Happy crack o’ dawn to you. I’m Joey Fishlips, and this is OMG’s Not Really News: dredged up from the seabed in massive trawls that cause nigh-irreparable damage to precious corals, then sent right to your table in little bitty cans.
Today’s headliner is sports-related and political, the killer combination. An African dictator who shall remain anonymous challenged a sack of potatoes to a boxing match, which he then lost. Eyewitness reports from the several thousand forced onlookers, many of whom were being menaced by big shiny guns at the time, claim that the tyrant’s downfall was his inability to compensate for his dangerous habit of punching himself in the face when he wasn’t looking properly. “I sure am glad that we toil fruitlessly and die futilely without an ounce of joy under our Glorious Leader, Sir ******,” said our interviewee. “He’s so charmingly klutzy and clueless that you can’t help but chuckle whenever he orders another ethnic purge, the lovable little scamp.” Upon being informed of his loss, the despot attempted to have the government-appointed referee executed, but found to his dismay that it is extremely difficult to hang a bull elephant. We’ll follow up on his whacky, dictatorial attempts to make the official standardized rope of his country four-inch-thick titanium chain tomorrow.
The Vancouver Winter Olympics have ended, but they aren’t the last word in this year’s sports. The perennial Angriest Man in the Whole Wide World competition (located at its traditional site: Disneyworld) took place last week. The event consists of airdropping the contestants over the Epcot centre, equipped with parachutes and megaphones, which they are encouraged to use to engage each other in casual, harmless conversation. Up to 20% of the competitors are eliminated in the five minutes before reaching the ground, and the remainder of the event typically lasts about half an hour, give or take ten minutes depending on whether or not someone landed near a toolshed and was able to quickly acquire some sort of crowbar, sledgehammer, or otherwise blunt instrument. The winner this year was Franklin N. Trepan, who incapacitated his final opponent by squirting high-pressure blood from his eyes in a manner not unlike that of the horned toad, if it were fuelled by single-minded rage and hatred towards all that lives. Mr. Trepan was unavailable for comment, as we believe he may have eaten our camera or cameraman.
A heartwarming story of success: bit actor Harlan Spinner has, as of the completion of his last acting role, officially played over forty separate gratuitously offensive stereotypes. “Muchos gracias senor!” said Spinner, eyes comically rolling around like crazy on being presented with his large, ugly trophy. “Mamma mia, this shit’s a-heavy! Real gold-painted lead? For moi? C’est impossible, zut alors!” His acceptance speech, though dramatic and visually compelling, was somewhat indistinct, marred as it was by half of it being delivered in an ultra-thick gangsta rap, the other half in guttural vaguely Nordic screaming, and a small case of stuffiness due to his cold. All was set well again by the post-awards ceremonial lynching of Harlan; committed by nineteen different ethnic groups, the angry mob was a moving and uplifting gesture of joint effort and community.
Anger is not the only emotion of the day of course – its polar opposite is love. Which we’re very short on, so here’s a story about something else. An anonymous North American man realized last week over his morning Cheerios, with dawning comprehension accompanying each laborious spoonful, that he was in fact the most boring person he’d ever known. Confused, he sought verification, phoning up each and every one of his sluggardly slaggard friends, all of whom confirmed that he was the most boring person they’d ever known. They asked their friends, who agreed, and they asked their friends, and so on. This chain of events slowly wrapped itself about the globe over the past week, and apart from a four-hour period when there was thought to be a man in Chad that was substantially duller (disqualified when it was revealed he was a malnourished and taller-than-average chicken), no challengers emerged. The misfortunate champion of the apathetic and unrelatable was crowned “king of the dullards” yesterday at an Iowa yard sale, in a ceremony attended by half a flock of pigeons and one old man who wished to complain to someone. His first edict was to go home and nap.
An elderly woman and grandmother of eleven finally revealed her true, sinister colours in Chicago today, when she successfully tricked her entire family into forfeiting their souls to her during a Monopoly game in a crafty and complex gambit involving dark magic, several contradictory and fiendishly-worded agreements and pacts with horrifying nether-powers, and a palmed “Chance” card. Doreen McIntyre, 94, says that she just needed the souls as a starting point. “I’ll wager I can parlay a few of them into eternal youth, maybe some blasphemous sorcerous powers, and then just buy-and-sell my way up,” the thrifty diabolist said as she carefully stitched the wailing spirits of her kin into a sampler displaying some kitties. “The way I see it,” she continued, hexing charms of death and destruction to humankind into the edges, “if I take it slow and steady, I should be in the clear to be an archfiend by the next centennial sabbat. A soul saved is a soul earned.”
As we wrap up our news segment, we’d like to issue a correctional statement: one of our movie reviewers described an action film as “a rip-snorting” adventure. Clearly, as was pointed out in over eighty pounds of angry spam, he meant “rip-roaring.” Reviewer Eddie Jubbles has been suspended from service for eighty hours and had his larynx pawned. I believe I speak for all of us when I say this is great, except for maybe Eddie. But we’re not sure, since none of us here at OMG speak sign language except for the gorilla, and she’s on vacation.
Finally, a word of encouragement: the northern coast of the nation of France has finally returned from its duel with Pluto, eyes bloodshot, splendid quantum-singularity armour in tatters, and with a pronouncedly funny walk. When asked what had occurred between it and the renegade not-a-planet, France said “Oh fuck, I don’t want to talk about it. It’s just, just too much of a deal to go over right now, okay? Ask me later.” An anxious request to know if France had triumphed in its goal, the country paused in its exit long enough to shrug its shoulders and say “Yeah? Yeah, I guess so. It’s pretty good, sure.” France then departed for San Francisco, stating its intent to “get drunk and hook up with something.” This may be connected with the overnight absence of the Golden Gate Bridge, and its apparent hangover this morning.
None of this happened, but it’s very possible that, if you wished upon a star at the right time in the right place with the right person, it still never would’ve, ever. I’m Joey Fishlips, and if you’ll excuse me, I have to see a man about a carp right now.
(Copyright 2010, Jamie Proctor)