A woman living in a trailer was discovered dead, sleeping on a mattress with $150G used as stuffing. $350G more was found used as insulation in her walls. Gertrude “Izzy” Rosenstein had no living relatives, and hadn’t been on vacation in 20 years. She ate Ramen noodles, and feared banks, going out, and squirrels. According to cable company records, she watched the Food Network, The Kardashians, and The Travel Channel…although the bulk of her time was spent watching game shows, televangelists, and other reality TV shows. She left a Will written on a pizza box, leaving her “estate” to Victor Cashman, a preacher now living in Dubai after being acquitted of fraud in Florida. No other details are known at this time. Except that she was once married to an executive at Goldman Sachs.
In other McNews, Dubai police are employing robots who can’t shout “Stop or I’ll shoot!” because they have no mouths. They also have no guns, so they can’t shoot. Some people are trying to use them as teller machines, but they have no money either. And the author of the scifi story “I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream” (Harlan Ellison) is considering a lawsuit just for the fun of it.
Finally, is Mario Batali from Italy? Not the chef, but his spaghetti. According to the author of THE MIND SPAN DIET all flour products in America have added iron, which is a suspected cause of Alzheimers and Parkinsons. In Italy they do not “enrich” with iron, and have far less cases of these diseases (also they eat less meat.) So why is there added iron to Batali’s pasta products, listed as “Product of Italy”? Note that Alma’s have zero iron, listed as 100% Italian whole wheat. Of course health is not a subject likely to be touted on cooking shows and Iron Chef competitions. All that matters is taste. Expecting them to discuss health or PETA is like asking Mr. Wonderful on Shark Tank to discuss Pope Francis. “Crawl out of here like the cockroach you are.”
POP Quiz: Only one of the above paragraphs is real. Can you guess which?
Putin approved movie set for release in 2018…along with another plume of radioactive gas. And an ICBM exchange between North and South Korea. And a zombie virus. And a Superbowl for concussion victims only. And the People’s Choice Awards, live from Beijing. And the Olympics, dead from Japan. And the Trump Invitational Celebrity Golf Supermodel Championships from New Zealand. And the latest sessions of Congress on how to do anything other than to battle over scandals. And Scandal’s new season on pay per view.
And a contest to shoot six legged mutant deer with AR-15s and AK47s, winning carpetbagger to receive a contract to build a ReSport: a luxury, lead lined resort (to be pitched on Shark Tank) for zombie hunters, survivalist lecturers, and reality shows.
SATIRE: humor that uses exaggeration, wit, irony, and/or sarcasm to expose and discredit vice or folly. The World’s First Trillionaire: a recluse named Howard Rosen explains to the Rolling Stone how he became Super Duper Rich, with extended lifespan, a yacht that is also a sub (with nuclear torpedoes), and why his mansions and luxury cars don’t show up on Google Maps. (Also, why the NSA fears him, even when he walks or takes Cash Cab.) http://TowerReview.com/Trillionaire.html
When I graduated from college, I was a very confused nut. They told me that since I was educated in the Humanities now, I had the broad picture of life. The theory was that, amid all those practical, near-sighted automatons who’d opted to attend technical school, I alone possessed sufficient vision to define the true parameters of man’s social, moral, and ecological condition. And I can still recall vividly the commencement ceremonies when the dean waxed eloquent on the great challenges which faced us as we went out into the world with our parchments and our purple cardboard hats. It was the same night they found Eddie Fishbein, a credit-laden senior, curled up in his dorm closet with one thumb in his mouth and a sweat drenched security blanket wrapped tightly around his neck. Understandably even more distressed by the prospect of the competitive unknown, I soon became sullen, morose, and saddened to learn that my Alma Mater had betrayed me by not telling us about the injustice which allowed someone who could recite Shakespeare, Byron, and Yeats to lose out to some YUTZ who happened to know his way around certain bathroom plumbing fixtures. Here was I, able to grasp the really significant essentials of postmodern film, the art of Phyllis Diller, and the reign of Genghis Khan, reduced to trudging the city in search of beer cans, while investing my hard-earned assets in a diversified portfolio of lottery tickets and bingo cards. Would I make it? I wondered anxiously. Would I be forced to take up residence in a dumpster and start eating re-refried beans? Would the student loan officers from my Alma Mater attend my funeral and hold a pocket mirror to my nose? In the throes of my disillusionment, it all seemed highly probable. Luckily, that was when I got lost while searching for a restroom at the US Tennis Open. Evoking some bizarre set of circumstances, then, I was immediately mistaken for a tennis player due to my resemblance to an NBA cross-dresser. Evidently the man hadn’t shown and was presumed withdrawn. The official I addressed in the hallway as “Bud–hey Bud!” responded before I could complete my question by laughing and wringing my hand. The upshot is that he ushered me into this room where the pros were sitting around sipping grape Koolaids and discussing the cons of their investments. Now, not only did I have a job, but a few friends as well. I wouldn’t say it was sheer LUCK which enabled me to reach the second round. Even though my opponent made more unforced errors than McDonalds has commercials, I WAS pretty high on adrenaline. For instance, we were already three games into the match before I realized the warmups were over. And then some of my service returns had this knack for hitting the tape and rolling over on his side like a prophetic yo-yo too. Toward the end there’d be sparks spurting up all over the forecourt as he tried to scoop the dead balls back. The topper, though, was when I miss-hit match point into a lob which caught the back of the baseline and placed my luckless opponent within slapping radius of our resigning chair umpire. Back in the locker room afterward, I was accosted by several autograph seekers of the racket manufacturing ilk. They wanted to know why I’d changed playing hands in mid-career, and if this meant I’d be changing rackets too. Muttering something under my breath about a new go-for-broke strategy, I managed to con several commentators into spouting one-liners about my revolutionary style eventually “doing to Laver what McEnroe’s serve-and-volley later did to Borg.” This was particularly satisfying in that before then I wouldn’t have been able to get a passing shot past a ball machine. Here was poetic justice at last, I reasoned. Too bad the outcome of my second round established the record as being the only love match in history when I was ousted by the 98th seed–a defrocked ex-priest who nonetheless kneeled in supplication before serving four consecutive aces. I think it was at the 6–0, 5–0 point that I also began to suspect that my opponent had the psychological edge, much like Freud had over Skinner. When the linesmen and ballgirls began heckling me, I was sure of it. Regretfully, there’d been little time for me to brush up on the paperback I’d found in my locker room, INTERMEDIATE TENNIS: RELIEF FOR THE FRUSTRATED BEGINNER. Now I’d either have to fill out an application as night shift relief at the nearest Di-Quickie Mart, or try entering the Papua New Guinea Open, hoping I’d get into the finals because no one else knew how to get there. Since I had no money for plane fare, I decided on the former. It wasn’t long before I began to realize that although being a jack-of-all-trades has its perks (one can always brag about being a ‘master-of-none’), I was somehow missing out on obtaining fulfilling employment and its subsequent burnout, and that if only I’d majored in Banking or Computers, I wouldn’t be sitting around evenings contemplating the BIG QUESTIONS with Pan Pizza on my breath, but I’d be talking private condos in Big Sur, and maybe going on monthly junkets to the Cayman Islands to launder my petty cash. To make this protracted story shorter, I eventually began attending spy school, and before long I was feeling much better about my future. That is, until several dishwashers told me about another course at the school titled Poetic Devices And Their Application In Government And Industry. The course instructor was Dr. Percy Snodgrass, former curriculum director at my Alma Mater.