March 12 2010
Today is a wonderful day, a tremendous day, perhaps the greatest day since the Fall. Today, we reclaimed part of our world. Today, we finally won the great internecine war between CNBC and MSNBC.
It was not an easy battle. I fought Keith Olbermann to a standstill before finally forcing him to eat his own tie. Mark Haines snapped Howard Wolfson clean in two over his knee like a stick of wood. Chuck Todd, wearing a leather kilt and blush on his cheeks like the pinkest of war paints, howled "REMEMBER RUSSERT!!!" as he ran into the room, tears streaming, swinging a mace and chain made out of a power cord and a teleprompter with nails in it. He slew three techies and Darby Dunn before John Harwood broke a chair over his head and threw him from the window. As he fell, I could hear him sobbing. "TIM!" he wailed. "TIM! AT LAST, AT LAST, TOGETHER AGAIN!" Then there was a splat, like a ziploc bag full of cling peaches thrown against a brick wall. And then there was only silence.
And of course, there was David Gregory. David Gregory, who long ago lost the ability to speak, and who now only grunts and moans with a wordless voice. David Gregory, who wears the skull of Chris Matthews like a crown. Gregory the terrible, Gregory the goliath, Gregory the vengeful God towering above despairing Egypt. Like an troll;, they kept him in chains, but they could not bind him now as he tore free of the restraints and raised his clublike fists in horrible triumph.
He brandished the touchscreen that he had claimed from John King when he conquered CNN. We cowered before its terrible power. He howled a guttural howl and brought the touchscreen smashing down upon Tyler Mathisen. He ululated once more and clove Rebecca Jarvis clean in two. He turned at last to Maria Bartiromo.
But Maria - my sweet Maria - she was ready. As Gregory raised his terrible screen above his head to crash it down upon her, she loosed an arrow right into his eye. Overwhelmed by pain, Gregory let go of the touchscreen and it toppled upon him. There still he lies, in the settling dust and pooling blood, his terrible reign finally over. Now I have time to return to my reading. It is my only comfort as long as Maria eludes me.
Interview with Infrateal
We found our Amy by the sea when she was but three, a wee lass with greenfloss hair shined like mossy glass. She was clinging to a mass of driftwood and suckling a barnacle; she screamed when we picked her up, depriving her of briny milk.
We didn't know where she came from but we loved her like a daughter. When she fell and scraped her knee, crying for the first time we'd known her, her cries were long and slow and deep like the hunting whale's sojourn. We took her to a pediatrician, he said her throat was coiled in on itself like a seashell. He advised us to give her a children's motrin and a snailshell once a night for a week.
The election was a week later. We were shocked when Obama won; we were afraid that our beautiful beachfront chalet would be seized and all the whelks and conchs chained to crude sledges, whipped by overseer crabs, force to haul pebbles and secrete a calcareous tenement where our happy household once stood. We were afraid of taxes, of terrorists, socialized medicine, the flag pulled down from over the white house and rolled into the biggest reefer ever, smoked by a cackling Bill Ayers in front of millions of children.
None of this happened. Instead, something far worse: a gang of dolphins came to the door and demanded our child.
"WEEEEE WENT OEEER AEEEEMY" they squealed. "GEEEV HEER TEE UESSS."
We tried to stop them, we pleaded with them, but they held us down with their muscular flukes and dragged Amy from her room. The dolphins told her she could bring only one suitcase, and she filled it with air. Then the dolphins led her away. She cried her sonorous cries and the dolphins chittered an unintelligible antistrophe, and that was last time we saw our Amy.
When we went to the police, they told us they already knew everything, and there was nothing they could do. Obama himself had signed the authorization forms. Farewell Amy of the Sea, and curse the day the black man took thee from we.
REUTERS NEWSWIRE: FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Obama's stimulus plan continues to draw questions from reporters and republicans alike. In response to a question about the funding for his 300 billion dollar stimulus plan, Obama said: "We are, as always, looking for ways to pay for our plan by cutting government waste-" before he emitted a strange series of clicks and croaking noises, like a dolphin caught in a fishing net. The transition was so sudden, like the changing of the subtitles on a DVD. No one else seemed to notice. The woman next to me raised her hand with great effort, producing a burst of clicks that was similar and different. There was a great chorus of laughter, as if I had become Sea World. I stood aplomb, certain of a practical joke I was simply unaware of. I was going to retire in just a short month. Perhaps they were to recognize this. Then I looked to the sea which was overcome with dark shapes on its skin. I'm afraid but I don't
NATION SINKS BENEATH THE SEAS; OBAMA CHERISHES "NEW ATLANTIS"
P- The South African nation of Namibia sank into the Atlantic Ocean today, according to leading Africa experts. The churning seas, ever hungry for the succor of human flesh, rose up and dragged the impoverished nation down into its haunting, mysterious depths. After its long struggle for independence from its more prosperous neighbor South Africa, Namibia hoped it could at least have a few decades of such mundane catastrophes as widespread starvation and the AIDS epidemic, but cruel, petty God still deigned to blast the infant nation with unending torrents of noxious death-currents. Eyewitness reports state that "Hell dogs, sea beasts and jackals who walk like men" descended on the normally above-water country, in a series of events that can only be described as "soul-cracking".
When asked for a statement, President Obama replied "that's brutal" before unpausing Left 4 Dead, an admittedly ballin' video game experience.
OBAMA VOTED MOST WELL GROOMED PRESIDENT
NEW ORLEANS, LA- Questioned about the recent violence along the Gaza Strip near Israel, President Obama said: "Feel my hair, it is soft." Laying there among the reeds on the bank of the Mississippi I hesitate for a moment. "It is very soft. Just a touch." We sit there under the tree for some time, just a few feet apart, as my mind is lost in quassads, bombs, and the other nuances of war. Somewhere in the distance I hear an airplane taking off. It is a peaceful time.
Suddenly then, I take my left hand with great care and place it gently across the top of his head. It is not an erotic gesture, as you might be inclined to believe. It is the action of a child in a zoo. He makes no motion to indicate that he was joking, so I begin to slowly raise my hand, move my hand across the top of his head, a petting motion constrained by etiquette, morality, the weights of culture which I have borne since I uttered my first word. It is so soft! But then everything snaps back along with my hand, and we sit most of an afternoon in the strange lull between wars.
At a press conference outside of the Amcore Bank Tower in Madison, I find myself enraptured not by his words, but by the softness of his hair, curling off the top of his head like a baby fawn. I raise my hand for a moment, to ask a question, i don't remember what, but he looks at me and I stop.
Everything stops. I can see only the blue of lobster's blood and the salty smell of the Gulf in my nostrils.
Interview with Infrateal:
The press pool sloshed as it trundled into position. The wallowing newsmen laughed and clinked their martinis, and jewel-colored fish swam between their fattened thighs, nibbling away dead skin and parasites. MSNBC, CNN, CBS, ABC, PBS, NBC, BET, all had sent emissaries with retinues of fluffers and feeders to loll in aqueous luxury and lap up the words of their benefactor.
On a dusty corner island, behind barbed wire, leaned the gaunt figures of the FOX reporters. They may be real people, very still, knowing their place in the new world. They may be mummies, propped up as effigies, to add a small schadenfreude to the list of pleasures afforded the liberals. A spider had spun a web from one to another, and the president was known to take questions from it, promising a health-care plan that covered octuple optometrist visits, and air-traffic control infrastructure for ballooning spiderlets. The FOX microphones may very well be unplugged, or rigged to translate vocals to fart noises, and no one will ever know.
An increase in grunts and undulations signaled that the conference was about to begin. The last cakes were shoved into jowl-flanked maws by servitor octopuses, and for once the liberals were silent. Their messiah entered.
Obama was still slim, a rakish shark's fin cutting the halls of power, while all around him the liberal elite globbered and dribbled in their mobile jacuzzis, tended by taxpayer-funded symbionts. He was at podium all at once, silently, and grinning his barracuda smile. The press pool flapped their flippers in applause, and Robert Gibbs materialized to toss them mackerel from a bucket. After a two-minutes adulation, the president cleared his throat and they were silent once more.
"Good afternoon. I'd like to begin by announcing a new round of... stimulus." The president's grin grew even wider, stretching to the corners of his ears and revealing triple rows of bleached incisors. The press pool gurgled and splashed its approval, and quietly, invisibly, the FOX reporters deliquesced.
INTERGALACTIC NEWSWIRE - RELEASE
HONOLULU - presidentobama is the onlyone who can bear this message from us our ship was intended as a peaceenvoy but now allbuti have nothinged i will smear their stories with them across the hull of our ship presidentobama we came from a world far outside your imaginings the span of our travels reminds us and you that we are all swimming in a deep deep pool like your oceans we all wished to seethem but there is trouble justoutside of the blueof your planetearth we recommend an agressivepackage of stimulus for our industry please we will crash soon.
Sir Mix-a-Lot's classic follow up to "Baby Got Back" has serious unintended consequences.
"Really, Holmes!" I dropped into my seat, shocked. "You are remarkably tall! What are you, six foot six? Six foot eight?"
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