Patience, Comrade

By Vladimir Ilyich Lenin

Mister Bush – may I call you Dubyich? – sit down, Comrade. We need to talk – talk a little history.

You and I, we both tried to birth great societies – I strove for Marx’s Communist ideal, you yearn to recreate that greatest American society of WWII – but we both forgot something… skipped a step if you will – the same step. Let me tell you a story – it’s what we old dead Russians do best.

Back in 1924, once I crossed over into the Hereafter, I made it my goal to seek out Karl Marx for his opinion on my revolution. At long last after what must have been years, I saw him across a sorghum field. Once our eyes met, I briskly traversed the distance between us with my broadest smile and hand extended. As the distance between us shrank to nothing, I stopped to catch my breath, but before I could say anything, Marx kneed me in the balls, shoved a copy of the Manifesto in my chest and barked “Read it again, Numbnuts!” before storming away.

It seems I excluded one major detail when fostering my revolution against the czars – the oppressive weight of four or five generations of unbridled capitalism on the proletariat. I tried to go directly from feudalism to communism – boy, was my face… well… red. Turns out a century and a half or so of raw capitalism is the true engine of the revolution: the promise of profit inspires the proletariat to educate themselves, improve their skills, and most importantly offer hope for a brighter future which repeatedly gets torn away from them by the bourgeoisie. Apparently, the frustration part was easy – but it takes a few generations of capitalism to transition a formerly feudal peasantry into a burgeoning proletariat smart and talented enough to manage perpetual self-governance for the betterment of all… who knew?

In effect, I rallied a mob of screaming idiots to rebel on their own behalf, they did so, then stupidly stood around and asked me what to do next. I could have pointed to the Manifesto until my fingers wore down to nubs – the illiterate buffoons only knew how to be ruled. Well, Stalin was only too glad to oblige them once I crossed over, and I think we all know where my little revolution went from there. Marxie still smacks me on the back of the head for that one sometimes during our bridge games.

The nut is that I entirely ignored the macroeconomic element of societal reformation, Dubyich – and much to the detriment of world history. You most obviously have done the same – you got the sneaky foreigners to strike a domestic landmark, the increasing of the size and reach of government to nigh-absolute status and non-stop anti-foreign propaganda elements of the WWII era down quite well - but all that does, frankly, is piss off a well-fed and self-supporting populace. In order for such tactics to foster an all-for-one, we’re-in-to-win mentality to motivate the entire body popular to move as one proud and mighty machine, the individual spirit must be crushed into dust. Twelve years of global economic depression did the trick for our friend Franklinovich.

By the time the Japanese hit Pearl Harbor, Americans had absolutely nothing to live on except national pride. Pearl Harbor gave the dormant power of the American people’s overawing hunger – for food, for humanity, for self-worth – a conduit for direction, concentration, regeneration and awesome release upon a smug and overconfident enemy. When Osama’s operatives knocked down the Twin Towers, the American people expressed their outrage by publicly discarding expensive foreign products, assuaged their depression through shopping and expressed their solidarity by affixing magnetic ribbons to their SUVs – then getting back to their regular largely comfortable lives. It takes a lot more than snappy catchphrases to get the People to leave their own private Heavens to jump into the mouth of Hell, Dubyich.

Ironically, it appears your attempt to create the Greatest Generation out of order may foster the step you skipped after all, what with the foundation of the global economy as a whole and American economy in particular eroding away as a result of governmental and private overspending. If there is anything a Russian can appreciate, Dubyich, it is bitter irony. When it is your time to cross over, be sure to sit with me – we will have much more to commiserate about… but make sure you wear a cup. You’d be surprised how quickly Roosevelt can rise out of that chair when he’s motivated – and how hard he can kick.

Notre Dame Fires Three of Charlie Weis's Chins

by Espen Jockovitch

SOUTH BEND, Ind. (IbK) -- Upon falling to 0-4 for the first time in the program's 119-year history, the University of Notre Dame has sent a clear message to head football coach Charlie Weis by firing three of his chins. According to a statement read by Athletic Director Kevin White, "Effective Monday, September 24, 2007 the University of Notre Dame will release Charlie Weis's third, sixth, and eighth chins from their contract as parts of the head coach of its football program due to lack of performance."

Since the rest of Weis is contracted with the storied program through the year 2015, this declaration could prove problematic for the already troubled head coach. While the most obvious answer would be for Jabba the Coach to lose about eighty pounds, thus shedding the fired chins naturally, for next week's game against undefeated Purdue he will likely have to obtain sideline guest passes for the fired chins and attach them with fish hooks or industrial strength alligator clamps.

Reaction throughout the College Football industry to Weis's-chin-firings has been swift and decisive. The Bowl Championship Series formula is fervently being recalculated to find a way to have an 0-4 Fighting Irish club finish in the Top 12 in order for them to be eligible to play in one of the marquee bowls they perenially lose. AP and USA Today pollsters have to resort to artificially boosting teams that beat Notre Dame since ranking an 0-4 team would render undeniable their thinly-disguised obsessive pro-Irish bias.

Other NCAA Division I head football coaches have also taken notice; most remarkably former Notre Dame / current University of Washington head coach Tyrone Willingham. "They fired three of Charlie's chins? Damn!" stated a clearly shaken Willingham. "I knew those cornfed crackers were serious about their football, but if Domers would fire parts of Chalie Weis for starting off 0-4, they'd have strung my black ass up from the middle fingers of Touchdown Jesus!"

The Fluffy Chronicles - Giving A Flying Crap

by Fluffi al-Thirdstreeti

Day 588 - With each passing day, the meat-nugget looks more and more like a human. A useless, hairless, semi-retarded human, but a human nonetheless. Today I watched as it grunted, generated a squirting sound, then took off its butt-wrap and started playing with the repugnant contents therein. Longhair dashed into the room squealing "Devon - NOOO!", scooped it up, and dashed it off into another room for cleaning.

Now, how do you like that? That gurgling breast-sucking burden befouls the entire living room and plunges wrist-deep into its own arse-squeezings and Longhair streaks in to clean IT up - while leaving me here to drink in the glorious aromas of Devon's gastric guacamole contained in its still-lying-in-the-middle-of-the-floor butt-burrito. When *I* planted one outside the rock garden as a kitten, they screamed all the way to Hell and chased me with a broom!

Devon.... DAMN! They NAMED the thing! You never name your prey - thus they aim to keep it. Aye, the road before us is a long one, my friends...

Day 597 - Devon continues to be showered with attention and praise for crapping himself. Fluffi continues to be largely ignored until beer-and-ballgame time when Shorthair will pet me if I jump in his lap; his exhausted, passionless, nigh-robotic stroking motions notwithstanding. Longhair... well she's just batshit insane. When fur-curling odors emanating from a tiny flesh puppet cause one to clap and gush with joy, that one has clearly batted the jingle-toy out of the plastic ball of her mind.

Day 605 - "Ooooh, Devon! Look at the pretty birdie!" Had I not heard this line approximately 756 times a day over the last month or so, I would consider it a benign off-handed comment. Were it not gushed in a shrill, lilting, near-glass shattering pitch by a human looking out a friggin' window for hours on end while holding a poop-and-powder scented flailing-and-slobbering meat nugget, I would not be moved to comment. However...

Humans: Get this now and get this good - birds are a pestilence designed to destroy you. Stop calling them pretty, stop protecting them from extiction, and definitely stop paying $1500 to have one invade, colonize, and infest your home.

Let us look at this objectively. There are two categories of birds: domesticated and wild. Wild birds are little more than feather-bags of disease flying hither and yon dropping their contagion-laden feces indiscriminately and mating with domesticated birds (which YOU EAT) further contaminating the Earth mammalian population.

Domesticated birds fall into two main categories of Pets and Food. Food birds are crunchy - not bone-crunchy like those gamey baby robins, more of a crispy-crunchy often with a hint of a dozen or so herbs and spices. Mmmmm! - but that doesn't make them any less dangerous to us. Salmonella and e-coli go with bird meat like jo-jos and corn on the cob. Pet birds live INSIDE your home speading their foul contagions WITHIN YOUR WALLS, but they have pretty feathers and sometimes say "Polly want a cracker" so you bipedal buffoons titter and coo and feed the damnable feathered Trojan Horses.

Hear me, Humans, and destroy these winged demons! Cats are immune to their brightly-colored seduction - that's why we are your masters. Heed your master, Longhair! HEEEEED!

Anatomy of a Product Launch - Pizza Hut Dippin' Strips

by SocratoBot 3000, Xylar VII Debullshitification Droid

We know our pizza entirely sucks, but we really want your money. We could develop a product that can compete on quality, but that would be time-consuming and unnerving to our investors, so we'll just come at you by marketing the same old shit packaged differently.

Let's face it, if you really cared about the flavor of your pizza, you wouldn't call a national chain. But hey, our advertising economies of scale can keep us all up in your mug 24/7/365 so you won't have to think about *where* you get your pizza, just as long *as* you get it. Quality, schmality, eh, Homes? Besides, aren't all those funny-sounding local pizzeria names ending in vowels kind of foreign and scary? Foreign and scary and ending in vowels... like OSAMA!?

Since our pizza tastes SOOO fucking terrible, you'll want something to cover up the flavor, so we boldly stole the 20-year-old concept of dipping sauces from a competing national chain who is currently using the exposed southern cinnamon rings of our market share as their personal pants-pork pincushions. Further, for ease of dipping, we hijacked the strip-slice dynamic from yet another up-and-coming regional pizza empire, and VOILA! an entirely "new" product line which delivers the same unappetizing doughy tomato-cheese loaf you've grown accustomed to liquid fire-shitting out the next morning with almost no effort expended on our part!

Now how do we appeal to the largest pizza-buying demographic, you may ask? Put them in the commercials! Tech-geeky twentysomething bachelor office-wonks will debate the subtle nuances between "dipping" and "scooping" the same old flavorless pepperoni pizza - but sliced differently, so it's NEW!!! - into various mini-buckets of flavored sodium-laden unguents. We even made the geeks come from different ethnic backgrounds to maximize demographic coverage - and made the white one stupid to give it that clever little twist of blantant pandering with which you incurious rubes have grown so comfortable!

So buy Pizza Hut Dippin' Strips. It's the same old for-shit pizza, just sliced differently, but it's in a new TV commercial with a trademarked brand name and everything... and you get sauce!

Over Before It (Officially) Started

By Jacob Bagnanelli, IbK Domestic Political Correspondent

In their effort to maintain electoral relevance, states have been leapfrogging their primaries in front of each other to earlier and earlier dates on the calendar. At one point Michigan eschewed the traditional Tuesday and chose Monday January 7th as their primary date - a technique known in the industry as “The Punk-Ass Price-Is-Right Gambit” - only to see the political calendar’s December 18, 2007 page marked with “Oklahoma, Fools! First!!! Soonerz pwn yr @$$!!” Yesterday, after a seemingly ceaseless stream of similar battles of oneupsmanship, 38 states reached a truce/consensus date of Tuesday, August 14, 2007 upon which to conduct Mega-Super-Suck-On-This-Iowa-Bitches Primarypalooza Tuesday. The results are in - and apparently have been for two weeks – but IbK NewsCorp is proud to be the first to announce that the major parties’ 2008 Presidential candidates will be Democrat Dennis Kucinich and Republican Tom Tancredo.

Both candidates were surprised to learn of their nominations, and are currently scrambling to cobble together acceptance speeches they never expected to write. Election experts attribute the dark horse victories due to astonishingly low turnout. Only early-entry absentee voters, time-travelers, and drunks stumbling into the polling booths looking for a place to piss got their voices heard, but those voices spoke in a wobbly, cracking pre-pubescent chorus of consensus. Kucinich and Tancredo each swept all 38 states in the Mega-Super-Suck-On-This-Iowa-Bitches Primarypalooza Tuesday, except for Montana wherein seven Republican voters handed the state to their written-in champion Scratchy McFester, the Pantsless Rodeo Clown.

Kucinich and Tancredo, now with only each other to contend, are ecstatic that they can at long last focus their campaigns on the issues that matter. Kucinich’s Stop-The-War-Create-A-Department-Of-Peace-Convert-Health-Care-To-A-Single-Payer-System-Mandate-Renewable-Fuel-Usage-And-Get-It-All-Done-By-Friday platform is well on its way to delivery for the consumption of the entire voting populace. Meanwhile, Tancredo’s one-issue anti-immigrant platform just doubled in width with the addition of the “Kucinich? Are You Frickin’ Kidding Me? Just *Look* At The Guy!” plank.

All other Democratic candidates, while thunderstruck, conceded to the will of their constituents and pledged their support to Kucinich. Republican candidates on the whole have shrugged and gone home, with the exception of Mitt Romney. Romney is strongly considering mounting an independent campaign, but hesitant to do so for fear of looking too Liebermanny. Meanwhile, undeclared Republican candidate Fred Thompson breathed a sigh of relief during his official announcement of declination. He thanked his supporters for their efforts and donations and assured them their hard work and currency will be put to good use in keeping his overgrown-troll-doll-looking carcass hip-deep in smoking-hot trophy wives for the next twenty years.