moths killed

The York County (Pennsylvania) sheriff's department is on the lookout for a killer of moths. The perpetrator, a thirty-something male living a few miles from the Mason-Dixon line, was witnessed this past Wednesday cutting his own lawn with a man-powered, spinning-wheel-of-death-style push mower. On numerous occasions during his landscaping activities, the man – who, with only one of his arms sleeved in tattoos, looks like a total fool – ran over at least a half dozen ground-dwelling moths, sometimes maneuvering the sharp edges of his mower's whirling central cylinder repeatedly over the moths' home. The reasons behind these brazen attacks remain unknown, but witnesses claimed that, at least, the man was operating alone, without any visible accomplices. A few of the victims were seen trying to struggle out of the thick mat of cut and fallen grasses, struggling on wet wings a few inches into the air before being sucked back into the spinning vortex of the machine's well-greased cutting edge, where they were most likely torn to shreds.

The man's use of a man-powered versus a combustion-powered mower has increased the biodiversity of his lawn's micro-fauna, allowing for a flourishing of vertebrates such as small toads and field-mice, which eat freely of the correspondingly greater number and more varied types of insects. Curiously, he was seen pausing in his mowing operations in order to bend down for a closer look at a nickel-sized brown toad, which however hopped under a pine tree and stopped moving, rendering it invisible to his eye. Even more curiously, he showed no hesitation in running over and killing such moths as that could not get out of the way of his machine's deadly whirling; had they been cute little brown toads, he would have likely spared their lives, and given them a few moment within which to escape. The murder of the moths was underscored by the arrival of the property's resident robins, which made quick work of the struggling insects, devouring within minutes nearly all evidence of the man's multiple atrocities. The exact method by which the man enticed the robins into doing his dirty work for him is unclear, but his tendency to put out ample amounts of birdseed during wintertime could account for the robins' complicity.

For individuals who may have witnessed these despicable acts, and for persons who desire to participate in the stakeout of this man's grounds next week, please contact the sheriff's department by rotary telephone, or by mail.

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princess Thallandia weds

Hearken here, persons interested in the goings-on of such quasi-royal Grigovians as the princess-in-exile, her somewhat-royal-highness Thallandia Yündlennd (the “somewhat” was included here at the princess's insistence, to convey, in part, modesty). Fleeing as a babe of not yet three months-of-age the country of her birth during its violent, turbulent period of forcible conversion to Soviet-style socialism (said conversion occurring only in the early 1970s, incensed Grigovians having fought it at every turn), Miss Yündlennd was raised alternately in London, Ghent, Nairobi, Bangkok, and Los Angeles. An avid bicyclist, published author, daredevil social-activist, and master of both wing-chung and Shaolin-style kung-fu, princess Thallandia recently announced her acceptance of a request-for-matrimony first suggested to her some years ago by her long-time beau, son-of-the-American-revolution, anarchistic pamphleteer, and downright-loathsome scumhound Reginald Augustus Steele.

According to insider reports, princess Thallandia is pregnant with twins, which she is expected to throw well before the date of the actual wedding itself. As Miss Yündlennd and Mister Steele are each scions of their respective clans, many persons both inside and outside their families hope that they will have a bunch of kids, together molding them into bad-ass-motherfuckers. When asked during a live-chat sponsored by the Internet-website weluvprincessthallandia.net if she were concerned about being engaged to – and pregnant with the seed of – a crazy-tattoo-having, own-hair-cutting, legendarily-unpredictable commoner, her somewhat-royal-highness said, simply, “No.”

As of press-time, the princess was last seen exiting – with Mr. Steele – an invitation-only firing range in East L.A. In a brief interview conducted via telephone, the owner of the firing range, one Felix Fillberto-Henandez, said that while at the range Miss Yündlennd made use of an AK-74 assault rifle, a Smith & Wesson .40 caliber revolver, and at least a dozen throwing knives, using the different weapons well and with diligent and respectful care. The prince-to-be is reported to have brought his own weapon, an AA-12 semi-automatic shotgun, with which he can shoot the caps off of beer bottles at 50 paces by the light of a crescent moon. Reports indicate that most of her quasi-subjects support the princess, while urging, almost unanimously, that she, “Not expect to return home with her painted boyfriend and a slew of children only to have honest, everyday Grigovians fawn over her and pay for her to live a luxurious and comfortable life in mansions and palaces.” The princess, Grigovians indicated, is welcome to move into the royals' own two-bedroom flat on Grig's outskirts, where, however, she shall still be expected to pay utilities.

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docile raccoons for sale

Looking for that perfect birthday present for your sister's preschooler? Can't think of what to bring to your cousin's wedding? Agonizing over how to bring a smile to your spouse's face? If so, we at Ray B.'s Once-Wild Animal Sanctuaries have just the thing for you! Look no farther than through the steel-wire-mesh fence at our newest batch of docile, panting, oh-so-cuddly raccoons! Each frothy-mouthed beast comes with a pair of thick leather gloves to make handling and petting a safe and fun-filled breeze!

Watch with wonder as these normally-wild animals toddle over and all but lay down at your feet, begging for you to bring your thin-skinned fingers close enough to their mouths for them to bite you. Those little rascals! Their confused and often aggressive antics are sure to light up any stuffy office party, and their sweat-slick pelts all but beg to be washed, combed, and prettied up with lacy, red bows. Have a 'coon-combing party! Dare your friends to pull shiny coins from their pulsating, swollen throats! It's so much fun, we double-dog-dare you to do it.

Dear friends, loyal customers, do not delay further! So come on down to Ray B.'s for a furry little wonder of your own, today. (We also sell docile opossums, befuddled flying squirrels, toddling tree-squirrels, and addled baby deer, all of which come with a pair of thick, Kevlar-lined leather handling-gloves and the telephone number for your nearest infectious-disease clinic.)

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expectations mismanaged

To the consternation of all involved parties, a local family has consistently mismanaged the expectations of such people with whom they do business, including those of their go-to automobile repairman and there-for-you-day-or-night charman. Said the repairman while driving his own vehicle through the darkened streets to a nearby car-parts store for the fourth time in one night, “Mr. Gonzales said this was going to be an easy hundred bucks, and that all I would have to do was to switch out some brake-pads. When I arrived this afternoon, however, it turned out that there were at least three separate problems that he wanted me to fix, and that neither he or anyone else in his family had taken the time to do any background research into what parts were needed, or how long these jobs would take.”

A similar refrain was heard from their friendly local chore-man, or charman, who had just the week before dog-sat the family's English mastiff, a large, unruly bitch who had just undergone surgery, requiring her to be monitored constantly and force-fed a number of different pills. “I thought it would be nice to watch their dog so that they could go to the shore for a week of sun-soaked family bliss,” said the charman, a pitiable individual with a shriveled, stunted soul. “When they got home, they asked me to wait until this week to get paid, and when they finally did pay me, it was less than half of the agreed-upon rate. Here I am sitting around in the family's kitchen listening to the mother complain about how little money they have and how she wishes she could pay me more while she's slamming one ultra-lite beer after another from the four, separate cases they bought that day. Talk about pissing in my pocket, and telling me that it's raining.”

Reports have also surfaced that Mr. and Mrs. Gonzales are concerned about their son, a portly boy of eighteen who shows little-to-no ambition for travel or personal development, who drives the family car everywhere he goes, and who spends most of his meager retail paychecks on video-games and paint-balling. “We don't know what to do,” Mrs. Gonzales said while polishing off her sixth cranberry-flavored beer of the night and adjusting her sleeping clothes, which – even though it was not yet even close to being dark outside – she had just donned. “Why doesn't our son want to go out and see the world, get out of that stuffy basement, or do anything besides kiss his girlfriend's ass?” Casting about for a willing audience, the woman's gaze landed on her husband, who had just returned home later than usual after working a few hours of overtime. “Yes, dear,” the man said, bending over to make sure to get every drop of the blended whiskey he was pouring into his battered, tin shot-glass. His shoulders drooping under the weight of a repetitive life mostly devoid of true, existential pleasure, the man headed downstairs into the family's work-room – unbidden – in order to do everyone's laundry.

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DOD now DOWOA

While preparations for the impeding military action against the Islamic Republic of Iran reach a fever pitch, spokespersons for what was formerly known as the Department of Defense (DOD) of the United States of America have traveled to nations across the globe to spread news of their employer's nominal re-branding. Now called the Department of Wars of Aggression, the government agency formerly known as the DOD decided to change its name to reflect America's new role in the world, that being no longer a nation that defends its own borders or those of its friends but one that frequently violates its own laws and the laws of various international charters by initiating military action against sovereign foreign nations.

“Ever since its police action in Viet-Nam, the American military has been continuously involved in hot conflicts in places such as Nicaragua, Iraq, and Afghanistan,” said Geraldine Fuchs-Kleimman, a former Navy pilot in her early 30s who spoke to us from Nigeria via satellite-phone. “Since our illegal invasion of Iraq in 2002 and the subsequent illegal invasion of Afghanistan not long thereafter, my fellow peons and I have been hearing rumors that this name-change would occur; we're just happy that the Secretary of (previously Defense, but, now) Aggression (SecAgg) finally got his shit together and filled out all that paperwork​.” A nation once hailed as the savior of mankind for defeating the Nazi plaque threatening to grind all of Europe under its murderous jack-boot, America has plummeted recently in the estimation of her fellow nation-states. Having succumbed to the demands of a massive military-industrial complex and allowed nearly her entire society to be controlled by the narrow-minded policies of avaricious, for-profit corporations, however, once-fair Columbia has so drastically changed her tune that she barely resembles the nation she was just a few, short decades ago.

“I remember when we Americans minded our own business and let other peoples figure things out for themselves, enticing them perhaps with our goods and trying to get a toe-hold in their markets, but not actually killing them and stealing their oil,” said 75-year-old farmer Henry James Wainschott Jr., proud tiller of soil, from atop a museum-worthy John Deere tractor. “I was reading somewhere that nearly $400 billion dollars of the current military budget is used to pay private military contractors. These contractors are the self-same motherfuckers charging two hundred dollars for a single sheet of dry-wall and lobbying like lunatics to keep the wars going, bankrupting the American Dream for nine-tenths of Americans with their abject, damnable greed.”

“Truth is, we're running out of foreign nation-states upon whom to wage these wars of aggression,” said 47-year-old Maryland resident and senior analyst Vishay Utilanad, who works indirectly for the Secretary of Aggression. “Once we give Iran a good drubbing, North Korea will be the last thing standing in the way of us dealing death, destruction, woe, and torment against the American population itself, and, believe me, we've had a lot of practice subjugating unruly populations in the last decade. So dust off your slave-shoes, folks, pucker up those suck-holes, and prepare to have all of your remaining constitutional protections revoked, because, like fucking idiots, you gave up the last of your rights a long, long time ago.”

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leisurely summer, “satisfying”

Choosing to lounge around in his boxer-shorts instead of going about his wood-chopping, garden-tending, and home-maintenance chores, 29 year-old Maryland native Frederick Rillenhof said just this morning that his summer of abject, sun-soaked leisure was far more satisfying than performing any of the duties he admitted were necessary to keep him alive through the upcoming winter. “I hope to have a job by fall,” the home-owner said while trying to find a way to make his window-mounted air-conditioning unit produce more cool air. ”And I'm going to need one to pay for all this electricity I'm using, and for all the heating oil I'll have to buy in order to keep this damn place warm when it starts to snow.”

Sitting by an open, southward-facing screen door of his four-bedroom home, Frederick, who lives alone, said he enjoyed feeling the cold air stream past him, because it cooled him off a bit before escaping into the blast-furnace heat outside. “I just love that,” he said while poking at a brand-new, touch-screen-equipped tablet computer. “Feeling the breeze that the A-C is making, knowing that I have a fridge full of food just waiting for me to eat. I got a call from my credit card company this morning asking for payment on last month's bill, but what are they going to do, cut me off? I pay my mortgage with that platinum card, bitches.”

While poking around in the tall weeds behind the house (after being shooed outside to pee unless we, “Wanted to go all the way up to the third floor to use that bathroom, since all the other ones are clogged”), this news team discovered a discarded ax and a decrepit bow-saw, both of which were rusting away atop a woodsman's sawhorse. Next to these forgotten tools was a large mound of good lumber, the ends of which were however beginning to show signs of rot. When we asked him about the wood wasting away in the backyard, Mr. Rillenhof declared that he was too busy watching a marathon session of a popular reality-television series that focuses on crab-fishing off the coast of Alaska to get to sawing or splitting anytime soon, and that he would handle it once the weather turned a bit cooler. He declined to comment on his vegetable garden, however, which was in a sorry state, indeed.

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student uprising in Grigovia

From the capitol city of Grig to even the smallest of hamlets, students enrolled in the Grigovian public schooling systems – some of them merely children – took part over the weekend in often violent protests to draw attention to a number of different issues. While some rose up out of solidarity with Syrian rebels fighting the regime of Bashar al-Assad, others took to the streets to voice their dissatisfaction with capitalism and such poverty and income-inequality as is associated with this unjust and outdated economic system. The youngest protesters, however – they who are most prone to sudden, brutal violence – actively fought various police and even military forces to bring attention to the rising cost of candy and sweets, whose prices have skyrocketed following a local outbreak of the virus nonspecificus willibrandtis, which has destroyed much of the country's reserves of sugar-beets, ruining most of its sugar-beet-derived sweeteners, sweet-makers, starches, and similar smack-a-licious substances.

In a statement posted to youtube and disseminated by hand-printed fliers, the students of Grigovia's vocational-technical colleges declared their allegiance to all other vo-tech student movements around the world, especially to those in Thailand. “We – and our brothers and sisters around the world, especially in Thailand – are dedicated to the free speech, free assembly, and to the propagation and free expression of the various trades, among them woodworking, electrical wiring, and gun-smithing; any government organization that opposes our right to unionize shall not stand long.” Long columns of vo-tech students – recognizable by their red and gold shoulder-patches – marched through the empty streets, or drilled in abandoned lots.

Said Noviembr Chu-Yendt, age 7, from the northern village of Vonya Yellenda, who had traveled to Grig by train, alone, in order to take part in these historic uprisings, “Last night, I ran into some school-mates who were going to join a street-march to highlight the degradation of our national park-lands by foreign companies mining there for rare-earth-metals, but, afterward, we became separated, and so I had to spend the night in a park, which was no so bad, because I brought my father's Soviet-Afghani-War-era Makarov pistol, and all these knives.” The boy opened his knapsack, allowing us a glimpse at what appeared to be a collection of trench-knives dating back to the First World War.

Later that day, we spoke to unemployed former factory forewoman Hana Blastisyennd, a 67-year-old grandmother whom we found manning a street-barricade in front of a Home for Orphans of the Israeli Occupation of Palestine (HOIOP). “When I heard rumors that some teenagers were looting the orphanage of its silver, I erected this barricade to keep the police away while my grandsons went inside to re-capture the stolen goods and to give those damn teenagers a good spanking,” Mrs. Blastisyennd said before stooping to pick up a hissing tear-gas canister, which she promptly threw back into the midst of an approaching phalanx of riot-gear-clad policemen. Pulling an AK-74 assault rifle with a telescoping stock from a floral-print carpetbag resting by her feet, the otherwise-unassuming old woman fired it into the upper windows of a building a few blocks away. Her well-placed shots caused two men who had been hiding there to flee, carrying what appeared to be scope-equipped rifle and a pair of binoculars away with them. Furthermore, the phalanx of cops – which had approached to within a few scant meters of her position – drew back in haste, reforming behind the thick stone walls of a nearby auxiliary citizen's armory. “On any other day, if these policemen had asked nicely to make sure everything was OK within the HOIOP, I would have let them pass in peace, but these pig-dogs are not acting like gentlemen, so fuck them – fuck the police.”

Analysts except the protests to spread before they peter out, hopefully sometime around the harvest festival, in late November.

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goddess alights

Without much fanfare – that is, without her usual plumes of smoke, claps of thunder, or bolts of blindingly-white light – goddess Athena alighted in the middle of an otherwise nondescript little town in the Mid-Atlantic region of a republic known as America. After having a bit of a look around and finding no structures or activities worthy of her attention, the goddess, cloaked as she was in the guise of a world-weary old man, attempted to purchase something to drink from a store with a red-and-green-striped sign.

The store's clerk, being broke and hung-over from staging his best friend's bachelor party, and not knowing how to make change for the thick disc of gold the hirsute and oddly-redolent old bum had given him, asked the man to leave. When the elderly transient requested that the coin be returned to him, the clerk palmed and pocketed it, handing over a single Sacajawea dollar coin, instead. Pallas Athena, she who blesses the labors of artist and warrior alike, feeling spited and anything but well-received, refused to leave the store, and demanded the return of the solid gold doubloon. Soon enough, the police arrived, having been summoned when the clerk depressed a button by his foot, but, before they could get around to arresting the strange old man, he somehow managed to escape into the store's cramped rear storage-quarters, from which, however, no door leads to the outside.

Brave and majestic goddess Athena, having made herself fully invisible so as to escape the clutches of what she could tell were bad people bent on doing her harm, mulled for a moment using the Gorgon's head on her Aegis breastplate to turn them all to stone, deciding at the last minute, however, simply to erase the police officer's memories, and to curse the clerk to a pitiful life of abject wage-slavery devoid of any and all pleasure, in which direction she figured he was heading, anyway.

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sun ruins date

Just as Vladimir Kirishnikov had stepped into the shadows and was removing his trousers in preparation for jumping into his family's in-ground pool, the sun peeked out of the clouds behind which it had been hiding all morning, exposing his birthmark-riddled legs to a blast of blindingly-bright sunlight. With a shouted curse directed at the gods of his ancestors, the seventeen-year-old young man from Paoli, Pennsylvania yelled, “Bozhe moi!” and leaped into the glittering wet, but not before his date, sixteen-year-old Keren-Ann Chesterfield, cheerleader and text-messaging enthusiast from a few towns over, caught a fully-illuminated glimpse of the large, splotchy red marks that cluster around the tops of his knees. Swimming to the bottom of the pool, Vladimir attempted to punch himself in the mouth for not having worn those swimming trunks with the longer legs, forgetting, however, how difficult it is to to punch things while underwater and rising soon back to the surface, to face the music.

Having uttered a barely perceptible, “Ugh,” Ms. Chesterfield pulled her summer dress back on over her freaking brand-new bikini and dragged her designer purse back onto her lap. Reclining into her slender hardwood deck chair, she started to compose the first of many messages to all of her friends mocking her date for his unfortunate skin condition, which she had heard of in rumor but never actually seen with her own eyes. “Yeh,” she said in a text to Barbara “Bunni-Buns” Reyes, her best friend forever from cheer-leading, “legs like so gross. omfg pls come get meeeeee!!!?!?!?!???!?!?”

Keren-Ann left soon thereafter without even trying to get close to any part of Vladimir's body, leaning forward and giving him the most awkward a-frame hug yet witnessed by man. While Mr. Kirishnikov at first admitted to being somewhat peeved by the girl's behavior, any residual sadness vanished as soon as his backup date – a fifteen-year-old lacrosse player from his own school – got dropped off at the front gate to his house, by her dad.

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on the Nittany rapist

please look, oh yes, upon his scheming, upon the boys who got his creaming
for they who squealed and begged for mercy also donned the famous jersey
of players good or bright or true, their hopes soon dashed when touched anew, by him,
the Nittany rapist
don't think, oh my, him too far going, for to these kids his member showing
he did not know, they had a mind, to keep him from their young behinds
or not to take him in the mouth, for people gave him so much clout, to him,
the Nittany rapist
his wad he blew into the flues of children young and tender
his deeds exposed, for all to see, tossed into media's blender
the perfect foil, to war and toil, he is
the Nittany rapist
we eats it up, us dumb Yankee, of nothing else are speaking
while children die, in drone air-strikes, and our tank treads are squeaking
of nothing else, we seem to speak, not famine, greed, or warming
only of him, that worthless thing, of him,
the Nittany rapist
so give it rest, oh yes please do, and quit with this obsessing
the deed is done, it is a mess, the beast he mulls confessing
for once inside, his butt shall bleed, his bones shall crack and splinter
that little man, he shan't endure, I'll bet not long past winter
we're all upset, and we shall stay pissed
at him, the Nittany rapist

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fly escapes

For days it toiled, dashing itself against every available transparent surface, smashing head and body into anything that might have been a Way Back Outside. For days it wandered among the bodies of its fallen brethren, searching for who-knows-what, picking perhaps a bit of sustenance from their parched bodies, dry and dessicated corpses that litter the various sills haphazardly. Occasionally, it would harass the bipedal organism that was the only other large, hirsute beast moving around inside the space where it had become trapped, landing upon the large thing's hairy bits and causing it to swipe about blindly with one or both of its five-fingered claws. Only too infrequently was the fly seen to exit a trash can or to rise from an uncovered dish of food, places where it might have had occasion to feed, leading the large thing to believe that the fly lived on dust alone.

And then – what joy! – the fly happened to follow the hirsute beast toward one particular transparent rectangular surface, which the large thing then caused to open, making a Way Back Outside and allowing our hero to escape. Such was its excitement, and such was its relief, that it flew about for some time not looking where it was going, and, since while trapped it had not been hounded by birds or chased by larger insects, it had all but forgotten about the perils ubiquitous to Nature, flying directly into the web of sister spider, who promptly bound it up in tight turns of her silken threads, and ate it.

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funeral dirigible for rent

Inappropriate Customs Ltd. (ICL) is now accepting rental applications for its line of funeral dirigibles. These light-weight airships are capable of hovering over any space – be it the parking-lot of a church, a funeral home, or a cemetery – blotting out the sun and casting such gloom as is necessary to maintain a proper level of despondent sadness at depressing events such as these. For an additional fee, ICL will have tarps printed depicting the likeness of the deceased person, draping them over the sides of their semi-rigid airships so that the dead might, just one last time, be able to cast an admonishing, spiteful gaze over friends and family. At additional cost, loudspeakers hanging from the operator's gondola can be made to play a selection of funeral dirges, slow funeral marches, or any music the surviving persons might want to listen to as they walk with halting, deliberate steps back to their individual automobiles before speeding off to the four points of the compass without ever needing to really speaking to each other, ever again. To offset the cost of rental, ICL suggests charging funeral attendees to take guided tours of the airship as it rises and descends above the assembled masses. Tours include a walk around the superstructure, a lesson in small engine repair, and a complimentary sick-bag for any person needing to vomit. Individuals interested in touring the dirigible should be prepared to climb rickety ladders, they should not be afraid of tight, enclosed spaces, and they should be non-smokers, since the helium that keeps these suckers air-buoyant is really, really flammable.

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child takes things too far

While celebrating his 8th birthday party at a local park, Yusuf Henry D'Angelo once again took things a bit too far. Said the boy's father, Damion Xavier D'Angelo, aged 47, “Yes, Yusuf went over the line, as he seems to always do. One moment he and the other children are playing nicely in the creek, and the next, the boy is three stories up in a tree and cannot come down by himself.” While the birthday child was able, after many tears of shame and much coaxing from his mother, to climb under his own power back down to terra firma, sure enough, within a couple of minutes he had set fire to a pile of wet logs behind a nearby utility shed. “We do not know how he accomplished these things,” said Yusuf's mother, Georgina Hunt D'Angelo, aged 25. “He is a smart boy, and, normally, a good boy; his father and I watch him very closely in an effort to prevent just such occurrences, but, somehow, he manages to get away with stealing at least one police cruiser every week, and, just last Thursday, he hacked a Predator drone flying over Afghanistan and used it to rain death and hellfire onto a compound filled with bloodthirsty jihadists. How did he know where they lived, and how did he know, afterward, at which forward operating base to land the drone with such apparent skill? He even taxied the craft to its assigned berth. It may sound incredible but, here,” the woman said, pulling out her mobile phone and scrolling through the Received Calls list. “Here it is, right here, three calls from the Department of the United States Army. After the officer had calmed down and stopped shouting, he asked if I would permit my son – my eight-year-​old son – to join ROTC! Wow.” In the few minutes before the park closed and his birthday party ended, Yusuf tuned the park's only chainsaw, fixed a toddler's tricycle, made two new friends, and rerouted the town's commuter bus system to run more efficiently, all without appearing to have done a thing.

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