Bear Grylls Traps, Devours Survivorman’s Les Stroud

(Van Vieng, Laos) Bear Grylls, chiseled host of The Discovery Channel’s hit survival show Man vs. Wild, trapped and subsequently devoured Les Stroud, the whiny host of the Discovery Channel’s lower-rated, slower-paced survival show Survivorman.  While in Laos filming an episode for Season 3 of Man vs. Wild, Grylls was alerted by indigenous hunters that Stroud was filming in the same area.

A stoic, determined Grylls, minutes before bagging the whiny, insufferable Stroud in a deadly punji pit

 Wasting no time, Grylls soon fashioned a Viet Cong-inspired punji pit out of sharpened bamboo shoots, which he then smeared with his own feces.  In a perfectly executed example of what Grylls dubs “opportunistic hunting,” Grylls found Stroud the next morning at the bottom of the punji pit, impaled through the chest and thigh, desperately clinging to life.  Turning to face the camera, Grylls explained to viewers it was verrrrry important to keep Stroud alive just long enough to build a fire, so as to keep Stroud’s flesh fresh- thus preventing the growth of harmful bacteria and discouraging the attraction of flies.  

The last known photo of Stroud- looking whiny, annoying, and boring.

Grylls then proceed to roast Stroud’s eviscerated body over a fire started from mere tinder and a piece of flint, and exclaimed: “[B]oy, this is going to taste just awwwful, but I haven’t eaten in days and I really need the crucial vit-a-mins and nourishment to keep going; here we go, woooooo!” before biting into a crispy piece of Stroud’s hindquarters.  Whilst picking his teeth with Stroud’s sternum, Grylls then thoughtfully addressed his detractors, asking “[H]ow ‘fake’ is this, mother[expletive]s?”

Editorial: I’d Like to See Someone Try To Design a More Inane Law School Building. Srsly.

  By Jerome Prince, Dean, Brooklyn Law School (1945-1971)

          It has recently come to my attention that a lot of new age architects, trustees, and law school deans out there have been talking a lot of shit.  According to my younger, blog-reading friend Benjamin, these aforementioned assholes are all over the internets boasting possession of law school blueprints alleged to be more puzzling, inane, and myopic than the epic shitshow that I helped design- the one that currently stands at 250 Joralemon Street in Brooklyn, NY: Brooklyn Law School (BLS).  Upon hearing of such simpleton drivel, I instinctively spewed my anemic, translucent, school cafeteria-brewed coffee all over my expensive mahogany desk and decided that I just would not stand idly by while my beloved institution of higher learning yet again played the part of butt to the legal community’s joke .  Consider this an unequivocal solicitation to any clown out there who thinks he can build a law school building as ironically devoid of all reason and logic as BLS; what you got?  Ha, I’ll tell you.  You. Aint. Got. Shit.

Perhaps it is best to tell the tale of BLS’ maddeningly foolhardy design against the backdrop of its fruition.  I know a whole lot of you were history majors at university, so how about one last history lesson for all y’all?  Picture yourself in my spacious, lush, deanish office in 1968, in the company of esteemed Trustee Board President Henry L. Ughetta, architect Harvey P. Whipplestein, and yours truly.  

My inspiration: Albany's St. Peter's Basilica

The enviable task of designing what would become the BLS of the future had fallen upon our broad, chiseled shoulders, and we have convened to articulate a shared vision.  My tongue and lips gracefully begin their hypnotizing dance of annunciation, and my words soon loom prophetic:  

— At the foundation of my vision lay a clusterfuck of angry students- in the lobby, ten minutes before every major lecture class, stampeding each other in pursuit of the one available elevator.  There will be four elevators, of course, that’s the beauty of it, but for absolutely no good reason, only two will be in operation at peak times.  Where are the other two elevators, you ask?  Why, sitting ever so stubbornly on the 6th and 9th floors of course!  Please, cease your hand wringing at once!  For the witching hour is upon us, my friends, and so when the Borough Hall clock tower strikes midnight, all four elevators will be found standing wide open in the lobby, at your service.  

Now, the 40-50 unlucky students who aren’t agile enough to catch a fleeting elevator, or who lack the social connectivity needed to compel an acquaintance to hit the “door open” button, will be forced to climb six flights of stairs, all whilst lugging 40+ pounds of absurdly expensive textbooks.  The scene will be reminiscent of that part in White Fang where an exhausted but determined line of prospectors trudge slowly up the side of the mountain on a stairway carved out of ice, steadfastly pursuing their dreams in the face of harsh conditions and an astronomically miniscule likelihood of career success.  Yet the students will trudge onward and upward to the heavens where boredom, debt, and gchat await!

Some will not make it- no, some will perish along the way to 6th floor property or con law, collapsing in exhaustion as the students behind him finish him off with an Ugg-to-the-throat.  Still others break camp for the winter and attempt the rest of the climb under fairer conditions, and a few will even turn to Donner party cannibalism after finding the 4th floor cafeteria closed for a “special event.”  Those who do survive the grueling ascent to class may wish to quench their hypoxic thirst with a drink from the cool, refreshing waters of a drinking fountain.  But alas, not on Jerome Prince’s watch!  You see, each and every water fountain on every single floor shall dispense only the most tepid water known to man; water so lukewarm and infused with air bubbles it takes on the appearance and quality of diluted skim milk, and tastes of metals and other exotic elements from aaaaall over the world.  Should the student instead venture to the bathroom to relieve himself after his journey from base camp, he will be lucky to find dividers between the urinals or urinal cakes within them.  I pity the poor soul who finds it necessary to visit a bathroom stall; if he can even lock the door, he will soon find his unmentionable antics on display to any passersby through the 3-inch gap in the doorjamb.

If the student manages to overcome his fear of essentially doing his business in public, he will continue on to class, and find himself a seat in his visiting professor’s class.  

My boys breaking ground, looking fine

The chair upon which he is seated inexplicably hinges backward, under even the slightest pressure, halfway down his back.  This lack of any lumbar support will lead to pinched nerves and herniated disks, ensuring years of physical pain to accompany the mental anguish of massive debt and inability to purchase adequate medical insurance.  His visiting professor, due to his inability to structure a lecture, will breach the school’s policy of providing a ten-minute break in the middle of a two-hour class, which will lead to a rash of bladder infections and hypoglycemic seizures.  If he makes a brazen break for it, he very well may stumble down the awkwardly-spaced classroom steps and faceplant in front of the entire class.  Just desserts, if you ask me!

After class, the Goofus law student will head to the student lounge for some rest and relaxation, so long as his visit doesn’t fall within the 2-hour time period when a student would want to use it most: a reasonable man’s lunchtime.  You see, at my poorly designed law school, we will routinely hold guest lecture events and sparsely-attended luncheons during the only time a student is likely to desire a student lounge, and we will have our guards/bulldogs “clear the room” 30 minutes prior to such events.  Though these events will be open to all members of the school community, the room must be cleared.  Get the fuck out!

The Gallant law student, on the other hand, will continue straight on to the library.  He might pause momentarily at the high school-esque glass encased bulletin board, to see if he made moot court- after a mandatory tryout- or if he has been relegated once again to the chorus;  this information won’t be transmitted via electronic mail to him, as with all other school-related correspondence, it will be posted on a single piece of paper in the lobby at an unannounced time.  

It's REALLY fun to piss away your endowment on 1950's international power style marble!

After turning sideways to pass through the construction-narrowed library doorway, the student will walk past the student librarians doing their homework, past the sullen WestLaw table lady, and into the library stairwell.  Here he will make an important decision: descend into the fluorescent bowels of the basement- awash with study rooms full of stagnant air and despair- or continue upward to the 2nd floor reading rooms full of backed-up-sewage air saturated with SARS, and crawling with coughing/hacking students, loud cell phone conversations, and stacks and stacks of ancient law reporters, long fallen into disuse.  In fact, the seldom used reporters will take up the majority of the library’s precious floor space, and will play an integral role in the chronic shortage of seats during finals time.  Sure, we could move some of those stacks and stacks of dust-covered ancient texts to the archives, but what would we tell the obscure researcher!  Besides, the FDNY won’t let us cram any more students in anyways because we only have one, frighteningly narrow means of egress.– 

Egads, I’ve done it again!  I’ve gone and downed one too many glasses of port and rambled the afternoon away, my friends.  By now, however, my design genius should be readily apparent.  If there remains a trustee, dean, architect or mouth breather out there who thinks he/she can design a more ass-backwards law school, why don’t you put your money where your slack-jawed mouth is before I go ‘an find something more appealin’ to put in there.  PEACE.

Faithfully Yours,

Dean Formerly Known As Jerome Prince (1945-1971, bitches)

3 Tri-City ValleyKitties, 1 Portland Sea Puppy Named In League-wide Steroid, Cheating Probe

(St. Petersburg, FL) The Portland Sea Puppies, a miniature league [canine] baseball team, accused three players on another mini league [feline] baseball team, the Tri-City ValleyKitties, and the team itself, of systematic and widespread cheating, officials at Miniature League Baseball (“MiniLB”) reported Monday.  According to the Sea Doggies’ official complaint filed Friday afternoon at the league’s central office, various ValleyKitties players allegedly, over the course of the past few seasons: openly used illegal performance-enhancing substances (including catnip, amphetamines commonly called “feline greenies,” and feline growth hormone), knowingly committed repeated uniform violations with the intent to distract the opposing team, illegally doctored game balls with foreign substances such as kitty drool and spray, and caused undue game delays on multiple occasions by climbing nearby trees in lieu of facing the Sea Doggies’ intimidating, hard-throwing closer, Spike.

          The Sea Puppies’ complaint specifically names Felix, a ValleyKitties long reliever, as one of the most flagrant abusers of feline greenies and catnip in the league.

Tri-City's Felix is accused of abusing catnip and feline greenies to get amped up for his late-innings appearances

  A seasoned veteran with over two years of experience, Felix is known throughout the league for his high-octane energy level and bizarre on-field antics- such as winking at base runners while in the stretch, and wearing his cat pajamas from the bullpen to the mound in a confident display of self-assuredness bordering on utter hubris.  According to the complaint, however, Felix’s hyper, often brazen behavior is actually the result of his potent pre-game cocktails of feline greenies and catnip, both banned substances under the MiniLB Substance Abuse Program.  Although MiniLB- under Congressional pressure in the wake of a Cat Fancy magazine exposé- cracked down last season on anabolic feline steroid use with more stringent testing, amphetamine and catnip use has remained rampant and undeterred.  In fact, not uncommon for team clubhouses to feature two separate drinking bowls- one regular water bowl (labeled “unleaded”), with the other spiked with greenies and catnip (labeled “leaded”).  

 

Feline amphetamine use is not prohibited by the current MiniLB/Players union collective bargaining agreement

          Also named in the complaint is longtime ValleyKitties catcher, Oscar.  Oscar is alleged to have, on numerous occasions, materially breached numerous league uniform & equipment codes by donning extravagant, bizarre, and brightly-colored batting helmets with the intent to distract opposing pitchers.  The ValleyKitties, whose team colors are forest green and gray, issue both black (home) and dark green (away) batting helmets to its players.  According to sources close to the team, Oscar frequently goes to bat wearing a huge, round, bright green helmet- one reminiscent of an ancient Roman gladiator.  His ploy apparently works: in 2007, Oscar set a club record for bases-on-balls with 47, only to break his own record the next season by walking a career-high 52 times.  Opposing pitchers frequently complained to umpires about Oscar’s unusual choice in head protection, though their arguments that Oscar’s helmet posed an undue distraction and was illegal under league rules (which forbid alterations, earflaps, and decals) were ultimately unsucessful.  

Felix, Tri-City’s four-time gold glove winning catcher, seen here wearing his controversial, allegedly illegal batting helmet

          Although the spitball has long been glorified in baseball folklore as a dishonest, albeit irresistibly endearing part of the game, its use has recently come under fire after ValleyKitties pitcher, Socks, was ejected this past season from a home game against the Buffalo Field Mice for illegal use of a foreign substance ( a.k.a. “doctoring the ball”).  Field Mice manager Ralph S. Mouse, suspicious of Socks’ repeated paw-to-mouth motions and unnerved by his player’s reports that Socks’ pitches were “dancing,” asked home plate umpire Brad Slint to inspect Socks’ body and equipment.   Slint complied, indeed finding a “[m]ixture of kitty drool and vaseline in the pocket of [Socks’] glove.”  Socks was ejected from the game, and was later fined three yummy kitty treats by the league for his actions.  

ValleyKitties pitcher Socks is accused of throwing frequent spitballs

When confronted by the press corps after the game, Socks claimed that he has to lick his paws often to maintain a grip on the ball and to keep his paws clean, because “[u]nlike dogs, who are really just criminally stupid and dirty, [Socks] neither enjoys the filthy aspect of the game nor rolling in [his own] shit.”  Sea Puppies outfielder Bucky, annoyed by Socks’ post-game comments, dryly retorted, “[h]ey man, at least dog pitchers don’t defile the game balls with their disgusting, concentrated urine and ‘spray,’ which, by the way, is really just a kind word for viscous, foul smelling, fatty lipid secretions.”  The Sea Puppies front office dismissed the league’s characterization of Socks’ spitball ejection as an isolated incident, instead describing him in their complaint as a “[s]erial spitballer who, since he can’t crack 8 [mph] on the [radar] gun, is not ashamed to compromise the integrity of the game in order to throw his ‘junk.'”

 

 

                Upon receiving notice of the incendiary complaint filed against their players, the ValleyKitties counterclaimed almost immediately, alleging “[o]pen, notorious, sustained and downright criminal canine growth hormone and steroid abuse” on the part of the Sea Puppies’ All-Star closer, Spike, a 4 year-old black whippet.

 

Spike, Portland's dominating closer, has suddenly found himself in the crosshairs of a highly publicized steroid probe

 “I mean look at the [expletive] freakshow,” pleaded ValleyKitty general manager Stan Geits, “[Spike] ain’t no brick shithouse, [he’s] just the end result of a signing bonus’ worth of testicle-shriveling steroids shot in his ass, probably by one of his leg-humping, crotch-loving gym buddies.”  Spike refused to address the specific allegations levied against him, stating only that “[e]verything you see is natural, bitches,” smiling as he posed for pictures with a group of adoring female dogs.  As for his supposed “shriveled” testicles, Spike offered his best guess: “[S]hit, last I saw, they were in Oscar’s wife’s mouth.. right before I ate her hussy ass for dinner.  You can PRINT that.”

 

           The MiniLB, reached at the league’s central office in St. Petersburg, Florida, stated only that the week-old investigation is ongoing, declining further comment.  In the meantime, the age-old “dogs v. cats” debate- rekindled almost overnight by the recent controversy- has exhibited unprecedented fervor, and promises to provide provocative fodder for sports bloggers, dog lovers, and cat ladies alike in the weeks to come.

 

Ralphie, a behemoth former ValleyKitty first baseman, will not escape MiniLB's steroid probe merely because he's retired, league sources say

Local Man Admires Fellow Gym-Goer’s Ass Until He Realizes It’s Actually a Dude

(Brooklyn, NY)  Local New York Sports Club member and alpha male Evan Brown gave fellow NYSC member Ray Lyman’s ass a prolonged, furtive ogling Tuesday evening, under the mistaken belief that the effeminate derriere he was admiring actually belonged to a member of the opposite sex.  “Sh-I mean he was really fair-skinned and was leaning over in a pair of tiny shorts over by the elliptical machines, so I thought it was some cutie,” claimed Brown, “[I] didn’t know it was a guy!  Ugh!  Gross, dude.”  Upon realizing his mistake, Brown reportedly experienced an intense wave of self-disgust coupled with embarrassment, followed shortly thereafter by unsettling, introspective suspicions regarding the nature of his own sexuality.  Brown, seeking reassurance, then made the mistake of confiding his harrowing experience to his friend and fellow gym-goer, Dan Francis.  Francis, however, offered only mocking laughter, asking if Brown was searching for a new “[l]ife- errrr, lifting partner.”  Crestfallen and insecure, Brown proceeded to “make up” for his mistake by “[o]gling the shit out of some real hotties” for the remainder of his workout, reported Brown.  Corroborating Brown’s account was NYSC branch manager Steve Fellows, who conceded that that Fellows in fact received three formal sexual harassment complaints later on that evening in question, all filed against Brown on behalf of NYSC female members.

New York State employee lunch-walking gang tops New York State Police Gang Crime Task Force’s “Most Dangerous Street Gangs of 2008” list

 

The six founding members of WoW throwing up their "double-dubs"

 

 

(Albany, New York)  New York State Police (“NYSP”) Superintendent Harry J. Corbitt announced Friday that the Albany-based state employee street gang “Walking on Wednesdays” has claimed the top spot on NYSP’s “Most Dangerous Street Gangs of 2008 list,” topping the former juggernaut Clinton Avenue Crack-a-lackin’ Crips  and the much-feared El Mariachi Latin Kings of Swan Street.  Established in 2005, Walking on Wednesdays (“WoW,” not to be confused with the now-defunct Wow! arcade in Schenectady) consists entirely of New York State government employees, a subspecies of human traditionally known for its predicable yet docile pack behavior.  In just shy of four years, WoW has risen from obscurity to national notoriety after its near-complete, surreptitious takeover of the state employee lunchtime walking industry in Albany.  According to the NYSP, WoW routinely walks lunchtime laps around the Empire State Plaza and its surrounding areas, patrolling its “turf” and  intimidating other lunchers by hurling state government acronym/jargon-laced epithets and demanding that patrons of State Street’s Tex’s BBQ cart pay WoW a “walking tax.”  Retired Office of Employee Relations employee Linda Krolak recently surrendered a $5 bill to WoW “soldier” William (“Wee-Bay”) Baylor so that she could purchase her pulled pork sandwich without incident.  Hicks reportedly approached Krolak as she pulled out her wallet and offered her the choice either giving him $5 or “[f]inding a size-10 generic white walking sneaker up her [expletive].”  “Oh my word, then he screamed that I ‘better pay my motha-[expletive]’in dues’ or I’d be ‘found floating face-down in the shallow, rancid, Hudson-River-water-filled Plaza reflecting pool,'” stammered Krolak,  “I was just petrified because I had my precious little [white Maltese] Jasper with me, and he was already shaking from his morning doggie botox injection . . .  I just gave the thug my change and shuffled briskly away.”  

     Eschewing traditional flashy gang colors and luxurious “bling”  jewelry, the typical WoW member dons pleated khaki Dockers from J.C. Penney with a visible half-roll of NY Lotto scratch-off tickets “hangin’ out tha right side,” Wee Bay explains, because “yeaaaah, that’s the WoW side.”  Additionally, a WoW member will sport non-brand-name white walking sneakers from DSW Warehouse (with a dress and stockings for female members) and a mid-90’s multi-colored nylon wind breaker from Marshall’s discount rack.  This low-profile attire helps WoW members to assimilate into the state employee lunch crowd like a middle aged, slightly frumpy chameleon and avoid detection by State Police officers who have had the misfortune of having been assigned to the Empire State Plaza (hey, at least it’s not the Thruway).  Only subtle hand signals, double W’s flashed from one power-walking WoW member to another, distinguish the gang members from the victims of their harassment.  

    WoW is considered among police as one of the most secretive street gangs in the nation, with only one documented breach of gang security.  In April, 2005, freshly promoted WoW underboss Karen (“Cuz Killah”)  Springer inadvertently emailed a recruitment flyer en masse to every employee on the Department of Health’s network.  The flyer asked prospective members if they wanted to “Lose those holiday pounds!” and “help prevent type II diabetes” by “strutting their stuff with WoW during Wednesday lunch hours.”  WoW didn’t realize its mistake until the following morning, when Springer signed into her email account to find six email responses sitting in her inbox; all six of the responses, however, consisted of  some variation of “TAKE ME OFF THIS GOD DAMN LIST!!!!”  Nor were authorities alerted in time; those emails that weren’t instantly directed to spam filters were either instantly deleted by recipients; the only surviving copies were those forwarded by recipients to their friends for the email’s unintentional comedic value.  Moreover, police were still weeks away from acquiring court approval for a wire tap.  

   Police are optimistic that recent arrests of two mid-ranking WoW members combined with a recently approved state increase in manpower at the Empire State Plaza will turn the tide in the City’s four-year battle with the dangerous street gang.  Using wire taps and confidential Office of General Services informants, police have even begun to learn about WoW’s illegal activities before they occur and act preemptively.  Just last week, police picked up chatter on one of its wiretaps that WoW members were planning to “tag” the Egg, Albany’s iconic concrete, egg-shaped performing arts center (tagging is street slang for spray-painting public property, often with gang insignias as a way of marking gang territory).  Police stationed two 24-hour  patrol cars outside the  Egg for several days; no tagging resulted.   At least some high-ranking officials at the NYSP, however, have privately expressed skepticism that their heightened presence has had any actual effect, instead postulating that the references to “tagging the Egg” picked up on the wire instead referred to the initiation rites of new WoW member Stan “Biff” (the old version, from Back to the Future II) Haligan.  According to those officials, WoW members often refer to the dimwitted Haligan as an “egghead” and WoW initiation rites involve the hanging of WoW-gang-colored state-issued ID tags around new members’ necks with a silver, aluminum lanyard- the kind used to attach pens to counters at banks.  At press time, NYSP Superintendent Corbitt had not returned numerous phone calls for comment.

Hulkamaniac Misdiagnosed With Bipolar Disorder (Type I) For Past 17 Years

 (Hudson, NY)  25-year-old Michael Landi of Hudson has been misdiagnosed with Bipolar Disorder Type I since the age of 8, claims area psychiatrist Dr. Herb Allen. “After performing a thorough clinical assessment, I am certain that Michael is instead exhibiting symptoms of classic Hulkamania, which makes perfect sense considering my patient’s demographics and family history,” explained Allen, “He’s simply been misdiagnosed all these years.”

Brought in for an assessment at his family’s urging, Michael Allen’s first clue, he reports, was Michael’s particularly high global level of functioning. Allen attributes this to Michael’s unusually strict daily regimen of saying his prayers, drinking copious amounts of milk, and religiously taking his vitamins; practices not typically characteristic of a person experiencing rapid, unstable shifts in mood. “And Michael’s MMPI [Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory] analysis showed alarmingly high scores on the ‘hypomania’ and ‘hysteria’ scales, which are consistent with textbook Hulkamania,” continued Allen. Such scores typically translate to rapid and nonsensical speech, delusions of grandeur, and claims of immortality.

Michael’s mother clearly remembers when she first started noticing his bizarre behavior: “Since the 4th grade, he was very anti-authority. We couldn’t keep him dressed; he’d rip a brand new shirt right off himself,” said Annette Landi. “He referred to himself in the third person, and called started calling everyone ‘brother.’ We thought that meant that maybe he wanted a little brother to play with, so we got him a dog. He would let the poor puppy run into his extended boot, and he’d carry on about how the cute little thing couldn’t ‘lace the Junkyard Dog’s boots,’ it was just awful.”

Michael was soon diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder Type I, and prescribed lithium to stabilize his mood swings. The medication had little effect; instead it seemed to increase Michael’s outbursts. During the 7th grade, he would regularly feud with the Iranian exchange student, one time even attempting to wrap his ’24-inch pythons’ around his ‘Iron Sheik” neck. As a result, Michael was expelled from school, an occurrence that would plague him throughout his adolescence. 

After years of ups and downs, six different schools, and an undeterminable amount of babysitters, things hit rock bottom for Landi shortly after his 24th birthday. Years of futile psychotherapy and failed attempts at medicinal treatment wore down Michael’s will, and he slipped into a debilitating depressive episode. Admitted to the Anaheim County Psychiatric Center for a last-resort bout of controversial electro-convulsive therapy, Michael grew belligerent and assaulted hospital staff. “He was extremely combative and hard to subdue; when we tried to use our stun batons on him, he started vigorously shaking his head, blowing out his cheeks and wagging his finger, then slowly rose to his feet and just let loose,” reported hospital orderly Jose Santos. “I’ve never seen anything like it; it was like he was channeling a supernatural force or something.”

Desperate, Michael’s mother turned to the Internet. After visiting a few supportive online forums and message boards for mothers with bipolar children, she came across a recommendation of Dr. Herb Allen, a local psychiatrist who specialized in rare mood disorders. Figuring she had nothing to lose, Annette lured Michael to Allen’s office under the guise of buying him a new yellow and red bandana, a staple of Michael’s wardrobe. Though initially angered after realizing the deception, Michael quickly and unexpectedly established a good rapport with Allen. After a few intensive therapy sessions, Allen had Michael weaned off of the psychotropic medication Depakote. For the first time, Michael began to speak openly about his conflicting desires of being a good American patriot, and wanting to just run wild over anyone who got in his way. 

Allen thinks such progress indicates that Michael has turned the corner in his Hulkamania treatment. “I’m confident that regular psychotherapy, coupled with a gradual reworking of Michael’s abnormal thought processes will nip his Hulkamania right in the bud once and for all” declared Allen. As part of the treatment plan, Allen also referred Michael to an area dermatologist for treatment of his greasy, orange-hued skin condition.

Dad from Blossom files suit against guy in UPS commercials for hairstyle infringement

(New York, NY) Tonight, in a very special law suit, Nick Russo, the floppy-haired, lovable dad from the 90’s t.v. series Blossom, alleges that Andy Azula- the guy who draws those mesmerizing pictures on a whiteboard in UPS commercials- totally ripped off his signature hairstyle without properly seeking a transfer of copyright ownership under §204 of the U.S. Copyright Act.  In his complaint filed in New York State Supreme Court, Russo also alleges that Azula, through appearing in those sweet UPS commercials in which he draws those sick pictures with a Sharpie, violated Russo’s right of publicity.  Citing White v. Samsung Elecs. Am., Inc., 971 F.2d 1395 (9th Cir. 1992)(where Vanna White succeeded in suing over the use of a robot dressed in an evening gown depicted next to a game board recognizable as that used on the “Wheel of Fortune) and Wendt v. Host Int’l, Inc., 125 F.3d 806 (9th Cir. 1997)(holding that there was a genuine issue of material fact concerning the degree to which two animatronic robots, one heavyset and one dressed as a mailman, looked like the actors Norm and Cliff from “Cheers”), Russo argues that Azula’s flowing, lustrous, deep amber locks immediately bring to mind, in the eyes of an ordinary viewer, the “[b]adass, 90’sish sitcom dad mullet” that Russo “[r]ocked hard, prime-time” throughout the hit series’ run on NBC.  Russo’s hairstyle, his argument concludes, is thus highly delineated and precludes Azula from preparing derivative hairstyles.  Russo requests the court to enjoin Azula from his current [though outdated] hairstyle and seeks $30,000 in damages.

Azula confidently flaunting his well-groomed mane in one of his sweet commercials

 Azula immediately filed an answer denying Russo’s allegations and contending that, 1) Russo never registered his hairstyle with the U.S. Copyright office as a prerequisite to an infringement suit, as required by 17 U.S.C. §411(a), 2) Russo’s mulletish hairstyle is not fixed in a tangible medium of expression as required by §102(a) of the Copyright Act, and finally that 3) Azula’s hairstyle is “[j]ust far less lame-ass.”  Additionally, Azula suggests that Russo “[c]oncentrate on his [expletive] musical ‘career’ and focus his energy toward figuring out why his wife left him, although [Azula] could make a few educated guesses if he wants somewhere to start.”

Reached for comment, Joey Lawrence, who ironically is now completely bald, stated, “I’m not gonna say it, man, you can just leave right now . . . no, seriously, get the [expletive] out of here . . . FINE, JESUS CHRIST . . . WHOA!”

Jesus Christ Expected to Opt Out of Contract With Mankind After 2008

(Right hand of the Father, Heaven)  Jesus Christ, the “only Son of God,” is expected to opt out of his infinite-year multi-gazillion-dollar contract with mankind after this year, sources close to Christ reported Monday. Super Agent Scott Boras, who boasts Christ as his client as well as millionaire professional baseball superstars Alex Rodriguez and Carlos Beltran, claims that Christ, as a result of dwindling church attendance numbers, “just doesn’t feel appreciated anymore here on Earth.” If Christ does indeed exercise the opt-out clause included in the infinite-year contract that he signed after his resurrection in 29 AD, he would be considered an unrestricted free agent. Interested suitors include the speculative Extremophiles of Mars, and the theoretical fauna of extrasolar planet Gliese 581 c.

 

Christ, lamb, and agent Boras

Local Man Botches Casual Greeting, Awkwardly Apologizes

(Red Hook, Brooklyn) Area systems analyst Rob Cullen was ‘totally embarrassed’ yesterday, after a chance encounter with attractive acquaintance, Angela Curro, led to a botched casual greeting. Cullen and Curro, who work in the same building, frequently converge on the coffee kiosk in the lobby at roughly the same time each morning. Though they have never actually held a true conversation, they occasionally engage in superficial light banter for 5-8 seconds.

Curro, standing at the rear of the line, noticed Cullen leaving with his coffee. She cheerfully inquired: “Hey Rob, what’s up?” to which Cullen nervously replied: ‘Pretty well, how are you?’’ Immediately recognizing his verbal gaffe, Cullen hastily attempted to apologize, his stammering explanation only serving to drown out her response to the question he had accidentally just posed. The couple then awkwardly parted ways, leaving Cullen almost certain that Curro “probably thinks he’s a tool.”

Hicks St. ginkgo tree thinks its shit-scented seed pods don’t stink, says Pierrepont St. sycamore tree

(Brooklyn Heights, NY)  A Pierrepont St. sycamore tree called out a Hicks St. ginkgo tree Monday, alleging that the ginkgo tree thinks its fecal-scented seed pods, which it excretes all over the surrounding cars and sidewalk every autumn, don’t stink, sources say.  The outburst came at the heels of a particularly still, warm, odoriferous afternoon.  “Seriously, that asshole just tosses its plethora of little shit berries all over the damn place with reckless abandon, so then when people walk over them and smush them, the neighborhood is inundated with the sweet smell of partially digested human waste product,” raged the sycamore tree.  “What, she thinks her shitty berries smell like lilac?”

A gaggle of shit berries

   A [gag?] gift from Japan back in the 70’s, the ginkgo trees scattered throughout Brooklyn Heights are notorious for their ability to thrive in polluted urban environments.  Every fall, the gingko produces a large number of fruit-like, yellow seeds which it then craps out all over the sidewalk and cars below.  The seeds contain butanoic acid, giving them their characteristic scent which has been compared to that of rancid butter or human feces.  For this reason, in Japan only the male tree is planted along streets, with the female trees relegated to the garden.

   When informed of the sycamore tree’s comments, the mostly indifferent ginko tree merely shrugged it’s upper branches. “Puh-lease,” the gingko pleaded, “[c]onsider your source.  That Sycamore hasn’t been pollinated in years, probably because he always wears that white trashy camo-bark.  Like where did he get that, Hot Topic?  He’s just jealous that I’m getting all the action- I even had an Asian threesome last week!”  The gingko tree was likely referring to last Thursday evening, when after a particularly windy rainstorm, an elderly couple of asian descent were seen gathering loose ginkgo seeds for culinary uses (the nutty gingko seeds are added to congee, an asian rice porridge).  On the seed collectors, the gingko tree opined, “[t]hey LOVE that shit!”

   The animosity between the two trees is not likely to subside anytime soon.  When asked if the two trees might ever set aside their differences, the sycamore tree scoffed and said, “[t]hat miserable piece of shit, literally, shit, ‘aint worth my time.  You can write that shit down.”  In a similar vein, the gingko tree responded, “umm, no, actually I hope that miserable softwood contracts Plane Anthracnose Disease and defoliates himself.”