So, I was just browsing around on the internet for pictures of starving children again . . .

First of all, you wouldn't believe how hard it is to find good, quality pictures of starving children. I think this is a major oversight that needs to be addressed. If you want to see pictures of enormous, naked she-males over 55, you can find thousands with a simple gooooogle search. If starving children are your bag, however, you're pretty much S.O.L.

Hmmm. Perhaps I should begin by explaining why I was looking for pictures of starving children. Rest assured, there is no sick fetish behind all of this. I was simply doing some research for an article I had planned to write ridiculing starving children. Visual aids are very important.

As with so many things in my life, the results of my numerous web searches did not mirror my expectations. However, every now and then, what you find by accident is better than what you set out searching for in the first place. So it is with love. Where was I?

Oh yes, looking for pictures of starving children. Following the link to a promising site, http://www.feedthechildren.org, I observed, on the left-hand banner, the following graphic:


Adorable Starving Baby Credit Card.

Yes, it's a credit card featuring a picture of a starving baby. Well, let's be more precise, it's a prepaid credit card featuring a picture of a model baby from Detroit who is supposed to remind you of starving babies in Africa and whose parents got paid $1000 for approving the exploitation of their child. But let's not quibble over the minor details.

Every time you use your Feed the Children Prepaid Credit Card, 42 cents is contributed toward the cause of ending world hunger. In kids anyway. I'm not sure if the grown ups see any money out of this deal. Pictures of starving grown ups don't sell credit cards. But that's not the point; the point is that every time you get a new Gazelle-skin Prada handbag, a hopelessly malnourished baby in the Sudan gets a spoonful of rice mush and weevils in your name. When you purchase $147.24 in organic groceries at Whole Foods, you can be sure not only that the crabcakes and the spinach latkes will be delightful, but also that the check-out girl feeding her own seven kids on $8.00 an hour will know that you give a shit, and that a child whose age in years exceeds his weight in pounds will taste his last grape before sweet merciful death takes him.

Alright, I'm gonna cut this short. I'm starving.

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Pope: Living Proof that God is Not Merciful

At 173 years old, Pope John Paul II reflects on two-and-a-half lifetimes in the service of what turns out to be a cruel and merciless God.

Speaking through an interpreter who has learned to turn the Pope's incoherent mumbling into bad Italian-English, the Pope said: "I talka to God a-yesterdaya. I aska hima to letta me die-a. God a-saya to me: 'Suck a big, fat, dick, Pope-a."


Asked about God, the Pope gives the internationally recognized gesture for "Man, fuck that guy."


The Pope has every reason to be angry. Those close to the morbidly elderly pontif report that over the last decade, he has not only lost the ability to speak, but is also unable to blink, produce saliva, or keep his brittle bones from snapping on the rare occasion that he finds a reason to laugh.

Speaking on condition of anonymity, a close associate of his Popeness described his urinary tract as "pretty much like an automatic drip coffee pot at this point."


The Pope, seen here disembarking from his private plane. Moments later, his arm tears free from his body, and he tumbles down six iron stairs, fracturing his pelvis and puncturing a lung with bone shrapnel.

At such an advanced age, the Pope's personal trainer reports, there is little the Pope can do to enrich his morose existence. "Contact sports are pretty much out of the question, as is anything involving weight-bearing or stretching. One time, I asked him to touch his toes, and he threw his fingers on the floor and stepped on them."

"His regimen is pretty much confined to sensual massage at this point -- for blood flow and cardiovascular stimulation. Which is disgusting."


Bad fucking idea.

With physical entertainment off the table, the Pope sometimes turns to humor for fulfillment.

"He's got a pretty zany sense of humor," a personal aide notes. "Sometimes we're not sure if his falls are accidental, deliberate suicide attempts, or extraordinarily dangerous slapstick."

Close friends observe that often the only way to tell the difference is to "look for blood." Although, according to those closest to the emaciated, breathing corpse, "sometimes a good chuckle will make him bleed from his mouth or eyeballs."


The Pope get's cooky: "Where's God? Where is he? I don't see him!"

Despite the Pope's own disenchantment, Cardinal O'Malley of Boston sees further evidence of God's work in the Pope's excruciating death spiral. "It just illustrates the magical cycle of life," he said. "You are born tiny, bald, toothless, helpless and diapered. And if you live long enough, to that state you shall return."

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Dow, Crackity Jones Not Related

A strong February jobs report boosted stocks Friday, sending the Dow Jones to its highest level in more than three years. Crackity Jones, on the other hand, remains broke off his ass.

I have spent the past 16 hours researching my genealogy, and have found no mention of Dow Jones in the family tree. Perhaps, then, it is no coincidence that his financial success seems to have so little impact on my own life.


Crackity Jones' Portfolio

News of Dow's most recent upturn came via a Pawn Shop owner's hand-held RCA television, just as I was getting a stereo out of hock. This is a good thing, as it wasn't my stereo, but rather belonged to the Polish immigrant whose once-furnished apartment I have been subletting for the last two months. I feel somewhat guilty about pawning her belongings, but I had to pay the rent somehow. I figure if I donate blood three times each week, I can buy back her wedding photo and husband's urn by the end of the month.


I am considering various means of using this website to generate revenue. Possibilities include the following:

• Add a webcam feature with a pay-per-view service for visitors who would like to watch me eat gross food combinations, throw water balloons at hobos, or cry.
• Convert the site into an online auction house where I will offer my apartment owner's belongings for purchase. Of course, I would not send these items to anyone; however, as long as I am able to post pictures, and do not provide a forwarding address when I skip out unannounced a month early, I should be okay.
• Spend less time blogging, more time job-searching.
• Change my domain name to "dowjones.com"; sell it to that fucker.
• Hide out in the Senate, get men's room photos of otherwise anti-gay congressmen in compromising positions, threaten to post blackmail photos on this site for .00000001% of the world to see.
• Learn to code mind control script into html.

Stay tuned.

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Things To Do When You're All Coked Up in Smithland, Iowa

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If you're ever driving from Salt Lake City to Vegas and find yourself in Smithland, Iowa, you're totally fucking lost, and it's probably because of the nose candy. Here's what you'll want to do . . .

1. Hit up the "Smithland Country Store" for some gas and snacks.

"I'm so hungry I could eat a human brain! Raaaaagh!"

You've been awake for eight days, and you're starting to get hungry. Better stop by the "Smithland Country Store" ASAP. It is the only place in town to purchase packaged foods, and it closes at 6:00 p.m. Get some gas, too. You'll need it when the irrepressible urge to get the fuck out of Smithland begins to consume you. Also, Darrell from down the street (and I do mean the street) has been banned from the Country Store, and will trade you some top-notch crystal meth if you let him siphon a gallon from your tank. That reminds me, pick up some lithium batteries, and in order to avoid raising too much suspicion, a camera.

2. Stop by Bob and Darrell's trailer.

The picture Bob and Darrell will take of themselves with the camera you picked up at the Country Store.

If you come straight from the Country Store, you should arrive at Bob and Darrell's trailer before 6:05, which is usually right about when the second keg gets tapped. Be prepared to contribute something insightful to the ongoing "Stroh's vs Milwaukees Best" Debate, so as not to appear as an outsider. It is important to forge a bond of trust with the locals, so that they will feel comfortable enough to let you in on little known local rituals.

3. Sacrifice an abducted baby to the Giant Bunny God.

Anonymous baby, moments before being devoured.

You don't know where Bob got the baby, but he's been freebasing angel dust all day and any attempt to physically deter him at this point would be futile. You thought all the talk about a Giant Bunny God was, well, just talk. Upon arriving at the Temple of the Giant Mound, however, you are surprised to find that you can see him, too. Absolutely horrifying. Get the fuck out of there before he gets hungry again.

4. Have a serious talk with Rusty.

Rusty

I mean honestly. This has gone on too long. What we have here is a classic case of fear of commitment. If you're going to wear the dress, you need to shave the chest. That's all. It's like Sonny and Cher swapped wardrobes. Fuck, man.

5. Get abducted by aliens.

Juanita, the town minority

You just filled up, and have only driven a block, but when you get back to Bob and Darrell's trailer, you find you are out of gas. You are a little suspicious of Darrell, who seems to be doing a lot of looking at the ground; however, Bob seems to be doing a lot of fondling his bucknife, so you're not in the mood to throw around accusations. You'll have to opt for a more efficient means of travel, and help is closer than you think. Juanita from next door will happily show you where she was abducted by aliens last week. With any luck, you'll be far from Smithland in no time.

Happy Travels.
- Crackity

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Excerpts from My Exclusive Interview with Michael Jackson

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With opening statements completed and testimony underway, the child molestation trial of Michael Jackson is headline news, making this the ideal time to share some excerpts from my exclusive interview with the embattled pop star.
[Interview conducted February 14, 2005]


Michael Jackson searches in vain for his last shred of dignity.

Crackity Jones: Good morning Mr. Jackson.
Michael Jackson: Who are you?

CJ: Uh, my name is [redacted]. On the internet I go by "Crackity Jones." We had arranged to meet this morning.
MJ: Oh, yes. On the internet.

CJ: That's right. I'm the one you met on the internet.
MJ: You said you were 12.

CJ: Er, well, no. I'm 28.
MJ: I like little boys.

CJ: Yes, interesting. That's sort of why I'm here.
MJ: Oh! Well then come on in.

[At this point, I am escorted into Mr. Jackson's kitchen, and provided with Cherry Kool-Aid on ice in one of those Smurfs glasses that you used to be able to get at Hardee's before lawyers complained about giving children free, paper-thin glassware. It was delicious.]

CJ: So, Mr. Jackson.
MJ: You're silly.

CJ: You are known throughout the world as the "King of Pop" --
MJ: Yes. That's short for "King of Popping Ten-Year-Old Pelvises."

CJ: That's disgusting.
MJ: You should see the pictures.

CJ: No thank you. Is it true that you have your own elephant?
MJ: Play with my balls.

CJ: No. Please put your pants back on.
MJ: Just a little.

CJ: You're making me very uncomfortable.
MJ: They won't bite.

CJ: Uh, yeah. Speaking of that, is it true that you own a Siberian Tiger?
MJ: Yeah. It's true. My tiger's name is my balls. Don't try to change the subject.

CJ: Okay. That's pretty fucked up. Speaking of which, what is up with your balls? They're shaped like Grammy Awards.
MJ: I've had some work done.

CJ: That's it. I'm so fucking out of here.

[More scintillating details to come as the trial continues.]

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I was not provided with enough space to adequately answer the question.

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I was updating my Blogger Profile today, and was quite disappointed to find that the space provided in which to answer the "Random Question" was woefully inadequate.

For those of you who are not familiar with this feature, Blogger.com allows webloggers to complete a personal profile by entering personal data and answering revealing questions. At the end of the profile form, Blogger asks the weblogger to answer a "Random Question" that it provides, at random.

The Random Question Blogger selected for me was: "Well, maybe they don't need them, but don't you think that some fish might like a bicycle?"

This is not a simple "Yes" or "No" question. There are many intricate details that must be taken into account in order to provide a suitable answer -- one capable of holding up against the rigorous examination typical of avid weblog readers. It is for this reason that I consider the 150 character limit on my answer applied by Blogger to be entirely unacceptable.

My full answer to the question is as follows:

No.

For starters, no fish species currently known to humankind has the requisite appendages to operate a bicycle. (See Diagram Below.) Indeed, it is difficult to imagine how a bicycle could even be modified for use by fish without eradicating any and all resemblance to a bicycle.


(Not to scale.)

Furthermore, swimming is far superior to bicycling as both a mode of underwater transportation and a source of cardiovascular exercise. In fact, researchers consistently identify swimming as one of the most efficient total-body workouts available. Thus, from a practical standpoint, there is no reason for a fish to prefer cycling to swimming.

I will allow that many of the optional features commonly available on bicycles and their ilk (i.e. horns, bells, headlights, turn signals, grocery baskets) may appeal to some of the more advanced species of aquatic life; however, these features have only a tangential relationship to, and are conceptually separable from, the bicycle itself.

In short, there is little reason for any logical fish to have any desire whatsoever to own a bicycle.

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