Tag Archives: Satire

Vatican goes green, and why text messages are evil

Considering the News…

In its latest attempt to embrace the digital age the Vatican is calling all Catholics and deploring believers to put down those sin-riddled cellphones during these glorious days of self-inflicted self-deprivation known as Lent. And it’s about bloody time.

Alas, how so dreadfully often furious typers of text messages neglect to take an occasional moment to bask in the glory of the Lord,  appreciating the sacrifices Christ made many centuries ago to guarantee our ability to text in peace.

So many times Mass goers have looked in uncontrolled horror as an iPhone clings to one believer’s hand while the body of Christ is placed in the other.

Why must these menacing iPod headphones dangle from ears when almighty and all-knowing priests speak the word of the Lord?

How can we not go one day a week without obsessing over the stats and numbers on our computers at work?

Must we drive those 17 unholy miles to work every day of Lent, or can a bike suffice for the sake of sacrifice?

Indeed, the Vatican – the guiding light it is, the beacon of hope we gratefully accept it to be – has composed a righteous list of ways to shun technology for these 40 days of Lent.

The Pope has blessed this manifesto of ways for circumventing the inherent dangers and evils of computers, iPhones, and Facebook.

All we can do is hope. Pray. Accept this list as a means for coming closer to God. For emulating the sacrifices Jesus so unselfishly made many years ago.

For more tips on how to become a better Catholic, please visit the Vatican website. Or, please befriend Pope Benedict on his Facebook and MySpace pages. Or, for those wanting some viral proverbs, feel free to tune into the Vatican YouTube Channel that is now available.

See you all after Easter!

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Iran is ticked at Hollywood – Plus, why movie stars make wonderful diplomats

Considering the News…

It’s rather delightful to learn Iran finally has its priorities in a peaceful place, and it can only be a matter of time before relations with the West are repaired for the collective good of all. Indeed, good times await us yet.

The occasionally troublesome nation took earnest strides this past weekend by warmly hosting a team of Hollywood directors, producers and actors who ventured to the surging American vacation destination for a film-making seminar.

Here they were kindly greeted by President Ahmadinejad’s personal film and cinema adviser – that such a cabinet position even exists has yet to spawn any headlines, although surely this will change in time – who politely and respectfully requested some form of apology for Hollywood’s brazen role in the production of “300” and “The Wrestler”, two movies Iran contends to be blatantly anti-Persian and with very good reason.

Thank God Warren Beatty’s wonderful wife Annette Bening was present to defuse the awkward situation.

The stunning and graceful starlet, best known for her moving performances in the Hollywood blockbuster “Mars Attacks” and one particular 1987 episode of “Miami Vice”, did not reportedly say or doing anything prolific, however, neither are there any reports of her abduction or imprisonment – which, of course, is a positive thing. So as I stated before, thank God she was there.

The trip is part of a grand strategy to breed peace between Iran and America through the universal love and appreciation for movies. As all forms of Iranian mass media are closely overlooked by Ahmadinejad’s regime, the eventual benevolence between the two nations seems incredibly likely, if not inexorable.

Ahmadinejad did not issue an immediate response to the joyous gathering, but he is believed to be a wholehearted fan of “Bugsy”, which for obvious reasons bodes well for Bening’s safe return to America. Perhaps not.

Either way, it’s encouraging to know Iran didn’t make an ugly mess of this otherwise harmless trip. Lord knows Hollywood stars can be rather difficult at times.

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The Sanctity of Marriage – Plus, why gay marriage and polygamy have a chance

Considering the News…

There’s a lovely story out of Indiana receiving tremendous news coverage, of a 68-year-old woman who’s had the honorable privilege of marrying 23 times, with the marriages lasting as long as seven years and as little as 36 hours.

Born Linda Lou Taylor, this bride of brides is a living ode to the beauty of marriage, embracing all its ups and downs, in sickness and in health, a life’s work devoted to advancing the significance of this most sacred institution.

In these dark moral times of homosexuals fighting for marriage rights and polygamists pressing for the right to wed multiple partners, Linda Lou Taylor’s courageous story underscores the vital importance of preserving marriage as a union between only man and woman.

Why, would homosexuals be capable of marrying 23 different times? Not a chance. They don’t have the stomach for it.

And what about polygamists – could any of them achieve 23 partners at one time? Of course not, what an absolutely silly thought.

We must all applaud Linda Lou Taylor’s strong will and unrelenting dedication to this earnest and really, really serious cause. Thanks to her our children and our children’s children will one day be able to marry and divorce and marry and divorce and marry and divorce and marry again as many times as they deem necessary – supposing, of course, they are heterosexual God-fearing Christians who love and respect their partners, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, at least one in 23 tries.

Here’s to you Linda Lou Taylor – you’re one lousy tramp! But at least you’re not gay or Mormon. Now THAT would be a moral travesty.

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British, French nuclear subs collide – Plus, why Iran and North Korea might as well have a few nukes

Considering the News…

France and Britain are rather crimson and clover in the face today, as nuclear-armed submarines from the two national powers played a viscous game of underwater chicken, with neither side ever deciding to bail out.

Too much pride on the line, I suppose. And that’s a good thing, even if a couple dozen warheads colliding is not.

Some physical harm was endured, yes – mostly non-lethal bumps, bruises, and scratches – yet the major damage comes in the volatile form of concerned members of the press and members of a growing citizens group known simply by the succinct moniker Not too crazy about getting accidentally blown up because trained officers cannot clearly distinguish a nuclear-armed submarine from a dead whale.

(Indeed, any given day will find me willing to take a chance with 100 warheads before crossing the aforementioned citizens group. No hesitation whatsoever.)

It is true that history has bared witness to myriad mishaps by the French and British armed forces, however, this most clumsy incident illustrates just how integrally connected we all are as citizens of the same world, and that these blunders risk ravaging more than mere national pride.

While the self-proclaimed good guys forecast imminent global doom should Iran or North Korea ever obtain nuclear weapons, perhaps the more pressing concern is our allies throwing 50 warheads in the trunk and driving around with a head full of whiskey, wine and downers.

And yet who can condemn the British or the French? This obviously is no fault of theirs.

That two nuclear-armed submarines managed to collide in the Atlantic Ocean, as ridiculous as it all is considering the infinite space and avenues, is a bloody amazing feat for which only god can take credit.

The math alone requires us to forgive the two mortal nations without questions, punishment, or ridicule, as this was not of their doing. It would be like two 8-foot-tall redheads with 160 IQs and only 8 toes running into each other on a bike trail in Wichita, Kansas. Just doesn’t happen without good reason.

What won’t be forgiven is our grave suspicions of the ocean, for the world survived another day, but at what cost. I for one will never step foot in the Atlantic again, lest I wish for my right foot to fall off and grow tentacles and a set of teeth in its place. No, that doesn’t sound too swell at all.


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The Colonel’s fried chicken secret is safe – Plus, why nobody cares

Considering the News…

Fried chicken enthusiasts can rest easy today, thanks to comforting reports the beloved KFC recipe has at last been safely transported and secured in a secret vault somewhere in the enchanted hills of Kentucky.

Learning the exact contents of this hand-written document – penned by the mystical Colonel himself – has sent fried chicken impersonators through the depths of hell, as countless combinations have failed in the honorable quest of authentically replicating the mythical 11-herb mixture.

Few things have incited greater culinary madness through the ages, with some comparing the importance of the scintillating chicken recipe to that of Jesus’ bread, Emeril’s Caribbean-style chicken, and Bo Jackson’s signature BO Burger.

Naturally, every precaution was taken in transporting the historical document – with many security guards and a handcuff briefcase involved in the covert mission – before it was finally laid to rest in a high-tech vault that will be guarded around the clock by living personnel. And thank God for that.

At any given time, but only two living KFC executives harness the dear privilege of knowing the full recipe, which no doubt qualifies them both for the ‘Luckiest Damn Person Alive Competition’ held annually in Waukee, Iowa.

Merely disclosing a single element of the recipe means instant death by way of the guillotine, a long-standing Kentucky law that has surely survived many Supreme Court challenges, as it is no secret Rehnquist loved nothing more than a late-night bucket of crispy and succulent fried chicken.

Yes, this 68-year-old legend of a recipe is poised to remain a well-kept treasure for at least another 10 years, when slumping sales inspire KFC executives to move the document yet again, to any even bigger vault, with even more human security guards – reminding Americans the Colonel’s chicken is still accessible at your local KFC chain store.Today. And right now.

I myself haven’t eaten the filth in years. Maintaing a good cholesterol level just doesn’t allow for it, I’m afraid. Plus, the grocery store fried chicken tastes just as good, if not much better.

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Obama to limit executive bonuses – Plus, why high-class prostitution will suffer

Considering the News…

As the financial crisis paralyzes every industry not specializing in online pornography, ill-timed is President Obama’s audacious plan to limit executive bonuses for companies receiving “exceptional assistance” under the bailout program.

A closer glimpse into this seedy plan only further illustrates how downright silly his shameless middle-class pandering has become.

No secret is it the extravagant taste of these very executives is solely responsible for keeping the luxury industries afloat – so what could possibly compel Obama to risk undermining this sector of the market at such a time?

Why, who will buy the $100 lobster dinners should this plan come to fruition? Or the private jets! How can that industry realistically survive if General Motors has merely one jet instead of five?

Caviar, yachts, private golf clubs, exotic beauty products, Oliver Goldsmith sunglasses, Stefano Bemer shoes – I ask you, Mr. President, where will the customers come from if under-performing executives of collapsing corporations fail to receive outrageous and undeserved compensation?

And this is to say nothing of the high-class prostitution business! Where will the next great generation of lawyers and doctors come from if aspiring professionals cannot fund graduate school because the underground service industry went belly up?

Obama and the Dream Team Circus claim to boast a myriad of fantastic tricks to bewilder the eye and wow the crowd – but this particular performance, I am afraid to say, is incredibly underwhelming, unrewarding, and greatly lacking both theme and direction.

Back to the dressing room, Good sir, the audience is getting rather anxious.

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Michael Phelps enjoys a nice toke – Plus, why Olympic champions who get photographed smoking pot make good role models

Considering the News…

Supernatural athletic ability may launch one to the pinnacle of the sports world, however, it evidently can help one mature with no more haste than the virgin junior-varsity bench warmers of the world.

That a 23-year-old male engaged in a fuzzy little bong session at a frat party will alarm few. In fact, a 23-year-old male enjoying an occasional toke seems right in line with American tradition, post 1955.

Law students, nurses, veterinarians, trash collectors, political aides – choice of profession has no chemical effect on the innate connection between 20-somethings and the ganja. The synergy between the two is quite remarkable.

And yet once 14 or 15 Olympic gold medals enter the fog, stunned faces steal the majority like somebody just crapped on the president’s shoe. Bemused people all wondering how God’s holy world could ever allow for a sports icon to become the front runner for High Times Man of the Year.

Michael Phelps is without question a legend in the athletic sense, but his frequently impaired and hypocritical judgment reminds us he is no more a role model than a blazed, barely conscious, wannabe Rastafarian in Central Park.

His destiny has become quite predictable: Win a Volkswagen van full of gold medals and make an ass of himself for an encore.

Thus, American media is premature in proclaiming him a role model, for what parent wants his life for their children?

Who says, ‘I want my son to win 6 gold medals, follow it up with a DUI, mend his image by joining a World Anti-Doping Agency program, win another 8 gold medals, get a million dollars from Speedo, have everyone calling, then give my wife a bloody heart attack by getting photographed pulling bong tubes and feeling up a stripper – all in a few-year span.”

No one. That’s too damn much for even the sturdiest minds.

Thus, Michael Phelps may be a role model after all, and as important a role model as there ever was. I suspect now I will one day have the ‘Michael Phelps’ talk with my children, emphasizing that while gold medals and endorsements can do a great deal for one’s public image and self esteem, voyeuristic photographers will stop at nothing to leave their wonder world in a ruins of g-strings and bong water.

“So what will it be, son?” I shall ask. “Do you wish for a private life where you are free to smoke marijuana and grope strippers in your spare time, or do you want to be an Olympic champion getting paid millions to pose in a Speedo, never able to freely smoke some marijuana, or perhaps grope a stripper or two, without the whole world going ape shit?”

His initial response will reflect what kind of person he intends to be. My only wish is he passes on the Speedo.

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