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Bridges everywhere choose to collapse before 2008 begins

From the Labor Grp with functors anger, death, racism, strikes, and transportation

Following the I-35 MSR Bridge and Hunan bridge collapses, many bridges have begun pondering implosion or explosion. “We’re sick of people walking all over us, you know? We have feelings too,” said the Brooklyn Bridge, an old stalwart of the anti-human movement among primarily American infrastructure since the turn of the 20th century. “Did you know that they make car tires specifically to touch us and hurt us as much as possible?” Many bridges have adapted to the car annoyance by growing spikes or venom glands, leading to many horrific deaths as a car’s steel slowly warps into a tiny metal box, trapping humans inside as the bridge’s internal immune system ejects it to a tiny, watery death beneath, where the water demons hide and wait.

On Thursday, thousands of bridges marched down the streets in protest—destroying the streets in the process—chanting “We’re not highways, we’re not highways; Let us through, we’re not byways!” that echoes the bridge-highway tensions ignited in the 1955 Infrawar in which thousands of American casualties occurred after one resident called the Brooklyn Bridge the Brooklyn Highway by accident. In the world of bridges, the social hierarchy follows like this: airports, seaports, railways, bridges, roads, streets, and people. The rules, once de facto, were codified permanently in the 1821 Bridge Order Resolution Memorandum, commonly known as SimCity to many lowly pedestrians. It’s a common misconception that SimCity is a simulation game, an old wives’ tale held predominantly among humans. In reality, SimCity is an arcane and complex work of synthesis, bringing together legions upon legions of ancient infrastructure lore into one complex reference model of an idyllic world without any humans. It’s most telling that, though no humans appear in the SimCity games except Dr. Wright, who is actually an alien made excitement and hair, humans still believe the game is about them. “That’s a key example of how humans are always about themselves,” says Professor Rhodes, a bridge who works as a professor emeritus at the University of Hard Knocks. “Humans cannot bridge the cultural and social, ha ha,” and he could not stop laughing at his own pun. He died of asphyxiation due to the fixation to his own verbal libation.

The new parallel bridge installed as a companion to the Tacoma Narrows Bridge, quickly assimilated into one bridge, expects to collapse in December of 2007 in an attempt to postpone the inevitable conflict and to warn humans of the danger they face traveling not only it but all bridges without the due respect bridges everywhere demand. “It’s sad,” Mr. Narrows says, “but this is the we only way we know how to change people’s opinions about us.”

Barack Obama is, indeed, actually our first president Abraham Lincoln

From the Politics Grp with functors death, podiums, presidents, racism, and violence

In a press conference held today, Barack Obama undressed from his disguise to reveal himself as a heavily tanned Abraham Lincoln. A collective gasp escaped from the reporters’ bench. Said one reporter from The New York Times, “That explains his light skin.” (Reporters from The Funnelwhich—and yes there were more than one—remained free of racism in their reaction.) Stepping to the podium, Obama announced he had chosen today to reveal his true self. “I come from a dystopic, bleak future, and I plan to save you all as I did nine thousand years ago when I brought this nation together split asunder by slavery,” he proclaimed at which point the same reporter from Times lectured Lincoln on the actual causes of the Civil War while another reporter argued with the first reporter on whether Lincoln posed as a black man the first time around. (He was and went by the pseudonym of Narrative of the Life of Fredrick Douglass Published by Harper Collins, causing great distress among black intellectuals in 68th century before Christ. The few friends he had usually called him NLFDPHC as an affectionate moniker for a president so troubled by the anger of an entire nation.)

Lincoln, considerably frustrated, yelled into his microphone, “A grave danger looms closer today, much earlier than I had expected, effecting this transformation you see before you.” It was too late. The reporters’ squabble turned into a raging nitpick convention. Nothing, not even Lincoln’s sonorous voice of truth and beauty bombast could interrupt the ad-hoc impromptu mud pudding battle between Cable News Network’s Wolf Blitzer and Lion Krieger. Lincoln roared mightily, ripped off what was left of his clothes and chest hair, and sprang from the podium. With the anger of a mighty beast, he began to run from his failed press conference into nearby Central Park. “Stop right there,” a commanding voice behind the press box cried. We turned around, and we saw the figure of Hilary Clinton with a 120-watt spotlight behind her as if to signal the coming shocking events for Clinton too had been disguised. “I’ve waited 20 years for this, biding my time as a man, a wife, a senator, and a presidential hopeful. And now the time has come.” Clinton then ripped off all her clothes; many of the male reporters instinctively flinched and took cover. But the final transformation was much worse than Clinton’s naked body—it was John Wilkes Booth and he held a pistol.

Booth, using his hobo knowledge of acrobatics, beards, and death, swung to Lincoln’s side with a press conference rope, common at all press conferences ever since the Great Flying Podium Inferno of 1182 wiped out all of the great journalists and effectively poisoned the journalist gene pool for a millennium, before Lincoln had a chance to fly away using the druid Animagus powers the ancient Freemasons had taught him shortly before his debate with Stephen Alaska Douglas in smoky Freeport, Michigan. Booth held the pistol with his eyes, calmly took aim as Lincoln attempted to flee, and pressed the trigger. Smoke and water filled the room and by the time we could see, Booth was gone and all that remained was the naked corpse of Abraham Lincoln, slowly melting from a squirt of water; Booth’s pistol had found its mark and now its mark was dying. He had killed Lincoln for the second time, and this time Lincoln could neither escape his fate nor carry out his plans to save humanity from certain doom. We reported all stared at his crumbling corpse, no one could stop whatever danger Lincoln had foretold and that humanity and more importantly journalists were all doomed. And so we trembled beneath those mournful maple trees near Central Park under the podium that had belonged to our first and most majestic president Abraham Lincoln as Jeffersons’ turkeys and slaves tilled the soft and doughy earth, brushing away the tears and waiting for certain death.