With the recent outbreak of quick-dial long-distance call savings plans, it’s no wonder that up-and-coming long-distance provider Nextweek Communications has come up with their own easy-to-remember long-distance phone code. Next time you have to make a long distance call, just dial 10-10-578. Then hit your mom in the head with a wrench, sacrifice your firstborn child upon the altar of Cathulu, put your cat in the microwave for 45 seconds, walk around the block twice, clip your toenails, remove the cat from the microwave, sharpen a #2 pencil and be sure to erase all stray marks completely.

I’ve got a passion for all things domestic: curtains, TV cozies, and, most certainly, kids. Yup. Miss lamar loves the kiddies. Aunt fphatty likes to do everything she can to make a little tyke’s life the tiniest bit better. Some adults feel it necessary to clutter up little minds with confusing nonsense they call “the truth.” Well, auntie fphatty is about to give you a leg up on all the other misled lads and lassies around you. I’ll clear your confusion up and tell you what reality is like. First of all, there is something to be afraid of.

POEM ONE:
I like big butts and I cannot lie,
It's time for this song to die.
Chickens are ugly,
Your aunt is a flowering fugly,
Muffins made of pork rye.
POEM TWO:
My cat is a brat,
He scratches my lap.
Get high on pot,
smoke it up a lot,
Rat-a-tat-tat,
I'll make your neck snap back.
POEM THREE:
George Clooney is a looney,
Fat Chunk is a Goonie.
Wigwam is a tater crunch,
I used to have a Hugga-Bunch,
Don't die yet, Mickey Rooney.
POEM FOUR:
2001,
Time to get a gun.

MANHATTAN, NY (AP) - 150-something-year-old pop culture icon Dick Clark survived the debut episode of ABC’s new Rockin' New Year Kill Dick Clark Fest. The program, which pits the aging, brittle emcee against roughly two million armed Times Square partygoers, premiered before a record-breaking viewing audience. Unaware of Rockin' New Year Kill Dick Clark Fest’s theme, Clark began a lengthy spiel about the “scheduled entertainment,” but was interrupted by a tossed bottle smashing against his nearly mummified skull. Then another. Then another. And so on and so forth.

On the Thursday before Christmas I was almost killed. My life was nearly cut short in a parking lot while picking up a deli tray of fine meats and cheeses. What a swell holiday that would’ve been for my friends and family if I’d have been taken out on a cold winter day at the hands of an irresponsible woman. Her weapons of choice: a gold Lexus and a cell phone. Her crime: attempted vehicular manslaughter.

Sit right back, and let me tell you a tale of misplaced affections and youth gone wild.
It was the summer of ‘86, or maybe it was ‘87. I was home on vacation from boarding school, and hanging out with Carla Fourman. She was the focal point of my earliest sexual fantasies.
The Dangerous Miss Carla Fourman who once rode a ten-speed now drove a Nova and listened to all metal, all of the time. She wore her red hair feathered, which helped to hide her perpetual squint some of you might identify with recreational chemical use. She was just so cool, and I was such a dick.

The squelching of the alarm clock was a dull nuisance prying through the groggy numbness of a full-on head cold, and Max couldn’t find the energy to reach over to hit the snooze button. Instead, he lay there for an hour until the alarm clock gave up its futile fight to rouse him. Max’s brain throbbed softly in that slow, thick tempo that makes one’s head feel three times its natural weight. And sure enough, when Max picked his head up from the pillow, his nose seemed to be the heaviest thing about him.
“Shit,” he mumbled and dragged back the sweaty covers. “I don’t need this today.”

[2] HIGH NOON
I never felt like a father, but Lord knows I felt like one on that Saturday morning. My yard was number 16. I had a little flag stuck in the lawn, and I watched fondly as it fluttered in the wind. The winning number. I’d have my picture in the paper and they’d ask me intricate gardening questions, and I’d say, “Well, you see, Derek, that’s an interesting question,..”

It’s no lie that yours truly, neogeo the prophet, is a master at the art of skateboarding. At least in the gaming world, and specifically in the Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater game realm. Challenging me to a session of a two-player THPS2 action is like asking a big bully to kick your ass all over the place. But, alas, poor cans mckenzey thought that she could take me to town. So I played her.
The following is a review of the game play we shared: In 20 consecutive games, I KICKED HER ASS ALL OVER THE PLACE!