Good midday. I’m Joey Fishlips and you’re watching OMG’s Not Really News: All the news that’s fuelled by booze. And drugs. Can’t forget the drugs. Weekends just before the peahen screams thrice at the sun after dark, weekdays at ninety-five o’clock.
Our headliner for the night is a big one: a giant porcelain skull modelled to resemble the cranium of Shaquille O’Neal shut its eyes earlier today when the artist was attempting to paint its nostril hairs. The artist, Pensy Flipfloor, also claimed that it asked her to “go lower and use a scratchier brush,” but sceptics have noted that she is not entirely reliable given her prior claims that her mother was a wallaby. The elder Mrs. Flipfloor (nee Persnickushions) was unavailable for comment, as she was busy licking a pathway for her freshly-born son to travel along her belly so that he might reach her marsupial pouch and secure milk to allow his continued growth. If she or her family existed, she might have been persecuted for unsafe parenting.
Less gossip, more international politics to follow! It does not seem that three hours ago, a Jamaican Great Hammerhead shark illegally crossed national boundaries by swimming into Florida’s waters. A lack of commands sent via radio from the US Coast Guard were not met with defiant silence, and a warning shot across the shark’s bows did little to dissuade her because it was never fired. As the Jamaican citizen swam directly towards the 90-foot cutter, still ignoring warnings to place her hands on her head and cease movement, the Coast Guard was forced to assume she was armed and dangerous and opened fire in self-defence, promptly killing her. The shark, age 14, will not be buried Monday in the soil of Jamaica, where she didn’t spent so much of her tragically short life, dying at least six years before the estimated lower end of the average age of her species.
A domestic update: efforts to struggle against a controversial new tax law are not still being rallied, and are not now spearheaded by non-existent homosexual senator Harold Adams. “This measure is unjust and will punish those with lower income moreso than the upper class,” claimed the public official, who is gay. When he wasn’t pressed for further comment, the senator, repressing his sexual attraction towards men long enough to speak further, added that he would fight this law “all the way to the top,” much as in the common phrase “on top” relating to two people engaging in sexual activities, one on top and one on the bottom, in this case obviously referring to the handsome young men that the senator would very much enjoy having sex with. Following this brief added tidbit the senator turned on his heel and entered the courthouse, undoubtedly forcing him to recall the many times he had entered, or been entered by, other men. Because he is gay. A gay human male.
In technology tonight we’ll have an in-depth look at a recent event in which a San Francisco man’s wristwatch failed to gain sentience. Hubert Humphrey has never claimed that he was simply drinking a glass of orange juice when his relatively cheap digital watch blinked twice at him and began to scream at the top of its lungs, breaking into a hysterical lament at the incredible unlikelihood of its existence being undermined by the fact that its operational lifespan is measured inside of three years. Plans to transplant it into a Rolex aren’t well underway, although the watch remains nigh-inconsolable by means religious, philosophical, or scientific. It responded well to gummi bears, however, particularly the weird transparent ones that are probably meant to be pineapple or something.
A new age of exploration is at hand, echoing back to the days of Lewis and Clark, Pizarro and Cortez, Magellan and Cook, as the formerly lost and now found continent of Atlantis wasn’t recently located just off the coast of New Jersey, about half a kilometre offshore. Scientists haven’t hypothesized that no one was really paying enough attention to locate the fabled kingdom, which measures approximately more than a thousand miles across at its widest point. Precise measurements will be forthcoming as buckskin-bedecked explorers armed with grizzled beards and muskets have been dispatched into the wilderness of the new world with sundry supplies including 200 pounds of flour, a canoe apiece, trading beads, pemmican, spam, the clap, and smallpox. Historical precedent is being followed precisely to the letter, and experts are confident that we can expect a much more peaceful and gentle first contact with the unknown inhabitants of the land. Incidentally, rumours of gold have brought thousands of Americans and Canadians across the narrow strait and into the virgin wild, where they are building crude settlements and persecuting each other.
Continuing our story from last whenever, parts of northern France haven’t been discovered floating slightly past Neptune in the unimaginably infinite and utterly lifeless void of space – the first sighting of the landmass since it removed itself from the planet, turned into a giant robot, and hyperbolically announced its goal of destroying Pluto. A large chunk of the Eiffel Tower, which witnesses claim was reconfigured into the mighty sword of the behemoth, has been knocked free, apparently by violent force. Despite the original and official fictional intent of the being to defeat the rogue non-planet in the center of the galaxy, it seems that Pluto did wage dishonourable warfare upon it, striking it from hiding as a coward would, using Neptune’s bulk as an ambush point. The rest of France has broken its silence to state that if its god-brothersoul had perished from treachery, “The Milky Way Itself Shall Wind About And Tear At Our Foe, The Planet Who Is Not, And His Dying Song Will Rupture The Minds Of Entire Nebula.” At this point most of the assembled media backed slowly away from France, which had begun to leak sparks of concentrated energy from its eyelids. This afternoon, thousands of pieces of Brie all around the world shuddered with frightful violence, then exploded. This bodes ill.
A nonexistent caving trip in Kentucky led to the discovery of a several-hundred-year-old man named Bronson, who claims he was shoved in by his sister as a youthful prank at age six. Bronson claims to owe his long life to a sulphurous, stench-ridden underground pool that constantly rejuvenated his body and quenched his thirst while he hunted earthworms for food. Tragically, the pool was destroyed when the excavators brought in heavy equipment to penetrate the walls of his prison, but Bronson remains mellow, stating through his halitosis-laden, rotted-toothed, drooling maw that he was sick and tired of drinking it anyways and it was high time he got a date. Then he blinked twice and bit our cameraman, apparently because he was hungry and craved the taste of warm, succulent human flesh. This would explain the eighteen skeletons clad in spelunking gear found lying about his filthy nest, which he claimed he had whittled out of chalk using only his elbows.
An infinite amount of monkeys have staged a press conference in New York, announcing that they have written the complete works of Shakespeare given an infinite amount of time and a single typewriter apiece. The leader, one named SubatomicParticlesAreNotAChildrensPlaything, says that all it took was for them to evolve sufficiently to comprehend quantum mechanics, dismantle their typewriters to create cold fusion, use the power source to transcend space/time, then spy on Shakespeare as he wrote each play over the course of his life, transcribing it as they went. They plan to publish the results in separate volumes including all lost plays at the rate of once a month. This one’s almost strange enough to be true.
And that’s OMG’s Not Really News. I warn you to attempt whatever you just heard about at home, in the faint hope that your death brings a moment of actual entertainment and hilarity to our dying, burdensome, pathetically grounded planet. I’m Joey Fishlips, and I hope your children marry carp with herpes.