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Posts Tagged ‘Humor’

These Fucking Pricks and their Pants

February 25, 2013 Leave a comment

By Fingers Rolly
Man on the Street

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I can’t believe these fucking pricks and their god damn pants.  I could take you right to a men’s store and find you that fucking revolving belt stand but god help these little shit perverts. “I can see the crack of your ass!” is what I want to yell.  Instead, I just holler at the desert– all cracked and brown and just fucking king hill bullshit.

Pants come in two colors– brown and blue.  They try to fucking sell you anything else and any self-respecting man would turn the other god damn way.  You just have to be careful you don’t turn the way that leads into that mother of a whore desert.

Mother used to have this fucking spinning jenny.  Spun out belts made out of thick as shit hemp.  Not only were your slacks not ever going to fall down but you couldn’t even remove that lousy little asshole.  It was hopeless then.  You’d just sit around and there was not a single godforsaken thing in the world you could do.

That sonuvabitch desert is back again.

The Pondicherry Association News would like to apologize for the preceding article.  Fingers Rolly is no longer receiving assignments.

Vitiello Interview Interrupted by Tree Creature Bubble Attack

February 22, 2013 Leave a comment

By Grady Kitchens
Senior Staff Writer
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An interview with 24-Piece Men GM Chris Vitiello was interrupted today by an unexpected tree creature bubble attack.  The executive was unharmed and was able to repel the assault.

The interview, which took place by a series of lichen-covered rocks and small trees, was just underway when Vitiello noticed an enormous vengeful bubble floating directly towards him.  The executive dodged the menace which then reversed course and entrapped and carried away Association reporter Brock Belvedere, Jr.  The journalist is still missing as of press time.

“As I lay in the dust,” Vitiello later wrote, “I could sense that the bubbles were coming from far up on the rock and were emanating from a most vicious tree creature that was ten feet tall if he was an inch.  I knew that if I were to survive, I would have to lure him out of the rock cave.”

According to witnesses, the tree creature eventually made its way out of the rocks.  “It picked up Mr. Vitiello and threw him into a shallow pool,” said nearby resident Danius Zubrus, who was mowing his lawn.  “There was a long period of hand-to-hand combat with the tree creature still trying to ejaculate these large prison-like bubbles and Mr. Vitiello submerging the upper half of the tree creature under water.  Finally, Mr. Vitiello was able to drown the tree creature.  He walked off before we could even offer to help him.”

Vitiello is currently resting at his North Lankville home.   A report is expected later this afternoon.

Categories: 2012-13 Season Tags: ,

Darkness GM Fick Has Grown Taller; Now Wears Cape

February 22, 2013 Leave a comment

By Larry “God” Peters
Far-Flung Areas Correspondent
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Darkness GM Fick, who remains nominally attached to his club, has grown taller and now wears a cape, sources have confirmed.

The executive, who lives in semi-retirement on the gloomy Lankville heaths, offered no explanation for his sudden physical transformation but expressed an abiding affection for sleeveless topcoats.

“I wear a cape all about the mansion, particularly in my book-lined study, while I mull over sundry topics by the fireside.”

When asked to generally describe the subject matter of his library, Fick demurred.

“Actually, most of the books are fake.  Some of them contain candy,” he added, hopefully.

Fick also noted that his teeth have grown.  “Yes, the weird heath dentist was quite surprised.  He took x-rays but then I believe he lost them on the heath so I guess we’ll never know.  I think he may have died, as well.”

A clatter was heard over the phone and Fick suddenly grew very quiet.

“That’s the loud halfwit,” he whispered.  “I must go.  Things will rapidly deteriorate now.”

The interview was suddenly ended.

Categories: 2012-13 Season Tags: ,

POINT: Pondicherry Should Expand to “The Depths”

February 21, 2013 Leave a comment

By Phil Miller
Depths Correspondent
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Now that the Pondicherry Association has expanded to Hoover Island, it would seem that the natural next step would be to offer a franchise to a syndicate in “The Depths”.

What do we have to offer?  A top-notch arena for one.  “Depths Facial Tissue Plaza” is one of the largest indoor venues in the world, offering seating for over 60,000.  The impressive structure also houses businesses, offices, kiosks and carts, and a large area where trucks can back in and unload their cargo.  Individuals can also use this same area for discharging their own personal loads from their sacks.

And yet, “Depths Facial Tissue Plaza” remains largely unused.  Sure, we have an occasional “funny circus” but such events fail to bring honor to our great arena and our great land.   We need hockey and we need it now.

I urge the Pondicherry Association to consider “The Depths” as their next stopping point on their great road to world expansion.

The opinions of Phil Miller are not necessarily those of The Pondicherry Association News.

“Inner Hammer” Ponders the Myriad Coruscations of Immolation and Abnegation and Time

February 21, 2013 Leave a comment

By Brock Belvedere, Jr.
Senior Staff Writer
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Sources are confirming that Small Pizzas GM “Inner Hammer” today pondered the myriad coruscations of immolation and abnegation and time.  The reflection occurred at a Teets Island “Horn of Comfy” hotel ballroom where a large “pre-breakfast” of bacons and cranny-free waffles were served.

“Yeah, yo, I’ve been pondering the afterlife and all that,” said the executive, who grew frustrated with the fissure-less waffles and their difficulty in accepting generous dollops of butter.  “You think about fire and you think about time and, yo, that shit’ll wake you up in the middle of the night.”

“Inner Hammer” paused to hurl an over-handled waffle into a trash receptacle.

“Bad idea these waffles,” he noted.  “You need to have those crannies to accept your butter.  You just can’t deposit any butter without a good cranny.”

“Inner Hammer” moaned loudly.

The Small Pizzas are currently in third place in the Pondicherry Association.

Categories: 2012-13 Season Tags: ,

Horrible Pig Monster Family Disturbs Fans at Stamps Contest

February 20, 2013 Leave a comment

By Grady Kitchens
Senior Staff Writer
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A family of horrible pig monsters disturbed fans last night in a league contest between the Stamps and the Small Pizzas on Hoover Island.

Sources are confirming that the pig monsters purchased their tickets and sat quietly in the upper deck but that their mere presence caused many of the 54 fans in attendance to leave by the second period.

“I just felt that I couldn’t be in the same building as a horrible family of pig monsters,” said Stamps fan Earl Cron of Northern Hoover Island.  “I just kept watching them out of the corner of my eye to see what they would do.  At any moment, I anticipated pig chaos.  I couldn’t concentrate on the game.”

Cron, who is a traditional Hoover Island nudist, was later accidentally lanced.

“It was felt we could not evict the family,” stated Stamps owner and island monarch Aaron Tucker.  “They paid legally and were among the most well-behaved of the extremely paltry, pathetic crowd that we had in attendance last night.   We held a brief quorum and made the decision despite their odious presence.”

The father of the horrible pig family was later interviewed.

“We came to show our support for hockey on Hoover Island,” said the swine, who was drooling in an utterly repellent fashion.  “I think you’re really starting to see the effect that hockey is having here and, you know, I feel like that’s something to be proud of.”

The beast then wandered into the gift shop and purchased some hats and cotton candy.

The Stamps are currently exploring options on what to do if the family attempts to attend further games.

Categories: 2012-13 Season Tags: ,

Chat Sessions with Dick Oakes, Jr.

February 19, 2013 1 comment

By Dick Oakes, Jr.
Senior Staff Writer
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Senior Staff Writer

Clints Stunt is a Terrifying Bat fan.  He works everyday in a convenience store.  He has a girlfriend named Peggy.

“Eddie-Baby” Rice is a Darkness fan.  He owns a silo.  He sells grain on the weekends.  He pays country girls for coitus.

Lisa Boots is a Small Pizzas fan.  She runs a company that brings melons to stores.  She is married to a man but not in a particularly serious way.

Hockey fans, all.  But is there any further link?  I sat down with all three at a table in a basement.

DO:  So, let’s have a chat session here.  Who wants to open?
ER: I’ll open. I feel that you can look at me and say, “That guy, he’s a barometer.”
DO: A barometer of what?
ER: Values.
LB: Let me cut you off. We have a big cardboard container. It’s open at the top and we pour the melons in there. Every time, there’s this little wormy guy who appears out of the darkness with some grapes.
CS: So what? What’s that got to do with anything?
ER: You look at me and you think, “Now there’s what a Lankvillian man should be about”.
DO: OK, let’s settle down here. Lisa, I think that everyone in the room knows that you and Clint have some unspoken bond.
LB: I guess I feel it.
CS: I admit it.
DO: Clint, what turned you on right away?
CS: I’d say her round pig-like ass. It conforms to a series of ideas and memories that I have.
DO: Fair enough. Lisa, what turned you on to Clint?
LB: The way he carried that box of coffee in here. Something about the curve of his hand. It was deeply erotic and yet unsettling.
DO: Eddie-Baby, that kind of leaves you out of the loop. How do you feel?
ER(crying): I’m alright…I…
DO: Thanks everyone.

Dick Oakes’ new series will continue in further issues.

Categories: 2012-13 Season Tags: ,

Royer Changes Name to “One Who Uses it Daily”

February 19, 2013 Leave a comment

By Tito Presentation
Distinctive Reporter
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Terrifying Bats GM Cor Scorpionis (formerly Ric Royer) confirmed this morning that he has changed his name to “One Who Uses it Daily”.

A small press conference was given in the Foontz-Flonnaise Home of Abundant Senselessness dining hall to a sparse crowd of early-rising reporters.

“One Who Uses it Daily” appeared in a crimson road while carrying an illuminated porcelain Christmas structure.  He paused to liberally lather up a bagel with cream cheese, then proceeded to the lectern.

“It is our [the executive nodded to the Christmas structure] hope that this new sobriquet will evoke our daily life lessons, the creation of a limitless cell of wonder that cannot be contained by four simple walls.  We [the executive nodded again to the Christmas structure] have discovered a new source of inspiration and we have every intent to use this source daily. Now, please, enjoy some of these bread products, traditionally shaped by hand in the form of a ring*”.

The reporters then rushed the bagel table resulting in one stomping death.

Later, “One Who Uses it Daily” gave a brief speech before his cell.

“You’ll note that our [again, Royer nodded to the Christmas structure] nametag reads “Royysticks”.  Although it is spelled incorrectly, it is in reference to my given name and this is no longer applicable.  It should read “One Who Uses it Daily and Partner”.  The individuals that claim hegemony over this wretched community have yet to come to terms with the ephemeral.”

“One Who Uses it Daily” suddenly became dazed and entered a long period of psychogenic fugue.  The interview was ended prematurely.

*Commonly known as bagels.

Categories: 2012-13 Season Tags: ,

Why Don’t You All Just Eat Some Shit?

February 18, 2013 Leave a comment

By Fingers Rolly
Man on the Street

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You start complaining to me about those balloons or about the price of gas or about the line to buy new dungarees and I’m gonna’ tell you all the same thing.  Why don’t you all just eat some shit?

If you want, I’ll help you.  You can even sit at my own fucking table, long as you don’t mind a fucking leaky tractor transmission in front of you.  Not like a tractor does anything at all to that asshole of a desert.  Throws dirt up in the air so that it just settles again, that big bitch.  I know my brother-in-law ripped me off on that one; we all knew he come from gypsies.

You can complain all you want about it but I’ll say it and they’ll say it– why don’t you all just eat some shit?

Can you believe the cost of a fucking stamp?

The Pondicherry Association News would like to apologize for the preceding article.  Mr. Rolly was actually assigned no article at all.

Musings of a Decorative Ham Man

February 17, 2013 3 comments

By Chris Vitiello
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I took refuge in a train tunnel alcove.  The transmogrified passed quickly before me.  I could hear their strange, echoing grunts far down track.  Then they were gone.  I headed back the way I came in.

At the tunnel mouth, I noticed something queer in another alcove.  There was a little old man there, seated on a chair reading a modern paperback.  He was clad in a tan great coat, a dark regency vest and, for some reason, a white soft bonnet.  Upon my approach, he quickly removed the bonnet.

He stood up and put his hands on the long lapels of the great coat thereby affecting a rather stately look.

“Did you see the transmogrified?” I asked.

“Yes, yes I did,” he responded, in a gentle, grandfatherly way; I had only a slight desire to whip him.  “Spirits are reacting to your…your construction up there,” he said, waving disconsolately in the direction of Fire Point.

He had raised my ire.  “What concern is it of yours, old man?  It was my thirst to purchase this Godforsaken hill and I have quenched it with the building of quonset huts.  I could build even more, if I wish.”

He laughed.  “Oh, I would advise against that.”  His round eyeglasses somehow twinkled in the nigh-darkness.  “I know you, I remember you from the village,” he suddenly added.

I studied his face further.  He remained a stranger.

“No, it was long ago.  Your father and I once purchased a barrel together.  55 gallons– it was a beauty.  But we argued constantly over it.  I wanted to fill the barrel with this, he wanted to fill the barrel with that.  There were over twelve fistfights.  Finally, one sodden night, your father dumped the barrel into the river.  It was a good thing, too, because it had been my intent to kill him, chop him up and send his remains down the river in that very barrel so…”  He trailed off.

“What point are you trying to emphasize, you codger?”

“Actually, my very reason for purchasing the barrel was to dispose of remains….and perhaps…if someone needed sauces…or…”  He trailed off again.

I left him.  I was resolved to conquer Fire Point.

Getting to Know Fingers Rolly (Part One)

February 15, 2013 1 comment

By Bernie Keebler
Senior Staff Writer
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In the past few weeks, the world has become entranced by the writings of Association reporter Fingers Rolly.  And yet, I always found myself wanting more.  Who is Fingers Rolly?  What are his thoughts?  Can he even be known?

I made the long drive to the Lankville Desert Region to find out.

Fingers Rolly lives on a patch of desert surrounded by a natural arrangement of lovely pincushion cacti.  His home is a series of old aluminum trailers that have been shoved together in a fanciful manner, thereby creating a rather large structure.  There are the remnants of succulent gardens along one edge and a well-tended gravel walk but the land itself is cracked and brown, pulverized into dust by a relentless sun.

The road simply ends at Mr. Rolly’s rambling home; it goes no further.  A tremendous amount of dust kicks up as I pull to a stop.  Upon alighting from the car, I detect a strange sound that suddenly changes in timbre.  Whereas at first it had sounded mournful, now it sounds almost demonic.  I realize that it is the famous desert howling of Fingers Rolly.

Will he even answer the door? I ask myself.  “If he’s howling, you can forget about it,” said an anonymous source, whom I probed for information about the mysterious writer.  “You’ll have to try another day.”  But I am resolute.  I quickly change into a finely-tailored suit (I had been wearing some workout short pants and a lightweight shoulder harness) and make my way to what I presume to be the front door.

The demonic howling suddenly stops.  Nothing moves.  No sound can be heard from within.  “Fingers?” I call out.  I tap again at the door and it suddenly swings open.  I can perceive only shadows from within.

I enter a mysterious room.  There is a living room set (leather sofa and chair, cowboy motif) but large hand-painted plywood signs are stacked neatly against them.  I flip through the cracked and warped messages, clearly punished by the desert sun– NO!  GO AWAY!  LEAVE!  I DO NOT WANT YOU!  I cross to a bookshelf– more signs stacked on the dusty floor, more strange pleading edicts to persons unknown.

The howling comes again– this time low and somber.  I move towards it.  It is lighter here– a filthy kitchen stacked with old tins and bottles, covered with a deeper layer of dust.  And in a kitchen chair, I find the great writer.  He is shaking and moaning.  He almost appears to fall asleep at times, then suddenly bolts upright and lets loose a vile stream of profanity.

I gently put my hand on his shoulder and he turns around.  He is sweating and his clothing is filthy and ragged.  On the cluttered table before him, I find some stationary from a long-defunct hotel– Fingers Rolly is working on his latest article.

“Will you speak with me?” I ask.  I find a chair on the opposite side of the table.  There is an ancient transmission before me, resting on a yellowed newspaper.

“Didn’t you see the sign you…you little asshole?” he says in a voice that, I am immediately convinced, is possessed.

Before I can respond, he begins howling again, then cursing wildly.  This goes on for four hours straight.  As the light begins to fade, I interrupt and offer to prepare dinner.  Fingers looks up– his face seems his own now.  “Go ahead, you fucking asscake.  Who’s stopping you?”  He looks back to the window but I can tell he is grateful.

I search the dusty cupboards for our meal.

Royer Purchases Mutant Sea Monster

February 14, 2013 1 comment

By Larry “God” Peters
Far-Flung Areas Correspondent
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Incarcerated Terrifying Bats GM Cor Scorpionis (formerly Ric Royer) has purchased a mutant sea monster, sources are now confirming.

“There was a nuclear leak off the coast of Lankville and my people immediately made me aware of a most spectacular mutant sea monster that arose out of a drainage canal,” noted Cor Scorpionis, who submitted to a short press conference.  “At first, the creature terrorized and ultimately killed several winos and hippies that were sitting nearby but he was eventually corralled and brought to market where my people were fortunate enough to place the winning bid.”

A special basin at an undisclosed location has been constructed for the creature, Cor Scorpionis also announced.

“I’ve been looking for a new special pal ever since Mr. Chops was abducted,” noted the executive, in reference to his recently-lost dog.

A long pause ensued which ceased only when Cor Scorpionis began vomiting heavily.  The interview was then ended.

Categories: 2012-13 Season Tags: ,

Woman in a Man’s Game

February 13, 2013 Leave a comment

By Robin Brox
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A lot of people ask me, they say– Robin, how do you run your uncolored condiment factory?  I smile knowingly, this unnerves them.  Then, they say– uncolored condiment factories in the past have been exclusively the domain of men, how did you compete with them and ultimately drive their obviously inferior products off the grocery shelves?  And I tell them about “The Limelight”.  “Boys,” I say, “I could see the limelight before me.  And I grabbed it.”  It’s around this time that I run my finger seductively down the pool cue.  That really drives them wild.

The windowless billiards room at Gelsinger’s French Toast is decorated with giant, blackened pizza oven spatulas.  Their wooden handles betray the marks of many a knife fight.  “My relatives ran such restaurants for years,” notes Gelsinger himself, who occasionally wanders into the hall to change a lightbulb or urinate in the doorless latrine.  “Then, the act of preparing and cooking a pizza was not the banal act it is now,” he continues.  “My relatives had to fend off constant attacks.  Many were killed and quickly replaced.  It was the way of the hills.”  Everyone ignores him.

Inevitably, some young rube will call out, My God, Ms. Brox.  You’re so…so rich.  So…so in absolute command of Lankville’s uncolored condiment supply.  I can see that the rube has become flush, is almost shaking.  “Eat this,” I’ll say, handing him a block of pool chalk.  “You’ll then know a small portion of what I went through to get to the top.”  And the rube will naturally devour it.  “One of you corncobbers,” I’ll suddenly bark.  “Bring me a new block of chalk.  Johnny Fuckbrain here has eaten mine.”  And someone will quickly hand me the desired object.  And I’ll place the cue between my legs, chalk the tip slowly and sensuously while girlishly proclaiming, “Ooh, it’s like I’m riding a donkey, scratching the donkey’s head!  Scratching the donkey’s head.”  A murmur goes up around the room.

Minutes later, I crack the stick over my knee.  And I laugh and laugh and laugh as I leave the room.

Give No More Than $15 for a Tiger Painting

February 12, 2013 Leave a comment
Fingers Rolly Man on the Street

Fingers Rolly Man on the Street

I’m telling you straight– don’t let these godforsaken pissants cheat you.  Give no more than $15 and you’ll get yourself a perfectly good god damn tiger painting.

You can hang it over a chair.  Maybe the chair where you sit and scream at that asshole of a desert– all cracked and fucking brown and just mocking you. But give no more than $15.

I’d go $20 for sofa-sized.

The Lankville Daily News would like to apologize for the preceding article.  Mr. Rolly was assigned an article on safety tips for Halloween.

Musings of a Decorative Ham Man

February 12, 2013 Leave a comment

By Chris Vitiello
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The driveway had been cleared and repaved and I instructed the driver to proceed to the top.  He seemed tentative and for a moment there was no movement.  “What is the problem, Throats?” I asked.  Throats fingered the steering wheel.  “I got a feeling, boss.  It came over me suddenly like the odor of freshly-spun cotton candy at a small backyard event overlooking a cracked alley.  This place is damned.”

“You are not the first to offer this mongoloid explanation, Mr. Throats.”  I urged him on.  I was suddenly quite hungry.

At the top, some workmen were listlessly pushing long steel rods beneath rocks or buffing the smooth edges of the quonset huts. I located the foreman, a grim little man with a pinched face and abbreviated womanish feet.  He was running a moistened towel over his forehead and neck and staring down at the earth.  He did not look up at my approach.

I wound the whip around my shoulder.  It was gold-braided and appeared striking against my shapeless purple chemise.

“What is the trouble here?”  I was suddenly hit with a stream of bad air.

“No trouble,” the foreman said, continuing to stare at the dirt.  “We are all hexed, we are all without hope but the quonset huts are excellent.  Better than I expected.  Remarkable staying power, these quonset huts.”

A fiery balloon suddenly crashed into a cliff across the valley.  Screams could be heard in the distance.  Still, the foreman did not look up.  And it was then that I noticed the horrible transmogrification.

It became deathly still.  Throats, who stood beside me in his decorative ham driving uniform, suddenly expired.  The foreman turned his head slightly to stare at the fallen.  He grinned and it was then that I could see that his teeth had dramatically sharpened and that his eyes had turned an ungodly pale shade of green.  I spun and saw that the workers had all gathered together and that they too were changing.  An interminable period of tension ensued.  And then I began running off into the woods.

A path led away from the former seminary and deep into the forest.  Dilapidated religious statuary could be seen every fifty feet and, in several places, small temples, covered in graffiti.   There is no type of person that deserves to be whipped more than the so-called graffiti artist I thought to myself.  But now was no time for such profundity.  The transmogrified were right behind me.

To be continued.