the Funnelwhich

Black economist Tyrone Numbers blames black children for pushing him over

Neighbors of usually mild-mannered Tyrone Numbers were shocked last Sunday morning to hear him scream obscenities from his house, which interrupted their reading of The Funnelwhich, which is a newspaper published every Sunday. Upon investigation, Mr. Numbers was cursing at and ranting about the local primarily black pre-adolescent gang “Death from the Fifth Grade,” which had once again TP’d his garden and his cat. As his cat mewed quietly, I sat down to talk with the angry Mr. Numbers.

“Those kids hate me because they think I’m an Uncle Tom, doing economics work,” he said. Upon questioning, he revealed that Uncle Tom was a literary allusion. At first I thought it meant “nerd.” Mr. Numbers assured me this was not the case until I forced him to say it was via what we journalists call the Wedgie Method. “Those kids harass me every week. I’ve had it with their behavior. They pushed me over last week while I was getting the mail, and I nearly tripped into White Power Bill.”

Of course, community leaders were quick to intercept. Says Reverend Church, “I don’t see how this is anything but society’s fault. Obviously these children’s parents have failed them, and we should blame them. Wait, are their parents black too? Maybe it’s not their fault. I think it’s my fault.” Then he cackled and drank his pudding cup, which he threw out of the nursing home he resided. (We are legally obligated to inform you that Reverend Church is not a reverend but a two-time felon.) PTA leader Maggie Mom says, “I think Mr. Numbers is playing the hasty race card because he can’t deal with the fact that he’s an Uncle Tom.” Other PTA moms agreed, drawing their conclusion from a lifetime of harsh words and slanders that comes with the job of being a parent-teacher, a nebulous and hybrid form of human that takes several years of practice to perfect with very few rewards to reap and showcase afterward.

Says White Power Bill, “White power!” And then he flew away.

NASA concludes alcohol investigation, says astronauts were “high on life”

After extensive reviews and interviewing, NASA has concluded the astronauts riding the C400 missile were “high on life” and “posed no risk to the aircraft, which was worth twice their life savings combined.” NASA’s investigation started after routine C400 missile launches and landings exhibited larger and larger wobbles until its motor crooned and had to be petted into a state of relaxation by NASA’s official missile whisperer.

NASA’s 405-page report documents the astronauts’ increasing exhilaration at escaping from their family for periods of six months along with the romantic sexual freedom space travel provides. Says one anonymous astronaut Mary Kann, “The stars out there make me feel tingly. Oh yeah, all tingly inside.” before she began to uncomfortably grope the interviewer. NASA has long struggled with space sex ever since Neil Armstrong copped a feel from Buzz Lightyear in their movie Apollo 9, which documented their ongoing efforts to fight the Greek God not with violence but astrophysics. Eventually, the resorted to violence after Lightyear discovered Apollo had not fireproofed his bow with asbestos as NASA had done with their astronaut suits, just in case any emergency landings on the Sun had to be done.

NASA’s report went on to excerpt from the Kamasutra, a 19th century novel written by Charles Dickens that revealed the sordid life of orphan pornography rings whose creeds of “Abelian to the max.” transgressed law and human morality. Ostensibly, NASA’s report is designed to further stimulate and arouse, raising questions among NASA watchdogs like PLUTO (Pluto Likes Uranus; Train Orgasm) on whether NASA is dedicated at all to combating these missile joyrides that, as each day passes, bring back fewer and fewer clouds. For CBS News, this is Rusty Jacobs.

Terry Zhivago whimpered softly and rolled over

In Heaven today, Terry Zhivago slept soundly in her bed. She’s snuggled in her bed covers now, dreaming of beautiful things. If you were to open her bedroom and peek your head inside, you would hear the soft snores of a person who’s at better times now and the contented rustle of a person sleeping like a log. And you would be touched, if you knew the whole story, and you would probably cry a little.

Jesus wipes his eyes and leaves the bedroom corridor.

Playing checkers leads to aneurysm in stupid people

A new study from the British Institute of Rotting Teeth and Health reports that the cognition stress of playing checkers can substantially raise the likelihood of a “brain malfunction” in stupid people. Checkers, a game invented by Albert Einstein’s cat Chester in Wickshire in 1982, was originally designed by the Nazis to exterminate their bigoted notion of mentally incapacitated people. In today’s society, we are free of these arcane notions and simply isolate retards in special institutions so society never has to deal with them like mature adults so that we can perpetually fear them. No word yet on how pornographic mahjong games may affect the user.

Undercover DEFCON reporter outed at MSNBC convention

Reporter Dole Hacker left the MSNBC convention amid tears and grief after Chris Matthews publicly exposed her as an undercover reporter on stage at the annual MSNBC Glitz Convention held in Santa Barbara, Ohio, the only convention center MSNBC can afford, where a dozen or less reporters gather to decide the fashion trends, lipstick, and gloss for the coming journalism year. Security guards and Chris Matthews began to suspect Dole Hacker after she entered the convention with a bulky analog video camera, marijuana, Cheetos, and ILUVYOU flavor Mountain Dew, named after the iPod virus that made people felt like they belonged that the FBI hunted down and destroyed due to skyrocketing American morale. Chris Matthew later commented on YouTube that “he had no regrets,” continuing onward to ask for lonelygirl’s phone number, which apparently is “FUCKYOU” or (911) 382-5968.

Hackers and the mainstream media have a long history of animosity ever since London Times reporter Edgar Allen Poe called eminent computer scientist Alan Turing a “retard” in the 812 A.D. volume 21, late nightly edition. Ever since, DEFCON deadbeat hackers and MSNBC irrelevant reporters have attempted to infiltrate each others’ conventions on a regular basis, slowly evolving into a respected and retarded tradition like the family heirloom of Grandpa’s teeth that chatter and scream obscene Latin phrases when you attempt to molest them. This year, however, marks the first time in a long time that one convention has reacted with anger. Neutral bystanders like white people says of Chris Matthews that he called Dole “a whorecunt” and “can’t drive,” which further stressed Chris Matthews’ complete irrelevance in life outside of Saturday Night Live parodies.

DEFCON representative Sam Lawyer refused to comment stating he was too busy not contributing to society; he then snorted a line of cocaine off of his podium.

Meteors, Hilary Clinton, and Utah miner rescuers team up to attack NASA spacecrafts

Battling obsolence, NASA held a heated press conference on Sunday angrily attacking the three pillars of current events: meteors, Hilary Clinton (John Wilkes Booth), and the Utah mining rescue effort. Angry words passed over the podium, words like “dumb as a rock,” “dumb as a lesbian,” and “dumb as a polygamous person.” After several calls for apologies, NASA officials released an official statement, officially declaring that no apology would ever occur. Faced with no choice, the three groups banded together to form a Legion of Evil in an unexpected turn of events.

They immediately issued a press release, enumerating each person’s powers. Meteors: Brute physical strength in addition to fire. Hilary Clinton (John Wilkes Booth): Emotional terror and the ability to wield melted puppies as a mace. Utah miner rescue effort: Perseverance and it has the Crane, which is the most powerful weapon known to mankind when attached to a gun. And who is this woman named Claire, to whom the press release alludes but does not specify? I hope that her superpower is beauty and her hair is long. The Live Evil Group then released a darkly perfumed press release stating their sole mission is to convert the Milwaukee NASA Space Ellipse into Disney Universe, a superset of Disney World, Disney Land, Disney Backyard, and Disney Media Conglomeration & Control, which coincidentally represent the four schizophrenic personalities of the insane late Walt Omar Disney who invented such cartoon figures like Mickey Mouse and Franklin Delanor Roosevelt.

NASA officials, cornered, still refuse to release an apology. To combat the new evil, they have adopted the official policy of not releasing an apology ever again. Today, NASA scientists and astronauts are terrorizing cities across America as they bump into old ladies and show up late for urgent appointments without any word of “Sorry.” to be heard from their chapped, hard lips. Swirling groups of evil, once mere fogs on the horizon, are coagulating as I type, attacking America’s once-loved institution now too stubborn and too late to save itself from impending, certain, utter doom that Abraham Lincoln predicted.

Scientists find evidence of plants, seeds, fertilizer, soil, and water at a Mars Home Depot.

[AMBALA, INDIA] It’s here in the remote region of Shropshirefarmbriar that Marvin, a local boy of ten who attends the preparatory school in nearby Shimla (London), discovered commerce on Mars. But all is not well in Marvin’s family. It all began when the Royal Academy of Scientific Royal Astronomy visited this young lad of twelve years.

“How was your experience with the RAS, Marvin?” I ask, sitting down for crumpets and trumpets … music. “They’re more like royal douchebags,” Marvin replies in a tone as bitter as the tea I’m served. They swarmed this tiny apartment wearing monocles, fluffy suits, and fluffy monocles.

“They stole my ideas, plain and simple,” Marvin says.

“What were you saying? I couldn’t hear you over the bitterness of this tea.”

“I said they stole my ideas.” He grows quiet, perhaps also disgusted by the bitterness of this tea.

The astronomers, however, paint a much different picture. “He clearly used our data,” says spokesman Cory Starr. “We run the machines, we control the data. Do you have any idea how hard it is to arrive here day in and day out to make sure the machines are still doing all the work? Pretty hard, I’d say. I wouldn’t know. I’m just a spokeswoman.”

“I mean spokesman!”

“Don’t you think you’re being too hard on the kid,” I say.

“He’s 14! He should be able to handle this sort of healthy scientific competition.” “No, he’s 12.”

“I’m 8, actually,” Marvin says as he pops through the door segregating Marvin’s office from the hallway.

“You said 12!” I accuse him. “Actually, I said 10, but I was lying. You should really take better notes.” I blush and wait for a change in the conversation. It came, but only after three hours of silence.

“So, do you think life exists on Mars?”

Cory replies, “Well, we know commerce exists, which means CEOs exist. Are CEOs alive?”

We stare at each other before mutually agreeing that no, they in fact are not. But without consensus between the RAS and Marvin, the question remains hotly contentious among the scientific and the surprisingly well-informed pornographic community.

To resolve this dispute, I brought the two parties together for some one-on-one face time, which seriously cramped into my three-o’clock massage.

“Look, I think you should be reasonable,” Cory says to Marvin.

“I should be reasonable? You’re calling it Cory’s Depot. And you’re just a spokeswoman! I mean spokesman.”

“It’s our data.”

“I found the depot first on my telescope.”

“Prove it,” Cory yells, knocking Marvin’s telescope out of its painstakingly found coordinates. Cory runs away, giggling insanely. Marvin sighs and swivels the telescope to the planet. He asks me to look through. Instead of seeing a Home Depot, I see dejected Martians disassembling their Home Depot and scribbling a gigantic symbol into nearby rocks.

“What are they writing?”

“It’s the Greek symbol for impending doom or impending hope. I don’t know which; it depends on the context. The Greeks were an ambivalent lot, you know.”

I nod, pretending to condone their ambivalence when—in reality—I loathed them for it.

“I don’t think they want our attention anymore after they saw this dispute air on our news networks,” Marvin says quietly. “Can you blame them?”

Marvin brooded for a while before walking to his local county courthouse, changing his name, and then buying a cape and pistol from the costume and weapons shop right next to the pharmacy and peep show store.

“Marvin, where are you going?” his mother asks, fear in her eyes and elbows. “Don’t call me Marvin. Call me John Wilkes Booth. Booth because I love telephones, Wilkes because I love the names of old people, and John because I love farewells. I’m leaving to set some things straight in this twisted world of ours.”

I try to ask for an interview, but he swooshes his cape at me and walks away. And that’s how I inadvertently caused the deaths of a million human beings.