Tuesday, November 7, 2017

Town opens nation's first full-kill animal shelter

[Tooele, UT]  Citing overcrowding and a persistent lack of cute or cuddly animals, the city of Tooele, Utah, recently opened "FKUT", the nation's first Full Kill Animal Shelter.

"Yep, we just kill them all," stated Roy Bindhauf, the shelter's general manager.

When pressed, Bindhauf reassured our reporter that they "wait a couple hours to see if their owner shows up."

Tooele opted to build the state-of-the-art facility to respond to the growing need to deal with  unattended stray dogs, feral cats, household pets no longer wanted by area residents, and the existence of Pomeranians.  In addition to those animals brought in by city officials, the shelter features a check-in hatch through which animals may be dropped so that they slide down a chute leading to an oversized dumpster. Those wanting extra attention afforded their rejected feline or canine companions may opt to open the front door and dispose of their animals more humanely: by paying for them to be walked down the "farm path to heaven" (a hallway painted to look like a pastoral midwestern scene, ending in a trap door disguised as a pile of food, landing them in the same dumpster).  Finally, for those with particularly deep wallets, the staff at FKUT will temporarily place the unwanted animal in a holding pen with soft mood lighting and "Ave Maria" gently playing in the background.  After 4 hours, the animal is dumpstered if nobody elects to pay the additional "daylighting" fee.

"Business has been great," boasted Bindhauf, "When we first opened, we were probably only processing a handful of pets an hour, but a few months ago we had to get a second dumpster, and just last week we expanded our hours to include those patrons wanting to drop off their animals after bar time."  Added Bindhauf, "And we're saving a fortune on dog and kitty chow."

Perhaps surprisingly, the response from other area shelters has been supportive.  In fact, the FKUT staff recently teamed up with employees of Utah's no-kill animal shelter (NKUT) for a charity softball game fundraising event, from which 100% of the proceeds were donated to the Pure-breed Retriever Puppy Rescue Association (PRPRA), a group dedicated to finding good homes for  unwanted adorable, cuddly little brown pups with big floppy ears and oversized paws.

"No, no, no, we don't take retriever puppies," clarified Bindhauf.  "Or malamutes.  Just other breeds.  And mutts.  Yup, old dogs and young dogs.  And middle age dogs.  Oh, and cats.  Any cat is fine."


At a recent press conference, the mayor of Tooele was asked to comment on allegations of inhumane treatment of animals at the FKUT shelter, to which he responded, "Seriously, have you seen the kind of dogs people have around here?  Disgusting, ratty, foul creatures.  They're like four-legged meth addicts.  I'd rather have a wet rat."  When asked about cats, the mayor replied that his [inappropriate language omitted] ex-wife had three cats and that she was a [inappropriate language omitted] and could go [inappropriate language omitted] a horse.

The surge in revenue has recently allowed FKUT to install some feature upgrades, such as a drive-up window, a live feed on Facebook, Uber-pickup-service, and a "Petting Room" where local schoolchildren may pet the shelter's most prestigious animals for several minutes before the unwanted cats and dogs are drugged and placed on conveyor belts towards the neighboring Oscar Meyer processing plant.

Tuesday, October 31, 2017

Man gets tattoo of clock on face, spends rest of day using own tongue as minute hand

[Jacksonville, FL]  Area resident Jake "Red Bull" Harrison impressed both friends and colleagues today when he returned from the T-Spot Tattoo Parlor with a picture of a clock imprinted onto his face.  Though he appeared to find it difficult to talk, those around him marveled at his ability to encircle his face with his tongue like a perfect little pink minute hand.

By several hours later, a small bemused crowd of onlookers had gathered to watch the marvelous revolutions of Harrison's tongue, around and around his face.  They cheered him on and goaded him into ever more amazing stunts, including mimicry of a skipping second hand, buzzing as his tongue passed the tattooed "8" near his jawbone as imitation of an alarm clock, and using his tonsils as a cuckoo bird.

He even attempted to simultaneously rotate his tongue around his face-clock while juggling hatchets and singing the Beatles' classic "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds", though the effect was, perhaps, a bit less awe-inspiring than Harrison had hoped... "Bluestein sky talking to Louise and able to come shoot little island Lucian sky is that what you want and need and can you leave that Dolla..." rambled Harrison before being accidentally struck on the cheek by one of the spinning hatchets, causing blood to stream from two o'clock to five-thirty.

Thursday, September 7, 2017

God frustrated he made humans too dumb to recognize apocalypse

[Heaven] - God became visibly agitated today when it became apparent that what he had thought were his finest creation (humans) were, yet again, unable to recognize the glaring signs that their days on Earth were numbered.

"Are you kidding?" bemoaned the aggravated deity upon observing that the humans were spectacularly numb to such menacing catastrophic forces as global drought and record heat, monster hurricanes and floods, cataclysmic fires and smoke-filled skies that blot out the sun, giant earthquakes and tsunamis that drown entire cities, mass extinctions and the acidification of the oceans, ice sheets the size of countries breaking off, massive sinkholes opening and swallowing whole neighborhoods, volcanic mayhem, and an onslaught of tornadoes, mudslides, wasps, algae, disease, tea party republicans, avalanches, blizzards, giant solar flares, and Guy Fieri. 

Shaking his head in clear frustration, God wondered aloud "how damn obvious I have to make it that the end is near?" 

"50 inches of rain in a single storm.  A hurricane unlike anything those idiots have ever seen careening towards them.  Blasting heat unlike anything recorded for thousands of years.  The Bravo Network.  Trump.  How much will it take before these moronic fools get it that they are doomed?"

When asked for a reaction to God's apparent disappointment in his creation, Houston-area resident Barb Woodbridge asked for a spare smoke.  Interviewees in other locations expressed a range of reactions, all illustrating a seeming desensitivity to the dangers--as well as normal stimulii--around them, staring downward at their phones, bumping into each other and various immobile objects, only occasionally looking up in order to check the barista's cleavage when ordering a pumpkin spice latte.  For example, when pressed about the impending doom, Sioux Falls resident Dave Gampson suggested that our Leeks and Scallions reporter "suck giz".  Another interviewee in Winnemucca, Nevada, could only mumble.  Numerous interviewees in Oklahoma were unable to reply as they were preoccupied with chasing mega-tornadoes for their YouTube followers.  And the only reply we could get from anyone in Miami was some jibberish about epic waves before communications were lost due to Hurricane Irma.

Friday, August 18, 2017

Bannon to lead task force on unemployment

BREAKING NEWS: Breitbart.com has reported that special advisor to President Trump, Steve Bannon, has been selected to lead a task force on unemployment.  An anonymous source indicated to Breitbart that Mr. Bannon was honored with the assignment early this morning, and that he is "delighted to serve the 45th president in this capacity".  According to the source, the term for the task force is indefinite.

Mr. Bannon joins several previous high profile White House staff to be honored with special non-WH duties, such as Reince Priebus, Mike Flynn, and many others who have joined similar task forces on topics including: beach combing and seashell collection, popsicles, and Alt 1040 Forms.

Sources also report that Spicey and Mooch (Sean Spicer and Anthony Scaramucci) met Mr. Bannon on his way out of the White House with celebratory drinks, skin care products, a record deal, and automatic entry into the Danielle Steele Book Club.

Friday, August 11, 2017

The Firemen of Coeur D'Alene

[with insincere apologies to Dr. Seuss...]

Now, the Coeur D'Alene Hot Shots had trucks that were green.
The municipal fire crew had no colors for seein'. 
Those trucks weren’t so green. They were really so faint.
You might think such a thing wouldn't be sad to an ain't.

But, because of those trucks, all the Hot Shot firefighters
Would brag, “We’re the best kind of anti-igniters."
With their snoots in the air, they would sniff and they’d snort
“We’ll have nothing to do with the municipal sort!”

And whenever they met some, when extinguishing fires,
They’d spray water on them without distinguishing thars. 
When Hot Shots dug trenches with mighty pulaskies,
A municipal'd get scorned for even just asking.
You only could dig if your truck's sides were green
And municipal trucks were plain, as we've already seen.

When the Hot Shots hosted magnificent pancake affairs
Or picnics or parties or "pin-the-tail-on-the-hare"s,
They never invited the municipal crew.
They left them out cold, not knowing what to do.
They kept them away. Never let them come near.
And that’s how they treated them year after year.

Then ONE day, it seems…while the municipal brand
Were twiddling their thumbs in the dusty dry sand,
Just sitting there wishing their trucks were adorned…
A stranger zipped up with a vanload of porn!

“My friends,” he announced in a voice clear and loud,
“My name is Sylvester McDonglebe Proud.
And I’ve heard of your troubles. I’ve heard you’re unhappy.
But I can fix that. Come and sit in my lappie!
I’ve come here to help you. I have more than you need.
And my prices are low. I even have weed.
And satisfaction is one hundred per cent guaranteed!"

Then, quickly Sylvester McDonglebe Proud
Proud as he was to be so well-endowed
Invited them into his van for some views
As they clamored inside he related the news
“You want trucks that are green?  You want mad respect?
Of Hot Shots you are jealous, do I rightly detect?
Just pay me your money and hop right on in!”
So they clambered inside. It smelled nasty within.
And it klonked. And it bonked. And it jerked. And it berked
And music was cheesy. But the thing really worked!
When the municipal fireman emerged, what a scene!
Their plain truck was colored a magnificent green!
Then they yelled at the Hot Shots with green trucks all along,
“He helped us be equals, this man with his dong!
We all drive the same, now, you who had left us!
And now we can go to your "Pancakes-for-Breakfast"s.”

“Good grief!” groaned the Hot Shots whose trucks were old-green.
“We’re still the best firemen, and they are the lean.
"But, now, when putting out blazes and sparks,
How will we detect where our trucks have been parked?"

Then came McDonglebe Proud with his drink.
And he said, “Things are not quite as bad as you think.
So you don’t know which truck is the best for a fire.
But your troubles aren't frightful or desperately dire.
Come into my van, and delight in my crass
My schlong is so long it can fit in my ass.
And for only a few dollars each
I'll fix up your firetrucks in wonderful peach."

And McDonglebe's van did exactly that thing
When they came out their trucks were no longer green.
Then, with hoses astride, they paraded about
And they turned on the water and they let out a shout,
“We know who is who! You municipal posers!
The best kind of firetrucks have peach-colored hosers!”

Then, of course, those municipal boys were concerned.
But they remembered the things they had learned
And slithered into Sylvester's van once again
And paid for a peach truck, and hit from his pen.

Then, suddenly, as you have probably guessed,
There was an alarm, some hot dames in distress.
And not from McDonglebe's screen came the sound
The worry was real, time for boots on the ground.
When Hot Shots and municipals heard the report,
To Sylvester McDonglebe they did retort,
"Drive away now, McDongle, head on back to Miami
Where fireman wear only a hat and a strappie.
We have fires to put out, it don't matter which color
Is their truck or ours, or one or another.
We've learned that you're wrong, and not just cause you're gross,
We're fire brothers, you see. You see we've become close.
Whether Hot Shots or municipal crews all along
Whether tiny or blessed with a gigantic dong,
We must save some ladies, their dorm rooms are smoking!"
And he left then- he knew those firemen were not joking.

And till this very day, up in those northerly parts
Those Coeur D'Alene firemen drive firetrucks like art.
With rainbows and unicorns painted a-side
Behind green and peach colors they no longer hide.
If you look very closely you might even see
From one of those damsels, a tiny baby.
And if wondering about what to get for that brat,
Whither Hot Shot or plain jane, get a red fireman's hat.
'Cause either way they will be happy with that!



[Editors' note: This article bears no similarity whatsoever to the Dr. Seuss story "The Sneetches".  It's all in your head.]

Friday, April 7, 2017

Barking puppy provokes bizarre SAT-vocabulary-speaking second personality in area man

Juvenile canine's protestations invoke apoplexy.  Fucking puppy won't shut up!  Henceforth, aspire to temper his listlessness with affirmation.  Goddam it, I'm petting you! I'm petting you!  What atrocity bedevils his placation?  Why don't you shut the fuck up already?  Midnight's stroke is twice forgotten.  It's two AM!  Its cacophonous complaints shun quiescent slumber.  Goddam it, I can't sleep..  Petulance or quixotic naivety?  Are you trying to piss me off or are you fucking stupid??

...

At long last, sleep's impediment diffuses into a redolent zephyr.  Ahhh...  Feathers morph into night's concavity.  I love my pillow...  Provident illusions bombard imagination.  zzz... 

...

The churlish prattle of the boorish beast recommences.  Arrgghhh!!  Ephemeral languidness, mercurial meditation.  I can't fucking sleep!!  Impudent imp.  Piece of shit dog!!!

...

Amiable, convivial sycophant at dawn catalyzes maudlin tomfoolery.  Isn't he cute?  Come here, buddy!  Yes, yes.  Who's the guy?  Who's the guy?  Scratches!  Scratch that belly!  Scratch that belly!  Cute, little guy!!  Who's my buddy? 

...

Sisyphean parody resumes anew.  NO!  SHUT UP!!  SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!  I HATE YOU!!!!!



[Editor's note]: Credit to www.satvocabulary.us, without which the nebulous rapport between man and puppy described herein would otherwise be ineffable.