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Wednesday, November 25th, 2009
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9:46 pm - 2009 Sexiest Woman Alive: Ashley George!
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People Magazine has its "Sexiest Man Alive" that they award annually. As counter-programming, the National Journal of Truth created the "Sexiest Woman Alive" Award. Our voting is usually very furious and close, but this year was the closest vote ever. Guitarist Orianthi was expected to run away with the award, but was eclipsed late by Ashley George by one mere vote. Some of you may be wondering who she is, but Ashley impressed the Journal staff greatly once we discovered her. In a huge upset, Ashley George is the winner of our 2009 Sexiest Woman Alive Award.
In the next few days, we hope to procure an interview with this year's winner. This will be the cover story to next month's Year-End Spectacular that is our second biggest issue of the year. Only the February Anniversary issue is more widely distributed and read.
In another interesting note, Ashley becomes the first transgendered winner of the award. We here at the Journal would like to congratulate her on the victory.
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| Sunday, November 22nd, 2009
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10:15 pm - FRANK JESPIN AS MICHAEL JACKSON ALBUM COVER FOUND!!!
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When Sony released a Michael Jackson compilation hits package a few years ago, they debated whether or not to reveal the secret surrounding "The King of Pop." They went so far as to create a prototype cover featuring Frank Jespin. Jespin replaced Jackson after he passed away in 1984. We here at the Journal have uncovered this prototype and are sharing it with you.
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9:38 pm - NIAGARA FALLS WAS MAN-MADE BRAINCHILD OF JOHN ADAMS!!!
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by John Agar
Movie studios flocked to secure the rights to Frank Jespin's final concert rehearsals for some piece of garbage called "This is It." I saw this nonsense. It clearly was not it. There will be another and another, as these leeches wait for cryogenics labs to gain the technology to reincarnate people. This is a technology that this fine, pristine publication already possesses. As people are blinded by tomfoolery like this and health care that does not actually care for anything, another story has been swept under the rug like those used condoms I had to hide from my third wife after a weekend of dirty sex with my maid back in 1995. Millions of Japanese tourists and other misanthropes flock to the wonder of Niagara Falls on an annual basis. You do not believe me? Go there sometime, the place is crawling with Japanese tourists. What you pea-brained, moronic peasants do not seem capable of understanding is the basic fact that Niagara Falls was as man-made as the Hoover Dam or Obama bin Laden's phony personality. As usual, I have to do all of the work for you, so I sought out the truth to satisfy my hunger for knowledge. First, however, I ate a Snickers bar because I want to kick field goals like Adam Nougatieri.
I live within a hop, skip, and a jump of this evil, decrepit waterfall, so I did not need to pack for this upcoming trip. After a swift encounter of sweaty intercourse with my brazen assistant Melissa, I left my modest studio apartment with the kind of thunderous fury that homeless drunks have when they pound down another bottle of Thunderbird wine that they purchased at Outlet Liquor. I entered my immense car port and selected my 1966 Checker Marathon A12 for this mission. I drove off with a festinate fervor, the kind that educators have when it is time to send a bratty child to the in-school suspension room. I arrived in Niagara Falls quicker than you can sing any of Frank Jespin's hits off of the "Bad" album. Unfortunately, there was little to see, as the city is more run-down than a crack house inside your stereotypical inner city. The pungent smell emanating from this place was as overpowering as the smell between Melissa's legs when she has not bathed properly in a couple of days. I thought about pulling out the World War I-era gas mask that I purchased at a local antique mall, but decided to just grin and bear it.
As I walked along some random boardwalk, a group of zombie-like people were staring blank-faced at a man speaking at a lectern. The man was none other than the clinically insane Lyndon LaRouche, who gabbed for an estimated four hours on a variety of topics. He bounced around the staging area with the type of vigor of a much younger man, showing off that he could apparently still take a lick or two. I say that the speech lasted an estimated four hours because I did not have any time for such tomfoolery and needed to get down to my dirty deeds done dirt cheap for this glorious publication. I reached an area where there were many Japanese tourists. I did not have time to meet all of them, so I will refer to them all as Hideki Matsui. I asked Hideki #1 what he thought of Niagara Falls, and he said that there was clearly something wrong. I knew that this was a very intelligent individual, which made me very sad that the nation of Japan vanished from thin air several years ago. I grabbed him and his brother for my mission: we will call him Hideki #2.
I had a very special mission for Hideki #2. I bought a barrel at the local saloon, ordered a sarsaparilla, and decided that I would prove what a joke Niagara Falls truly is. I threw Hideki #2 into the barrel and tossed him over the Falls. Hideki #1 cursed me out while I cackled like a banshee, but there was the usual method to my madness. All of a sudden, the Falls shut off and the barrel harmlessly crashed into the water as if nothing was going on. How could the Falls shut off so suddenly? This was as mysterious as the time someone ate my banana bread. Even more mysterious was the disappearance of the person who ate that banana bread soon after I figured out who it was. Someone had shut the falls off, and I demanded to know some answers. Hideki #1 and I retrieved Hideki #2 from the water and dried him off in a random Hannah Montana beach towel that I found in Melissa's closet once. I needed to know where the machine was that controlled the Falls, and luckily legendary Canadian rock star Aldo Nova was nearby to point this out to me.
Aldo, the two Hidekis, and myself charged into a nearby building like the Four Horsemen. I overwhelmed the guy in the control room by unleashing the most unpleasant, juiciest fart ever released by a gaseous man in the history of the world. We all began urinating uncontrollably on the controls, shorting them out and causing various electrical explosions. We cackled like young schoolgirls as we made our escape from the building. Aldo and the two Japanese men ran off in a normal fashion. Meanwhile, I swing from tree-to-tree like Tarzan using my ample manhood instead of rope. I bid them farewell as Niagara Falls stopped pumping out water. Most of the electricity to the local region went off as well. I knew I had done the right thing. However, this was merely step one in uncovering this web of deceit perpetrated by the scam artists of the Hidden Agenda.
Now I needed to know which conniving historical figure was the brains behind this Satanic operation. I knew that this was likely to be a President, since they are the most evil. I opened up my "Concise Illustrated History of United States Presidents" that was released by Alexis Symone a couple of years ago and looked to see who could be the perpetrator behind this. I was transfixed on page 2, and knew immediately that it was John Adams. With a hop, skip, and a jump, I was off to Quincy, Massachusetts, the hometown of the evil man once written about by the equally terrible historian David McCullough. He also wrote a book about the noted Fascist bastard Harry Truman. I immediately took a massive dump in the town's drinking supply the first moment I showed up. It was my way of punishing this community for producing such rubbish of a man.
I stormed into a records warehouse keeping all of the Adams' stuff. I used my Jean-Claude Van Damme karate ability to pound the local clerk in a style reminiscent of the Kumite in the film "Bloodsport." His wife came out of an adjacent room, but I quickly won her over with my immense phallus. As she went to work on it, I gathered evidence proving that John Adams commissioned the building of Niagara Falls in 1799. It was as plain as three eyes could see. As I ejaculated quite a bit of Cream of Wheat on the woman's face, I put away this evidence to give to Fred Langley once I returned to Journal headquarters. I knew he would appreciate it as much as I appreciated the work of the clerk's wife. On the way out, she gave me her phone number and revealed that she was a descendent of John Adams. So this family was not only evil, but it was loose. That was it once and for all. I dragged her and her husband's unconscious body out of the building and lit the place on fire. Good riddance to John Adams. Good riddance to Niagara Falls. Another happy victory of the Journal.
For the Journal, I am John Agar.
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| Thursday, November 19th, 2009
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9:41 pm - THE SPECIAL OLYMPICS ARE RIGGED!!!
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by Fred Langley
The Special Olympics. A yearly event to celebrate the athletic achievements of those resembling Corky from "Life Goes On." A great time to be had by all. What if I told you that these "games" are more pre-determined than professional wrestling? You would probably call me evil and demand my firing from this publication. Well I am here to tell you that these "games" are truly a fraud.
Not that long ago, the pathetic basic cable television program "South Park" ran an episode where one handicapped child took steroids in order to achieve his championship dream. This show was painfully unfunny but almost hit on the true point. The winners of events are frauds, as they are not handicapped at all. This is absolutely disgusting and I hope you feel the same way. The Special Olympics are nothing more than a scam to reward non-handicapped people who could never win at any sporting event in a normal setting.
As I prepared for this expose, I was contacted by lazy and adulterous Journal staff member Raven Brisk, revealing that she had once been part of the sham. When she was an acne-infested teenager, she ran track...poorly. A Special Olympics organizer approached her with a pamphlet saying, "I think you need to see this." The pamphlet included bizarre Communist statements and also talked about a chance at winning the Special Olympics Gold Medal.
Raven told me that all she had to do was pretend to be mentally handicapped. I thought to myself that this would not be very hard. She easily won the Gold and the organizers gave her the medal and a lifetime supply of tapioca pudding for being a part of this scam.
The big question is, why? Why is this scam done? What is the point? Apparently exploiting the disabled is big business, as the organizers pocket NFL-type salaries for their fraud. This makes me sicker then the smell of a man who has not showered in five years. Call me a sicko for revealing this fraud, but I only report the truth. This is not the New York Times or CBS.
Originally Published February, 2005
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| Sunday, November 8th, 2009
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7:21 pm - THE JOURNAL SQUAWK BOX!!!
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The following is a list of stories the Journal is working on worldwide
-High Chief Dictator Balack Obama bin Laden forces police officers to pull people over on bogus charges in order to get money for multi-Quadrillion Lira health care bill
-H1N1 virus linked back to the aforementioned High Chief Dictator and a laboratory he owns in Topeka, Kansas. H1N1 vaccine consists of nothing more than tomato soup and iodine.
-Research indicates that Peyton Manning is a werewolf.
-Upon further investigation, tennis legend Andre Agassi used pixie stix, not meth.
-XCT-14Z indeed cures baldness!
-Philadelphia Phillies declared World Series Champions after discovery of old World War II era law banning Japanese players from Major League Baseball.
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| Tuesday, October 20th, 2009
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10:33 pm - Exclusive New Michael Jackson / Frank Jespin Information Leaks!
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by Charles J. Willington
With Sony and AEG setting the stage with the "This is It" movie premier next week, the Journal has learned a startling piece of information, that being that the studios wished to come clean about the whole Frank Jespin / Michael Jackson charade and actually title the Michael Jackson Number Ones CD as Frank Jespin Number Ones and offer a detailed booklet describing to fans the whole Frank Jespin story. The Journal has in its posession the actual cover of this album as it intended to appear, purchased by our reporter Fred Langley from a memorabilia auction. This rare artifact will be displayed in Fred's office upon his return, and scans will be posted to once and for all prove that Michael Jackson was replaced by Frank Jespin following Jackson's death in 1984. Faced with the mounting evidence we at the Journal wonder how long the studios and involved parties will hold out before admitting to the Frank Jespin switch. The Journal will continue to post developments on this story on an as needed basis.
Sincerely,
Charles J. Willington
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| Thursday, October 15th, 2009
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4:50 pm - THE JOURNAL SQUAWK BOX!!!
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The following is a list of stories the Journal is working on worldwide
-New studies show that pigs can indeed fly. The old saying has now been changed to "When rhinos can fly."
-People in an uproar after new finding shows that yarn is actually made of bat droppings.
-Jerry Seinfeld laughs, admits his show was not funny, and smokes a big cigar.
-ABC television network sued by "Sesame Street" for defaming ABCs.
-Baseball Hall of Famer Nolan Ryan reveals that his name is actually Ryan Nolan. All references to him to be changed.
-Newly unearthed historical documents show that Johnny Appleseed actually planted potatoes.
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4:46 pm - ELDERLY WOMEN INJURED IN ELECTION DAY BRAWL!!!
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by George Schmidt
Election Day is usually the most democratic day of the year, as people all across the United States head to their polling places to either elect new leaders or re-elect old ones. It is usually day full to the brim with tension as both candidates and their followers anxiously await to see if they are victorious. For 2 elderly women in Vermont, Election Day has been given a brand new meaning. In a scene straight out of the best-selling and award-winning DVD "Ghetto Brawls," the two women, divided by party lines, got into a puglistic conflict that would make even the American Gladiators proud.
The 2 women, ages 87 and 84 would only be identitfied as Agnes and Mertyl. Mertyl clearly won the fight, but both women wound up injured. I asked a bum in the street who was quite proficient in ghetto brawls as to which woman clearly won, and he agreed with most onlookers that Mertyl had won. He said that Mertyl had shown a clear passion to inflict the most damage on her opponent and even referred to her as "Mertyl the Girdle" in giving her a fight nickname.
The fight, which started coincidentally enough when the two women were arguing over which candidate was best for Town Sewage and Trash Supervisor began to trade fists rather than words. The brawl quickly erupted all over the fire hall in which the polling place was located, forcing many to either watch the fight or attempt to break it up. All attempts to break it up however were thwarted when the two ladies began to swing their loaded purses all over the place, chasing people away.
As the ladies traded blows, the fight became increasingly violent, as Mertyl pulled a rolling pin out of her rather large purse and began bludgeoning Agnes over the head with it. Agnes was clearly stunned and obviously had not taken part in a ghetto brawl before. The police were called, but thanks to a robbery at the local Dunkin Donuts, were not able to get there very quickly. The brawl continued on for 10 bloody, fantastic minutes.
Anges attemped to bite her way back into contention in the fight, but her attempts were not successful, as Mertyl and her effective rolling pin wielding skills were too much for Agnes to overcome. The fight finally ended when Agnes' dentures came out in a bloody heap, and Mertyl decided that it was time to back off and declare herself the winner. Police finally came onto the scene, their uniforms sprinkled with powder from donuts as they stopped the heinous robbery.
As for the outcome of the actual election, it turns out that Agnes' selection won by default when the opposing candidate turned out to have died 3 weeks earlier. No one cared enough about this election apparently to even have noticed this.
As for the ghetto brawl itself, Mertyl "the Girdle" will apparently be joining the Elderly Fighting Championships with her wicked rolling pin and reverse chokehold abilities. Watch for her on your local Fox Sports Net affiliate.
Originally Published November, 2003
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| Friday, September 25th, 2009
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9:53 pm - SHOCKING VIDEO GAME IMAGE LEAKED!!!
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The fine folks at Sega knew better back when this game was released. They knew that Michael Jackson had died in 1984. They knew that he had been replaced by white lookalike Frank Jespin. Check out this video game cover for a classic game that they were releasing. Unfortunately, the evil Pepsi Cola Company blocked any releases with this level of truth:
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| Saturday, September 19th, 2009
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6:18 pm - TORONTO MAPLE LEAFS ARRESTED FOR ATTEMPTING TO HIJACK A PLANE!!!
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by George Schmidt
Those of us that follow sports like the one that the experts claim is baseball know that athletes tend to do some very stupid and very evil things. From Sam Jeter snuffing out his twin brother Derek only to have him resurrected to basketball players fathering dozens of children with countless women whose names they never bothered to get, we have seen some stupidity of epic proportions. An incident last Saturday night, however, was more disturbing than the time I found out my local butcher was using human body parts in those delicious pork chops he was serving up. I believe Leafs' captain Mats Sundin may be a cannibal as well, and his actions are certainly indicitive of this. The Leafs decided that they were cooler than school and attempted to hijack a plane after their yawner of a battle with Montreal, another pitiful team that needs to be folded or be moved to the United States.
Luckily, this was the Soul Plane and Snoop Dogg was behind the controls. He put down his blunt and took no lip from Tomas Kaberle, who was holding a Glock handgun with his shooting hand. Kaberle did not even know who the shizzle of fo rizzle or whatever the hell it's called was so he cocked back and fired away, catching Snoop in the leg because just like in hockey, Mr. Kaberle is a lousy shot. Snoop writhed on the ground in an epic form of agony, not unlike that security company located in the hinterlands of Oshawa, Ontario, Canada. Much like the denizens of that 23rd World wasteland, the Leafs represented themselves well, jumping up and down on the plane, flinging nachos at the attendants like a group of animals just escaped from the San Diego Zoo. Like the hyenas laughing and screaming in there, the Leafs were partying like it was 1967, since that was the last time that pack of losers actually won anything that would earn them the shiny metallic bowl that looks like it was sculpted out of cheap silver purchased at a local farmers' market.
A wounded Snoop and the very hip attendants attempted to regain control of the plane, and did so by opening the fire extinguishers everywhere, creating a blinding, messy scene reminscent of a Three Stooges sketch. In his finest impression of Moe Howard that I have seen since Rowdy Roddy Piper poked Mr. T in the eyes at Wrestlemania 2, Snoop began poking everyone in the eyes, saving his biggest one for Leafs goalie Andrew Raycroft, who he apparently had an argument with at Britney Spears' New York restaurant last year. I was shocked that Snoop was sober enough to remember that or even know who Andrew Raycroft was. The police quickly moved toward the plane, which had not even taken off yet from the airport, a chink in the plan's armor. Knowing hockey players, however, it is not a surprise that the plan was as stupid as inviting Ashlee Simpson to a talent party.
As the police did a jig ala Ashlee on "Saturday Night Live" onto the plane, they quickly handcuffed all of the Leafs and gave them the customary fifteen-minute beatdown that the police usually reserve for those with African-American origins. Mats Sundin suffered an elbow injury on the plane, after an officer lended his adjustable baton to Snoop to beat him with. Snoop was then arrested as well for having an adjustable baton on a plane. My homey just never catches a break at airports, his third arrest at one in less than six months. Raycroft cried that his groin had been strained, but the officers just laughed and tossed donuts all around the plane in celebration. They then ate them even though they had been soaking in the blood-covered ground. I was so sickened when I heard this, that I threw up all over my outfit I was wearing, suspenders included. I had to quickly change my clothes to file this report for you.
George Schmidt out.
Originally Published November, 2006
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| Friday, September 4th, 2009
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11:54 am - THE JOURNAL SQUAWK BOX!!!
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The following is a list of stories the Journal is working on worldwide
-Jaycee Dugard is the true mastermind behind the 9/11 attacks
-Speaking of which, 9/11 actually happened on 9/12
-Michael Crichton's "Jurassic Park" was actually "Triassic Park." Author was killed in Thailand by firing squad due to this misrepresentation
-Rosetta Stone adds Gibberish and Click to its growing number of languages
-New findings show that cholesterol actually lubricates blood vessels and prevents heart disease
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| Sunday, August 30th, 2009
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9:43 pm - THE JOURNAL SQUAWK BOX!!!
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The following is a list of stories the Journal is working on worldwide
-Confucius discovered America in 55 BC. Christopher Columbus' remains to be dug up and burned
-Footprint found in Oregon is the same foot size as that of Confucius
-Loch Ness Monster seen at local flea market
-Lawsuit pending after it was discovered that Atari stole ideas for its 7800 system from the Fairchild Channel F
-Martin Luther King III to fight Malcolm Y on charity pay per view
-Noted internet genius claims that academic and religious taught singularity creation deserves a "coming horrific hell"
-Legion of Giant Crabs attack Milwaukee, "Old Milwaukee" beer is apparently their only source of sustenance
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| Thursday, August 27th, 2009
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7:39 pm - BAND GENESIS SUES SEGA FOR NAME INFRINGEMENT!!!
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by Kyle Huntington
Genesis has been touring again. You know, the crappier Genesis, with Phil Collins as their frontman. My Puerto Rican girlfriend does not like this incarnation, and thus was highly offended when she learned that they were suing Sega for stealing their name for their 1990s video game system. Never mind the fact that the system has been defunct for at least a decade, the band needs more money! Lupe's breasts heaved with such great force, that I thought they were going to break my kitchen table. Therefore, I escorted Lupe to her car, and I got down and dirty on my article.
I hopped in John Agar's beloved Autogiro and flew to New York. Once there, I stormed into a hotel room that Phil Collins was staying in. He asked if I was going to beat him up, but that would have just been too easy for him. It was time for me, good ol' Santa Claus to educate him a little bit. I pulled a Sega Genesis that I had in my pants out and hooked up to his television. Collins was infuriated by this, but I did not care. He was just a dipshit living another day in paradise. I fired up the game of Altered Beast that came with the system.
Over the course of the next three days, I made Collins play the game repeatedly. He became enthralled with the game, so much so, that he never went to the bathroom. He just crapped his pants a bunch of times, a rather sickly sight that I took photographs of. Knowing once again that my article would be buried at the bottom of page 3, I again gave the photos to my colleague Fred Langley to hang up in his office. I left the Sega Genesis with Collins since I have 12 others that I purchased at local thrift stores for a total price of about 75 cents. Collins gave me an autographed copy of his "Sussudio" single. I wiped my ass with it and gave it to the bellboy. I returned home to my Puerto Rican girlfriend, who was wildly making out with John Agar's skanky assistant Melissa. I filmed it.
Originally Published October, 2007
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| Tuesday, August 25th, 2009
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12:35 am - JESUS WAS NOT CRUCIFIED!!!
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by John Agar
Every week my bones tingle, like radar sensing a car speeding, I John Agar sense the story that will change the world. Late last Thursday, Raven and I decided to go see a movie, that movie was the much publicized “Passion of Christ” movie that Mel Gibson spent his time directing, to make a cinematic portrayal of Jesus’ crucifixion.
Raven and I chitchatted during this long, long movie, eating Spree candy and giggling like two little kids. When I took a sip of my Mello Yellow, the story for the ages exploded into my brain, I would travel to the Holy Land and seek the real story behind Jesus’ last hours. The idea perhaps was the result of the poorly scripted cinematic drivel that our friend Mr. Gibson scraped off the cutting room floor and spliced together to make this movie. It would be a good one, I was ready.
As soon as the next morning, I was ready to part ways with Raven for a few days and take my trip to dispel the myths that encircle us like a flock of Buzzards looking for their next meal. The easiest way to the Holy Land was via boat, so that’s precisely what I did. I boarded the official yacht of the Journal, donned my Agarian Yachting Hat as well as a genuine Pirate’s eye patch and set sail. Of course I did not forget my trusty AST Advantage laptop in case I could not return to Journal Headquarters in time to write this story.
On the open seas time seemed to fly, the endless expanses of ocean. I treated myself to some fish every so often, so long as I could pick them out of the water. Unfortunately though after a few days I spotted land, and in my most seaworthy voice I shouted “Land Ho”. A little while later I set foot on the Holy Land, the way my third ex-wife set foot on the way to the lawyer to serve me with divorce papers.
I wandered around the Jerusalem area for a couple of hours, sampling local delicacies with a festinate fervor expressed only by a young starving African child. I washed down this with the finest cranberry and tangerine juice money could buy in America. I got tired of this by mid afternoon so I took a load off and was sitting down when a young Arabian man approached me, he told me his name was Abdul Fuma’marafala. He said he thought he had recognized me as the World’s beloved John Agar, and proceeded to tell me the real story behind Jesus’ supposed crucifixion.
The story was a noble one, Jesus, our saint and savior was disliked by a few evil and heartless individuals, the ancient equivalent of the Hidden Agenda. His efforts to spread the word of God were taken wrongly by those who hated him, and they proceeded to figure out a plan to murder him in cold blood. Jesus was fully prepared to die for our sins. One cold night a bunch of these people mobbed and beat Jesus to the horror of onlookers, tied bricks to him and threw him into the very Red Sea he had parted. Jesus would get the better of them when he was later resurrected, proving his wisdom was just that.
Abdul then took me to show me a few secrets. He even showed me, John Agar, how to part the Red Sea! The ancient Egyptians had built vast pumps and a system similar to modern locks in a canal that would temporarily part the water for trade purposes. Abdul showed me the location of a switch which turned the pumps on and like the ancient times the Red Sea parted before the eyes of I, John Agar.
Abdul explained to me that at the bottom of the Red Sea he had located a box full of ancient scrolls that told what really had happened to Jesus. The stories in the Bible, while based on fact, were somewhat embellished by creative writers. The ancient equivalent of reading a paper other than the Journal of Truth. I thanked Abdul by handing him a Pirate’s eye patch like I had worn there and a CDR of an Eddie Money Greatest Hits album.
It was with that I climbed back into the Yacht, tossed my Agarian Yachting Hat on, and sped home, albeit with the company of two girls I was able to coerce with the stories of the high seas and my many travels. While I had not yet arrived home by the time I had completed this article which I had to E-Mail to Charles, I was confident I would walk into my modest studio apartment to find Raven waiting with a bottle of the finest cranberry juice while listening to tapes of Toto and other fine bands. I couldn’t wait!
For the Journal, I am John Agar.
Originally Published March, 2004
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| Thursday, August 20th, 2009
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12:16 pm - SONIA SOTOMAYOR IS A MAN!!!
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by John Agar
Every once in a great moon, the mainstream media uncovers a meaningful story. As usual, this is not one of those moments. Once again, the National Journal of Truth has uncovered something hidden in the nether regions of someone's groin area. Why must we be the only ones who tell the truth in this flat, barren, and sinful land of ours? I, John Agar, the King of Journalism, the Journalistic Juggernaut have found another story that will blow your minds like 67 pounds of plastic explosives placed on the Super Computer in the Nintendo game "Metal Gear." New Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor is a man baby. She is as much woman as me or that guy over there. Why would she be? A real woman would never get as far as the Supreme Court. It is proven fact that women are inferior to men, and there is never any clowning around about that fact.
After winning 34 consecutive games of Connect Four against my skanky, yet confused assistant Melissa, I got a call on my vintage Ameritech 2 cell phone from a man describing himself only as Rufus. Rufus claimed that he had an all-night tryst with Sotomayor, and found out that Sonia was hung like a caribou usually found in areas like the Yukon. Or maybe he said the Yucatan Peninsula, either way, Sonia was a man, and it was my new mission in life to prove it. However, I first had to finish this bottle of Tsingtao beer I was drinking. Once I got that out of my system, I placed my dog leash onto Melissa's neck and proceeded to lead her out of my modest studio apartment and into my 1979 Datsun 210. I pointed the vintage luxury vehicle in the direction of Washington, DC in the same way that I point my elongated phallus toward the reproductive organs of many women.
I first stopped at a Denny's, even though I will never find any minorities ala Sonia Sotomayor in that place since they are as banned as I am at Reno-area brothels. It turns out I was injuring too many of the prostitutes with my penis, which resembles an anvil more than a regular penis. No, I did not get anything to eat although I enjoy their chicken fried steak as much as I love a nice Charleston Chew. I just walk in, go into the bathroom, turn the sink on and flush the toilet. I then walk out as if nothing happened. This is my way of showing creepy environmentalists who is boss. I especially like to do this in areas with a water shortage during a drought. I laugh at people as they attempt to get water as they drive their 1984 Nissan King Cab to the local well, but there is nothing in it. It truly is the right thing to do.
I hopped back into the Datsun, not caring one bit that it was hot outside, having left Melissa in there without any air on or the window open. She did not deserve any, for she was very mediocre in the sack the previous night. I was also upset that she lathered herself in chocolate syrup for our session when I clearly asked for cranberry jam. I pointed the luxury late-70s vehicle toward Washington DC, a vile, disgusting place known for its tawdry dance clubs involving men in their upper-50s. Longtime Journal readers will know who I speak of: one Bruce Luskin. If you are new to this platinum publication, Bruce Luskin is a male erotic dancer who caters to noted politicians and celebrities alike. Despite his advancing age, many of these despicable men are incapable of resisting Luskin's charm. A similar phenomenon takes place when I enter the local female-only community college. I asked to meet Bruce at a third-party location, such as a Party City store, since I did want to go into the club with which he seeks not-so-gainful employment.
Once there, Bruce offered to take Melissa's leash and tie her to a nearby post, but I told him that it would not be necessary. I allowed Melissa to roam throughout the store, although this consisted mainly of her trying to insert various party favors inside of herself. It was time to talk turkey with Bruce, and he had all of the latest gobble on Sonia Sotomayor. Since the new Justice is actually a man, Bruce knew her backwards, forwards, sideways, inside, and out. His graphic depictions of her were close to vomit-inducing, but I had to sit through them in order to get the goods on her/him/it/Klaxite. Bruce took out his wallet, and handed me a wallet-sized photo of him and Sotomayor in a disgustingly obscene position. There was clearly a protrusion from in-between the Justice's legs, and I dropped the photo as I had enough of this tomfoolery. I yanked Melissa by the leash and we jetted out of there like a private airplane headed into the side of a tourist helicopter in the middle of Manhattan.
I knew once and for all what I had to do, for I am John Agar, the King of all Journalism, the journalistic juggernaut, the Greatest American Hero of all. I raced on down to Sotomayor's new office and barged in with all of the ferocity of a Town Hall protestor demanding answers from the head honcho politico Congress people without letting them actually answer any questions. That is how you get real answers and real truth, since these devil-like confidence men are a bunch of snake oil salesmen peddling death anyway. As I made a Rambo-like stride toward Sotomayor, she tried to dial up security. Security, however, would not be coming, as our sports reporter George Schmidt had made his way down just behind me in order to vomit up all of those oysters he ate the Golden Corral earlier in the day. Security slipped, slid, and fell into the strange brew all over the floor. Meanwhile, Melissa stepped behind Sotomayor with the type of fury you would find in the game "Shaq Fu" for the Sega Genesis. Despite her long leash, Melissa was able to slide down Sotomayor's skirt, causing her to blush a color of red that not even the late, great Kool-Aid Man could match. In a scene resembling the ending of "Ace Ventura: Pet Detective," it was clear without twelve shadows of a doubt that the Justice had a phallus nearly rivalling mine, but not quite. Melissa drooled like a Saint Bernard dog, but I snapped my photo and got her out of there before anything really vile could take place.
In order to not step on George's vomit, I stepped on various unconscious security guards in order to make my way through the vomit. Melissa was not so lucky, as she was crawling like a dog instead of walking like a normal human being through it. She truly has become a disgusting person. We raced out of there at an epic speed that would make 100-meter dash world record holder Usain Bolt retire at the thought of having to race this athletic specimen that I am. Sotomayor was running after us, her skirt still down around her ankles, yelling for me to come back and make sweet love to her. I did not swing that way, but Bruce Luskin came running toward her wearing nothing but a diaper and a smile. The scene just became more bizarre and strange than anything I had ever seen in my life.
As I made my way back to the Datsun, I asked George to take Melissa back to Journal headquarters. The two of them are both gross and deserve one another. I am thinking of selling her to George through my various sex slave contacts. George and her got into his 1990 Chrysler Town and Country minivan, or as he likes to call it, "The Shagmobile." I got into my Datsun because I was driven and made my way back to Journal headquarters with a hop, skip, and a jump. When I arrived, I found a manila envelope containing a videotape recorded on a Quasar Great Time Machine. Wondering why someone would use such an antiquated device, I made my way to Fred Langley's office to play it on his machine. What I saw was ghastlier than a thousand ghouls. President and Chief Dictator Obama bin Laden was having sexual relations with Bruce Luskin and Sonia Sotomayor. The level of corruption in Washington is getting to such a sick extreme. Either way, this was another proud moment for the Journal. We cannot be defeated, much like Lu Bu in Dynasty Warriors 5 for the XBox.
For the Journal, I am John Agar.
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| Friday, August 14th, 2009
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10:24 pm - WOODSTOCK NEVER HAPPENED!!!
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by Fred Langley
I have never been a proponent of that rock and/or roll music that has been peddled over the years by the evil likes of the not-so-dead Les Paul, the phony Beatles, and Bruce Springsteen or Rick Springfied, or whatever his name is. I enjoy baroque chamber music, a style that I deem to be perfect and should be sainted. I know this, for I told myself this.
Every day, this magisterial publication searches inside every nook and cranny for the truth before O-BAM-A pulls out the respirator plug on that crazy uncle of yours that has been comatose since 1986. If you do not believe me, check out his 7th grade note he wrote to Bobby Stevens, which read: "If you do not stop making fun of my ears, I will one day run for President so I can kill you and your entire family!" That is some seriously scary stuff there folks. I keep this note amongst the many letters I have of celebrities at middle-school age. Another letter features "Twilight" star Robert Pattinson writing to a Penny Burgess: "Stop flirting. I am a huge homosexual. I like objects in my butt. Sincerely, Rob."
In 1969, a lot of dirty hippies allegedly congregated on farmland in Upstate New York for a festival of peace and love, some really bad music, and taking lots of drugs. This was immortalized by media scoundrels and people too stoned out of their minds to know the truth. This "Woodstock" festival was about as real as unicorns, leprechauns, or the myth that FDR was paralyzed. This was nothing more than another pathetic attempt to paint Vietnam as an unpopular war, but this portrait was more like those Van Gogh forgeries you see on posters at lame botiques in your local mall. Woodstock is a bird in the Charlie Brown cartoons, and these ridiculous cretins who were dropping more acid than any Amino could possibly try to saw these "birds" in their hallucinations.
Another obvious fact is that Jimi Hendrix did not exist either. Any sober person alive at the time could tell you that. Just because some black guy was wearing a headband and praying to a guitar does not mean that it was Jimi Hendrix. I think that there must have just been too much iron in the water made with whiskey at the time or something. There are also no authenticated artifacts from the event. I have things from just about every event ever in my plush office: from the Last Supper to the French and Indian War; from the ancient Mayans to 1980s Swedish pornography.
All of the footage from "Woodstock" is a noted scam. Spliced together bootleg concerts, people dropping acid in random parks, police arriving at various locales: these are all things that were cleverly edited together by people obsessed with a wildly popular war. "Jimi Hendrix" sang of a "Foxy Lady," but there was no one to sing to at that farm. Supposed photos of the aftermath show tons of debris, as though a battle had taken place on the land. This can be easily explained: most of New York State is a total disaster, that scene is straight out of almost anywhere in that pitiful state.
Bad movies by Asian directors are being released on this subject. DVDs, laserdiscs, and new CDs are being released to commemorate the event. But there was no event to pay tribute to. Anyone who buys any of this nonsense is the typical tool of the Hidden Agenda. As I got ready to send this story to the Journal, I was wildly congratulated by my colleagues as I shot fish inside of an ancient Mayan barrel given to me by Glen Campbell after I revealed that there really was a rhinestone cowboy.
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| Thursday, August 13th, 2009
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9:52 pm - THE JOURNAL SQUAWK BOX!!!
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The following is a list of stories the Journal is working on worldwide
-John Agar working on an explosive article exposing the truth behind new Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor
-Theory of Left and Right Proven Incorrect; Right is now Left, Left is now Right
-Hanes to combine boxer briefs with socks
-By definition, action movies are boring
-PT Cruiser originally based on the design of an El Camino
-George Clooney charged with treason, joins Klax M-59
-Ax and Smash never "demolished" anyone, are retroactively stripped of name and renamed "The Tools"
Today's Squawk Box has been brought to you by Datsun. Datsun: We Are Driven!
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| Tuesday, August 11th, 2009
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10:23 pm - EDUCATING THE PEASANTS!!!
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by Kyle Huntington
You readers are a bunch of stupid tools. Last week proved that point beyond twelve shadows of a doubt. My Puerto Rican girlfriend laughs at your inability to function in society, even though it is controlled by the vice-like headlock of the Hidden Agenda. The Hidden Agenda squeezes at your head until that tasty goo comes flowing out of your ears. As your brains corrode, the politicos down on Capitol Hell laugh at your misfortune now that your brain has been extracted along with your tax money. They then throw glorious parties where noted male prostitute/stripper/philanthropist Bruce Luskin jumps out of a cake naked and then fornicates with upwards of a dozen of the members of the Legislative Branch of government. The women are not allowed obviously, although many of the women in Congress are nothing more than hermaphrodites anyway. Choke on that slapnuts.
So what the fuck does any of this mean? It means that you are a bunch of low-life fucking idiots being fucked hosed by the fucking Hidden Agenda. How many fucking times must I say this before you understand this simple fucking language called fucking English? Apparently, I must say this twelve times at the very minimum since your fucking brain-less head is loaded with the fucking retardation clogged in there by the fucking politicos with their feces-covered plungers. They laugh, and the yellow on their teeth from all of the White Owl cigars they have smoked at your expense are proof of this. Educated elites need to drop their Shakespeare and wake the fuck up. Uneducated peasants need to start reading the Shakespeare and wake the fuck up. Take a simple economics class you pea-brained peons!
Educating the peasants will not be easy. You people are a tough fucking nut to crack, much like my own testicles. So stop sending Lupe those sexually explicit messages on MySpace. She does want to hear about your alleged elongated wang, because I am sure it is in a Double-A league compared to my major league kielbasa. This article may languish on the bottom of page 3, but Kyle Huntington rises to the cream of the crop, for I am the man with the master plan, the man with the power, too sweet to be sour. I am the ladies' pet and the mens' regret. If you want to walk that aisle, you have to be the man to beat the man, and you are not the man. Deal with it. Shut the fuck up.
Originally Published March, 2008
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| Monday, August 10th, 2009
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10:43 pm - THE MOODY BLUES WERE NOT MOODY AT ALL!!!
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by Kyle Huntington
Who gives a flying fuck about this shit? The Moody Blues? When was their last hit, 1969? I was not even alive then! I sat back in my mansion while my Puerto Rican girlfriend massaged me using her immense chesticles as I listened to this flying hunk of bullshit they called "Days of Future Passed." This album sucked shit, the kind of infernal racket you would hear on variety albums like "Colonel Sanders' Tijuana Party." I felt embarassed and dumber as I listened to the Moody Blues sing about riding their see-saw, as if people would not understand that it was some sort of deranged cross between a playground and some sexual deviation. Real clever you dumbasses, real clever.
So their lead singer was some homosexual named Justin Hayward. I would not know Justin Hayward from Craig "Iron Head" Heyward, the dead former NFL player. My Puerto Rican girlfriend scoffed at the music, saying that her mother would not listen to that bullcrap. This comment stunned me, considering I sold her mother into sexual slavery a few years ago when a businessman from Dubai offered me $500 and a sport coat. I gladly took the deal. Unfortunately, I would not have that hour of my life back from listening to this disgustingly horrible excuse for a record. I ripped the vinyl album off of my vintage Crosley record player circa 1929. It was even autographed by Herbert Hoover himself! I took the record and I took a piss all over it, since that is what this shit deserves, warm piss all over it.
My Puerto Rican girlfriend reared back and took a gigantic shit all over the record. This created a sick mixture of human waste. That is what the Moody Blues are, human waste. Take that you fucking scoundrels. I placed the shitty, pissy record and placed it in a box. I found a mailing address for the Moody Blues and sent it there free care of the blind. I would not even send it media mail, it was not worth the effort. Lupe and I celebrated our grand victory by having wild donkey sex for the next sixteen hours in the middle of the post office. The patrons there watched. I filmed it. It was good. I am tired of writing this shit. I need a nap.
Originally Published February, 2008
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| Sunday, August 9th, 2009
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10:29 am - THE JOURNAL SQUAWK BOX!!!
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The following is a list of stories the Journal is working on worldwide
-The Gadsden Purchase was never signed. Parts of Arizona and New Mexico still belong to Mexico
-Expert declares the Metric System to be nothing more than a clever fraud
-Standard System prevails, anyone found using Metric to be executed
-TV series "Quantam Leap" never cancelled, free to make new episodes if it wishes
-Spinal Tap drummers actually did die
-Mountains are really made out of molehills
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