Herro! Nucrear Thlett Over Here!

by Kim Jong Il, Leader of the People's Democratic Republic of Korea

Hey, why you UN pigdogs pay so much attention to Iran? Erry time I tuln on the terrivision it’s “Iran this” and “Iran that” and “UN Thlettens Iran Sanctions for Nucrear Ploglam…” What – PDRK suddenry chopped river or something?

What about me? I actuarry HAVE nucrear weapons! I tested the sumenumbitches! They made a big boom and errything! As a matter of fact, that the rast time the internationar community gave half a lat’s ass about PDRK. Do I have to kirr somebody to get some attention or something?

Rook – I am a chaltel membel of that Axis of Evil just like Iran, but errybody rooking at them as the biggest thlett to worrd peace. Terr you what – I change name of Peeper’s Democlatic Repubric of Korea to Invincible Repubric of Korea – that make you pigdogs happy? That way we sound bord, allogant and ablasive rike “Isramic Repubric of Iran”, we indicate dlastic overt change in tone for nation as a whore, and we start name with fucking retter “I” rike Iraq, Israer and goddamned Iran! That about arr you pasty-ass roundeyes ever rook at!

Kim Jong Il – Exarted Supreme Reader of IROK. That has a nice ling to it.

Punxsutawney Phil to Enter Rehab

By Lars Eisenberg

Internationally revered meteorologist Punxsutawney Phil has announced he will enter drug rehab. “My nose candy snorting is completely out of paw,” the remorseful groundhog confessed, “I can’t even see my own fxxxing shadow anymore!”

Phil will enroll in The Betty Ford Clinic’s Celebrity Rodent Facility, which offers a six-week program each winter. Premature ending of hibernation is common in woodland creature-junkies, and the BFCCRF has been booked solid between February 2 and President’s Day for the last few years. Considering his importance to society and the egregiousness of his coke-hazed judgment, the Clinic will gladly make a special exception for Phil this season.

“I apologize to everybody for my terrible weather forecast,” continued the guilt-ridden groundhog. “I’m asked to be at my best one day out of the year and I let you down. Holy crap – even a drunk ferret could tell you winter was just getting started this past February 2! Where the hell was my head?”

As is too often the case with substance abuse, Phil realized he had a problem a bit too late. He clearly didn’t hibernate at all this winter, as paparazzi famously caught the grinning groundhog riding in the back of a limousine in November with Britney Spears and Paris Hilton sitting in Britney’s lap under her skirt.

Pleased To Meet You… Won’t You Guess My Name?

By Jesus H. Christ, Grand Nephew of God

As a way of celebrating my congregations exceeding those of my Uncle in number, I’ve decided to come out and let most of you know more precisely to whom you’re praying. My name is Jesus H. Christ, and I am the premiere salvation lobbyist for Heaven.

My dad James was so proud of his brother Jesus (the walking-on-water, water-into-wine, money-changers-out-of-the-temple Jesus) that he named me after Him. No doubt, the name has served me well – I have yet to hear a hockey fan scream for Herschel J. Christ when his team gives up a short-handed goal – so I decided to make the most of it. As far as your gifts from God go, my name is way up there on the list - letting it go to waste would be an unforgivable sin.

During my time on Earth, I was a successful trial lawyer. Upon my passing, Heaven’s staff heralded my coming with horns and harps in what turned out to be an epic clerical error, but I got to stay thanks to Heaven’s “Our Bad” grandfather (or in my case Grand Uncle) clause.

Ever since, I’ve been working to get as many people into Heaven as possible. Around the time of the Crusades, Christianity was hot and turmoil was rampant. Uncle Jay was overwhelmed to say the least, so I offered my services. That lasted about a week - the regular seven-Earth-spins-on-its-axis type, not the Created-the-heavens-and-the-Earth-in-one-“day” type - when they saw the murderous barbarians that I let in. (They carried Bibles and said they knew Uncle Jay, so I thought they were cool.) Anahita *still* won’t look me in the eye after the “Take off the wings and show us your tits!” incident with the First Crusader’s Battalion back in 1099.

Since my “reassignment”, I’ve gone back to my Earthly strength – finding ambiguities in The Law to argue the cases for less-than-perfect candidates to get into Heaven. Are you a God-fearing every Sunday-and-Wednesday church Baptist with an eye for the sheep? Good news: the Bible says you aren’t to *lie* with the beasts of the field. If you make your man-mutton standing up and don’t conspire with your fleecy paramour to tell mistruths, I can get you in.

That is just one example of my work. I’ll advocate nearly any case* – death penalty advocates and warhawks who beat their chests about their “culture of life”; gay-bashing ministers who secretly love the crank (in more ways than one); those who Love Thy Neighbor if and only if Thy Neighbor is the right race and ethnicity – just keep those tithes a-comin’ and Your Lordin’ Savior™ Jesus H. Christ will keep working for you!

Not a Christian? Not a problem – I have branch offices in most major religions. Depending upon your faith, you can call upon Ollah, Fishnoo, Boodah, or Tom Cruise to justify your violent extremism, raging self-serving hypocrisy, and/or lazy closed-mindedness in the name of The One True Way. Operators are standing by – have your Visa or Mastercard ready.

*I said nearly any case - kid-raping priests need not apply. You rat bastards can go straight to Hell... even lobbyists have standards!

How To Win The War On Terror

By C. Martin Jones, Documentarian

I’ll keep this short… because it really is that simple.

Iraq and Afghanistan are desert wastelands. When the enemy isn’t rambling on and on about his righteous superiority, he works in total silence. The enemy uses roadside improvised explosive devices in attempts to capture and/or destroy our soldiers as they tool down the highways.

Do the math, my friends – we’re fighting Wile E. Coyote. How do you defeat Wile E. Coyote? With Roadrunners.

Flood the entire warzone with Roadrunners – Iraq, Afghanistan, hell throw a few in Iran and Syria just to keep those angry little fuckers occupied! History indicates that the terrorists will leave our trucks alone and concentrate exclusively on those scrawny little birds. The jihadis will be consistently foiled, get frustrated, and devise increasingly complicated tactics, all doomed to fail in comic self-inflicted violence.

Roadrunners. Do it. Osama will be wearing an anvil for a hat inside of four months – I guarantee it. Acme Co., fire up those factories again – we’ve got a war to win!

Open Letter to the City of Boston

By Ron R. Clark

Earlier this week, the city of Boston closed off major roads and bridges in order to clear its infrastructure of what was deemed an imminent terrorist threat – LiteBrite boards sporting the image of Mooninites (cartoon aliens from Aqua Teen Hunger Force that look like 1978’s Space Invaders – CGA-quality square pixels and all) flipping the bird. When Boston Homeland Security got pantsed by the truth about the incident, it filed serious (as in five-years-in-a-Federal-sphincter-waltzing prison) attempted terrorism charges against the perpetrators: a couple of poorly groomed cartoonist’s assistants in their late 20’s. Yeesh – a bit touchy, aren’t we?

Boston, I appreciate that you are the same city that matadored the nineteen 9/11 attackers without so much as a Known-Terrorist-List check blithely through Logan Airport, thus you feel the need to prove your tough-securityness to the rest of the world as a result... but this clearly is not the situation. Take a good hard look at what you’ve got in custody and tone down the bluster. A wild-cherry red convertible 1986 Ford Escort is still an Escort, no matter how much you trick it out, and if you’re paying that 26-year-old hottie riding shotgun, she’s not really your girlfriend. Ease up on the Viagra and Red Bull and accept your bald spots, OK Honey?

Prosecuting this case to the fullest extent of the law will indeed send a message – and that message is “Boston Homeland Security is run by humorless dinks with eggshell egos and no sense of proportion.” Please stop. Admit your mistake. Plead the “offenders” down to a hearty fine and three years probation and we’ll let Boston keep that Lovable Loser tag the rest of the nation has granted it since the dawn of the 20th century. Otherwise, you’re image will morph into New York City’s Retarded Belligerent Cousin Who Dryhumped The Turkey Last Thanksgiving.

Let us look at this situation logically. Not only would terrorists never in a billion years use LiteBrite images of bit players on obscure late-night Adult Swim cartoons as the signature for their dastardly masterworks, but they wouldn't come after Boston in the first place. Your bridges and tunnels collapse and kill citizens all by themselves; Osama is cunning enough to save his C4 for a more stalwart target.

If Boston is striving for the image of a tenacious warrior against terror, I have a suggestion: Go back into the tunnel in which you disabled the Mooninite improvised advertising device and go after the source of the fifteen or twenty gang tags you had to la-de-dah past in order to get to The Real Menace.

Then do something about that shitty combover – your suburbs are getting embarrassed.