The “Massage Therapists” Union made “head lines” this week by heavily publicizing its “legal action.” While the specific details of this “legal action” remain unclear, union spokesperson Angelina Silk described it as including anything from “physical evidence” and “oral arguments” to “backroom deals” and “restraining orders.”
Looking for further information, a group of reporters “pressed deeper” and discovered that, if necessary, Silk would be willing to “take the fifth.”
In other news, massage therapy is a truly legitimate profession in the midst of a serious legal battle.
Last weekend, Berkeley’s most notorious potheads faced off in a battle of lung capacity and “sheer stoner righteousness,” resulting in a logical paradox of G+A|delian proportions.
The paradox arose from the identification of the contest’s apparent winner, David Resinbauch, as “a big fuckin’ loser” and “a major punk.” This fact received further support in the interview that followed Resinbauch’s victory, in which he meticulously described the weeks of training that preceded the contest. “Imagine like a Rocky montage, only instead of ‘Eye of the Tiger’ playing, it’s that Phish song with the tambourine,” said the impotent ne’er-do-well.
Resinbauch won the contest after managing to cash a 1.2-gram bowl in a single breath, thus securing his status both as the Superman of burnouts and a huge goober. While Berkeley’s experts in formal logic and cannabis culture are still working out the ramifications of “the stoner’s paradox,” it has already been agreed that the other competitors can simply be categorized as losers.
Boss: I understand you’re applying for…chimney sweep, Mr. Thorped?
Jimmer: Jimmer Thorped, best sweep in Merry England, sir! Sharp as Big Ben’s toll, I am.
Boss: Tortured analogies…good, good. And you’re an orphan by…?
Jimmer: Right sorry, governor?
Boss: Orphaned by war? Orphaned by crime? Abandoned by Royal Family? It’s for the form.
Jimmer: Oh, middle-class mother thrown out of home. I have a reference for it, if you like.
Boss: That will be fine, Jimmer. I like everything I see here…except we’re really only looking for Cockney accents right now.
Jimmer: Er… ‘Ello ‘overnor! I’s sharp as an ‘ol nail, I’s!
Boss: Nice…but that’s really more of an Orkney. I’m sorry, Jimmer.
Jimmer: Oh ‘ell.
Boss: Yes, Mr. Bellows, we’re looking for someone who looks quite similar to our prince, but is, in fact, a pauper.
Bellows: My father is a blacksmith…
Boss: Mmm…that’s really more middle-class, lower-middle-class, isn’t it? Thank you.
Boss: What would you say is your biggest weakness, Mr. Hornel?
Hornel: Right good question. Well, I’m told I work too hard. I’m rarely willing to push back at my boss’s decisions. I’m loyal to a fault. Oh, and I have bloody flux.
Boss: Bloody flux?
Hornel: And consumption…and probably the black lung. What’s your medical policy, again?
Boss: A sound slap on the back for coughing, and we’ll fish your body out of the vats if you fall in.
Boss: I see you know Excel and Word…how about sticking your tiny hands into little gears to retrieve stamped plates?
Pip: Oh, right good at that, sir. See? Tiny, tiny hands, and very supple wrists. Very nearly double-jointed.
Boss: Oh, you’ll be double-jointed soon enough, never worry. (Laughs)
Pip: Yeah…heh heh.
Boss: Well, everything looks good here, mister…ooooh…says here you’re seven years old?
Pip: Seven and a month, sir.
Boss: We’re only hiring six-year-olds. Very, very sorry. We’ll keep your application on file, so let us know if you turn six again.
Boss: Where do you see yourself going with this company, Howard?
Howard: I’ve always been excited about pig skinning. Majored in it. It’s where I see myself for the next three to five years.
Boss: This is something you want to grow with?
Howard: Yeah, I’m looking for something that challenges me. So yeah, of course I expect to start out with hooves, I’m young, but I intend to end up with snouts or even management.
Boss: This is a snouts-track position, keep in mind. Snouts is the highest level.
Howard: Oh…that’s fine. Perfectly fine. Snouts is great.
The San Jose Airport Hilton was the scene of a tragedy Thursday, as fifteen people were attacked by a wayward bear. The Alaskan Kodiak, escaped from a nearby zoo, became enraged when numerous “furry” fetishists tried to have sex with it.
“Furroticon ’05,” as it was dubbed by organizers, was an otherwise peaceable gathering of faux-bestiality enthusiasts. Moments after the 1800-pound bear entered the convention hall, no fewer than four people wearing crotchless animal costumes tried to initiate intercourse with the very real animal.
The convention, a meeting of people with sexual fetishes for people dressed in animal costumes, was declared “a disaster” by attendees. After repeated attempts by the furries to copulate with and/or on the bear, it became enraged and started mauling nearby people.
“Sure, I wanted to fuck it,” said convention participant John Fordham. “But as soon as I waved my dick around to signal that I wanted to have sex with a stranger dressed like a bear, I knew something was wrong.”
The Briefing
Government Official: (gravely) I assume you all know why you’ve been called in here today. We’ve got three hours/seven days to diffuse this atomic/biological warhead planted by the notorious global corporation/ syndicate globotron/corp. I know you’re all just a bunch of ex-military/college students/normal citizens with blue-collar occupations, but you’ve got what it takes/you’re the best trained/you’re the only ones left to do the job. I trust you understand what’s at stake here.
Joker: Your cushy government job/our reputation?
(Group chuckles)
GO: Funny. The transport leaves for the moon at oh five hundred.
The Mounting Tension
(Team looks at bomb)
Team Captain: Okay team, whatever you do, do not press this button/cross these wires/move.
Vlad: (banging warhead with wrench/hammer/pipe while drinking from bottle/flask labeled “alcohol”) What? This is how to diffuse bomb in Kyrgyzstan/Tajikistan/Russia.
(Bomb opens revealing a clock)
Captain: Great. All we need to do now is…
(Crazy guy starts pressing button/crossing wires/moving)
Teammate: He’s got space/mind dementia!
(Team tackles crazy guy, but not before equipment is damaged/teammate is killed/hope is temporarily lost)
The Decision
Pilot/Driver/Vehicle Operator: (gravely) Okay, one of us needs to stay behind. (No one volunteers) I didn’t want it to have to come to this. Pick a straw/pick a number between one and seven/rock, paper, scissors, best two out of three.
(One by one, teammembers select/face off until only one remains)
The Chosen Guy: Tell my wife/girlfriend/son I love her/him. Tell her/him I’ll always be watchin’.
The Complication
Government Official: (via intercom) Okay, I’ve got some good news and some bad news…
Expendable Character: I’ve got a baaaaad feeling about this/This doesn’t look so good…
Captain: (gravely) Okay, what’s the good/bad news?
GO: There’s an asteroid headed directly for your position on the moon. You’ll have to use the bomb to deflect it.
Captain: (after a moment of resignation) Okay, what’s the bad/good news?
GO: That was the bad/good news.
The Critical Moment
Expendable Character: (via intercom to guy still on the moon) We’re running outta time/there’s no time/hurry up!
The Chosen Guy: One…more…minute…/just…another…second…
(Clock gets cracked open, revealing two wires/two liquid-filled tubes/another bomb)
TCG: (wiping brow) Hey Captain, what’s your favorite color/wine/movie?
Captain: (intensely) Blue/port/Casablanca.
TCG: (to himself) Ahhh, I never liked you anyway. (Grabs handful of wires/tubes/bombs and pulls them out, activating spring system and hurtling bomb towards asteroid)
The Aftermath
TCG: (Gets out of chopper and is hugged/kissed/hugged by wife/girlfriend/son) C’mon baby, let’s go home/make some heavenly collisions of our own/play some soccer.
Many psychologists regard Sigmund Freud as one of the most influential psychologists of all time. But these people are forgetting that his “medical advice” consisted of huge amounts of cocaine GAA which, last time I checked, was responsible for people liking disco. His psychoanalytic techniques and bizarre theories got no deeper into the human mind than the average Q-tip, leaving many patients uncured and a bit confused.
Patient One
Freud: So what’s been bothering you?
Patient: Well, I’ve just been really depressed as of late.
Freud: Hum, sounds like penis envy.
Patient: What…no. I don’t have penis envy. Penises are gross and they smell like a pigeon’s asshole. Plus, I’m a man.
Freud: The more I hear the more I’m convinced. You have penis envy.
Patient: No, I just want some help, someone to talk to about my high level of anxiety.
Freud: Really. Well then, I think I misevaluated the situation. (Scribbles “Severe Penis Envy” in notebook)
Patient Two
Freud: So tell me about your dreams.
Patient: Well, I’ve had this recurring dream where I’m tied down to a boat, heading straight for a hundred-foot waterfall. I struggle, but cannot overcome the ropes that bind me to the boat. I eventually give in, and, as I fall to my death, I wake up.
Freud: Well, this seems simple enough. The waterfall represents your father.
Patient: …And so what do the ropes mean?
Freud: The ropes, well GAA they represent your father.
Patient: …And the boat? Does that represent my father as well?
Freud: (Nods approvingly)
Patient: Wow, you’re right. I never thought of my father as a waterfall, a rope, and a boat, but that totally makes sense. You’re a genius.
Freud: (Nods approvingly and lowers face into pile of cocaine)
Patient Three
Patient: I have developed a fear of darkness. Every time I approach any dark areas, anxiety overcomes me. It’s gotten so bad that I can’t even partake in my favorite hobby.
Freud: What is your favorite hobby?
Patient: Having sex with prostitutes in dark alleys.
Freud: (Readjusts in chair) Where can these alleys be found?
Patient: My favorite one is between Montgomery and Harrison. Hey, where are you going? How can I overcome my fear of dark alleys?
Freud: (Checking wallet) Well, you could loan me twenty bucks.
Patient Four
Freud: Okay, let’s do some free association. I’ll say a word and you tell me what instantly comes to mind. Let’s start with the word “turtle.”
Patient: Dove.
Freud: Flight…
Patient: Wings.
Freud: Feather…
Patient: My father molested me as a child.
Freud: Wow, major breakthrough. You have penis envy.
