opinions not voiced

Preferring the proven tactic of smile-and-nod over direct confrontation or the voicing of his personal opinions, thirty-something whorphan Wellington Erasmoss Denyels of Shelter Bay, Connecticut, emerged from the belly of the beast largely unscathed. “Fuck,” he said aloud while driving back home through the early fringes of frankenstorm Sandy, his whirring wiper-blades the only things breaking the trip's growing monotony, before his inner monologue kicked in, saying: 'I'm glad no one pressed me on my political views, and I'm so happy that I didn't have to explain my shifting religious philosophies and say just how little I think Jesus is guiding the steps of my life.'

Thinking back to the night before, Wellington shook his head and forced himself to laugh as memories danced across his mind's eye – the woman asking if his wife were sitting in the chair next to him even though he was not even wearing a wedding band and there was no indication he had brought a date; the tattooed, self-proclaimed street minister insisting on pointing out the salient features on his chopper-style motorcycle while making sure to mention after each breath that “Jesus saves”; the condescending ease with which nearly everyone in attendance threw around the name of their religion's god while subtly sniping at each other and touting their own virtues and achievements to anyone within earshot.

Deactivating his vehicle's cruise control so as not to ram a slow-moving car that had lurched suddenly into his path, Mr. Denyels breathed a sigh of relief in the knowledge that he was leaving the South and that he would no longer have to drive past house upon house whose owners had chosen to cement six-foot-high Romney/Ryan signs into the ground mere feet from the edges of busy, narrow byways. He shuddered when remembering the fact that a majority of North Carolinians had but recent amended their state's constitution to restrict the rights of homosexual Americans and to define marriage according to the societal and religious rules of a Bronze-Age desert people, thus exposing their innocent neighbors to the harsh punishments of YHWH, the god of the ancient Israelites. His patience nearly shot and his gas-tank approaching empty, our whorphan exited somewhere in northern Virginia, to have a stretch and to sniff the air for hints of moral repression, of which there were thankfully few.

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Yaelong pledge allegiance

Citing incessant pressure from radical Muslim groups and greedy Christian infiltrators, the various Yaelong tribes officially declared their material, military, and logistical support for the continuing independence of the Glorious Republic of Grigovia (GROG). Descending on foot, on horseback, and in battered pickup-trucks from the foothills of the Yiptlong massif to attend the Summit to Secure our Sovereignty, which is being held in the fortified banquet halls of the spartan HM Queen Pylta Hotel in downtown Grig, this capital city of roughly 1.5 millions of inhabitants. Exuberant and battle-hardened, the leaders celebrated their safe arrival in the manner of their fore-bearers – by unloading their Kalashnikov rifles, passing them to the person to their left, and feasting upon fermented green-tuber borscht washed down with great flagons of wine made from czabtyip, a weed with hallucinogenic properties also known as mountain sharpstand. Then, as part of the traditional peace ceremony, the leaders passed the horn of a young ram slaughtered in the ancient rite of yepyündling to the person to their right, invoking the blessing of saint Grigov and goddess Libertas and swearing an oath of fealty and love to their neighbor's family, tribe, and honor.

Rising from her seat and waiting patiently for the assembled warriors to quiet down, tribal leader Erya Rovend of the mythical Farflung Free Nations said: “Thanks be to Lady Liberty, she who inspires our every waking thought, who guides our every conscious act. Despite my initial refusal, the members of my tribe requested that I be sent here to this Summit, the first of its kind in all of our proud history. May peace be upon us all; may we leave here united and strong, a fist full of twigs yielding neither to the heavy hand of American forces nor to the sinister touch of al-Qaida in Central Asia. My brothers and sisters, I love you all.” The young woman then sat back down onto her rough horse-hair mat, her cheeks turning a deep red as all other persons in the hall – even the stone-faced old military types – rose to their feet in standing ovation. As soon as the commotion had died down, Erya was elected to the post of Summit spokesperson, she who would announce its declarations to the world. One or two other leaders rose to offer their greetings and to bless the assembled, but they soon stopped in honor of the great strength and raw purity of young Miss Rovend's words.

After six days of talks, debates, yoga, and heated discussion, the Summit ended. Before sending Erya Rovend to the United Nations headquarters in New York City to denounce Ynki imperialism and religious radicalism alike, the Grigovian Ministry of Foreign Affairs reissued its Declaration of National Sovereignty, asking kindly that all foreign powers leave it in peace and not infringe upon the course its people had chosen for themselves. Furthermore, it mentioned that the nation's tribes would be automatically deputized if it were invaded, combining with its well-trained standing armies to become an indomitable force for self-determination. At the end of the document, it issued a list of reminders, among which were the following: “Please do not cross our borders without permission; please stop trying to corrupt the officials in charge of environmental protection; please stop trying to take our vast deposits of rare-earth-metals without paying fair prices; please stop trying to nub-cut our forests and strip-mine our hills; please – everyone – keep your religious opinions to yourselves; please understand that even the slightest act of aggression will be countered with outright and total war; please ask nicely for the recipe for fermented green-tuber borscht, and stop trying to steal it; please let us decide which system of government is best for us, and, especially you Americans, stop threatening to impose upon us your bullshit fake democracy.” Erya Rovend is scheduled to address the U.N. on Halloween in an eye-slit burka, to protect her virtue.

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man becomes cog

After reclining into his comfortably-sticky pleather lounging chair, local cog Phinzend K. Woldebomm, age 62, asked his spawn's spawn to gather closer so he could tell them a story. “Come closer, spawn of my spawn,” Phinzend said with due gravitas. “And let me tell you about my humble beginnings.” The docile and obedient children approached on quietly-shuffling feet, their noses wet with snot, their eyes moist with apprehension. “That's about close enough,” the man said, holding up his right hand when the youngster had approached to within arm's reach. “Now, where was I. Oh right – the beginning.”

Born third out of a total of six to Daroll and Brunhilda Woldebomm of Wichita, Kansas, Phinzend grew up largely unnoticed, a middle child whose older siblings excelled at their schooling and whose younger twin brothers were so fussy and poorly-behaved as to take up nearly all of their mother's time. In hopes of garnering some paternal attention he dedicated his young adulthood to the study of all things related to wallpaper, in which industry his father was employed; the patriarch, however, having lost the battle for his wife's attentions to their two youngest sons, chose to follow professional racecar driving, preferring to frequent with some of his buddies a bar near a feed-mill half of the way home from their work. Phinzend, in turn, was the only kid in his class whose family missed his high-school graduation; he spent a good forty minutes in a Denny's parking-lot trying to get a picture of himself throwing his mortar-board into the air and smiling without it looking as if he had taken the photo himself. Undeterred, he was accepted to the interior compliance program at the College for Domestic Sciences of Western Kansas, which specializes in wallpapers, floor-coverings, paint-shade-matching, and the like.

Sacrificing at least two college friendships and one potential romance in his drive to master the intricacies of wallpaper – its science and secrets, even its scent – young Woldebomm graduated early in hopes of spending as much time with his father as possible, who was approaching his mid-sixties and thinking about retirement. The young man applied for and was accepted as a customer service representative at Gooseneck Interior Coatings & Coverings, where his father, Daroll, also worked. Contrary to years of hopes and dreams, however, old man Woldebomm showed just as much interest in his son as he had while the boy was growing up – zero. In fact, Daroll went out of his way to ostracize his middle child, playing pranks on him and bad-mouthing him in front of his drinking-colleagues, at one point inviting him to tour the big industrial printers and then locking him in an uninsulated storage shed for four hours during the middle of winter. Finally accepting his lot in life, Phinzend latched onto and, after a courtship of but seven months, married Bristol Anne Woldebomm, née Trinkle, daughter of the man who owned Gooseneck. Soon after getting pregnant with their first child, Bristol Anne began to exhibit bossy and overbearing tendencies and soon adopted the habit of ignoring Phinzend, focusing most of her time on watching television by herself and eating bags of potato chips on the bed in the back of their modest trailer.

“And so, my young munch-kins,” Phinzend said while nudging with his foot the smaller of his grand-children back into wakefulness, as they had fallen asleep. “That is my life's story. Bristol Anne and I had three more children before she left me for that Baptist minister, and, well, one of them – Daroll Jr. – had you all. And when your daddy's early-onset shingles gets to acting up, he drops you off here, with me. Circle of life, I guess.”

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women choose wisely

Sick and tired of the status quo, and fed up with Washington's shell game of politics-as-usual, women – who make up a majority of the American voting population – chose wisely this November 6th by electing Gary Johnson to the presidency. (This article is an obvious fake, as Americans do not elect their president; he is chosen for them by the electoral college.) At once shocked by the Republican assault on female reproductive rights and appalled by its attempts to deny homosexuals such rights as are granted to heterosexuals, Ynki voters possessing of two (2) X chromosomes had also had enough of president Obama's crack-down on the right of fully-emancipated adults to use drugs of their choice, including marijuana.

“We've had enough of this bullshit,” said Staci-Rose Fluenchif, chairperson of the New Ynki Women's Freedom Council (NYWFC), while inspecting a shelter for battered women in downtown Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. “I'm sick of watching two greased politicians yelling statistics back and forth at each other during their so-called debates, both of them dancing around the issues yet neither really saying anything of substance. Hillary Clinton's efforts at (the) State (Department) notwithstanding, we think that the Democrats, in a hundred and fifty years of existence have failed to do enough to to protect freedom or to spread opportunity equally amongst the various peoples of this land; and the Republicans, well, they seem to have just completely dropped the ball, lounging around in their plush D.C. offices and finger-banging each other over their efforts to destroy the rights of gays and lesbians. Unbelievable.” Walking while she talked, chairperson Fleunchif also managed to review a steady stream of Council-related documents coming in on her hand-held tablet computer.

Upon hearing the news, former New Mexico governor Gary Johnson breathed a sign of relief. “Now, things are really going to get interesting,” the freshly-minted president said. “With the backing of the NYWFC, and with such overwhelming numbers of women voting for the libertarian ideals of freedom and reduced taxation, this election signals the end of the old political processes and an ushering-in of a new era of peaceful prosperity for all Americans large and small, gay and straight, male and female, dark of skin and pale of face. In the weeks leading up to this decision, my staff and I kept seeing sterile-looking properties with their meticulously-kept yards and a Romney/Ryan flag out front, figuring it likely that most of those homes had at least one woman living in them whose voice had been cowed into silence by years of both outright and passive-aggressive male chauvinism coming not only from a husband's political party but also from a pastor or priest and from the constant stream of vituperative effluvia coming from today's conservative talking heads, on television. Our decision to speak directly to these women payed off in that they finally woke up to their own enormous, untapped potential and voted for the only party dedicated to the ideals upon which this nation was founded, those being the right to choose for ourselves how to Live, to choose for ourselves how to be free, and to choose for ourselves what activities or substances make us Happy.” Here, president Johnson paused to answer a congratulatory telephone call from Nelson Mandela. “My fellow Americans, today our successful future lies, as it always has lain, in the gentle hands of this nation's women. May Lady Liberty herself bless you with long, healthy lives and quick, painless deaths. Mahalo.”

© mentiri factorem fecit (場黑麥)

bird stays put

Enjoying her moderately-warm perch too much to find another, red-breasted robin #18 didn't even bother to move on this fall's first freezing morning, even though the valley's resident man-child continued to come and go directly beneath her. Dropping her excrement all over his bolted-together old car tires, and violating her flock's rule requiring avian beasts to stay at least two dozen feet away from humans at all times, #18 thought to herself: 'Fuck it – it's too fucking cold to fly away, and this douche-bag doesn't seem like a threat, so I'm staying.'

Wondering if the bird had perhaps frozen to death, the man-child – a lowly whorphan of modest means – concluded that, since she was still balancing on that length of old electrical conduit and had not yet fallen to the ground, she must be alive. He proceeded to split a wheelbarrow full of wood and waited until the robin had flown away in order to return his shit-stained tool to the exact spot whence he had initially retrieved it. While watching from a nearby vantage point – this one caressed by the first warm rays of the rising sun – mademoiselle Eighteen rhythmically uncurled one foot after the other in an attempt to force warm blood into her exposed extremities; her wings she kept tucked tightly against her body, however, using them to insulate her torso against the frigid morning air.

#18 continued to run into the resident whorphan for the rest of the day, fleeing before him a few times as he was performing the season's last mowing with his new muscle-powered push-mower and, later, hopping out of the way as he turned swiftly onto the property's gravel lane and came crunching down it toward the house, on his velocipede. Out of concern for the birds' dwindling supply of little red berries, the man-child decided to stop waffling already and finally bought them a big bag of bird seed.

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Grigovia prepares for invasion

During what has now become a series of routine preparations undertaken whenever a foreign party threatens to invade their country, the people of the Glorious Republic of Grigovia (GROG) made ready to go to the mattresses. Said Muiryast Hyünndend while changing circuit-boards on a battered but serviceable surface-to-air missile battery: “We used this baby to take down what few Russian pilots dared to fly at this altitude and in the winds coming off of these high plateaus.” Her job nearly completed, Muiryast went to banging around on the weapon's motorized servos with a ball-peen hammer until they seemed to function to her liking. “That should do it,” she said, wiping grease off her hands with an old, dirty rag. “Now, I go back to village and help the other ladies move pickled vegetables and other non-perishable foodstuffs deeper into the caves before oiling my AK-74.”

Similar efforts were under way in nearly every hamlet and village around this small, landlocked nation, including in its capital of Grig. This reporter watched as mountains of supplies disappeared every day into the hundreds of miles of winding passages that connect Grig to the nation's larger towns and to massive limestone caverns used by the local inhabitants since the Middle Ages to weather foreign aggression. “It didn't matter if they were Greeks or Persians, Mongols or barbarians, British or Russians – every time an enemy thought we had given up, another pack of crazed children armed with slender knives would climb up out of a spider-hole to hamstring entire battalions, slashing at the invaders' throats with shrill cries, the blood staining their soft, little hands,” said national historian and best-selling children's book author Dr. Aliyannda Grikochenka, chairwoman of Grig's own Historical Preservation Society. “The Americans are winding down operations in Afghanistan, our regional neighbor, which means that they will start coming after any countries that yet resist their attempts to install a Rothschild-controlled central bank. That will not happen, here; we Grigovians will keep our liberty, and remain sovereign.”

At least three dozen former officials have already been tried and sentenced to their choice of banishment or forced labor – or a combination of the two – for violating the country's constitution by attempting to pass legislation that would move the country off of the gold standard; their efforts, the nation's high court ruled, would have endangered its currency, the yind, and exposed its remarkably-stable financial markets to rampant speculation and outright money-grubbing similar to that which has brought entire economies to their knees, among them those of Iceland, Ireland, Spain, and Greece. Said economist Durdev Yvend, a financial expert who advises the national assembly on matters relating to debt and foreign investment, “The economic policies espoused by the Ynki and their ilk are unsustainable in the long run. If they would just let everyone else mind our own business and figure out what works best for us, we would all be better off.” Mr. Yvend paused on his way out of a gun-emplacement set into the marble base of a monument to independence from Soviet oppression, into which he and a half-dozen other men were carrying one canister after another of high-velocity machine-gun rounds. “The way it stands, though, the American economy survives only when the country is at war, and it has been making war on people whose countries are rich in rare-earth minerals, or crude oil. Since Grigovia is known for its vast deposits of lithium and, especially, helveticum, it does not take a genius to figure out whom they are going to invade next – us.”

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government slashes taxes

After declaring that the American military shall be out of Afghanistan by the year 2014, the Obama administration announced plans to lower taxes for all Americans. Said the President while shotgunning a mocha latte on his way to a middle-school performance of Inherit The Wind: “We are going to cut these taxes by not renewing the contracts of over half of all service military personnel and by waiting two full calendar years before placing any more orders for tanks, jets, frigates, uniforms, or machine-pistols. We've got so much of this shit just lying around collecting dust, anyway, and, since we spend many times more on so-called defense than all other major world players combined, including Russia, and China, we have built up a bit of breathing room for ourselves. By reducing our war-related expenditures and not paying hundreds of billions of dollars to independent war-related contractors, for example, we can afford to collect hundreds of billions of fewer tax-dollars.”

The decision to draw down the military to numbers capable of protecting the homeland – that being the physical constraints of fair Columbia – has been applauded by administration critics and supporters alike; the decision to spend money rebuilding schools and hospitals here in America rather than rebuilding them in far and dusty lands has been met with joyous praise and loud cries of thanks. “The other parents in my Parent-Teachers-Association and I have been curious to know why nearly 54% of our taxes was being spent on trying to kill sneaky jihads overseas while only a fraction of it was being used to educate young minds in our own backyards,” said concerned housewife and mother-of-one Bridgit Romaine-Staudemeiyer, 28, from Seal Beach, California. “It seems as if our elected leaders are slowly getting their shit together – slowly, mind you, but, we hope, steadily.”

“In our age of information-technology warfare, it doesn't matter how many tanks a country has, or how many sovereign nations its forces occupy,” said Ululandno Iishitakko, a security consultant for Heath & Hearth Industries, a consulting firm bent on creating a peaceful and verdant world in which America's troopers can finally come home and get some rest. “When a pod of starving hackers working out of a filthy basement in some former Soviet-bloc republic can infiltrate Pentagon security and hack a drone flying over a battlefield in al-Anbar province, those selfsame scumbags can shut down the U.S. military's various communications networks at home and abroad, rendering them effectively useless. It's a whole new ball-game, boys and girls.” While entering Marine 1, in which the head of state would fly to Camp David for a series of meetings with leaders from South America's socialist-leaning countries, Mr. Obama said, “We're gonna take the money we've been spending to maintain physical presences in hot-spots around the globe and use some of it to beef up our communications networks here at home, networks that were shoddily constructed by sycophantic security consultants during my predecessor's administration, networks so full of holes that they resemble that good Vermont swiss cheese I love so much. We need to start letting the various peoples of the world figure out their own problems; we need to stop acting like the globe's recess monitors, picking sides and choosing winners. We start healing America again by slashing taxes across the board.” As his helo alighted from the ground with a bone-clattering thwacking sound, the president showed the assembled reporters two fingers on his left hand spread into a V, for victory.

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cyber nanny debuts

Are you struggling to keep your shitty fucking kids off your back? Do you ever worry that they're not watching enough television? Have your growled threats stopped working on them, and have they stopped caring if you threaten them with bodily harm? If so, then come on down to Jebb Foarman's Big Store of Crap for Absentee and Shitty Parents, located out by that one rusting tractor right before you get to the Hermndsville Road bridge on route 946 South. We've just received a shipping container full of like-new HGDXR-77 cyber nannies (fresh off-the-boat from far Chineee), and we're sure we've got one just for you.

Your very own cyber nanny will curse at them regularly, bemoaning the fact that they were ever even born in the first place. She'll drink seventeen light beers and pass out, so you don't have to (at least not at home). She comes factory-equipped with two whole feet of thick rubber tubing bolted to her left paw-mandible, for those daily senseless beatings. Also standard are nine separate LCD screens set in at angles and locations scientifically proven to sap your rotten spawn of the will to excel at life and coated with a waterproofing glaze that also helps to maximum the brain-numbing effects of prolonged exposure to hyper-slick, kid-oriented content. Is that not enough? Add screens to your heart's content (available for purchase at our store) using only a glue-gun, a steady hand, and a pair of crimping shears. Program your HGDXR-77's screens to all display the same show, or switch on her Wi-Fi transceiver and pipe programming in from the magical content-mills in distant Hollywood, tethering your child to yet another squawking box and training her to be a lifelong consumer. (Who needs creativity or critical thinking, anyway, when everything today is so damn easy?)

Is that still not enough? Buy and install a Mobile Maelstrom Sugary Liquid Dispenser (MSRP $79.99), which will squirt a quart of high-fructose-corn-syrup-containing juice analog into your tyke's suck-hole every hour on the hour, for up to three days. Plus, each HGDXR-77 unit comes with a simple remote control you can use to override her semi-autonomous programming and have her give that one little shit an extra wallop or ride over that other useless turd's leg with her hard rubber tank-treads. Or, download the new Cyber-Nanny app (starting at only $47.99) and really get into some bad parenting by recording drunken rants for her to play back at random, by using her many built-in cameras to violate the tattered shreds of your progeny's personal privacy, or by activating her pneumatic breeching tool to finally get your stubborn son out of the fucking downstairs closet where he's been hiding from his just desserts like a scared little bitch. Yup, my fellow shitty parents, this new model will be sure to help you mold yet another promising generation into belly-fat-gaining, expensive-tablet-phone-buying, false-economy-loving pieces of shit, just like you. So come on down to Jebb's, and pick up a cyber nanny of your own, today. (The first fifteen customers to mention this article get a free Layzee Lumpfish® tote-bag. In-house financing is available for life-weary, debt-loving wage slaves.)

© mentiri factorem fecit (場黑麥)

Obama gets pretty

Preening in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror in one of the White House's dustier upstairs hallways, President Barack Hussein Obama prepared for the next debate with his tooth-sucking and lie-spewing rival, Mitt Romney, by getting pretty before getting fucked. Scheduled for 16 October 2012, the next debate will focus on hot-button societal issues such as whether or not lesbian, gay, bisexual, and trans-gender (LGBT) Americans should have the same rights as their heterosexual fellow citizens and whether or not female Americans should be able to decide to have growths removed – legally and safely – that are physically attached to their reproductive organs. (The editorial team here at Mentiri Factorem Productions would like to point out that neither liesmith nor americanifesto supports late-term abortions, merely the right of a woman to abort a fetus before it has become recognizable as such.)

“I like to look pretty when I get fucked,” the President said as he applied brightly-colored eyeliner with a passive-aggressive swooping motion. “I went into the first debate looking a mess; I didn't mind when that angry Caucasian violated my filthy dirt-hole, but I wish I could have had a moment to make sure my mascara wasn't runny before bending over backwards and getting boned like a worthless little man-child.” Sources close to the commander in chief note that, as soon as his rectum had finally stopped bleeding, he began asking for better foundation and mumbling about voter turnout in swing states.

“Rectum?” said Mitt Romney. “Damn near killed 'em.” Here, the multi-millionaire yacht owner and Republican candidate for president, whose party plans to add parts of the Christian bible's old testament to the Constitution of the United States of America, pauses to laugh hysterically. “Beg pardon. But seriously, I loosened that boy's ass up pretty good, so next time, when I give him a slice of this Mormon's pound-cake, he'll be ready for it, 'cuz last time, he cried a lot, and looked plain ugly. It pleases me to no end to hear that he plans to look nice for our next debate – I like my pansies to have put a smidgen of time into their appearances before I ruin them for everyone else.” As soon as the last reporter was escorted from his opulent campaign rooms, Mitt put on three more woolen sweaters and restarted an audio recording of the book Presidenting For Dummies.

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Grigovia establishes preserve

In efforts aimed to negate growing pressure from a half dozen American-owned consortia to open their pristine high valleys to nub-logging for hardwoods and strip-mining for precious-earth-metals, the government of the Glorious Republic of Grigovia (GROG) – authorized by a majority of its citizens, 99% of whom voted in the referendum – protected large swaths of its pristine countryside from runaway economic development. Named for Queen Pylta Pyltandyennd, who ruled the country for over a half century, from 1842 to 1897, the Pylta The Terrible National Ecological Protection Area (PTTNEPA) encompasses nearly half of the country's entire landmass, an area roughly the size of America's state of Connecticut.

Dubbed 'The Terrible' by a proto-Russian czar who had tried and failed nearly a dozen times to add her relatively small realm to his, Queen Pylta is celebrated within GROG as an early adopter of electricity (she was close friends with Nikola Tesla), as the inventor of the sweet-yet-spicy fermented green-tuber borscht, and as a gentle matriarch who sacrificed greatly for her subjects. She is remembered on the first Thursday in April, on Pyltafessd, a national holiday during which the people of Grig and the inhabitants of even the smallest village recharge their flashlight batteries and clean out their cupboards, at dusk going from house to house to share with each other the last of their winter stores, singing local folk-songs and lighting the way with their dazzlingly-bright pocket torches.

“We Grigovians are not against mining, or logging,” said Ristlünnd Yindlong, spokesman for the Resources Extraction Council, a voluntary national organization that researches and develops techniques for minimally-invasive resource extraction. “Miners and lumberjacks make up about 5% of the workforce and contribute roughly 10% to our overall gross domestic product. We, however, are against practices that are done hastily and without regard for biodiversity; that do not consider the needs of this nation's citizens and wildlife; and that violate the many rights of Nature, as defined by our Constitution. Personally, I signed the referendum in part to protect our high valleys, the only place in the world known to harbor drop-and-crawl moss, or autokineticus grigovianus. I invite you to stop by my flat this April, and pick up a jar of spiced apple butter.” In addition to establishing PTTNEPA, the national referendum also placed a ten year moratorium on new taxation and made it a crime to get all up in someone else's personal business.

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knowledge changes nothing

Upon discovering that a beautiful young female in his circle of friends had reached his state's age of consent, local mangina and resident puss-footer Thraskod D. Flume failed to man up and hit that shit, already. Claiming that he had already become such good friends with her and her family that any attempts to initiate sexual contact with her would likely ruin a lot of things for a lot of people, Thraskod went completely belly-up, saying, “Well, there's always masturbation.”

His failure to express his feelings openly and to confess his desires notwithstanding, Mr. Flume continued to show veiled affection for the lass, attending her high-school sports matches and becoming excited when she would brush against him or sit with her leg toughing his. “I've heard it all, and I'll probably hear a bit more of it, but, yeah, I'm a little bitch for not asking her out on a date, for respecting her personal space, for not applying overt pressure, for looking longingly and lustily instead of trying to actually get in them jeans. It doesn't help that I'm twice her age, or that I suffer from a massive inferiority complex that has basically ruined my life, leading me to constantly doubt myself and to keep negative thoughts in my head-space.”

Projections show that even if Thraskod were to bag his prize, she would in all likelihood leave him soon thereafter for a star quarterback or for one of her professors at college, to which she has however not yet applied. “I'm used to this, OK?” whined the yellow-bellied sap-sucker. “I go somewhere, find the girl I think is hottest, and then I keep glancing at her until she starts looking back at me, at which point I do… nothing. This goes all the way back to when I was in single digits, a shy boy of eight or nine who asked a girl to come to his birthday party, and was denied. That kind of thing stays with a body, I guess. Good grief.”

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church of Episcopaleontologists

The St. Yuseph of Shale and St. Yaneena of Limestone branches of the Reformed Church of Episcopaleontologists are seeking members and clergy, alike. Located in a geologically-active region of America's Southwest, we Episcopaleontologists celebrate the endless and magnificent diversity of rock formations, sedimentary buildups, glacial deposits, and meteoric sky-fall while answering only to our own board of bishops, whenever we feel like it.

Come one and all to marvel at the colorful Wall Of Blessed Striations, located just down the road from Carlsbad Caverns State Park, New Mexico. Join a guided bus tour – at no cost to you! – of the Painted Desert in the Petrified Forest National Park, Arizona. (Tours leave every Tuesday morning from the parking lot near the Solemn Stone Sepulcher, which perches over the Pecos River.) Learn about the founders of Episcopaleontologism, brave pioneers who drove the angry and murderous Red Man from the region during the glory days of our Manifest Destiny, spreading peace and religious freedom wherever their worn boot-soles happened to fall. Shop to your heart's content in the well-stocked and expertly-staffed Bishop's Gulch Gift Shop, located opposite the Denny's on Route 91.

If you love rocks, and to be ruled by bishops, the Reformed Church of Episcopaleontologists (RCEP) is for you. So come on down – to talk rocks, to buy non-precious gems, or to catch a game of Christ's Rock-Hounds, our inter-mural softball team. You'll be glad you did. (The RCEP never discriminates based on race, sex, or physical ability; no previous geological experience required.)

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candidates end campaigns

After reviewing dozens of separately-conducted polls and spending long hours analyzing scores of different cost-benefit-analyses, the presidential campaigns of both President Obama and his Republican rival, Mitt Romney, decided – nearly simultaneously – to end their efforts to hold or to gain the White House. “This whole damn business just doesn't add up, anymore,” said Mr. Obama while carefully measuring four fingers of fine Tennessee cognac into a crystal goblet, which he promptly emptied. “We asses and elephants have eroded the concept of Liberty in America so greatly as to have all but driven it from these shores,” the President continued as he roamed around the Oval Office, at times practicing throwing his knives at a round wooden target, at times staring dejectedly out at the heavily-armed and stone-faced guards prowling the iron gates of his prison-like, tax-payer-funded office complex. Sighing deeply, Mr. Obama ran a hand through his rapidly graying hair and lamented having run for public office at all, let alone for the post of Head Honcho.

“I don't at all envy Barack his lofty post,” declared former Massachusetts governor Mitt Romney from his tastefully-decorated war rooms that sprawl across the top three floors of the Hamilton Hotel a few blocks down from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, in Washington, D.C. “And, frankly, I don't quite remember who talked me into trying to take over for him, or who convinced me to expose myself and my family to such enormous stresses, strains, and scrutiny. Fuck, man, all I want to do is to go chill on a boat somewhere, and maybe have a relaxing swim.”

The end of the Obama and the Romney campaigns has led most voters to support Gary Johnson, the candidate for the Libertarian Party, who plans to do away with the federal government's less necessary and more anti-democratic offshoots such as the Department of Justice (DOJ) and the Transit Security Authority (TSA), and to end such absurdly wasteful practices as stealing money from honest and upstanding individual citizens and giving that money to industrial farming operations in the form of free-market-destroying subsidies. Said Mr. Johnson from a rented RV parked a few exits outside the Beltway, “This is big, big news, my fine and Truth-loving fellow Americans; the erstwhile top dogs are now out of the race, and the people of this land are fed up with the political status-quo in Washington – with its failed War On Drugs, its tendency to redistribute wealth to the already-wealthy, its granting of favors to rich lobbyists and other financially-well-off special interest, its constant war-mongering, and its support for a massive military-industrial-complex that profits only when the various peoples of the world kill each other. We Libertarians now have the opportunity to replace all of these negative and freedom-destroying aspects of government with simple and straight-forward measures designed to Secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, in direct accordance with the Constitution of the United States of America. I know that it'll suck for me if I actually do become President, but somebody, at some point, was going to have to reign in fantastically over-extended governmental power, and, well… shit – I'll do it.”

場黑麥 mentiri factorem fecit

birds not fooled

After spending weeks perfecting a loud and piercing whistle with which to alert motorists of his presence – one he could make without removing his hands from the handlebars – 35 year-old local velocipedist Juan Rifled was bummed to discover that it did not also trick the birds into thinking he was one of them. “I whistle while I work in the yard. Sometimes, my piercing tones will get the birds whistling, too, which convinced me for a short while that they thought I was one of them, that they had been fooled,” said Juan while mowing his lawn using a muscle-powered push mower of the spinning-wheel-of-death type. “I appears, however, that my whistle resembles the call of the striped-tailed hawk, a tenacious bird of prey, one that visits these parts frequently. Therefore, the small birds – the perching seed and berry eaters – upon hearing my whistling, approach cautiously, flying in close to the ground and hiding themselves in low-hanging branches and bushes; and after a bit of hopping around and peering through cracks in the leaves, they start chirping at me in what I find are menacing and admonishing tones. Especially the little brown ones, they'll stay at it as long as I am foxing around outside the house.”

While having a pow-wow in the pile of limbs and brush near the compost pit, the birds took turns clowning on Mr. Rifled. “What a douche,” said Mrs. Robin #8, of the South-Western Codorus Sheltered Valley Robin Flock. “First of all, the fact that he does everything by hand – felling the trees, bucking them, and then sawing the wood – when he would just as well be doing it with the chainsaw in the barn.” “Yeah,” cawed a small black crow sitting in the rear amidst his murder. “That, and bicycling everywhere? With the way people drive around these parts? That fucking idiot is going to get run over, right soon.” Hopping into a sudden patch of sunlight, Ms. Finch #14 shook herself violently before saying, “Well, at least he mows the lawn by hand, which means that about 99% of the bugs living in the grass survive, as opposed to all of his neighbors, who use power mowers that suck the bugs up into the vortex created by the massive spinning blades, mincing them and spitting them out as a pulpy grass-and-bug mixture that none of us can eat.” Waiting until the cacophony of dismissive and mocking calls had died away before relinquishing her perch, #14 was surprised to get a few supportive pats on her tail feathers from birds other than those of her own species.

Conversation turned feral-barn-cat-related until a small Starling – whom everyone recognized as Mr. Starling #137, that flock's spokesperson – jumped up onto the sunlit perch, whereupon all fell silent. (Due to the sheer size of their flock, the local starlings command a great deal of political power.) “After deliberation,” #137 said gravely. “We tentatively agree with Ms. Finch #14. Therefore, let's all ignore Juan for now, and not mess with him too much when he's out in the yard. If a few of us slip up and burst into song when he's making his pitiful little single-toned whistle, no harm done, but let's try not to encourage his recent and ham-fisted attempts at cross-species communication.”

場黑麥 mentiri factorem fecit