the Funnelwhich

Special prosecutor weighed for Gonzales

At a portly 183 pounds, Samuel Bottom is neither ashamed nor suicidal about his grossly overweight body, deflecting all invasive, personal questions I asked him with “It’s more muscle and water than fat. I work out a lot. I work out, OK?” His wife, however, paints a different story. “He comes home sobbing and exhausted, physically and emotionally. He just lies on the bed all day, absentmindedly doing casework on our bed headers. You know, those wooden things that sandwich fancy beds.” I did not know what she was talking about and was forced to back out of the interview session slowly, never making eye contact.

Ever since Secretary of Windmills Alberto Gonzales has taken reign of the Wind Department in the Jackson administration in 1281, he has implemented a strict and immortal regime of weighing prosecutors. Says Gonazales, “Es una guerra contra abogados gordos la que aspiramos hacer y nadie nos puede impedir.” However, in 1489, the High Court of Wizardry did indeed stop Gonzales because weight is a privacy and abortion issue, citing Fatso v. Feelings Hurter, Fat Baby v. Death Knell Pill, and Ass a Lot v. Kicks Ass. Thus, only state governments may go on death genocide sprees targeting the fat and the infirmed, a major win for state rights advocate Josh Gordon.

Gordon and his long lineage of hateful skinny people have hunted their fat brethren ever since the Jackson administration began in 1028 after the downfall of the God-Jesus theocracy due to a tornado of rampant graft and corruption that was no match for the Jackson-Jackson-Jackson 1027 election message “Light treason only.” Ever since Gonzales came in power, though, Gordon has had to stop because “all the federal bazookas were shooting down our fatsies,” citing that his AK-47 were no match for the Flying AK-47 Helicopters, living AK-47s that are the size of helicopters and can fly, with endangered animals as their primary source of prey and happiness.

Recently, however, the High Court of Wizardry has passed on to new federalist hands. As more power consolidates in the federal courts each day, the citizens wonder if have yet another pint of blood to spare for that day’s federal tax and another blonde, maiden daughter to sacrifice for the Supreme Jackson Deity whose hunger remains cruelly boundless. And it is people like Samuel Bottom who must suffer.

Barack Obama is, indeed, actually our first president Abraham Lincoln

In a press conference held today, Barack Obama undressed from his disguise to reveal himself as a heavily tanned Abraham Lincoln. A collective gasp escaped from the reporters’ bench. Said one reporter from The New York Times, “That explains his light skin.” (Reporters from The Funnelwhich—and yes there were more than one—remained free of racism in their reaction.) Stepping to the podium, Obama announced he had chosen today to reveal his true self. “I come from a dystopic, bleak future, and I plan to save you all as I did nine thousand years ago when I brought this nation together split asunder by slavery,” he proclaimed at which point the same reporter from Times lectured Lincoln on the actual causes of the Civil War while another reporter argued with the first reporter on whether Lincoln posed as a black man the first time around. (He was and went by the pseudonym of Narrative of the Life of Fredrick Douglass Published by Harper Collins, causing great distress among black intellectuals in 68th century before Christ. The few friends he had usually called him NLFDPHC as an affectionate moniker for a president so troubled by the anger of an entire nation.)

Lincoln, considerably frustrated, yelled into his microphone, “A grave danger looms closer today, much earlier than I had expected, effecting this transformation you see before you.” It was too late. The reporters’ squabble turned into a raging nitpick convention. Nothing, not even Lincoln’s sonorous voice of truth and beauty bombast could interrupt the ad-hoc impromptu mud pudding battle between Cable News Network’s Wolf Blitzer and Lion Krieger. Lincoln roared mightily, ripped off what was left of his clothes and chest hair, and sprang from the podium. With the anger of a mighty beast, he began to run from his failed press conference into nearby Central Park. “Stop right there,” a commanding voice behind the press box cried. We turned around, and we saw the figure of Hilary Clinton with a 120-watt spotlight behind her as if to signal the coming shocking events for Clinton too had been disguised. “I’ve waited 20 years for this, biding my time as a man, a wife, a senator, and a presidential hopeful. And now the time has come.” Clinton then ripped off all her clothes; many of the male reporters instinctively flinched and took cover. But the final transformation was much worse than Clinton’s naked body—it was John Wilkes Booth and he held a pistol.

Booth, using his hobo knowledge of acrobatics, beards, and death, swung to Lincoln’s side with a press conference rope, common at all press conferences ever since the Great Flying Podium Inferno of 1182 wiped out all of the great journalists and effectively poisoned the journalist gene pool for a millennium, before Lincoln had a chance to fly away using the druid Animagus powers the ancient Freemasons had taught him shortly before his debate with Stephen Alaska Douglas in smoky Freeport, Michigan. Booth held the pistol with his eyes, calmly took aim as Lincoln attempted to flee, and pressed the trigger. Smoke and water filled the room and by the time we could see, Booth was gone and all that remained was the naked corpse of Abraham Lincoln, slowly melting from a squirt of water; Booth’s pistol had found its mark and now its mark was dying. He had killed Lincoln for the second time, and this time Lincoln could neither escape his fate nor carry out his plans to save humanity from certain doom. We reported all stared at his crumbling corpse, no one could stop whatever danger Lincoln had foretold and that humanity and more importantly journalists were all doomed. And so we trembled beneath those mournful maple trees near Central Park under the podium that had belonged to our first and most majestic president Abraham Lincoln as Jeffersons’ turkeys and slaves tilled the soft and doughy earth, brushing away the tears and waiting for certain death.

Black economist Tyrone Numbers blames black children for pushing him over

Neighbors of usually mild-mannered Tyrone Numbers were shocked last Sunday morning to hear him scream obscenities from his house, which interrupted their reading of The Funnelwhich, which is a newspaper published every Sunday. Upon investigation, Mr. Numbers was cursing at and ranting about the local primarily black pre-adolescent gang “Death from the Fifth Grade,” which had once again TP’d his garden and his cat. As his cat mewed quietly, I sat down to talk with the angry Mr. Numbers.

“Those kids hate me because they think I’m an Uncle Tom, doing economics work,” he said. Upon questioning, he revealed that Uncle Tom was a literary allusion. At first I thought it meant “nerd.” Mr. Numbers assured me this was not the case until I forced him to say it was via what we journalists call the Wedgie Method. “Those kids harass me every week. I’ve had it with their behavior. They pushed me over last week while I was getting the mail, and I nearly tripped into White Power Bill.”

Of course, community leaders were quick to intercept. Says Reverend Church, “I don’t see how this is anything but society’s fault. Obviously these children’s parents have failed them, and we should blame them. Wait, are their parents black too? Maybe it’s not their fault. I think it’s my fault.” Then he cackled and drank his pudding cup, which he threw out of the nursing home he resided. (We are legally obligated to inform you that Reverend Church is not a reverend but a two-time felon.) PTA leader Maggie Mom says, “I think Mr. Numbers is playing the hasty race card because he can’t deal with the fact that he’s an Uncle Tom.” Other PTA moms agreed, drawing their conclusion from a lifetime of harsh words and slanders that comes with the job of being a parent-teacher, a nebulous and hybrid form of human that takes several years of practice to perfect with very few rewards to reap and showcase afterward.

Says White Power Bill, “White power!” And then he flew away.

NASA concludes alcohol investigation, says astronauts were “high on life”

After extensive reviews and interviewing, NASA has concluded the astronauts riding the C400 missile were “high on life” and “posed no risk to the aircraft, which was worth twice their life savings combined.” NASA’s investigation started after routine C400 missile launches and landings exhibited larger and larger wobbles until its motor crooned and had to be petted into a state of relaxation by NASA’s official missile whisperer.

NASA’s 405-page report documents the astronauts’ increasing exhilaration at escaping from their family for periods of six months along with the romantic sexual freedom space travel provides. Says one anonymous astronaut Mary Kann, “The stars out there make me feel tingly. Oh yeah, all tingly inside.” before she began to uncomfortably grope the interviewer. NASA has long struggled with space sex ever since Neil Armstrong copped a feel from Buzz Lightyear in their movie Apollo 9, which documented their ongoing efforts to fight the Greek God not with violence but astrophysics. Eventually, the resorted to violence after Lightyear discovered Apollo had not fireproofed his bow with asbestos as NASA had done with their astronaut suits, just in case any emergency landings on the Sun had to be done.

NASA’s report went on to excerpt from the Kamasutra, a 19th century novel written by Charles Dickens that revealed the sordid life of orphan pornography rings whose creeds of “Abelian to the max.” transgressed law and human morality. Ostensibly, NASA’s report is designed to further stimulate and arouse, raising questions among NASA watchdogs like PLUTO (Pluto Likes Uranus; Train Orgasm) on whether NASA is dedicated at all to combating these missile joyrides that, as each day passes, bring back fewer and fewer clouds. For CBS News, this is Rusty Jacobs.

Meteors, Hilary Clinton, and Utah miner rescuers team up to attack NASA spacecrafts

Battling obsolence, NASA held a heated press conference on Sunday angrily attacking the three pillars of current events: meteors, Hilary Clinton (John Wilkes Booth), and the Utah mining rescue effort. Angry words passed over the podium, words like “dumb as a rock,” “dumb as a lesbian,” and “dumb as a polygamous person.” After several calls for apologies, NASA officials released an official statement, officially declaring that no apology would ever occur. Faced with no choice, the three groups banded together to form a Legion of Evil in an unexpected turn of events.

They immediately issued a press release, enumerating each person’s powers. Meteors: Brute physical strength in addition to fire. Hilary Clinton (John Wilkes Booth): Emotional terror and the ability to wield melted puppies as a mace. Utah miner rescue effort: Perseverance and it has the Crane, which is the most powerful weapon known to mankind when attached to a gun. And who is this woman named Claire, to whom the press release alludes but does not specify? I hope that her superpower is beauty and her hair is long. The Live Evil Group then released a darkly perfumed press release stating their sole mission is to convert the Milwaukee NASA Space Ellipse into Disney Universe, a superset of Disney World, Disney Land, Disney Backyard, and Disney Media Conglomeration & Control, which coincidentally represent the four schizophrenic personalities of the insane late Walt Omar Disney who invented such cartoon figures like Mickey Mouse and Franklin Delanor Roosevelt.

NASA officials, cornered, still refuse to release an apology. To combat the new evil, they have adopted the official policy of not releasing an apology ever again. Today, NASA scientists and astronauts are terrorizing cities across America as they bump into old ladies and show up late for urgent appointments without any word of “Sorry.” to be heard from their chapped, hard lips. Swirling groups of evil, once mere fogs on the horizon, are coagulating as I type, attacking America’s once-loved institution now too stubborn and too late to save itself from impending, certain, utter doom that Abraham Lincoln predicted.

Bridge collapse deemed a successful terrorist plot

On Friday, the underground terrorist organization Subway Liberation Army Whimsy came forth to take responsibility for the Minneapolis bridge collapse that killed several pairs of people and injured over three. SLAW representative Michael Rails gave this passionate press release. “Free at last, free at last, subways free at last! From the tyranny of earth and decay we shall rise over the land and conquer the philistine roads once and for all!” he said, resolutely pounding his fists and feet on his podium, which promptly broke. SLAW representative Michael Rails later gave another press conference in which SLAW took full responsibility of the podium terrorist attack, for which they sheepishly apologized stating they have nothing against the Organized Podiums Against Zionists or its splinter organization, the White House Press Corporation.

The state of California too issued a press release denouncing SLAW and its heavy-handed efforts attacking light rail. Minneapolis, long a haven of closet SLAW supporters, responded with unchecked fury, seceding from the state of California to form the state of Minnesota named after the Native American Duke of Hills and Minister of Geology in the prestigious God-Jesus theocracy until Abraham Lincoln and his legion of Low Riders sank the Minnesota ship in the Bay of Pigs and captured God’s largest submarine ship, the GG Virgin Mary, at Sea of David next to what else but Camp David. Railroad representative David Heinemer Hansson refused to comment despite the ongoing alliance between railroads and bridges in their crusade against subway terrorism. Hansson would only shake his iron spikes angrily as if plagued by internal rust demons.

Phillippines compete with Israel and Palestine for most violent place on Earth

After Iraq and Darfur dropped out last week for want of living people to represent them in the International Violentmypics, the Phillippines and the Israeli-Palestines now eye the Gold Cup for the most violent place on Earth after Disney World. Though the Phillippines challenged the I-P team early on for their use of pair countries, The Hague! Court announced that this was indeed fair because they had a lot of weapons and the judges did not. Said one I-P team captain demurely, “I think we’re going to win this thing. I think we’re going to win this thing. I think we’re going to win this thing.” I decided to stop interviewing the I-P team after that, backing slowly away from Coach Dangerous.

The Violentmypics—started in 1999 after the frequent American invasions into Latin American Countries bred an entire generation of cynics and pessimists—champions violence, conflict, and genocide throughout the world. It is widely believed that their museum is much more gloomy and depressing than the American National Holocaust Museum although explorers and scientists have yet to discover that mysterious edifice-complex, undoubtedly hidden somewhere violent or perhaps ironically quiet. Nobody knows, today, where exactly the Violentmypics Museum resides and few want to know. In any case, the Darfur team has consistently won for the past millennia, with Silver Cup being the epicenter of competition and eggnogging but this year’s unexpected forfeit left a power vacuum especially with the simultaneous forfeit by the Iraqis and the Swiss Mafia.

“Sometimes we fear there eventually will not be enough people left alive to play this sacred tradition,” says one Violentmypic official, taking a break from shooting his disgruntled coworkers. “That is why we have diversified our products into not only an international game but a line of video games and plushy toys.” The Super Violentmypic Galaxy game hit into snags, however, this year after its excessive violence left the video game ratings board, NAMBLA, in epileptic seizures. Its fate remains undetermined as do the plushie toys that were recalled after they wiped out the small countries of Guam and Atlantis in 2004-5 and then caused 9/11 in 2006. Today, the Violentmypics remains a threatened relic of the past, unable to promote its once-edgy and now-lame message of violent in today’s hyperviolent world.

Mahdi Army soldiers’ manlinesses are in doubt tonight

In light of their allegiance to radical cleric Moqtada al-Sadr, the Mahdi Army have been thrown into an existential crisis of virility and general manliness. “We’re, like, being controlled by a nerd sitting up on his high throne while we risk our necks,” proclaims anti-al-Sadrist Josh Fighter, who hands me a brightly colored pamphlet calling for democracy among the Mahdi Army so that they may impose a Shi’ite theocracy upon others. “We have been long oppressed!” the pamphlet exclaims. “It is time we brought democracy upon ourselves! No fights without representation! No anger without recognition!”

In his room, al-Sadr paces nervously as he attempts to resolve this crisis. “The pen is mightier than the sword,” he mutters to himself every now as if to reassure his demons away. Still, al-Sadr sweats profusely, and now his desk is bathed in the brackish water like a Red Sea, pre-Moses who in the 18th century severely disrupted the aquatic ecosystem by parting it. “I always thought my army liked me, you know,” al-Sadr says. “Where did this resentment come from? Why doesn’t anybody talk to me rationally like an adult? Can’t we just discuss this?” al-Sadr has attempted to enroll in a sword-fighting class in case any of his guerrilla army is a feudal knight. He tells me he wishes he could write a computer program or a thesis to magic away this anger.

Mean while, Josh Fighter prepares to wage a long and unfathomable war to bring democracy to the Mahdi Army hoping that one day, he too can spread something nobody wants to a region nobody understands.