Shock waves shot through the worldwide cat community late Tuesday when reports came of a New York cat who found a key that supposedly unlocks all of the universe’s secrets in his master’s bathroom garbage.
“What an idiot,” exclaimed Koko, an all-black Norwegian Forest Cat. “I mean, he had it. He had it and he just threw it away. That is classic Roger, though.”
The key—an earwax drenched Q-Tip—is believed to finally unveil the mysteries that have baffled humanity for centuries. Used properly, the key is said to thoroughly describe time travel, unlock maps to alien worlds with intelligent life, explain dark matter and energy, reveal other dimensions, and articulate what scientists call the “theory of everything” or “final theory.”
“It’s the single most important thing ever discovered,” said Koko, chewing on a chunk of his own discarded fur. “Might as well just rename the universe to Koko right now, get it done with.”
Because of the singular power of the key and its unprecedented value, Koko has assured the world that it is being held in a safe place.
“Yea, man, it’s on lock down,” said Koko. “Don’t you worry about that. I can’t tell you exactly where it is, but I can tell you it’s basically the most secure and safe place anyone could ever imagine.” Koko’s eyes then shifted to his food bowl, containing a cup of dry food and a wax-capped Q-Tip, jutting from the center and half exposed.
Despite the nearly unbearable anticipation from the world, Koko doesn’t want to be pressured to use the key before he’s comfortable.
“I’ll use it when I’m damn well ready,” said Koko, licking the dust off a window screen. “Just get off my back, scientists. Who’s got the key? Koko does. Not you. Koko.”
Since Koko’s discovery, there have been a whirlwind of reports from other cats claiming to have found equally powerful keys. Koko, however, remains firm that his is the one true key.
“Posers just tryin’ to get a slice of Koko’s power and fame,” said Koko, lapping up toilet water. “Don’t believe those morons. They and everyone else know I’ve got the only real key.”
Suddenly and with without warning, Koko seemed to fall victim to some sort of trance, collapsing to his side and gnawing his claws.
After several frightening minutes, he bounced back to his feet, ears perked, and said, “It is time.”
Koko walked to his food bowl, plucked out the key and ceremoniously held it in his mouth for a few seconds. Then, with wide and wild eyes, he turned, only slightly, and dropped it in his water bowl.
Quickly after the subtle splash, Roger snatched the Q-Tip from the water, called Koko a “dirty kitty,” and pinned the furry black cat on the ground with a knee and used scissors to cut wet feces from in his fur.
During a discussion last weekend at a neighborhood dive bar, Chicago resident and Des Moines native Jared Bilner loudly proclaimed that he doesn’t mind the cold weather because there’s no chance of going to the beach, which is “lame due to the overwhelming amount of douchebags showing off their shaved chests and pretending to play volleyball.”
Jared was at the bar with a group of friends, some of them girls he had never met before. The girls were discussing their distaste for the inclement weather and all agreed that the summer is great. “I’m going to be at the beach every single day,” said Stacy, looking at her girlfriends for validation, which she undoubtedly received.
“Do you really like going to the beach?” asked Jared, timidly, scratching an itchy nipple directly to the left of his bellybutton. “I mean, c’mon, the only guys that go are morons who stare at girls in bikinis.”
Jared then looked around at his guy friends for validation, but couldn’t manage to get a single head-nod or even eye contact.
“And I hate how they all try to play volleyball,” said Jared, arms moving to extenuate the point, resulting in his shirt popping to reveal a group of nipples on his lower back that form a near-perfect smile, “barely able to move because of all the steroids. I was on my college’s club team and can tell when people are good or not, and they’re not.”
A couple of Jared’s more sympathetic friends tried to change the subject, but Jared’s anti-beach sentiments were too strong.
“I think it should be illegal to take your shirt off in public,” said Jared, getting noticeably worked-up. “It’s just gross. No one wants to see your torso skin, idiot.”
Jared then looked away in disgust, exhaled and took a sip of his 16-ounce Pabst Blue Ribbon.
“It’s also insensitive to children and certain religions,” said Jared, turning his head back to the group, lips wet with PBR, eyes wild, and roughly a dozen nipples noticeably erect from the excitement. “If those are the kind of guys you girls like, we should probably just stop talking now.”
Jared turned away again, more definitively this time, and looked down at his shirt, seeing that much of his nipple field had perked up.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Stacy,” said Jared, looking directly in Stacy’s confused eyes. “They’re bleeding because of infection and scab-picking, not because I’m attracted to you.”
In a shocking revelation today at the annual cartography conference in Boise, ID, cartographer Don Pickham admitted he “completely spaced” on mapping a sprawling metropolis in the middle of Montana.
“I’m pretty embarrassed about this,” said Pickham, burying his face in his hands. “The city is named Calvin and it’s right in the middle of Montana.”
Calvinites pay taxes, watch American television, speak English fluently and even enjoy baseball. The city has all major transportation ports, but each is located miles away from the modern downtown.
“I guess the government thought it was some Podunk city in rural Montana,” said Pickham, shaking his head. “Or maybe they thought every other city in Montana was named Calvin— man, I dunno. We’re still working on an official population estimate, but early numbers are somewhere in the ballpark of six million.”
“Calvin’s never been on maps,” said lifetime Calvinite Lynn Thomas. “We all grew up looking at U.S. maps without it and thought it was our kitschy thing— the huge unmapped city. But I guess we just assumed everyone else in the country knew we were there. I mean, Calvin’s enormous, why wouldn’t we assume that?”
Map producers nationwide are working around the clock to get new U.S. and Montana maps printed and distributed to retailers and schools.
Calvinites have mixed feelings about the major oversight.
“Frankly, I think Mr.”—makes air quotations—“Map Man should have a lifetime ban from Calvin,” said Tom Tschay, lifetime Calvinite. “And if he tries to get in, oh boy, you don’t want to know what us Calvinites are capable of… weird shit, boy. Weird ass shit.”
“I don’t mind,” said Mary Brinkman, another lifetime Calvinite. “And I feel bad for Mr. Pickham. He probably has a good heart and just made a big mistake. But if the majority of Calvinites decide to ban him, my advice for Mr. Pickham is to stay away. We are capable of really strange stuff.”
Brinkman then removed her kneecaps and revealed two small candy shops containing an assortment of generic suckers.
Early this morning President and CEO of Sour Patch Candy Thomas Perry casually revealed that his trademark brand, Sour Patch Kids, are made from living, breathing, happy kids.
“They’re kids,” said Perry, slowly biting a red Sour Patch Kid in half. “They’re real kids. It says so right on the package.”
Perry seemed befuddled by the immediate outrage from the press and public.
“Why would we call something Sour Patch Kids if we were selling traditional candy?” asked Perry. “When we came up with the idea of stealing children from their homes, shrinking them, dousing them with sugar and food coloring, and selling them at movie theaters, we didn’t want any confusion about the product. Hence the name: Sour Patch Kids. Was it so literal everyone thought it was a joke? I just don’t get how people could have misunderstood.”
Consumers worldwide are outraged and want Perry prosecuted and Sour Patch Candy closed for good.
“I just can’t believe it,” said Dale Munker, peeking at an unopened package of Sour Patch Kids. “I’ve probably eaten hundreds of cute, innocent… delicious… NO! I can’t. Not anymore, Dale.”
“I’m sincerely sorry for any confusion I may have caused,” said Perry. “You know, the whole concept of Sour Patch Kids was nuts in the first place. The only crazier thing was the public actually hopping on board. Or, at least, I thought the public was on board, but I now realize they thought they were simply eating delicious movie theater candy, not shrunken human children who still had dreams of hugging grandma on Christmas for years to come.”
Sour Patch Candy is currently under a full investigation by federal authorities, and each employee must undergo interviews to determine who was directly involved with the kidnappings.
“Wait, wait, wait a second,” said Dale Munker. “Let me clarify something here. Were the children still alive in those bags? Yes? I ate them alive?! I ripped through their still-beating hearts with my sharp teeth while enjoying a laugh in the theater with my girlfriend? Holy God.”
“Yea, I can see how that would be difficult for certain individuals to accept,” said Perry. “Murder has never really been an issue for me, but I get how society as whole frowns upon the process. I’m just blessed, I guess.”
Authorities have decided to keep Sour Patch Kids available for purchase until the conclusion of the investigation.
“All I want is for the consumer to be happy,” said Perry, picking the gooey remains of his famous candy out of his teeth. “That, and to kidnap and shrink kids. That shit is rad.”
Early this morning the United States government announced that the sovereign nation of Iceland (officially the Republic of Iceland) will be the 51st state admitted to the union. The United States said they will take no political or militaristic action because “no action is needed” and will simply assume control of the island nation.
“We’ve been looking for a 51st state for a long time,” said Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, “and even though they’re not admitting to it, Iceland has been basically begging to be a part of the U.S. for centuries. You’re welcome, Iceland. Time to stop whining.”
The Icelandic government uproariously responded, claiming the United States to be “severely and outrageously abusing its power to expand its titanic empire.”
“How can they just proclaim ownership of a nation?” asked Iceland President Olafur Grimsson. “Can they do that? There must be international law that prevents such absurdities from happening.”
Hillary Clinton reassured our reporter that the absorption of Iceland is real and violates no international law of which she is aware.
“It’ll take a minute or two to sink in,” said Clinton, drawing stick figures playing baseball on a map of Iceland, “but this is happening. We’re doing this because we can, simple as that. What are they gonna do? Nothing. Why don’t you ask President Grimsson to fire up the missiles and fuel up the tanks and try to stop us? Oh wait, they don’t have those things. Now ask him this brain buster: Who protects their little island paradise from intruders? How about I answer for him: WE DO. So maybe the U.S. military will protect Iceland from the U.S. military, but that sounds pretty fuckin’ nuts to me, jack-o. Pretty fuckin’ nuts.”
Official paperwork has yet to be documented by the two nations, but according to Clinton Iceland will have no say in the matter.
“They’re just so cute, aren’t they?” asked Clinton, sarcastically slapping her knees. “Acting like they can sit at the grown-ups table and have their opinions heard and respected. I could just eat them up!”
The Icelandic government was appalled by the patronizing comments made by Clinton, but admit there is little-to-nothing they can do to stop the U.S.
“What?” asked Clinton, eating a steak burrito. “You want a bite? Shit’s delish.”
Officials representing the Minneapolis Police Department announced on Tuesday morning that a new crime fighting robot will soon hit some of the city’s more dangerous streets. The robot, invented by a team of government scientists, is meant to disarm and disable life-threatening criminals, keeping the human officers out of harm’s way. Early press releases are referring to the new additions to the force as “MurderBots.”
“We’re very excited to have the MurderBots protecting the citizens of Minneapolis,” said Police Chief Bob Laudner. “Every street car assigned to a particularly rough area of the city will be equipped with a MurderBot in the coming months. For routine traffic stops and more minor offenses, the MurderBot will remain inactive in the car, but if any situation dangerously escalates, delicate sensors monitoring the human officer’s stress levels will put the robot into action.”
During the invention process, scientists had problems controlling the actions of the MurderBot once activated, but remain confident these bugs “will work themselves out.”
“I’m really not too worried about it,” said Dr. Adam Lamb, head of the MurderBot Project. “And to answer your questions: yes, several MurderBots could not differentiate between police officers and criminals; yes, a few MurderBots broke out of the warehouse and could not be found; yes, you are currently being marked by a MurderBot; yes, once you are marked by a MurderBot it is decidedly difficult to become unmarked— at least until the MurderBot is satisfied you are no longer a threat to it. The MurderBot will soon become a regular part of your day and these technical hiccups will eventually be forgotten.”
The simplicity of the programming is what makes the MurderBot such a unique robot. There is not enough public funding to support formal training for each member of the force, so MurderBots have only two functions: on and off. Scientists did this purposefully so officers could continue to effectively do their jobs while the MurderBot activated and deactivated itself when necessary.
“MurderBots know when a situation has been pacified and will automatically shut down,” said Dr. Lamb. “An officer’s MurderBot will spring into action when a criminal becomes particularly aggressive and will judge whether or not the use of deadly force is necessary. Once the criminal is disarmed or no longer a threat, the MurderBot will simply walk back to the car, shut itself down and await the the next crime.”
Dr. Lamb was suddenly interrupted by a telephone call from a scientist colleague.
“Hello? Bill? Is that you?” asked Dr. Lamb, looking increasingly anxious. Turning to our reporter, he conintued. “That’s strange. All I can hear on the other end of the line are beeps and mechanical hissings. I’ll give him call back later.”
A loud thud suddenly rang out throughout the laboratory, seemingly originating from the warehouse.
“Dr. Adam Lamb,” said a clanging, computerized voice from outside the lab door. “MurderBot… sense… danger…”
During a recent discussion in Ms. James’ sixth grade classroom about careers, twelve-year-old Kyle Majors unblinkingly declared that he wants bypass college to be a greeter at a Gap retail store. Pushed by his teacher to come up with a few other options, Kyle simply shrugged and continued to stare at his perfectly creased khaki pants and gently worn argyle top.
“Being a Gap greeter is fine,” said Ms. James, “but I just think he has so much more potential. I mean, be a greeter over the summers, but study to be something else.”
The career aspirations of young Kyle did not come as a surprise to his parents, Debbie and Steve. Kyle has made it very clear during the past several years that welcoming customers to the Gap is about as rewarding as life can get.
“The little shit knows exactly what he’s doing,” said Steve Majors, shaking his head. “He’s a clever little fuck and this is just a scheme for attention. I’m not buying it. Not for a second.”
Kyle’s grades in school are excellent, he is the star of the basketball team and is a junior-master flautist. Yet, it seems nothing can be done to push him down another career path.
“Have you actually sat down and thought about what your life would be like if you were a Gap greeter?” asked Kyle, folding clothes in the entryway of his home. “I feel like a sucker telling you this right now, because sooner or later everyone will figure out that it doesn’t get better than having a store full of khaki at your back and potential customers at your front; customers who are on the hunt, looking for the perfect kill to bring home to their babies. Babies have got to eat, and as a greeter I’d be there to guide those salivating mouths to the tender, juicy throat of that periwinkle V-neck or fall flannel.”
Debbie Majors was too distraught to comment, so Mr. Majors took it upon himself to translate her quiet sobs and silence.
“You see this tear?” asked Mr. Majors, pointing at a solitary tear slowly trickling down his wife’s cheek. “That represents confusion and chaos in my boy’s shriveled, black heart.”
Mr. Majors’ comment was loud enough so young Kyle could hear, but the boy contentedly continued organizing the clothing display in the entryway.
“Welcome to the Gap,” said Kyle, shooting his father a subtle half smile. “Let me know if I can help you find anything.”
During a routine excavation of ancient Greek artifacts throughout many of the country’s islands, archaeologist George Miklos and his team stumbled across what seemed to be a fully-intact and well-preserved skeleton of the mythical centaur.
“We set out to comb the island of Kefalonia for ancient tools and household items,” said Miklos, “when suddenly I stumbled across a bone. I got the rest of the team to help me carefully uncover it, and we quickly we realized it was a part of a whole skeleton. You can imagine our shock when we saw that it was a half horse, half man, or what is classically referred to as a centaur. This is a truly remarkable find. It’s also unbearably sexy.”
The skeleton is scheduled to be shipped to the Archaeological Museum of Delphi early this week where it will be examined for authenticity before being displayed to the public. Anticipation by the world’s ancient Greece enthusiasts is extremely high.
“I can barely hold it together,” said classics major Todd Greene. “I immediately dumped my girlfriend of three years and spent days online drooling over images of centaurs. Actually, I’m compiling most of the pics I found on a new site I’m creating called YouFilthyCentaur.com. I think it’s going to be huge within the worldwide classics community.”
With any landmark discovery such as this, skepticism from scholars and members of the press is inevitable.
“Are these guys serious?” mused Prof. Kim Jennings of the University of Minnesota. “They can’t be serious. This is a joke, right? A centaur skeleton? Oh, look over there! A pterodactyl writing a haiku! Gimme a break. These guys are idiots.”
Miklos was quick to dismiss the criticism.
“What we found is bound to stir up some emotion,” said Miklos, mildly distracted by still images of centaurs on YouFilthyCentaur.com. “People are going to have trouble controlling their feelings, obviously. This is a primo centaur we’re talking about here, not some dinosaur.” As Miklos finished his statement he slowly closed the door to his office and gently twisted the deadbolt into place, locking himself inside.
“If I ever see this thing in real life,” said Todd Greene, quickly pacing, “someone had better be there to hold me back ‘cause I’m gonna want to do some nasty-ass shit to it. And that there is probably the realest thing I’ve ever said. Print it. Tell the world. I don’t care. I want everyone to know.”
Results of the authenticity examination are set to be released to the press early next week.
“The results mean nothing to me,” said Greene, completely nude. “I can taste its authenticity. Like golden brown jelly toast. Hold my hand and guide me to heaven. My life is complete.”
On Tuesday during the lunch hour, Apple Inc. released an adult female grizzly bear in downtown San Francisco. The bear caused widespread panic, mauling several people and destroying cars and storefronts. It was eventually taken out by a tranquilizer dart to the neck, and witnesses estimate the bear was on the loose for “roughly forty-five minutes.”
“We were bored and really, really high,” said Apple CEO Steve Jobs, stifling laughter. “I was just sitting around Tuesday morning with a few board members lickin’ some of that sticky Mexican grass, when we got to talking about grizzlies and how big and brown they are. Eventually, I couldn’t get them out of my head. I needed a grizzly at that moment. So I got one.”
The bear was released from the back of a nondescript eighteen-wheeler and sprinted down the street, growling and slobbering.
“Yea, I think she was pretty hungry,” said Jobs, thumbing through his iPod. “She was super pissed when we got ‘er, so I just assumed she hadn’t eaten in a while. I gave her a handful of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, but that seemed to make her more upset. Then I got bored and opened up the back of the truck and just stared as she ran down the street, attacking people and breaking stuff. Hilarious doesn’t even begin to describe it. I seriously couldn’t even breathe. I was laughing so hard.”
The city of San Francisco was not well equipped to deal with a rogue bear, so the police department had to turn to the city zoo for assistance.
“A couple guys on the force tried to tackle the bear,” said San Francisco police chief Don Keel, “but she just tossed them aside like they were cookies. Delicious, warm cookies.”
Keel then wandered down the street and could not be reached later that day.
After the tranquilizer took down the bear, authorities shipped her back to the wildlife refuge where she came from.
“Yea, it was a real shame to see her go,” said Jobs, lower lip quivering. “But she’s a beast. And beast and man don’t mix. It’s one of the most profound realizations I’ve ever had.” Jobs then grabbed a sheet a paper and crudely sketched what vaguely resembled a bear, folded it carefully and put it in his pocket. “That’s for later. I never want to forget what I learned about grizzlies that day.”
On any given sunny afternoon in Chicagoland, more and more children are spending their summer vacation outside on the basketball courts, avoiding mischief and staying active. The game that they are playing is not the standard form of basketball, but a newer adjusted style that has caught on with the Chicago youth like wildfire. It is accurately named knife basketball.
The rules of the game are similar to those of basketball, except there is no ball. Instead, the players pass and shoot a large, freshly sharpened butcher knife.
“I love it,” shouted ten-year-old Dakota Nordberg, wiping blood from her neck. “It’s so fun to be outside with my friends and play knife hoops. I never want to go back to school. I’m going to be the first professional knife basketball player!”
Dakota then demonstrated her passing technique and tossed the reddish knife, end over end, toward the soft skin of her friend’s stomach. The unsuspecting friend did not catch the knife and promptly collapsed to the ground.
“You always gotta be ready, Stacy,” said Dakota, placing one foot on her friend’s lifeless body for leverage and pulling out the blade. “You want to be a team player, right? That’s what I thought.”
Parents and teachers are delighted by the new game, claiming it “teaches many valuable lessons about working together as a team and makes you appreciate every moment a knife isn’t sticking in your body.”
Dakota removed her friend from the court so she could continue with her demonstrations. She proudly displayed the blood-soaked knife and said, “I never clean this. The blood stays as a reminder to all my teammates that their heads should always be in the game.” She then turned toward the other girls on the court and shouted, “Did you hear that! I sure as hell hope so. The blood stays, bitches. Re-mem-ber that.”
The game is played at a very high speed, and if a player drops due to knife penetration, there is little-to-no stoppage. Almost every exchange of the knife results in the shedding of blood or loss of extremity. If a player leaves the court to tend to a wound, she is hunted down by bench players or spectators and slain.
“Such is the nature of knife basketball,” said Dakota, panting. “Don’t leave the court. Choose life, my ignorant friend. Choose life.”
A loud scream suddenly rang out from the opposite end of the court and young Dakota crumpled to the ground with a blade in her back.
“You always gotta be ready, bitch,” said one of Dakota’s teammates, slamming a Gatorade.
when i was in 4th grade right before christmas vacation, the door to my classroom opened just a crack and a tiny little ball of white fur wobbled in...
