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Saturday, April 21st, 2012
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11:11 am - TRAYVON MARTIN COMMITTED SUICIDE!!!
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By Peter Fitchberg
In my day African Americans were commonly referred to as “colored people”. White people were generally not Hispanic, in fact Hispanic people would have been called Mexican. That aside in came to my attention recently here at the time tested tried and true red brick building that is Journal Headquarters here at the corners of Winchester & 3rd, that a Hispanic man named George Zimmerman supposedly shot a Black boy named Trayvon Martin. This whole story sparked of hogwash. Generally speaking 28 year old fat Hispanic males don’t shoot 17 year old black males unless there is a gang war or drugs involved. Obviously a pudgy Hispanic man like George Zimmerman would have been too lazy to follow an athletic young Trayvon Martin so something certainly did not add up. It was my duty as a reporter to get to the bottom of the situation, something the Journal has done since 1823 with unparalleled excellence. I took these ideas to our esteemed editor Charles J. Willington, who agreed that it was a story that needed investigation. I left his office, returned to my desk and drew up a quick outline on my trusty Underwood typewriter of potential scenarios but none seemed to fit, given that there was but one way to find out.
I swigged some Moxie, stood up and waved my arms in the ceremonial fashions long since lost to ancient Pharaohs. Colors, blinding colors danced before my eyes and bombard was I with a sensory experience not seen since Duke was eliminated in the first round of March Madness. I was transported back to a street corner outside an apartment complex where a mildly Hispanic guy and a black youth were arguing. It was clearly some sort of twisted love triangle from the looks of it. I followed both of them to a strip club of sorts when it was apparent that Bruce Luskin, a noted gay male dancer was appearing on a 30 day stint. Journal readers are familiar with Luskin’s storied history, seducing some of the most notable of politicians and celebrities. I declined to actually watch the performance; thoughts of a man’s gyrating manhood were not my cup of tea. Instead I decided to converse with the bartender about the merits of using top shelf whiskey like Virginia Gentleman vs. using bottom shelf stuff when mixing whiskey sours.
Eventually the long drawn out performance ended as Luskin left the stage. I glanced to the front row where Trayvon and George were discussing the performance. I moved closer and eavesdropped on their conversation. Most of it revolved around other gay male strippers most of which I had never heard of. George leaned over and kissed Trayvon on the cheek then decided to excuse himself to “go to the bathroom”. I tailed George who instead of going backstage went to the dressing room area and entered Luskin’s posh backstage dressing room. I listened for a few moments and heard sounds of wild sex. I returned to the bar and Trayvon was pacing angrily back and forth and eventually went to the bathroom. After discovering that George was not there he started weeping hysterically like a schoolgirl who got her Hello Kitty backpack stolen by Kyle Huntington.
George eventually returned to the table where Trayvon was still weeping. George apparently tried to console him but I couldn’t hear the conversation. After 10 or 15 minutes Travyon left the table and headed for the exit. George ran after him leaving his cell phone on the table. As the two were heading for the exit another patron of the establishment grabbed the phone and followed the two out. From what I can gather from what I know now, the third party apparently followed Trayvon and George from the bar and made the 911 call. As I followed Trayvon it was apparent from anyone following him that he was distraught and would have been suspicious looking. I’m sure most people would be if their lover was with another person.
I followed the two for a bit, I don’t know what happened to the third person until later. Eventually the two caught up with each other. George stripped naked and proceeded to masturbate which only made Trayvon more distraught. The third peson, whom remains unidentified was coming up the street apparently in an effort to return the phone to George, when he was running up to them he said something on the phone like “fags always get away”. He apparently thought some sort of sex act was going on and tried to join the two. Trayvon started weeping loudly and shouting. Afraid that someone would hear the shouting the third person took off down the street on foot. George attempted to hug Trayvon but instead Trayvon pushed him to the ground and wrestled George’s gun away from him, George frantically tried to get the gun away from Trayvon and the two wrestled a bit before Trayvon was able to grasp control of the gun. He said something to the effect “This is all about Bruce isn’t it” or something similar. Then he shot himself. I heard sirens, police obviously getting the location from the third party 911 caller, so I quickly made my getaway and once again waved my arms in the ceremonial fashion.
Seconds, perhaps hours later I was back at my office here at Journal Headquarters in front of my trusty Underwood Typewriter. I summoned our esteemed editor Charles J. Willington, and discussed the findings with him. He agreed we should immediately run the story in effort to clear up confusion in regards to this story which had been propagated throughout the news media with lies and misinformation by thousands of news publications which can’t hold a candle to the Journal’s tradition of Truth, a tradition it has held since 1823, when other “news” publications such as the Huffington Post were not even conceived, nor dreamed about, still waiting their turn at bat to continue a tradition of lies and misinformation that has scorned the industry for decades.
I shared a Moxie with Charles and we toasted our fine toasting glasses once used by Leonardo Da Vinci while painting the Mona Lisa, borrowed from Fred Langley’s office, and reminisced about the Journal’s continued success late into the night, before a real man’s idea of a party showed up, two girls from a local escort service.
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| Tuesday, April 10th, 2012
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12:21 pm - WHITNEY HOUSTON FAKED DEATH TO BECOME A COCONUT FARMER IN FIJI!!!
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by John Agar
I have worked here at the Journal for a couple of decades now, and we have covered a wide-ranging amount of stories. The topic that usually comes up the most, however, are stories that involve someone famous either not dying or just outright faking their own death in order to escape the limelight. The band Rush once referred to living in the limelight as the universal dream, but it becomes too much apparently for many people. Whether it was Princess Diana, Walter Payton, John Ritter, or even John F. Kennedy, a bevy of folks have pretended to be dead in order to live a life of solitude. Pop music icon Whitney Houston was no exception. After years of fame, drugs, and mediocre melodies, she had enough. Much like those other people I just named, she wanted to get away from it all, even at the risk of losing their families forever. The following is the story of how Whitney Houston is alive and well, living as a coconut farmer on the island nation of Fiji.
It all started on a dreary, overcast day. However, it was no longer dreary when my skanky, yet tasteful assistant Melissa woke me up by slobbering on my giant pastrami-like manhood like a thirsty bulldog thundering away at a bowl of water. I was wide awake and at attention, having dreamed of Whitney Houston being alive and at Melissa enjoying the longest lollipop ever conceived. It was time for another mission, and I am the world's pre-eminent journalistic juggernaut. However, unlike the Pre-Eminent Moon newspaper, I am not borderline retarded and hard to understand. It was time to go, and I hopped in my 1984 Mitsubishi Cordia with a festinate fervor unseen since Robert Blake gleefully murdered his rather ugly wife outside of that random restaurant. Just like Blake, I was planning to acquit myself against all odds. I was pointing my Nextar GPS to take me toward Los Angeles, where Houston supposedly died. On the way, I visited various thrift stores, including one that featured a cracked-out woman telling me her life story and love affair with various pills. After feeling the need to take a shower after her disseration on her life, I was once again back on the road.
It took me a while to finally get to the hotel that Whitney supposedly died in, mostly due to the fact that the car kept breaking down from it containing a lot of auto parts made by Fram. They may as well call that evil operation Scam as far as I am concerned. Eventually, I had to stop at one of my many car ports around the country and switched into my vaunted 1913 Scripps-Booth Bi-Autogo. A fine machine like that contraption was able to get me all the way from Missouri to Los Angeles. Take that Mitsubishi! I immediately hopped out of the car with a hop, skip, and a Blake Griffin-style jump and headed inside with the type of zeal usually reserved for a swanky wedding reception at Samuel's Grand Manor in Clarence, New York. I announced that I had arrived to find the truth and made the manager play the song "Nights in White Satin" by the Moody Blues to get me in the investigative mood. I was given access to the room, but first I had to play a big-time game of cribbage with my friend Gustavo, who happened to be drinking a nice bottle of Carling Black Label Lager in the lobby. I won the game, and he presented me with two bottles of the fine cologne Joop as a complimentary prize.
I headed into the room, spraying myself incessantly with the upscale cologne and receiving many comments on how wonderful I smelled from it. A hefty Haitian woman named Selina was vaccuming the room, and I immediately noticed it was a Fantom Fury from the way it picked up absolutely everything in the room. I needed this room left the way it was, however, so I grabbed a nearby Mona-branded television and clocked her over the head with it like Stone Cold Steve Austin would hit the Undertaker with a chair back before they were elderly. She laid there unconscious and I stood there proud of what I had just done. I would not let this illegal alien stand in the way of truth, justice, and the Agarian Way. A nearby cleaner named Melinda walked over and told me that Selina was nothing more than a cold-hearted skank in charge of her and was also pleased with what I had done. I mounted her onto the wall like a Big Mouth Billy Bass and had at her for the next half-hour while a travelling semi-pro lacrosse team cheered me on.
After disposing of Melinda like yesterday's newspaper, it was time to get down to the business at hand. However, I first needed to take a ferocious dump, so I nearly destroyed the toilet during that process. I then began to investigate the remainder of the bathroom for clues while wearing an Israeli NBC M15 military gas mask to block out the smell of the carnage I had just flushed down the porcelain. I began dusting around, making my way toward the bedroom. I like to examine beds being the universal heartthrob that I am and found a piece of paper lodged into the box spring. I pulled it out and read it with the kind of fury you usually see the Buffalo Sabres lose games with. It was a note from Whitney Houston wishing everyone goodbye. However, it was not the slightest bit tearful. It was filled with obscenities, references to being "absolutely cuckoo" for crack, and talking about how she was headed to Fiji to live with her secret lover Raul because he farmed coconuts and had a lot of marijuana. Knowing that this meant that she was actually still alive, I opened up my Midwest Micro Elite laptop, logged onto the internet with my remote 56K modem, and began to research men in Fiji named Raul.
I used the search engine Lycos, since that is the only one that gives me the kind of crucial information that I need. I found the name and number of Raul, a prominent coconut farmer and marijuana dealer on the island. I was planning to get my Autogiro and fly to the island nation myself, but I quickly received a call on my vintage Ameritech 2 cell phone from Journal headquarters. Our esteemed editor Charles J. Willington was frantically informing me that newsman Mike Wallace had become the latest decrepit member of the CBS News team to be eaten by a bear. It may have even been the same bear that ate Walter Cronkite a few years ago. I realized that I now had two key stories on my hands. It was going to be a long day, and thus realized that I needed to conclude my investigation over the phone.
Once at the red brick building on the corner of Winchester and 3rd, I began feverishly dialing this Raul character. At first, a strange woman answered the phone, to whom I yelled out "Where's Raul?" as loudly as I possibly could. She did not understand me, so I called her a tool and ferociously hung up the phone. About an hour later, I was back on the phone after enjoying a nice bottle of Mr. Pibb, which is apparently now called Pibb Xtra. Either way, the intense spicy pepper flavor made me think of how foolish Dr. Pepper is for even thinking of competing with such a pristine drink. This time when I called, the answer on the other end came from a woman who was humming the tune "I Will Always Love You," which is apparently Whitney Houston's most-famous song even though it was originally done by Dolly Parton many blue moons ago. How important can a singer be when her most-famous hit was not even her own? After a few seconds of talking to this woman, it became as clear as the dickens to me that this was Whitney Houston. I referred to her as Whitney and she began to yell uncontrollably in the phone, wondering how I had found her as a coconut farmer and what I wanted from her. All I did was yell "crack is whack" into the other end of the line and hung up, knowing that I had once again succeeded where the evil likes of NBC News had failed or just flat-out doctored footage.
I told Charles J. Willington of my findings and he planned a clam bake in my honor, knowing that the Journal had once again defeated the heavily evil Hidden Agenda. Other Journal staffers came into the room celebrating with bottles of fine wines like Thunderbird and Night Train Express. Lastly, Melissa came into the room, making out with Melinda the hotel housekeeper. She told me she wanted to surprise me with something nice, and both proceeded to jump into my lap and ride my pony like Ginuwine once talked about in that song that often gets played on SiriusXM's 90s on 9 channel. It was another triumph for John Agar, another notch in my journalistic belt, and I do not mean those belts that they sell at the Chinese dollar store.
For the Journal, I am John Agar.
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| Wednesday, March 14th, 2012
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2:25 pm - Sandra Fluke IS a Slut, Limbaugh Was Wrong to Apologize
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By Melissa
Imagine a scenario where I am in my tight fitting clothes, clinging to my amazing stripper-like body, and leather jacket, at a bar somewhere where I down a nice, cold bottle of Schlitz like it’s going out of style, and a youngish thirty-year old man-boy comes up to me and says “Look I want to have sex with you, but I can’t really afford it right now”. Do you think a guy like this has any kind of chance?
Well, this just goes to show one of the many problems with Ms. Sandra Fluke. She goes on television and before Congress to complain that the government needs to require her college, Georgetown University, to pay for her contraception, at a cost to you the taxpayers of hundreds of dollars a month. Well most of you incontinent tools out there seem to accept this as the only narrative that the mainstream media feeds you.
What you should be asking is why does Ms. Fluke not take action? Apparently I have to drive down there myself and tell her “if you can’t afford it, don’t have sex”. There. The simplest explanation is the best. I don’t know what kind of wussy guys she dates, but another option would be to have him pretend to be a real man and pay for it himself. If he can’t do this, throw away the stupid iPhone and get a part-time job at the McDonalds across the street from campus. If all else fails, borrow the money from his parents. At least pay half. A third possibility would be to transfer to another university that does pay for contraception.
There was a time when men were real men. They were tough, like Ric Hogan, or the Journal’s very own John Agar. This is a tradition that went back ages, including the men who stormed the beaches of the Aleutian Islands to expel the Japanese invaders even before they even graduated high school. If they didn't know how to do it, they would strap a gun over their shoulder and figure out a way to win. They put effort into pursuing women and had sex with them with the type of zeal and festinate fervor that John Agar likes to talk about.
Now back to that guy at the bar. Look boy, you do not become anything great waiting for the bus. And you certainly will not be bringing a woman like me back home, you will not hear me trying to out-moan the thunderstorm in pure ecstasy or see me clicking around your apartment in my high heels and tight-fitting blue panties clinging to my body. Correction: you will not see me walking around your parents’ basement that you moved back into. How are those student loans coming anyway? And of course, if you live in New York State, you probably thought you could get money back by writing off your parents’ basement for the state resident tax credit for apartment renters. Go home boy, take out that iPhone, post some grammatically incoherent comment on your social network Twitter page, which is about all you are qualified to do after spending all of that money on your college degree. You can then go to sleep thinking that you have accomplished something, just like you mistakenly think Lady Gaga is a real artist. You have accomplished nothing you tool.
We at the Journal of course have had our grievances with “The Big Red One”, Rush Limbaugh. However, true insight is true insight, and it matters not who says it. We at the Journal salute him for speaking the truth. You bunch of disgusting sluts.
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| Monday, February 27th, 2012
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5:48 pm - Whitney Houston is Alive
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by Charles J. Willington
Exclusive details obtained by Fred Langley have confirmed that Whitney Houston is not only alive but she moved to Fiji in early January to farm coconuts and live with her long time lover Raul a known Marijuana dealer. More details to follow.
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| Friday, February 24th, 2012
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1:53 pm - THE CENTER OF THE EARTH IS MADE OF PEANUT BUTTER!!!
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by John Agar
Choosey moms choose Jif. That is what the bigwig head honchos have their marketing machine tell you about one particular brand of peanut butter. They claim it is creamy or crunchy if that's the kind of peanut butter a person likes, but those people are flagrant idiots. Myself, I do not eat such a vile food, as peanuts are the crop that Jimmy Carter grew, and we all know that Jimmy Carter was probed anally by a group of aliens that mistook him for Walter Mondale. Anyway, all this peanut butter talk made me hungry, hungry for some truth. I had received some telegrams via Western Union from my latest main squeeze Melissa that the Center of the Earth was made of peanut butter and not hot, molten lava. Now, Melissa is hot, molten lava in her own way, so I decided to phone her on my rotary telephone. She invited me down to her offices once again in Nashville, and I was more eager to do so than the time I was offered a chance to tour the old Henry J automotive factory.
I put on my finest plaid corduroy leisure suit and hopped in my 1984 Pontiac Phoenix with a festinate fervor that has not been witnessed since Lou Ferrigno morphed into the Incredible Hulk on the television show. As I drove in this fine luxury vehicle, I snacked on a box of Slim Jims, snapping into the premium smoked meat like there was no tomorrow. I drove around in circles a bunch of times, purposely using up precious amounts of gasoline that tools need to gas up their vehicles to go to their minimum wage jobs. Eventually, I decided I had enough of that and farted a mighty fart that shook the ground. I began to drive to Nashville for real after I picked up my dry cleaning, which consisted of the finest Botany 500 dress shirts on this side of the Potomac River.
Finally, I arrived at Melissa's office, which she told me had been broken into, and the walls covered in feces-laden Play-Doh. I knew immediately that this was the work of the Journal's resident harlot, my ex-girlfriend Raven Brisk. Her lusty attempts at reconciling with me had failed as miserably as the time Bill Maher took that IQ test. I called up some exterminators and told them to come fumigate this place out, charging on it on my Players Club card that I had not used since I took Telly Salvalas to Atlantic City in 1987. Melissa and I headed out to the car, and we got in there anxiously. I was going to take her in the backseat for some hanky-panky, but we had a job to do, to prove that the center of the earth was made of peanut butter.
We drove all the way out into a rural area where no one except some cows would see what we were going to do. I had a shovel and I began digging away at the ground while Melissa sat on the car's hood and smoked away at a pack of Chesterfield cigarettes she had. I was a world champion ditch digger at one time, so digging an incredibly large hole in the ground took only a matter of hours. I estimated that one could probably pile up my entire vintage car collection in this hole that I had dug, and I was more proud than the time I destroyed a key levee in New Orleans as a practical joke. Melissa continued to smoke away, but eventually stopped when she saw the gusher of gooey brown stuff flying out of the ground.
At first, I thought perhaps I had dug into a sewer somewhere, but this was impossible since the air smelled more like peanuts than waste. I asked Melissa to taste this stuff, since she has tasted more revolting things in the past week or so. She said it was definitely Peter Pan peanut butter, since she once was used as a taste tester for such products. I declined to taste it myself, due to my hatred for peanut butter, which I hate more than I hate Illinois Nazis, and I hate Illinois Nazis. As Melissa had herself a smorgasbord of peanut butter, I sat in the car and listened to Eddy Grant sing "Electric Avenue" on the cassette player. I called up Charles J. Willington and told him what we had found, and he told me that he had not been this pleased since he won that bologna sandwich on eBay.
We headed back to the Journal's headquarters, where they have sat on Winchester and 3rd for the past 122 years like a beacon of hope in a world of muddy, clouded mirrors. Melissa ordered some sesame chicken from the local Chinese place, and I headed toward my office to type this article up. Inside, I found the remnants of kippers and onions all over the walls. Raven had struck again. I dialed up Charles, and told her of all her misdeeds involving splattering disgusting, rotted food all over people's walls. Charles told me that she had done the same to him, wiping the entrails of a dead duck all over his wall. He said that he was going to terminate her from the Journal, "literally" as he put it. I moved my things down the hall to Alexis Symone's office, as she sat there breast-feeding her Viking child.
I finished up my article, when I heard some loud noises coming from the room full of Okidata printers. It was Raven, and she and Melissa were having a catfight not seen since the Fabulous Moolah brawled with Cyndi Lauper at the first Wrestlemania. Various Journal staffers and some circus clowns that happened to be touring the building rushed in to break up the melee. Raven grabbed one of the bowling pins that a clown was using to juggle and cracked Melissa upside the head with it. She said that she would not relinquish her job at the Journal so easily, but it was obvious at this point that she is nothing more than a stark raving lunatic infected with the disease known as the Hidden Agenda. Perhaps one day, she will be cured. Then again, she's a lazy tool. Last but not least, the center of the earth is made of peanut butter.
For the Journal, I am John Agar.
Originally Published, September 2005
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| Saturday, December 31st, 2011
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10:49 am - THE JOURNAL'S TOP 11 STORIES OF '11!!!
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The National Journal of Truth worked harder than ever to bring you miserable peasants the truth again this year. Here is a sampling of our 11 greatest triumphs of the year:
11) Herman Cain is Gay
Many of the media like to believe that their revelations about Cain's affairs brought down his campaign for the 2012 election. However, it was the Journal's exposing of who he was truly having sex with that caused him to "suspend" his campaign.
10) U.S. Citizens Fleeing to Mexico for Actual Good Jobs
With King Balack Obama bin Laden destroying the United States at a speed faster than light, people are now going the route of reverse illegal immigration just to find good work.
9) Tim Tebow is a Girl
This was one of our most powerful sports exposes of the year. Tebow was on a roll until we discovered that he possessed a vagina. Only the most limp-armed girl could lose 40-14 to the Buffalo Bills.
8) Fred Langley's Encounter with a Mummy
This headline spoke for itself. Fred Langley met a mummy and was briefly cursed by it.
7) Joe Paterno Actually Died in 1997
It was another banner year for the Journal in determining whether people are actually died or when that happened. Penn State was rocked by scandal, but their now-disgraced football coach has been dead for 14 years.
6) Charlie Sheen's Meltdown Caused by Being Dumped by Gay Male Stripper
Bruce Luskin always plays a large role every year for the Journal. This year, he helped us figure out why Charlie Sheen was acting like a doofus maximus. He stopped letting Sheen have at his hoop.
5) Jim Kelly Framed Mo Hassan
Jim Kelly is an evil, wicked man. We have documented this for you many times. This time he murdered Mo Hassan's wife during an extramarital affair. Poor ol' Mo got the shaft.
4) WikiLeaks Actually About Pop Culture Events
This one proved that few people can actually read. The documents inside of WikiLeaks read like an issue of People magazine, not of secret government data. Learn how to read folks.
3) Conrad Murray Framed for the Death of Frank Jespin
For the third straight year, the saga of Michael Jackson/Frank Jespin dominated the pages of the Journal. In 2011, Dr. Conrad Murray was successfully framed for the death of Jackson's replacement, Frank Jespin.
2) Earthquakes in Japan and Virginia Did Not Happen
It is sad when the Hidden Agenda concocts alleged natural disasters to divert people's attention from something else. However, this happened in 2011 when they needed a reason to give people to not pay attention to what was going on in Libya.
1) Elizabeth Taylor Murdered As Part of Michael Jackson/Frank Jespin Scheme
The saddest story of the year by far. An illustrious film actress paid the price for her knowledge of what truly happened to both Michael Jackson and Frank Jespin. Why anyone would want to drink Pepsi after this story is beyond me. They are possibly the most evil company in the world. Rest in Peace, Ms. Taylor.
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| Friday, December 30th, 2011
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10:58 pm - THE 2011 JOURNAL YEAR-END AWARDS!!!
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Man of the Year: John Agar
Publication of the Year: National Journal of Truth
Editor of the Year: Charles J. Willington
Perfume Maker of the Year: Jean Paul Guerflain
Slot Machine of the Year: Breeders Cup
Casino Buffet of the Year: Seneca Allegany
Casino of the Year: Seneca Allegany
Sexiest Woman of the Year: Malena Morgan
Sportswriter of the Year: George Schmidt
Worst Sports Team of the Year: Buffalo Bills/Buffalo Sabres/UB Bulls
Worst World Leader: Balack Obama bin Laden
Best Speech Giver: Lyndon LaRouche
Prank Caller of the Year: Blue Iris from Howard Stern (despite her being dead for 3 years)
E-Mailer of the Year: Robyn Robbins
Cologne of the Year: Joop
Aftershave of the Year: Canoe
Female Athlete of the Year: Tim Tebow
Coach of the Year: That guy who coaches the Columbus Blue Jackets
Store of the Year: Play N Trade Games
Thrift Store Find of the Year: Random expensive paintings at Savers
Sports Team of the Year: Indianapolis Colts
Television Brand of the Year: Mona (2 years in a row)
Song of the Year: "Undertow" by Mr. Big
Meal of the Year: The Slinger at the Union Family Restaurant
Job of the Year: Unemployed (2 years in a row)
Worst City of the Year: Buffalo, New York (37 years in a row)
Best Racial/Ethnic Group at Smoking of the Year: Asians (2 years in a row)
Malt Liquor of the Year: Silver Thunder
Wine of the Year: Night Train Express
Non-Wine or Malt Liquor of the Year: Jeppson's Mallort
Worst TV Show of the Year: Moonshiners
Commodity of the Year: Gold (2 years in a row)
Scam of the Year: People somehow voting for Mark Poloncarz for Erie County Executive, despite a surplus by his predecessor, and likely blowing that surplus on nonsense
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| Tuesday, December 13th, 2011
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7:31 pm - Tim Tebow is a Girl
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by George Schmidt
What the heck is up with this "Tim Tebow" and the "Denver Broncos". I don't like people named "Tim" and I don't like "Broncos" so this story is leading itself down a path towards oblivion. I invited fellow Journal staffer Kyle Huntington over to watch some football this past weekend. I don't know much about "football" or other sports played with the skins of pigs, but as Kyle and I ate picked pigs feet and sipped on Lord Chesterfield's ale, one thing became grossly apparent. Tim Tebow is a girl. His frail girlish and downright faggish throwing and barking out plays in the huddle made me sick to my stomach. As Kyle sat there swearing at my 100" Panasonic TV, I continued to down pickled pigs feet and anchovies to hopefully quell the nausea of seeing an obvious female partake in a man's sport. After the "Bronco's" kicked the winning field goal in ovetime it became too much to handle and I vomited on the coffee table. Kyle stormed out in a tirade. I vowed never to watch girls play football again.
George Schmidt out.
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| Saturday, December 3rd, 2011
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6:56 pm - Latebreaking Information Proves Herman Cain is Gay!
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by Charles J. Willington
Herman Cain has ended his presidential bid on grounds of a supposed affair. The Journal learned from longtime gay male stripper Bruce Luskin, that Herman Cain is in fact homosexual. Luskin contacted the Journal late this evening and announced that Cain had been a regular at various gay strip clubs throughout the country. Luskin, who has been a fixture of the underground gay male stripper community since the Nixon administration announced that he had run into Cain at these clubs "50-60 times" over the past decade. Given Luskin's touring schedule this can be considered to be a substantial number, it would be the same as visiting the gay male club "3-5 times a week throughout the year" according to Luskin. The Journal believe's Cain's real coverup, what he really wishes to keep under wraps, is that he is in fact gay. We are currently following leads that his wife may in fact be transgender but were unable to confirm these at the moment. We will continue to keep track of any breaking news in regards to this matter.
Sincerely,
Charles J. Willington
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| Thursday, November 10th, 2011
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10:59 pm - THE JOURNAL OF TRUTH SQUAWK BOX!!!
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Presidential candidate Herman Cain found to have a brother named Henry Abel
President Obama bin Laden to sign executive order declaring laughing to be a form of treason
Movie "Jaws" was originally intended to be titled "Jews." Shark was going to wear a yarmulke
Unsealed documents indicate that No Child Left Behind was intended as legislation allowing pedophiles to touch children in the behind
On a similar note, former Penn State defensive coordinator Jerry Sandusky was a huge proponent of the original intent of No Child Left Behind
Autopsy records indicate that Joe Paterno actually died in 1997. Current Paterno is portrayed by a random old guy who wandered around Penn State campus.
Economists admit that inflation is actually caused by changes in the Earth's air pressure
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| Saturday, November 5th, 2011
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7:19 pm - The Journal Declares Occupy Wall Street Protesters Legally Retarded!
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by Charles J. Willington
Hello "Occupy Wall Street" and other "Occupy" protesters. The Journal has found you to be legally retarded. I'm sure you can't read this because you're either illiterate, or don't have access to a computer because you refuse to get a job but that is your own damn problem.
Wake up and smell the Folgers folks. Standing on Wall Street and complaining that you don't have money isn't going to get you money. No one feels sorry for you. You're not the "99%", your math is flawed, perhaps you should educate yourself with a course in statistics. Whining and complaining that people have more money than you is your fault, because you don't want to work. Well too damn bad for you. The people that have the money worked to get it. They didn't get it by standing on streets being assholes. There are plenty of jobs if you're unemployed. You don't start at the top, you start at the bottom. The Journal was once a small newspaper founded in 1823 and has risen to the pinnacle by which all other publications are compared.You might be mopping floors at McDonalds, someday you might be and executive there. The problem is if you don't go get the job mopping floors you'll never have the opportunity. You'll be another asshole whining in the streets complaining they don't have any money and don't have a job. These rich Wall Street people you're so against are making money because they're taking time to research stocks, bonds and commodities then investing. You're standing on the street whining about it. You could buy stock. Ever think of that? No, and thats why the Journal has declared you legally retarded.
So when you find yourself on the park bench somewhere without a home because you didn't get anything because you didn't listen to the Journal, you can rest assured I won't throw a fucking penny into your can because I worked for my money. You wasted my time.
Sincerely,
Charles J. Willington
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| Tuesday, November 1st, 2011
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7:19 pm - Conrad Murray Framed by Sony for Michael Jackson / Frank Jespin Death!
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by Fred Langley
1984. Michael Jackson died. Burned by the hands or should I say bottles of Pepsi. Enter the white imposter, Frank Jespin. Jespin assumed the life of Jackson, and aside from being white and fondling children, he was pretty decent in replicating the dance moves and voice. Over the years, Jespin became distraught at having lived the lie for so long. He made efforts to let the public know that in fact the past 25+ years that he, not Jackson, was the mastermind behind the music, wearing a mask and child molestation charges. The Journal has obtained evidence in the form of Betamax tapes, different album and video game covers, proving that this was in fact the case. Entering 2009, Jespin, posing as Jackson was going to attempt a comeback. Approaching the date of his propofol overdose, Jespin told Kenny Ortega that he was going to reveal the secret at the concert series.
Somehow this information was leaked to the Jackson estate and Sony, which had pushed to keep the secret under wraps. This is not surprising, as the longer people believed Jackson was alive, the bigger the ball of lies became. Obviously, this would not do. Enter Conrad Murray. Initially assuming that Jespin would perform the concerts and continue the lie, Murray was brought in to provide the naturally rail thin Jespin, who had a close relationship with crystal meth (a drug he used to give him energy to perform, as unlike Jackson he was consumately lazy), steroids to bulk him up and make him stronger for the concerts. Murray was a big fan of Jose Canseco and a firm believer that steroids "made you better". Well be it Lorazepam, Diazepam, or Alprazolam, Jespin needed heavy sedation to sleep, and its not surprising, living a life of lies for many years would weigh on the soul.
When Jespin's leak to Kenny Ortega filtered back to the Jackson family and Sony, it becamse dreadfully apparent that they had to silence Jespin and put to rest any fears of the story from leaking to the general public. They had milked the cash cow as long as feasible, but only reaching maybe 2% at best of the profits that could have been reaped. This risk simply was too great and the benefits too slim. Sony records ordered Murray to provide Propofol as a sleep aid to Jespin, offering him phone numbers of hot prostitutes in return. Murray deliverd the dose as required. Sony, instead of backing him up took a step back and said "Damn we've got to pay for this upcoming LCD TV recall, screw him". Murray was left holding the IV bag and the Propofol drip. Under strict guidelines provided by Sony in his contract in order to receive his paycheck, Murray had to destroy any possible DNA evidence linking the body to Jespin, because obviously DNA evidence would immediately prove that it was not in fact Michael Jackson, Omar Arnold or any other person dead, but rather Frank Jespin. AEG had in fact taken out a very substantial insurance policy in regards to the matter, so to them, a dead Jespin, or a living Jespin performing as Jackson were one in the same. They would just fill the O2 arena with mourning souls, sell their videos and laugh heartily on the way to the bank.
Obviously we have heard today that Conrad Murray will not take the stand. What is he going to say? He gave a white imposter of Michael Jackson, a known meth addict, steroids to bulk him up, then was ordered by Sony to put him to sleep permanently when the long kept secret was ready to leak. The whole charade had been covered for years, Sony had perviously silenced Jespin in his pervious attempts but covering up album and video game covers is one thing, making a man shut up at a concert is another. While the noose is tightening around Murray's neck he is only a pawn in the charade, and this is unlikely to be the last of the Jespin story.
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| Friday, October 14th, 2011
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12:03 am - The Journal Denounced the Associated Press
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The Associated Press is a shill. It is a conglomeration of inferior news organizations clamoring over a story that is old news to the Journal. The Journal is older than the Associated Press. It is more experienced. The Associated Press is therefore useless. The Journal asks all readers to consider where the true stories come from. The AP was formed in 1846. The Journal? 1823. We never bowed to the last resort of working with other supposed news organizations. We stood the test of time on our own.
Sincerely,
Charles J. Willington
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| Thursday, October 6th, 2011
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10:52 am - THE JOURNAL SQUAWK BOX!!!
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Headlines from around the world
Buffalo, NY-area car accidents into buildings caused by Bills QB Ryan Fitzpatrick's beard changing the gravitational pull
Doctors find that having cholera builds character
Scientists discover that hair is actually made from spiders that grow in the scalp. Bald people have fewer spiders.
NFL Hall of Famer Barry Sanders reveals that he was actually a double amputee
Financing error reveals that Wal-Mart actually went bankrupt in 1977; all stores to be liquidated to pay off creditors
Soundgarden song "Spoonman" was actually about a guy who looked like a spoon
Roger Clemens confesses that he injected himself with pig intestines and motor oil to gain advantage
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| Tuesday, September 27th, 2011
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11:20 am - CHLORINE SAFELY CURES AIDS!!!
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by John Agar
Everyone loves swimming pools and anyone who does not is nothing more than a mindless tool who allows themself to be pushed around by the caciques of the Hidden Agenda. For those who do love them, summer is a great time with pools opening up and people filling them like they fill the unemployment line. Of course, these humanoids are not like Journal staffers who are able to afford multiple in-ground pools in their lavish estates. I like the occasional dip in the pool, but usually it is a front in order to dip my Oscar Mayer wiener inside the warm bun of a young dame. With all of this pool talk in mind, it may come to surprise you, the brainless Journal reader to find out that the chemicals put into those pools can cure one of the worst sexually-transmitted diseases in the world, the one that killed Julius Caesar, infected Magic Johnson and his harem, and brought to an end the life of former Journal staffer Edwin Sporndorff.
Chlorine is the chemical that effectively and safely cures AIDS, the product that is relatively cheap but still too expensive for the peasants who work at Applebee's just to make ends meet. Some of you who actually have the ability to read may be wondering "Hey, wait a minute, I am a spineless moron with an IQ of 5, but isn't chlorine dangerous for people to put into their bodies?" Answering this question is precisely why I have written this article, did you tools actually think that I was writing this for any other reason? Early last week, I told Melissa that we were headed to Ric Hogan's place whether she liked it or not. Being the good lapdog of a girlfriend she is, she leaped at this opportunity like a well-endowed woman jumping on a trampoline. I gave Ric a call on my vintage Ameritech 2 cell phone to let him know that I was ready with my guinea pig for the test he had in mind. Ric responded with a copious amount of glee in his voice. Melissa had a look on her face of wonderment; she had no idea what I had planned for her.
We hopped in my 1978 Dodge Aspen and took off for Ric's place with a jumbo-sized festinate fervor not witnessed since George Washington urinated into Lord Cornwallis' face after the Battle of Yorktown. Just like Cornwallis was disgusted after that particular incident, Melissa was disgusted after I farted so mightily that it burned a hole into the car seat. I pulled over to the side of the road and put on my Agarian Thinking Cap for just how I would fix this hole I had put into my seat. A 44-watt light bulb came on in my head, and I took a stack of Melissa's tampons and covered up the hole with them. Melissa was upset that I had used them up on her, but I told her that there is a store not more than 50-feet away, and to quit her belly-aching.
After a stop at the store to get the queen's tampons, we arrived at Ric's with a hop, skip, and a jump. Ric was glad to see me, and whispered in my ear that he was glad to see that the guinea pig was here for the experiment. Melissa wanted to know what we were talking and giggling about, so I just told her that I had won a lot of money betting against UB football and that Ric was just happy for me. With us there, Ric got us into his lab quicker than one can say "boo." We both grabbed Melissa by an arm and dragged her toward something that resembled an electric chair, but was not electrified...I don't think it was anyway. Melissa demanded we let her go, but I just laughed and told her that we needed a guinea pig to prove that chlorine cures AIDS safely. Once she knew what we were doing, she calmed down, knowing that Ric and I are two of the most intelligent people on the planet. Of course, that is not saying much considering the level of idiot that exists worldwide.
Ric injected her with the AIDS virus not unlike a scientist does to a monkey in a secret lab in Nova Scotia. Melissa began to go into convulsions that she would later tell me reminded her of the time she did the brown acid at the 25th Anniversary of Woodstock concert in 1994. Once she stopped flopping around like Elizabeth Berkley in the swimming pool sex scene in "Showgirls," we decided that it was time to inject the bottle of chlorine that was purchased at Recreational Warehouse into her. Almost immediately, she began to calm down, and her skin became more tan than George Hamilton's is. So not only does chlorine cure AIDS, but it gives you a deep, healthy tan as well. Of course, the Hidden Agenda will attempt to shoot down our findings, but their side is as hopeless as the Argentineans in the Falkland Islands War.
Melissa was exhausted and I decided to reward her by taking her out for ice cream like a coach with his little league baseball team. It was remarkable watching her lick on that vanilla ice cream cone, knowing that in the span of less than a few minutes she had AIDS and was then cured of it. I decided that I would not have sex with her for a little while just because she had AIDS in her system earlier. You might say that is ignorant of me, but frankly you are a tool. As Melissa licked and slurped, I signed many autographs for people who I saw had been buying up those National Journal of Truth trading cards that had been printed up. I was glad that the Journal had another source of income, because it is hard living on only five surf and turf meals per week.
For the Journal, I am John Agar.
Originally Published November, 2005
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| Wednesday, August 31st, 2011
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9:30 pm - The Journal Releases Current List of Blacklisted Companies
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The following companies or organizations, for one reason or antoher, have been deemed evil or otherwise unworthy of doing business with. They are in no particular order. The Journal recommends that these companies be avoided and recommends readers boycott them. Where applicable reasons are stated. The list will be amended on an ongoing basis.
Sincerely, Charles J. Willington Editor In Chief
1. Lowes
2. Wikipedia (is Satanic and accepted government bailout)
3. Sony Music (continuing the Frank Jespin coverup)
4. Samsung (might as well be Scamsung or Samsux)
5. A&E Networks (founded by Adolf Eichmann)
7. Deni Small Appliances
6. Chrysler
8. Ford (company does not contact owners of vehicles rearding lawsuits/recalls, promting a severe safety hazard to consumers, the Journal recommends selling your Ford vechicle and purchasing from another company or not buying a Ford at all if it is an ucomping purchase. The Journal will continue to monitor and investigate this situation on an ongoing basis, because if you own a Ford product it could leave you stranded and you could DIE because they don't care about you that is right, they don't care. They want your money and want to FUCK YOU UP THE ASS. This is no lie. We have full email correspondence in regards to how they treat their owners. We're glad to post it, they might not like it but the Journal has not survived since 1823 by crawling under rocks when the formidable opponent comes near. We stand our ground. So ask yourself do you want to die? We didn't think so.)
9. Miller Brewing Company
10. NHL
11. Best Buy (aka Nice Try)
12. Mighty Taco
13. Dyson (founded by an English person and thus related to the British Empire)
14. Haier North America Inc.
15. Valu Home Centers (does not have everything you need)
16. Buffalo Bills (been rebuilding longer than it took to rebuild the World Trade Center)
17. Mr. Coffee (sexually biased towards men as there is no Mrs. Coffee)
18. Maxwell House Coffee (the last drop was just as bad as the first)
19. Hewlett Packard
20. Verizon
21. Delta Sonic Car Wash (accuses customers of theft)
22. Blockbuster, there is a reason this company is bankrupt lousy customer service, stay far far away
23. Cheeburger Cheeburger, congrats, on making the blacklist. You suck. Your food sucks, is undercooked and downright terrible. The health department should shut you down. Hopefully a full boycott from the Journal will help it happen.
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| Wednesday, August 24th, 2011
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10:18 pm - Earthquakes in Japan and Virginia did not Happen, Used to Divert Attention from Libya!
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By Fred Langley
As I sifted through my articles here in my Mahogany Lined office littered with artifacts from the world over, it became apparent that there was one thing missing. That being actual debris from this Japanese earthquake that has been splattered all over the news media like white on rice. After watching the lies perpetrated on CNN and Fox News, it became apparent that there may have actually been no earthquake at all because of all this talk about a nuclear power plant leaking afterall it seems pretty clear that earthquakes simply cannot happen. Well as we have proven here in the Journal many times over, Nuclear power simply does not and cannot exist either. Then there are these reports this past week about children in Japan being exposed to “radiation” in the Wall Street Journal, an evil publication that tries to capitalize on the Journal’s good name, which are clearly false. Expert “scientists” that claim these sorts of things are nothing more than charlatans like those found selling medicine out of the back of a buggy in some wild west folk town. As we know the Wild West was actually rather tame and located in the Northeast, but that is another story for another day. Additionally the nation of Japan does not even exist. This has been proven here in these illustrious pages of the Journal many times over. If you add the pieces of the puzzle together you end up with a conclusion that even a retarded toddler could figure out. There was no Earthquake!
Then there was a spattering of more nonsense with the supposed Earthquake in Virginia yesterday, also by another “nuclear” power plant. Does this ring a bell? Didn’t we just hear this story? The chances of a similar occurrence, also near a nuclear power plant (which of course cannot exist) are just too astronomical to put into numbers. The Law of Averages contradicts the possibility this happening. Ben Franklin’s greatest invention lightning surely cannot strike twice in this manner. Since the supposed “power plant” was undamaged focus quickly shifted to the Washington monument. Why there is a monument to even cherish this feverishly evil man is beyond me. Let alone the fact that it was built from asbestos, paperboard and sheetrock some century or so ago, what a perfectly good waste of asbestos! Never mind that this nonsense talk overshadowed the news of the statue of Marin Luther King which was not only undamaged, but the statue was carved by a Chinese sculptor for some unknown reason. I wonder how many cigarettes that guy smoked while carving the statue. Clearly something is the issue here and that is the government’s attempt to give a case of macular degeneration to the already shortsighted American public.
The Journal has long uncovered the roots of these stories, and by Roots we do not mean the cheesy TV miniseries. What could possibly be the problem? I’m sure it isn’t the fact that Lyndon LaRouche thinks we should ram Glass Steagall down the throats of the British Monarchy or that Prince Philip wants to kill 2 billion people. No, it is another major story other than the economy that the government is trying to cover up this time. It is the war in Libya. The war in Libya is a sham. It has nothing to do with Charlie Sheen being Gadhafi’s son, but rather is basically a war started by King Obama Bin Laden just to try and upstage Gadhafi because he thinks he can be the better dictator. About the only real difference between the two is Gadhafi has better fashion sense and we’ll have to admit naming his son Seif al-Islam is way better than what Obama could come up with. Pretty soon we’ll have parades in Washington DC for this victory over Libya, so we can have some cheap oil. Then it’ll be national holidays on Obama’s Birthday, tanks coming out from floats during parades , 5 year plans and the bread lines. The direction we’re heading in is pretty simple.
To add insult to injury I was near Washington DC to study fraudulent artifacts that the Smithsonian claims to possess. Not surprisingly I felt no “earthquake”. It is physically impossible for hard rocks to move upon one another when they’re sitting on hard and unmoving surface such as the ball of ice that makes up the core of the earth. If the Smithsonian had real artifacts it would be clear to see this. If rocks moved, fossils of dinosaurs from billions of years ago would have long since been pulverized within the earth’s crust. Now I don’t mean to rant, but these are facts that have been printed over and over again in the Journal’s pages, proven by a track record that has outlasted thousands of publications since our founding in 1823. I simply find it disturbing to say the least when I am out researching important information and the “news” is spewing this blather. Let Obama and Gadhafi battle each other over who is a better dictator but there are more important issues to worry about. If they’re looking for Gadhafi maybe they should check Charlie Sheen’s house.
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| Monday, August 15th, 2011
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10:59 am - SQUAWK BOX HEADLINES!!!
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The following are stories that the Journal of Truth is working tirelessly to bring to your peasant souls
President Obama bin Laden announces $1 trillion plan to try and relocate Mount Everest to Casper, Wyoming
Churchill Downs in Kentucky to be renamed Fellows Downs in honor of Winston Churchill's real name: Ernest Fellows
U.S. citizens fleeing to Mexico in droves in search for actual good jobs
Boris Karloff only starred in operas, name was used illegally by some fraud for horror movies
Eating dodo meat found to cure cancer
Eiffel Tower found to be a model of King Louis XIII's penis
New study shows that rain is actually purple, Prince proven correct
Richie Valens is alive, hijacked plane that supposedly crashed to start drug cartel in columbia
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| Saturday, July 16th, 2011
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9:25 pm - Catholic Church Declares Bankruptcy! Pope Urges Followers to Convert to a Different Religion!!!
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by Kyle Huntington
The Vatican today stunned the entire world and especially us here at the Journal of Truth with its announcement that the Catholic Church has filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy in the wake of bills and other poor business decisions which have sapped the Church of its funds. This shocking announcement comes on the heels of a disappointing summer for Lawn Fetes around the country, as the beer and gambling tents appear to just not be enough anymore to attract churchgoers.
When asked specifically which investments that the Vatican should not have wasted their money in, the Pope's assistants pointed specifically to the purchase of a team in the Italian Hockey League. The team, known as the "God Squad" were not very good, mainly because the players were forced to remain celibate while being members of the team. The players were antsy and anxious, performing well below even the mediocre expectations placed on them. The Pope is said to be a big hockey fan, but that the Vatican was swimming in the amount of money that they lost on the team.
Other useless Vatican expenditures included helping to fund the formation of the WNBA, setting up a college scholarship fund for teens with leprosy, and bankrolling the budget for a failed movie that never got off the ground about the Church that was to star Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez. When asked about these gross misappropriations of Church funds, Church accountants stated that these all seemed like good, profitable causes at the time, causing myself to wonder if these people were all just smashed in the head with an anvil at one time or another.
This begs the question: what now for the Catholic Church? It is rumored that the Pope will address all Catholics in the next few weeks, telling them to find another religion to believe in, because this one is bankrupt. The Pope is expected to begin his speech with the line "That's it folks, it's all over," a line that was made famous when Sam Walton's ghost returned to Wal-Mart and stated that they would be shutting down effective after the holiday season.
What will happen now to traditional holidays such as Christmas and Easter? Governments around the world are alarmed as to whether or not the cash cow that is Christmas will be eliminated as soon as people find other religions to believe in. Some other religions, however, believe in Christmas, so this not necessarily a concern of epic proportions. As for Easter, children know it better as the holiday when the furry bunny comes and gives them gifts of chocolate anyway. Once again, it is not a concern.
The Pope is expected to drift into a quiet retirement. He is a man who has been stricken with many ailments to his health in recent years, and we here at the National Journal of Truth wish him well and hope that his retirement is both peaceful and prosperous.
Originally Published October, 2003
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| Friday, July 8th, 2011
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11:49 am - SURVEY FINDS 0% OF AMERICANS CARE ABOUT NHL LOCKOUT!!!
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by George Schmidt
On September 15th, the National Hockey League and its owners locked out the players after the league's Collective Bargaining Agreement (CBA) expired. This was hardly a news-making story. Fans have cared about hockey like people care about third-party Presidential candidates, and the news of a lockout has brought nothing but shrugs and yawns from even the staunchest supporter of the sport.
This past week, I conducted a survey of fans and non-fans of the sport. I gathered them at a local theatre, where I aired hours upon hours of hockey footage. At 3AM, after 18 hours of footage, I found the entire group fast asleep. I knew then that hockey was the cause.
At first, I felt bad for exposing these people to such a painfully boring sport, but then I remembered that they were just a bunch of 9-to-5 nickel and dimers. I got the humanoids together and interviewed them on an individual basis. I asked if they knew there was a NHL lockout. 55% didn't even know what the NHL was, despite my just showing them a marathon of footage. 36% said that hockey sucks, 5% did not care, and 4% were too mentally handicapped to even answer.
It was clearly evident that this survey was going nowhere as I could not find a single damn soul who gave two shakes of a lamb's tail about the NHL or hockey altogether. This league is as doomed as the Buffalo Bills' season, especially when there is such apathy. If you look at the word apathy, you see the beginnings of the word pathetic. That is what hockey is.
Originally Published September, 2004
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