Blart!!!

Due to the recent demise of voter turnout among SSF readers, my quest to win the Holy “Online Late Show” t-shirt has devolved from an obsession to an exercise-in-futility. That said, here’s my top-ten list of possible entries to this week’s Top Ten contest. Once again, I’m soliciting your help – or not. I’ve written ten possible entries for this week’s list, and it’s up to you to help me select the CHOSEN ONE from the list (for I can only submit one) that you think has the best chance of winning.

Just think, with your help, all of this could be mine

Just think, with your help, all of this could be mine

This week’s list:  Top Ten Surprising Items in the Economic Bailout Plan

10. Billboard-sized cardboard check from taxpayer’s checkbook with “Screwed Over Again” written in Memo

9. Finance Attorney’s General to prosecute the Invisible Hand

8. Advance to write next 9 sequels of the Economic Bailout Plan

7. All banking CEOs get to pass Go and collect $2 million, split Free Parking pot and will receive one get-out-of-jail-free card

6. Billion-dollar endowment to the Electoral College

5. Salaries for The Watchmen to oversee how bailout money is spent

4. In honor of Joaquin Phoenix, increased funding for Hollywood actor relocation program

3. Funding to reinstitute Wampum as national currency

Show me the wampum! Get your bling (see above) on...

Show me the wampum! Get your bling (see No. 3) on...

2. Six-figure writing fellowship awarded to former Illinois Gov. Blagojevich to pen his memoir

1. Money for people who ACTUALLY need it

Don’t forget to indicate (in the Comments) which ONE of these I should submit to the Top Ten Contest.

Irony Happens: Just Say Know to Bumper Stickers

ironic-bumper-sticker

For some of us, the cars we drive define who we are, but it’s what people slap on their bumpers, hang from their rearview mirrors or mount in their rearview windows that reveal the soul behind the wheel of the exterior shell.

Unlike people who literally give their cars names, as if christening them will guarantee lower gas mileage or help them meet other cars in parking ramps, I refuse to forge emotional attachments to objects that are, one day, guaranteed to break down on me. Besides, objectifying cars is wrong.

If asked whether my car has a name or not, my standard response is “Oh sure, I call it ‘Piece of Crap.’” Not only do I not give my cars a name, but I refuse to buy a used car that has been named by the previous owner – a life-lesson I picked up from Stephen King’s cautionary tale “Christine.”

To be honest, I don’t really care what kind of car someone is driving, just as long as they’re not in front of me, driving 10 miles under the suggested speed limit. However, from a pop psychology standpoint, I am intrigued by the accessories people choose to adorn to their cars, especially when the added fixture is ironic when juxtaposed to the car and/or the car’s captain.

Take for example the other morning when I was one my way to work and the car in front of me was sporting a “Rednecks for Obama” bumper sticker. Not only did I find the sticker’s slogan itself a wee bit ironic, but the fact that it was slapped on a Volvo screamed irony. This is even more ironic, when considering that I live in Iowa City — a university town known for its liberal populace and dubbed “The Peoples’ Republic of Johnson County” by politicos across the Heartland. So the prospect of seeing a bonafide redneck driving around in broad daylight is rare and usually triggers campus security to declare an emergency and put the campus in lockdown mode.

Speaking of liberals, last July I moved into a neighborhood considered one of the most liberal bastions of Iowa City. I knew we would have trouble assimilating when I soon discovered we were the only ones on our side of the street, who are not in a band. Because we didn’t go through a realtor, we managed to fly under the Bohemian radar undetected. To help compensate for my musical ineptitude I started this blog, hoping this alone would be enough to keep the neighbors distracted, so they wouldn’t get suspicious when they didn’t hear me rehearsing for my next gig.

Moreover, our move was in the middle of the presidential campaign and we were thrust into the middle of a sign war. All of our neighbors had either anti-war or pro-peace signs in their yards, and I imagined when they talked about us, their conversation started off something like this:

Neighbor One: Have you met the new neighbors?

Neighbor Two: You mean the ones without an anti-war sign in their yard?

Needless to say, in lieu of having the faulty wiring redone, we had a security system installed – just in case Obama lost the election. In the meantime, I knew we needed to put a sign in our yard, but I was on the fence as to which route to take – pro-peace or anti-war? So I compromised by making own sign, plagiarizing a slogan from “Dr. Strangelove”: “Peace is Our Profession.”

Order your very own yard sign now (armed soldier not included)

Order your very own yard sign now (armed soldier not included)

Just to give you a sampling of the types of bumper stickers you would see in my neighborhood, one neighbor has a “I’d Rather Be Playing Scrabble” sticker on his pickup truck, while the neighbors across the street from us don an “I’m Pro-Accordion & I Vote” sticker on their station wagon.

This is a stark contrast to the blue collar neighborhood I lived in Grants Pass, Oregon ten years ago. My downstairs neighbor, who we hypothesized, based on the rancid, dead carcass burning smell that piped through our heating vents periodically, was making meth in his kitchen, had a truck that was steeped in ironic accessories. He parked his fully-loaded, black Dodge Ram next to my fun-size Volkswagon Golf. On some occasions, after a night of bar hopping and off-roading in the Oregon thicket, he parked in my spot — his truck serving as a makeshift carport for my Golf.

His truck was equipped with the naked lady mudflaps (speaking of which, I’m in the process of unleashing naked men mudflaps, trademark pending, to tap into the female and gay trucker target market), a chain adornment around his license plate, and not one but two “No Fear” stickers. The implicit irony of the “No Fear” campaign has never been lost on me, given those who truly possess no fear would not have to advertise this to the external world. This type of insecurity can be seen in doubting Christians, who sport crosses around their necks or tattoo their temples with crosses to let the world know they’re believers while simultaneously giving God a symbolic shout out – just in case the Almighty may have missed a beat on His watch.

So what are you afraid of, really?

So what are you afraid of, really?

What pushed my neighbor’s truck over the ironic edge is that he had a once-sacred Indian Dream Catcher hanging from his rearview mirror, thus warding off any evil spirits that might invade his dreams while sleeping. Why people are sleeping while driving is beyond me, unless the intent is to protect daydreams from evil spirits. But aren’t you supposed to be in control of your daydreams? Maybe the Dream Catchers serve as nocturnal car alarms that keep the cab safe while its master slumbers in the house.

Now don’t get me wrong, Iowa City, despite its insulated liberalism, is far from being immune to the fringe element of society that makes people watching a more interesting hobby and legitimate pastime. One of the most bizarre bumper stickers I’ve seen in town was one that read “Necrophilia: Never Too Late to Pop a Cold One.” I’ll admit that I did burst out laughing when I first saw this sticker, namely that somebody would actually buy it, let alone put it on their car, which in this case was a mini-van. I sped up to pass the vehicle, just so I could get a look at the twisted man commandeering the van.

Much to my shock and subsequent horror, a stereotypical soccer mom was driving and there were empty kids seats strapped in the back, as if she had just dropped the kids off at day care on the way to sleep with dead corpses. As a parent of three, I was dumfounded and hoped that she was borrowing the van from a relative who was serving a stretch in prison for public indecency and fornicating with the deceased.

Either way, it was this particular moment that I felt I truly did “Know Fear.”

25 Random Things About Me That Will Secure My Spot in Hell

Therapist Bob was not convinced that I had kicked my addiction to virtual chain-letters that he forwarded me the following e-mail message to test my resistance:

Subject: FW: Bedfellows in Hell

Message: Face it, sooner or later we are all going to hell, so we may as well accept what we cannot change and revere our impending descent. But before all of us can get chummy down below while roasting marshmallows for Satan’s S’mores, we should break the ice by sharing 25 random things about ourselves that helped secure our place in Satan’s belly. With that in mind, comb through your tainted past and write out your own list and forward it with this message to 25 fellow heathens. Failure to do so will break the chain, thus guaranteeing you table-turns at the front of the burn-in-hell line.

Your BFF,
Satan

Lucifer (aka The Devil, Satan, Dick Cheney) strikes Thinker pose as he ponders his 25 Random Things list

Lucifer (aka The Devil, Satan, Dick Cheney) strikes Thinker pose as he ponders his 25 Random Things list

Damn you, Therapist Bob! You know me too well.

Unable to resist, I started transcribing all the files on my mental rolodex labeled under “See You in Hell,” “The Art of Blasphemy,” Partially Nude Photos — New Kids on the Block,” “Crossroads,” “You and Me and the Devil Make Three,” and “Crime Scene Tapes.” Once this monumental data purging was completed, I had the computer select 25 Random Things About Me That Will Secure My Spot in Hell.

hell-sign-2

(Note: since the following list is completely random, they are in no particular order, nor is the backward countdown intended to be symbolic of my descent into hell.)

25. Petitioned to have the Seven Deadly Sins framed and mounted next to the Ten Commandments when I was in Junior High.

24. I made a Faustian pact at the Crossroads bartering my soul for a career in comedy writing, and all I got out of the deal was this goddamn blog.

23. During my brief sojourn in church as a child, I managed to steal another kid’s Bible, because I had left mine at home and didn’t want to get into trouble.

22. The Rolling Stones’ “Sympathy for the Devil” is my default ringtone.

21. In a satirical column, I accused God of being a Deadbeat Dad for immaculate conceiving His son Jesus, pretty much abandoning him at birth, and despite his Almighty powers, stood by and watched his very own creations crucify his son.

20. Bookmarked Dante’s “Inferno” on MapQuest.

19. Believe the Christian Right is oxymoronic and look forward to the day of reckoning when it cancels itself out.

18. Even though I don’t have a religious bone in my body, I plan on giving up Responsibility for Lent this year.

17. First cassette tapes I ever bought were The Bee Gee’s “Tragedy” & AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell.” Although vastly different in style and delivery, their underlying messages foreshadowed the beginning of the end for me.

16. Using the Lord’s name in vain (see No. 24).

15. Vowed I would never go to heaven after hearing “In heaven there is no beer” song at UI Hawkeye football game.

14. I have yet to cast the first stone…

13. Mark Twain’s “Letters from the Earth” — a book told through Satan’s point of view and observations about man — convinced me that Heaven is the last place I would want to spend my twilight years. Satan’s right, who would want to spend eternity living in abstinence and strumming a harp all day long as a means of relieving pent up sexual tension. No thanks, I prefer a feisty fiddle in hell any day of the week – including Sundays.

12. Started new category (see list on right) completely devoted to Blasphemous Satire.

11. Impersonated a Mormon for five hours during Army Basic Training, so I wouldn’t get yelled at by the Drill Sergeants for getting on the wrong bus. Spent all morning faking Mormonism in small classrooms at a civilian church off post, until they herded us into the church and had an hour-long community confessional. People took the microphone and spilled their guts for recent sins.

10. The only reasons I went to church service in Basic Training in the first place wwere to get out of bathroom cleaning duty, find a secluded place to sleep without getting caught, and the opportunity to ogle civilian women.

9. During Mormon open confessional, I had several impure thoughts about group of high school girls who confessed to drinking alcohol at a recent football game. (I was thoroughly disappointed when their confessions ended with that.)

8. I prefer listening to my Led Zeppelin reel-to-reel tapes backwards.

7. My eighth-grade English told me so, and if anyone has a direct pipeline to hell, it’s her.

6. I’m still convinced that Eve was framed in the Garden of Eden scene by a second serpent who ate the forbidden fruit on the grassy knoll, upon realizing that he and Eve were not sexually compatible and never would be.

5. My favorite movie feel-good movie is “The Omen.”

4. Pulled prank in high school involving the abduction of Baby Jesus from neighbor’s nativity scene and left traditional ransom note (letters from newspaper cut and pasted the old-fashioned way) that read: “REPENT ALL SINS IMMEDIATELY — IF YOU EVER WANT TO SEE JESUS AGAIN!”

3. Recently accepted the Flying Spaghetti Monster as my personal Savior.

2. I keep my Bible, the one I didn’t steal, on the Historical Fiction shelf of my personal library — sandwiched between Homer’s “The Odyssey” and George Orwell’s “1984.”

1. Going public with this list of blasphemies – assuming of course that I don’t convert to Catholicism anytime soon — which would make this list my inaugural confession, thus absolving me.

Remember to copy and paste this list in an e-mail message, write your own, and forward it to 25 fellow heathens.

Thanks and see you in hell.

Top Ten Things Overheard at the Academy Awards

oscar-trophy

Okay, so David Letterman’s little Online Top Ten Contest duped me into watching the 81st Academy Awards Ceremony in its entirety, so I could comb through over three hours of material for this week’s category (see title). Granted I could think of worse research assignments — say sifting through the thousands of entries submitted every week to the Top Ten Online Contest. Somebody has to do the dirty work nobody else wants to do, eh?

Besides, that’s why God created interns in the first place. Just ask His fleet of interns scattered across the globe, who serve the Boss Man their entire lives, hoping one day they’ll get promoted and moved to an upstairs’ office — preferably the one with the leather chair and giant picture-window overlooking the entire kingdom.

Speaking of higher callings, my quest, or obsession in Therapist Bob’s eyes, to obtain the Holy “Late Show Online” t-shirt fell short yet again last week. Undaunted, however, I am starting to see some patterns emerge among past winners. For example, Bernie Madoff and Paul Blart: Mall Cop have reared their heads on multiple occasions, so I plan on casting them in cameo roles in my list this week.

The Oscar ceremony, for the most part, was a real yawner and felt like a latter-day Robert Altman film – a three-hour film chalked full of stars but never really goes anywhere (e.g. “Ready to Wear”). The definitive moment of the evening was when Sean Penn pulled the mild upset by beating out Mickey Rourke for Best Actor and used his speech to declare war on California’s homophobes. It was at that moment that I knew what I wanted for my next birthday: Sean Penn’s Balls. Not that I would ever use them per se, I just want to know that I had them in case an emergency calling for monster balls should ever arise.

WANTED:  Sean Penn's other ball for birthday present.

WANTED: Sean Penn's other ball for birthday present.

But I digress, dear Reader. Here’s my top-ten list of possible entries to the Top Ten contest, but I cannot win this alone— so I’m soliciting your help. I’ve written ten possible entries for this week’s list, and it’s up to you to help me select the CHOSEN ONE from the list (for I can only submit one) that you think has the best chance of winning.

Just think, with your help, all of this could be mine

Just think, with your help, all of this could be mine

This week’s list: Top Ten Things Overheard at the Academy Awards

10. What happened to the free hors d’oeuvres this year?

9. Remind me, what has Hugh Jackman been in?

8. Are we going to just sit by and watch the Brits and Aussie’s steal the show and all the awards?

7. Did you get a Bernie Madoff voodoo doll in your complimentary gift bag?

6. Excuse me Mr. Rourke, but the chandelier lights are reflecting off your silver tooth and blinding the orchestra pit crew.

5. Given the current exchange-rate for gold, the Oscars may actually be worth something this year.

4. Where’s Heath?

3. If I’d known Paul Blart would be running security, I would have left my Boda bag in the limo.

2. Would somebody please pass Sean Penn another tissue?

1. Who let the Slumdogs out? Woof! Woof!

Don’t forget to indicate (in the Comments) which ONE of these I should submit to the Top Ten Contest.

English Conspire with Exiled Aussies to Steal 81st Academy Awards

The envelope please: And the winner of this year’s Oscar for “Best Abduction of the Academy Awards Unbeknownst to Hollywood” goes to…Australia.

Three of Hugh Jackman's henchmen disguised as Oscars helped rig the balloting backstage (Note: photo nabbed from Oscar's offiicial web site and I'll be damned if they think I'm giving it back.)

Three of Hugh Jackman's henchmen disguised as Oscars helped rig the balloting backstage (Note: photo nabbed from Oscar's offiicial web site and I'll be damned if they think I'm giving it back.)

That’s right folks, the fix is in, but the filmmakers down-under could not have pulled off the largest gold heist in Hollywood alone.

The envelope please: And the winner of this year’s Oscar for “Best Support Abduction of the Academy Awards Unbeknownst to Hollywood” goes to…England.

While Academy members sat around stroking their Hollywood-sized, sequined egos, Australian front-man Hugh Jackman orchestrated the abduction, distracting them with cheeky song and dance numbers while his Aussie posse cleaned house.

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“Look everyone, nothing up my sleeves…”

Jackman, when not subliminally pitching his un-nominated self-titled Australian propaganda film “Australia,” seduced television viewers with his Australian accent, which he borrowed indefinately from his English predecessors — who reluctantly surrendered the King’s English to America, so we could butcher it accordingly.

Meanwhile, the “Slumdog Millionaire” clan led the Oscar abduction charge, nabbing eight of the gold Oscar statues, which at the time of this post had already been melted down into Australian and British currency and prepped for final shipping.

“Slumdog Millionaire” serves as the perfect allegory for this Oscarnapping, which, if discovered, is destined to launch a thousand sailboats from the United States nautical team. Here we have a story about fate, destiny, and the power of hope captured on screen by descendents of exiled penal colonists from England, who go to one of England’s former colonies to exploit the formerly colonized citizens for mega-profits in America and boomeranged back to Australia. What more could you ask for, other than a living wage for the film’s extras.

But the Slumdog Millionaire Aussie posse could not have pulled this off without help from down-under and up above, by which I mean fellow Aussie Heath Ledger who won an Oscar posthumously for Best Supporting Abductor – a fitting award for The Joker.

Moreover, the Aussie’s picked up an assist from descendents of their former wardens from afar, the bloody Englanders, who picked up three tasty gold nuggets with Kate Winslet. ames Marsh, and Danny Boyle’s Oscar chicanery.

Follow the gold and you’ll find that the yellow brick road not only leads out of Hollywood, but America as well. It’s only a matter of time before Hollywood will be completely outsourced to Australia, so you mates be sure to stay tuned for the 82nd Academy awards broadcast out of Sydney.

"Thanks for all the gold, Hollywood. We'll be back."

"Thanks for all the gold, Hollywood. We'll be back."

Stay Tuned: Congress Delays Pulling Plug on Bunny Ears

Bunny Ears (top) poses with high school sweatheart, Magnavox (bottom)

Bunny Ears (top) poses with high school sweatheart, Magnavox (bottom)

SSF News — On Monday, Congress granted the beloved Bunny Ears (or “Rabbit Ears” in more subversive burrows) a stay of execution, postponing the inevitable until June 12 — when Bunny Ears is scheduled to be unplugged and taken off life-support.

The decision to take Bunny Ears off support has stirred an emotional debate at the national level, one side arguing Bunny Ears is still a living, viable member of our technological community — while others argue that Bunny Ears, since the satellite takeover of television airwaves, has lost the will to live and keeping Bunny Ears alive is not only cruel but inhumane. Caught up in the tsunami of emotions, Congress leapt into the moral fray and chose sides along partisan lines, stoking the fires with superfluous bags of empty rhetoric.

Meanwhile Bunny Ears, who has been bed-ridden in a Florida hospital for the past seven years, heard news of the delayed execution from the digital TV propped up in the corner of the room. Surrounded by family and friends, some holding onto Bunny Ear’s ears for better reception, Bunny Ears released the following statement upon hearing the news:

Bunny Ear’s Statement: Although I’m flattered some members of Congress and their constituents who have come to depend on my existence still need me – albeit only a few more months – I’ve already prepared myself for the chosen day. And an extension of my inevitable slide into extinction merely robs me of what dignity I still have preserved between my extended ears.

Psychologically and emotionally, I cannot prolong my fate another day, and I hope Congress can find a place in their hearts, the same place I filled with fond memories of “I Love Lucy” and “Happy Days,” and have the decency to pull my plug. All I can ask is that, at the very least, you will be receptive of my wishes.

Receptively Yours,
Bunny Ears

Due to digital interference, a spokesman for Bunny Ears could not be reached by SSF News for further comment.

Obituary: Bunny Ears; 1886 – 2009 (pending)

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