Local Man Completes Work on New Super-Weapon

November 1, 2003

Berkeley pastry chef and part time quantum scientist Jeff Gable recently completed a new super-powered super weapon which he plans to use either for good, or to make fluffier, more golden brown cr+A?me brulees.

“I have always been interested in quantum mechanics and relativity,” explained Gable while frosting an anniversary cake. “I though, hey, if matter contains so much energy, why not empty space?” Gable clarified that using his new “vacuum converter” he could melt bars of lead in seconds or sticks of butter much quicker. When asked to elaborate, Gable slyly hinted, “Much, much quicker.”

The interview was cut short when a radio bulletin announced both that hoodlums had just robbed the Berkeley city bank, and that a health advisory was issued as to a dangerously undercooked batch of a popular brand of chocolate eclairs.

Muttered Gable as he put on his jacket, “Decisions, decisions.”

Volume 13- Issue 3

A Berkeley Homecoming

November 1, 2003

feature, Matt Loker

What if all of Berkeley’s heroes came to visit their adoring campus? Well, they’d probably like Top Dog, for starters.

Prologue

STEVE: Hey, you know what’d be awesome? If we got all of our heroes to come to Berkeley.
JOSH: You mean, like, Gandhi? Or Marx?
STEVE: Or Che Guevara! I saw him on a shirt once.
JOSH: Wow, a shirt?
STEVE: You know, I still have that magic lamp with one wish left in it, and I’m kinda over the idea of a car made of hot women. I wish for all our heroes to magically–
JORDAN: Dude, Dave Matthews!
STEVE: Goddamit Jordan, you’re so high right now.

At the Airport

CHE GUEVARA: Power of Che Guevara!
KARL MARX: Power of Karl Marx!
MAHATMA GANDHI: Power of Mahatma Gandhi!
DAVE MATTHEWS: Power of the Beatles!
KARL MARX: You’re not the Beatles.
DAVE MATTHEWS: Part of me knows that.

Friendly Chatting

GANDHI: So Che, how was your flight in?
CHE: You know, coming from hell and all, I flew in on the burning vapor trails of a screeching cacodemon.
DAVE MATTHEWS: Guess you shouldn’t have flown Southwest! Zing!! [Silence]
DAVE MATTHEWS: C’mon, that was totally a zing! [Silence]
MARX: Oh look, they’re selling hemp jewelry.

_In the Dorms _

CHE: Hey, look at all these posters of me!
GANDHI: And me!
DAVE MATTHEWS: And me! [Pause]
MARX: Yeah, screw you guys. I’m going to the DC to get tacos.

_At a City Council Meeting _

GANDHI: Leaders of Berkeley, we come here from across time and space to solve all the problems of your fair city! We will bring a new age of civility, and development, and–
KRISS WORTHINGTON: We’ve got to stop construction of this cell phone antenna!
TOM BATES: What is it about the antenna?
WORTHINGTON: Well, for starters, it’s an eyesore–
MARX: Excuse me, we’re here to get rid of homelessness, traffic–
BATES: But what of the antenna?
WORTHINGTON: Yes, the antenna!
MARX: Forget the antenna. We’ve got bigger–
WORTHINGTON: I’m sorry, did you file a speaker card ten minutes prior to the meeting?
MARX: Well, no….
GANDHI: But we’ve crossed the very fabric of existence to…
BATES: No card, no speak. Now back to this antenna.

Leaving Berkeley

CHE: You know, for having miraculously come back to life to visit a thriving college campus, I feel like we really didn’t do much.
DAVE MATTHEWS: Didn’t do much… like a poli sci major! [Silence]
DAVE MATTHEWS: I’m going to go the bathroom. [Dave Matthews walks away]
MARX: Quick, let’s go to the DC… and get more tacos.

Volume 13- Issue 3

Take off that fucking trucker hat

November 1, 2003

Dan Freedman, feature

Dear posers,

Take off that fucking trucker hat.

I hate all of you wannabe skater punks who think it’s cool to get paid $16K a year to drive across country with only your CB radio and a half gallon of hand moisturizer, but don’t wear are fucking hats! I’ll tell you this much, you won’t see us truckers wearing your girly Hurley T-shirts or your Abercrombie gear. We don’t pretend to look like Ashton Kutcher, so maybe you should stop pretending to look like us! Trucker hats are for truckers and faded jeans are for homos and that’s just how it is.

You wouldn’t wear O.R. scrubs to class, nor would you wear one of those silly British police caps, so why a trucker hat? That hat is our uniform. It’s like a badge that only us truckers are given the honor to wear! It’s the law! I’m serious! Ever since congress voted to pass the Trucker Hat Act in 1948 (HB 1037), truckers have been given, “sole authority to sport all trucker wear and paraphernalia; especially the hat. Take away our hats and we have nothing! Just a truck and that hitchhiker who performs oral!

In addition to breaking the law, you law breakers, your wearing a trucker hat creates national security problems. Think about this, suppose you are walking down a street when a trucker blows a tire. The driver gets out with his authentic trucker hat on and asks you (a trucker hat-wearing civilian) for help. Will you know how to replace his tire? You could be putting an entire nation at risk! What if the truck is carrying nuclear bombs and then another truck carrying fireworks plows into it and then another truck full of cigar-smoking Cuban immigrants crashes into that! An entire state could be nuked because some stupid poser on the street couldn’t help the driver change a fucking tire!

So, in summary, take off the Trucker Hat and deliver them immediately to any local truck stop for redistribution among the trucking community. Cute girls wearing trucker hats can keep them on cause they look hot in them. Stupid, but hot. Everyone else relinquish your caps immediately.

-Trucker Dan “No Fat Chicks” Jackson

Volume 13- Issue 3

Bum Saves Woman From CIA

November 1, 2003

newsflash, Unfunny Asshole 2

At 7:00 PM exactly, Berkeley student Amy Delacruz was walking down Telegraph Avenue when she narrowly missed being incinerated by an orbiting satellite. She was saved by local street person Amos Terwuggen, who was nearby and dove on her just as, in his own words, “beams made all out of lasers” were about to strike her down. The beam disintegrated half the street and a storefront before mysteriously disappearing.

Ms. Delacruz shrieked at Mr. Terwuggen and beat him senseless, walking away without looking behind to view the utter destruction.

Mr. Terwuggen explained that the beam was fired from a CIA satellite being controlled by “Rick the Smick.”

“Smick always doin’ stuff for the CIA,” said Terwuggen. “They’re mad because I keep the air from moving too quickly. Look, Rick got his CIA remote control out now!”

Unfortunately, Rick had apparently hidden his remote before this reporter could look at him.

Volume 13- Issue 3

→

November 1, 2003

David Duman, feature

Recently uncovered and collected by the National Archives are personal journals kept by everyday citizens in the days following September 11, 2001. It is an attempt to preserve for all time these raw, incisive, and emotional accounts of what people went through to make it home safe to their families. In this recurring feature we’ll share a new, touching story of real Americans and their real lives.

Donald Robinson, Businessmen
_I was in Washington, D.C. at the time and being the really fucking rich businessmen that I am, I’m entitled to everything going right. I knew I couldn’t get a flight so I headed to the rental car lot but all the cars were booked. Even the U-Hauls and Ryder truck lots had waitlists. It seemed that the only way to get back to California was in a pine box. That was when I spotted it, a gleaming yellow, black, and white chariot of freedom. I hailed the cab and climbed in… _

Cabbie: Where to?
Me: Pacific Palisades.
Cabbie: Excuse me?
Me: You heard me. California. Let’s get cozy.
Cabbie: But….
Me: Drive. There’s $50,000 and a handy from one of my many mistresses in it for you.

_We were cruising through the Appalachians when the tedium began to hit. _

Me: Slug bug! You owe me a Coke.
Cabbie: Hey, I wasn’t even playing!

_By the time we reached Nebraska you could cut the tension with a knife. _

Cabbie: So, uh…. How ’bout all those people who died?
Me: Yeah, that’s a bummer.
Cabbie: Say, is that an out-of-state license plate?
Me: If you even think about hitting me on the shoulder I’ll cut your head off and fuck your esophagus.

_Our toughest challenge was when we crossed the Rocky Mountains. His 1984 Crown Victoria was having troubles. _

Me: Look, you’re giving it too much! You’re going to burn the transmission! Downshift!
Cabbie: You’re not being very helpful. I know how to drive my cab!
Me: Look, who’s the cabbie and who’s the passenger here?
Cabbie: You’re this close to getting thrown out of this cab.
Me: Hey look, we’re crossing the Great Divide!
Cabbie: Hmm, this should prove metaphorical.

_But a brighter future was ahead. For you see, we took a detour… _

Me: Hey, pull over.
Cabbie: But this is the MGM Grand. I thought you wanted to get home to your family.
Me: Look, I’ll bankroll your gambling and you’ll get two handys from two of many mistresses and a blowjob from my 20-year old Laotian sex-boy if you stop.
Cabbie: Agreed.

We shared a bed together in the casino that night, just the cabbie and me huddled against the dark forces of terrorism together in the warm darkness of that casino hotel. It was there that I decided that I would leave my family and together the cabbie and I would open a small roadhouse on the outskirts of Vegas where we’d serve warm home cooking and a hot cup of coffee to anyone who walked through our door with a smile. Then we’d steal their wallets.

Volume 13- Issue 3

Words from the Top

The Tomato

November 1, 2003

David Duman, feature

There are few living things in this world more controversial, and I say this without hyperbole, than the tomato (Lycopersicon lycopersicum and Lycopersicon esculentum).

It is interesting to note that the tomato’s closest relatives in the plant kingdom are the oft-poisonous members of the Solanum, or nightshade, family, as well as the poisonously delicious tobacco plant . The tomato’s closest relatives in the animal kingdom are the monarch butterfly and Earl the One-Balled Ferris Wheel Operator.

While a rich source of the heart-healthy antioxidant lycopene, there are many people who feel that the tomato, when not served in ketchup or marinara form, should be relegated to the purpose of being loaded in a time machine and sent back to 1923 so as to be then thrown at hack comedians.

Others like tomatoes becauses of their sweet yet tart taste and the fact that they look like the breasts of a pubescent girl.

Regardless of your feelings about tomatoes or pubescent girls, we can all agree that it took one sick sick bastard to wake up one morning and say, “Hey, you know what’ll make this tomato taste extra-great? WE SHOULD MIX IT WITH CLAM JUICE AND SERVE IT CHILLED IN THE BEVERAGE SECTION OF THE LOCAL CONVENIENCE STORE.”

Why? What the fuck? Clamato? IT’S CLAM JUICE AND TOMATO JUICE. Who was sitting there in the Q.A. department watching all these bottles go by and asking: “Hey, we sure are making a swell product. Thank God Randy in the front office WON ALL THAT FUCKING CLAM JUICE IN THAT POKER GAME!”

Or maybe they never even bothered to ask what it was:

“Hey Curt, what is this shit anyway?”
“I dunno. Didja get your paycheck?”
“Yup.”
“Word.”

Oh, I know what gave rise to Clamato, it took place after a Jules Verne-esque race around the world wherein the Duke of Bloomsbury defeated Lord Shipshobbington and then cast him away off the coast of the Outer Hebrides with nothing but the will to live to keep him afloat.

If only that were true. If only.

And then there’s the name. When the SS decided to commit genocide, they didn’t call it “The Kill All the Jews (and other people we don’t like) Plan.” They came up with “The Final Solution to the Jewish Question,” a subtle and marketable euphemism. Take note, Mott’s Corp. The folks at Clamato did just the opposite. They celebrated this abomination of nature and their first-degree palette assault by jamming the two words together as if it were just another everyday broccoflower.

What else will grace the beverage market in the coming millenia? Orange Marmalamb Smoothie? Pork Peppermint Patties (in beverage form), YooHoocestershire Sauce?

Have I ever actually tasted Clamato? Well, no. But you don’t need to inhale Zyklon-B to know that it’s bad.

Volume 13- Issue 3

Fortress of Solitude Too Solitudinous

November 1, 2003

newsflash, Unfunny Asshole 1

Antarctica’s population grew by one yesterday when local resident Superman purchased a hamster in order to alleviate the crippling loneliness of living in an ice cave at the South Pole. Along with cage, wheel, and hamster ball, the icy Fortress of Solitude is now equipped with a portable area heater because, according to Superman, “no one wants a repeat of the goldfish incident.”

Superman told reporters that he just couldn’t take the Fortress’ solitude anymore. “I’ve been feeling pretty depressed lately,” said Superman, “but last week, I finally hit rock bottom.” The Man of Steel admitted to taking an entire bottle of Xanax last Thursday, in an attempt to end his life. “But since it wasn’t Kryptonite Xanax, I was pretty okay.”

The Last Son of Krypton’s special friend came in the form of a brown and white dwarf hamster. “His name is Mr. Huggles,” Superman told reporters, “and he’s my bestest friend.” Superman then tenderly put a small cape around Mr. Huggles’ tiny neck.

Gotham City’s Batman, once believed to be Superman’s best friend, was unavailable for comment.

In unrelated news, billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne spent the day alone on a park bench, eating a pint of H+A+-agen-Dazs and casting wistful gazes at Gotham’s empty skyline.

Volume 13- Issue 3

Forbes Presents: 2003’s Most Ill-conceived Business Ventures

November 1, 2003

feature, Matt Loker

Welsh Speak-n-Spell Finally, Fisher Price has made a toy that can be enjoyed by dirty Welshmen. This new Speak-n-Spell is a great way for Welsh kids and their no doubt illiterate parents to learn the most insane language ever that’s not spoken by an alien race on Star Trek. Just listen: -“K” is for “Kyw.” The Kyw goes myyw. -“D” is for “Dywge.” Dywges are for eating. -“P” is for “Pywr.” Your parents are pywr because they are filthy Welshmen. Glenn S. Buttplug’s chain of Christian bookstores Glenn Buttplug, pious son of a Baptist preacher from the Deep South, chose to praise the Lord this year by opening a sixteen-store chain of Christian bookstores. The only problem is, nobody seems to know what to make of a store called “Buttplug’s.” “Oh, I’ll stay out of that one altogether. No sir,” replied Doris, an elderly parishioner in Omaha, Nebraska. When asked about the bookstore, her husband Gerry responded similarly. “It goes where now? No, that sounds like a whole lot of no good.” Glenn remains confused by the attitude Christians seem to hold toward his establishments. “They would love our store! We’ve got discount bibles, and songbooks about God, and oh! Look! I’ve got these great new prayer beads!” Guinness Book of Non-World Record Improbabilities How do you further capitalize on the definitive collection of world records? For Guinness, the answer is simple: assemble a follow-up collection of not quite world records. You’ll witness such amazing acts of coincidence that you just might exclaim, “That’s not very likely!” -Read about the man who flipped a quarter and it came up tails… EIGHT TIMES IN A ROW! -See the medicine man from West Africa whose fingernails were so long, his friends TOLD HIM HE SHOULD CUT THEM! -Check out this time that Eric totally killed that beer bong! That was awesome.

Senor Taco’s to expand into American Southwest Senor Taco’s, a chain of 12 Mexican restaurants based out of Minnesota, recently announced their plan to expand into the Phoenix and Flagstaff area. “We think the Phoenix area is bound to love our authentic Mexican flavor,” said expansion manager Steve Lindholm. “From our Mexi-fries to our brand-new extra-spicy Taco Burrito with extra pepper, there’s something for everyone at Senor Tacos.” Other Senor Tacos menu items include their sausage burritos, served with either nachos or Doritos. “We just know that Phoenix will go ‘loco’ for our restaurants,” said Lindholm. Women’s Sports League formed Women’s sports fans cheered recently as four major Women’s sports split off from their male counterparts to form a separate sports league. The sports are National Women’s Soccer, the WNBA, LPGA, and Women’s Bowling Association. New Commissioner Kendrick Liu announced the changes as “a way for women to band together. When the WNBA is struggling, the LPGA can help out. And vice versa. We women work together.” The new League negotiated low prices from the prior owners, sometimes as low as several dollars. “Darn, we’re sure going to miss funding — I mean running — the WNBA,” said Commissioner Daniel Stern. For Liu, the next stop is to get down to the books. “It might be rough for a few years, but so long as at least one of these leagues is profitable, I know we’ll be okay.” When approached by the Women’s Sports League about joining, the Women’s Tennis Association and Pro Beach Volleyball League declined the offer and went off to get tans and try on even shorter skirts.

Volume 13- Issue 2