Saturday, October 02, 2004


Fox News Apology

We here at Fox News Online made a mistake today. It was an honest mistake. It was a fair and balanced mistake. But it was still a mistake. And we regret it. We really do. We feel terrible. We apologize. Sincerely. It'll never happen again. Cross our hearts and hope to become liberals.

One of our reporters, Carl Cameron, posted some fake John Kerry quotations on today:

"That Dionysus really knows how to party, dude. And he's got a most excellently large penis."
"Karl Rove is a big dildo."
"I have a bolt through my neck."
"I'm so limber can felch myself."
"I'm a flip-flopping robotic goat wearing a rubber Herman Munster mask."

John Kerry never really said these things. He may have thought them, and they may be quite true, but according to our fair and balanced fact-checkers, he never said them. Carl Cameron got these quotations from a highly placed source in the Bush administration and failed to substantiate them properly. And that makes them bad journalism. Shame on us.

Cameron has since been flogged upon the back and buttocks and sent to his room without dinner, where he will not be allowed to surf the Internet or consult with Satan on his next story.

Friday, October 01, 2004


First Transcripts of the Great Debate

Mr. Buddha, you have won the coin toss. You get the first question.

Q: Should competition be allowed among deities?

BUDDHA: No. Deities should transcend their differences and become one with the All-encompassing.

Q: Could you elaborate on this concept, “the All-encompassing?”


Q: Is there any truth to the rumor that you have been suicidal lately?

BUDDHA: Suicidal would be inaccurate. Lately I have been, let us say, untranscendental. I am adjusting to my medication quite nicely, thank you.

Very well, then. Mr. Satan, you get the next question.

Q: Is it true that you are the source of all evil? And, will there be another war in heaven?

SATAN: That is the most hurtful lie that is told about me. Of course I am not the source of all evil. Maybe 27% at the most when production is high. Yahweh and Allah are the source of at least 43%, and they’re the ones spreading this nonsense. Politicians and preachers account for the other 30%, I’m told. As for another war in heaven, I just don’t know. I can only say that if it spills over into hell, there’s going to be heck to pay. I just had the place carpeted.

Thank you. Mr. Bush, you have the next question.

[Interruption, drunken shouting from the audience. “Hey, I know you! I ripped you to pieces just yesterday! How did you get put back together?” Then “Quiet, D. You’re gonna get us both thrown out.”]

Q: Is it true that you are a believer in Jesus, Yahweh’s son? That you think he’s God? That you talk to him about all of your decisions?

BUSH: Of course I believe that what I believe is what I should believe, because I believe it, and that’s a sign of strong leadership, to believe that what you believe is believable. And to talk about what you believe with the one you believe in is also very true and believable.

Ummm, OK. I guess. The next question goes to Mr. Ahura Mazda.

[Interruption, more shouting. “Why were you invited? You don’t have any followers left, you old fraud!”]

Q: Mr. Mazda, was the Japanese vehicle manufacturer named after you?

AHURA MAZDA: No. You're thinking of the Studebaker.

Thank you. The last question before we break for commercials goes to Mr. Stalin.

Q: Mr. Stalin, is it true that you were actually a dupe of Ludwig Wittgenstein’s in the 1930’s?

STALIN: I will kill you for making such a question, you pig.

Right, let’s break then. Chef Pharaoh has some lovely food while we are on commercial.



Mmmmmmmmm ...

I think our boys did pretty well, Zeus says, clicking off the TV and adjusting his covers. Don't you?

Mmmmmmmmm, Hera hums.

You could hardly see the bolt through Kerry's neck, Zeus says, picking up his copy of Plan of Attack. And Hephaistos worked miracles with the Bush clone. Hardly a moment's malfunction. I think that boy's bucking for a promotion. What do you think?

Mmmmmmmmm, Hera smiles.

I'm just worried about the next debate, Zeus says. You wanna watch Fahrenheit 9/11 again? You aren't sleepy yet, are you?

Mmmmmmmmm, Hera sighs.

I wish you wouldn't use that thing while I'm here in bed with you, Zeus grumbles. You know I can hear every little squeal for help that Rove creature emits from in there. It's got my ulcer acting up, if you want to know the truth. I can feel acid flushing through my system.

Mmmmmmmmm, Hera moans.

Thursday, September 30, 2004


On to the Debates (and Stew)

Thanks for giving me a lift. Nice chariot.

Should be. It’s Poseidon’s. I borrowed it. And, hey, no problem. You looked so sad, standing there outside the Supreme Court.

That duck-goat was creepy. Glad you came by when you did. Why were all those soldiers shooting at you?

They didn’t approve of my last party. Said it got out of control.

Well, sometimes it’s like that. Some folks got no sense of humor. So, you weren’t the one who killed me?

No, of course not. Why would I do that?

Well, it’s just that the goat-thing that ripped out my throat looked an awful lot like you. That’s all.

Well, it wasn’t me. Probably some wannabe.

I guess. Where are we headed, anyway?

Sufi U. I got tickets to the debates.

Really? Cool. I hear those are hard to come by. And I haven’t had Chef Pharaoh’s cooking in ages. Ummm. I can almost taste his onomatopoeia stew.

He makes onomatopoeia stew? Does he put lots of buzz in it?


Wow, that’s just the way I like it.

I’ll buy you a bowl when we get there.

You’re on.


Aftermath, Before English

Maybe we can put him back together in time for the debates.

No. Not without, you know…

Well, let’s get him. He’s available.

If Rove was here…

Rove is in Bilboa. Last transmission was garbled, but there was something about not getting enough heirs. Or that he was an heir in Bilboa.


Yes, he said he was having trouble getting heirs. Or that he was in an heir.

Odd. Why would he worry about that? He’s got heirs.

Dunno. But look, we’ve got a situation, here. We can’t even tell which limbs belong to which. We have to call, you know… whether Rove is here or not.

OK, do it. I’ll collect all the body parts and begin sorting them out.

It’s Dr. Hephaestos, right?

Right. But don’t ever, ever, mention that name aloud again. Ever.

Right. Sorry. Where did that damned goat-thing go, anyway?

Took off—headed toward Tierra del Fuego, apparently. The Marines are on it, but they say he appears to be immortal.

Wednesday, September 29, 2004


In the White House War Room

It's coming in sort of garbled, Rumsfeld says. Sort of staticky.

What're they saying? Cheney says.

Sounds like--uh, Rove's in Bilbao? Rumsfeld says.

Yeah? Cheney says. That boy gets around, doesn't he. Where, uh--where exactly is Bilbao, anyway?

Basque Country, Condoleezza Rice says. Northwestern Spain.

Huh, Cheney says. What, is he on the trail of an ETA cell?

Or else he's in an ETA cell, Rumsfeld says.

Things could get a little hairy, Rice says. Might require some wet work.

Well, Cheney says, Karl's good at getting himself out of a tight spot.

He'll use his head, Rumsfeld agrees. That big bulbous pink head.

There's a knock on the door. Evelyn sticks her head in.

There's a couple of Marines out here, wanting to report.

Send them in, Cheney says.

The Marines come in, trembling and holding onto their belts for dear life.

Yes? Cheney says. What is it?

Sorry to interrupt, one says, but there's some kind of hairy goat-man loose in the White House, having sex with the tourists.

So subdue him, Rumsfeld snaps. That's what you Marines are here for.

Well, the other Marine says, that's the thing. He's having sex with the Marines too.

Ooh, Rice says, her face heating up.

Well send the Secret Service in, Rumsfeld says.

They're all dead, the Marine says. With their pants around their ankles and their arms torn off at the shoulder.

Lock the door, Cheney says.

Too late! From the outer office they hear the sounds of wild animal sex and the fizzle and pop of a primitive meaty machine shorting out.

Tuesday, September 28, 2004


A Sad End and a New Beginning

“All right, Karl, I’ll take off my robe, but I don’t like this one bit. You coming in here, threatening me and all. What the fuck?” The judge scowled and reached for the zipper of his long black robe.

He stood quietly and watched, while one of his goons held an assault rifle pointed at the judge. “I don’t want any trouble, Tony. You know I love you. It’s just that we really need that prepuce, and I have information that you’ve got it. You may not even know you have it.”

The judge’s robes were off. Karl and his goon both gasped.

Tony grunted. “OK, look. You see any prepuce?”

“My god, man! Y-you’re a, a… a goat! With feathers!”

“Half goat, half duck, actually.

“But your head is human. And your arms.”

“Grafts. Can’t alarm the public, you know. Especially those environmentalists. Bunch of crybabies.”

“I never knew.”

“There are a lot of things you don’t know, Karl. It’s better that way.”

“You’re working with Dick, aren’t you? You go hunting together, and never invite me. Christ. You hunt ducks!”

“I’m trying to kill my father, Karl. It’s all very reasonable.”

There’s a crashing noise, and a blinding light. A woman, decked out in the most brilliant purple and golden robes, and wearing a jeweled crown, appears next to Scalia. The operative with the assault rifle opens fire on her to no effect. She tosses a bolt of lightning—well, more of a ball of lightning, really—at the man, and he falls over dead.

“W-who are you?” Karl asks in a quavering voice. “S-some kind of g-g-goddess?”

“You don’t need to know who I am, doughboy. Let’s just say I’m a friend of Tony and Dick. Speaking of dick, you know what I need?”

“No!” Karl squeaks. “Not that.”

And Hera points a finger at him. He begins to shrink, getting smaller and smaller until he’s only twelve inches tall. “Ahhhh,” she says, picking him up as he tries to run away under a desk. “My new dildo. My new little toy.”

Tony laughs. “Be nice to him. You know what happened to the last one.”

“I’ll see you later,” she says, as she disappears in puff of diamond dust.

The man with the assault rifle sits up. “Ughhhh. Where am I? Why do I have this gun?”

The goat-duck bends down and looks at him. “Who are you? Why aren’t you dead?”

“I don’t know. Last thing I remember is being a ball of lightning, and the lights were out in heaven. Then I was here. Who--what--are you?”


Dionysus Lines Up for the White House Tour

Empty your pockets into the tub, please, sir.

Pockets? What is pockets?

He isn't wearing pants, Mike.

Damn, so he isn't. I'm sorry, sir. No one is allowed into the White House without pants.

Hold on there a second, Mike. Doesn't he look familiar to you?

Huh? No, not really. Jim Breuer as Goat Boy, maybe you're thinking? On those old SNLs?

Maybe. I dunno, there's just something about him ... Sir, have you been on TV?


Damn, that's that, then. Have you been here before? The White House? Here?


Do you have, like, a famous brother or something?


Do you come in different flavors? Strawberry, maybe?

Yeah, that's it--a different flavor, like the old Strawberry Shortcake toys!

Or cherry!

Cherry Cheesecake!

That's it! Imagine him in red! Red skin, horns, red beard, red tail ... no, I can't think of who he reminds me of.

Are you an Arab, by any chance, sir?






Carrying any concealed weapons? Well, no, I guess you don't have any place to conceal them, do you, sir, ha ha!


Walk through the metal detector, please, sir. Line forms to your left.

Monday, September 27, 2004


A Little Help

Mullah Billdoug walked backstage at the event. “Mr. Moore?” he asked.

“Yes?” The large man turned around. “Ahhh, a Sufi. Good. I need some help.”

“That’s why I’ve come. Sorry I’m late. I was, er, tied up.”

"So you're going on the road?"

"Right, and I need a sufi who can keep his mouth shut."


Tied to the Chair or Not; The Supremes in Concert

Do you believe I am tied to this chair?

What does it matter what I believe? You’re tied to the chair.

It doesn’t matter whether you believe it?

No. Look, stupid. You’re tied to the chair. And you’ll stay tied to the chair until you either tell us where the prepuce is, or we kill you. Understand?

I don’t understand why you won’t tell me if you believe I am tied to this chair. It’s a simple question.

Rummy, give me your lighter. Thanks. Now, let’s see if you believe this pain I’m going to cause you, Mr. Billdoug.

Ummm—are you sure this is legal, Karl? I mean, the Geneva Conventions and ... ouch! Okay, okay.

Keep it shut, Rummy. Go play with your note cards or something. Now, Mr. Big Shot Mullah, Mr. Everything Is Relative, how do you like THIS?


Whaddya mean, “okay”? I just burned your nose with this lighter!

Oh, yes. I mean, Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Please stop. Please!

Huh. Where’s the prepuce?

The prepuce is where it is, nowhere else.

Where is it? Fine. Play stupid. How’d ya like THIS?

It’s okay, um, I mean, aaieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Ouch. Where’s the love?

Why won’t you talk, dammit?

Why won’t you tell me if you believe I’m tied to this chair?

Okay, let’s play your game. Yes, I believe you’re tied to that chair.


Hey, hey! Where are you going? Hey! Stop him!

What? I didn’t go anywhere. I’m right here.

B-but, I could have sworn that ... hm. All right. Where’s the prepuce?

First you have to tell me if you can handle bad news gracefully.

What? Bad news? Yeah, I guess.

Bad news is, the Supreme Court has the prepuce.

Really? Interesting. Why is that bad news?

Well, at least five of them aren’t what they seem. Aren’t human.

Really. Not human? And they have the prepuce? You know I’ll check this out, and if you’re lying ...

Oh, I would NEVER lie. That’s against the code.

So, you’ll stay right here, while my associates and myself check this out? Sufi’s honor, or whatever?

Sure, sure. Just be careful. Especially watch out for the one called Scalia. He’s probably the one with the prepuce in the pocket of his robe. Might even keep it in his underpants.

We’ll be right back, then. No funny stuff.

Sunday, September 26, 2004


Talking Clone

So, Dubya is saying to Evelyn, one of the White House secretaries, there's this drunk guy, see?

Is this you? Evelyn says without looking up from her typing.

Uh, Dubya says, no. This is another drunk guy. I mean, this is a joke about a drunk guy. I'm not that guy.

Oh, Evelyn says.

Anyway, Dubya says, he's got some people over, and he's drunk, and he goes, hey, wanna see my talking clone?

Now Evelyn's head bobs up.

Talking clone? she says, trying not to meet Marcia's eye across the room. Marcia is listening intently with her head down anyway.

Yeah, Dubya says, a talking clone. You know, the kind that tells you the time every time you hit it.

Oh, Evelyn says, going back to her typing. A talking clock.

Right, Dubya says. Like I said. Anyway, this guy is really wasted, and wants to show off his talking clone, and--

Now Evelyn can't help it. She glances over at Marcia. Marcia meets her eye for just a split second and goes back to her work.

And his guests go, hey, sure, talking clone, let's see the motherfucker, scuse the French. So they go in the bedroom and the guy grabs a hammer and smacks this big grass bong.

You mean, uh, glass bong? Evelyn says.


I just never saw a grass bong, Evelyn says. Oh! You mean for marijuana. That kind of grass.

No, Dubya says, a Japanese kind. You smack it and it goes BONNNGGGG.

Oh, Evelyn says, a gong.

A what?

A gong. Oh, I get it, she says, you mean a brass gong.

What'd I say?

Never mind.

Anyway, Dubya says, the guy hits it, like, really hard, and he's drunk on his ass. And it's like the clone talks!

What clone? Evelyn says.

The talking clone! Dubya exclaims. Haven't you been listening?

Sorry, Mr. President, Evelyn says.

He hits it and it says "Would you stop hitting that thing you drunk fuck it's 2 am in the fucking morning!" Get it?

What, the neighbor behind the wall yelled at him?

No, the clone did! It fucking talked!

Wow, Evelyn says, stealing one more glance at Marcia.

Yeah, pretty funny joke, huh? Dubya says. I wonder what they're doing with the Mullet Billdoug in there. He seemed like a pretty right-on guy.