Crashers crash Tiger’s crash

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WINDMERE, Fla. — White House party crashers Tareq and Michaele Salahi have continued their impromptu media tour after the couple posted photos of themselves at Tiger Woods’ car accident scene to their Facebook page.

The photos appear to have been taken just moments after Woods shanked his Cadillac Escalade into a tree not far from his South Florida home early Friday morning. Michaele Salahi can be seen shaking the limp hand of an apparently dazed or unconscious Woods through the driver’s side window as Tareq poses beside her husband cradling a broken side mirror.

“We were honored to have been invited by Mr. Woods to a 2:25 a.m. reception where he showed us his SUV,” the couple wrote on their Facebook page. “We gratefully accepted the gift of his side mirror but were sorry to have had to leave early as Mr. Woods was not feeling well.”

Sgt. Jim Munez of the Florida Highway Patrol said he found the meeting between the Salahis and Woods “a bit suspicious,” especially after Homeland Security reports reveal someone with the username “Tareqipoo” recently ordered a shipment of flash grenades from an illegal Russian arms Web dealer.

“If this whole reality show thing doesn’t pan out for her, she’s building a pretty impressive resumé to be the next Disaster Girl,” Munez said of Tareq.

The Salahis have been in talks with the Bravo Network to be featured in the latest installment of its “The Real Housewives of…” series. The shows give viewers an unprecedented perspective into the lives of upper class homemakers and businesswomen as they horribly mangle the resources and influence they have in ways that drag the feminine movement down like an stegosaurus caught in a pit of Botox.

“So far, we’ve been very impressed,” Bravo Executive Producer Valerie Paulson said.

Upon hearing the latest developments, Richard Heene could be seen buying bottles of peroxide for his wife’s hair and arming his balloon for a forced mid-air boarding of John Travolta’s plane.

Simple Saturday: Deadlines and Due Dates

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I hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving! We’re officially into the year-end holiday drive and that’s not always great for newspapers. While it seems there’s a ton to do, there’s less actually happening, news-wise. That leaves our queues of stories quickly running dry and everyone running about looking for features to write. We don’t just dump a bunch of glurge on you around Christmas because we’re trying to get you “in the spirit.” Many times, it’s all we have left to print!

By the way, the Child Who Shall Not be Named (Girl)Tim has officially passed his or her deadline, which was Nov. 24, I believe. I’m hoping I’ll be able to post a photo once the baby arrives, however, and am in negotiations to make this his or her Official Godblog. Maybe it’s already been learning of the world through the mother’s reading of things here, however, and that’s why it’s choosing to shut itself in…

NASCAR fans request changes to parade

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NEW YORK–Distraught that they must wait three months until their favorite sport revs up again, NASCAR fans have turned their sights toward the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in order to get their thrills.

“S’only a week after Jimmie (Johnson) took the championship an’ I’m already B-O-R-D bored,” said Bill Mayer, an escalator repairman from Murfreesboro, Tenn. and avid NASCAR watcher. “Then I remembered that parade up in Yankeeville an’ thought to myself, ‘Hey, they got a track up there an’ stuff on it. That’s some potential goin’ on!'”

Mayer quickly organized other die-hard fans who collaborated and sent a letter to New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg asking that several allowances be made with this year’s parade. The letter arrived with a “peace offering” consisting of two Dale Earnhardt Jr. beer koozies and a bag of pork rinds.

Among requests stated in the letter, the fans ask that floats be given high-performance engines and splitters, balloons be permitted to bump draft and that only left turns be made on the parade route.

The request that has most traditionalists balking the loudest, however, is to allow passing during the parade.

“Now let’s say you got the good ol’ Snoopy balloon ridin’ up right on the bumper of that Pokey-man critter,” said Marie Dubois, a diner owner from Tuskagoree, Ala. “Under the current rules, poor Snoopy’s gotta hold back and just putter along until it’s all over, but under our rules those people holdin’ his ropes can just run up right past and the Pokey people can try to block of course and soon you got one helluva battle between these two right there on the route where they’re all jockeyin’ and bumpin’ into each other and scrapin’ against them buildings on the outside–ooh, it makes me wanna whoop just thinking about it!”

“Absolutely not!” said Parade Director Cid Bernstein regarding the demands of the letter. “We will not allow our parade to become a farce! Look; under these regulations, the Rockettes would be required to wear full firesuits and helmets for safety reasons. Have you ever tried to do a bounce-turn-kick-turn-bend-dip-turn-back-and-kick in a firesuit? No! Because no one has and there’s a reason for that! And don’t even get me started on the speed that would be involved. You know those pilgrims we always have with those huge paper mache heads? Well one turn at 110 mph and you can say goodbye to our country’s settlers! They’d wash up in Jersey somewhere looking like pinatas with road rash!”

Disappointed at the adamant refusals of the city and parade committee to incorporate some of their suggestions, the letter-writing fans have mostly resigned themselves to another slower, less fume-filled Thanksgiving.

“Hell, I’ll still watch the parade,” said Ted Braxton, mayor of the small mountain town of Findleysburg, Ga. “It’s still an American tradition after all, and damn if we don’t love America. ‘Sides, there’s sill a possibility of seeing some crashes. That’s all anybody watches these parades for, anyway.”

Ham Dinger

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We must further postpone the “Toys that Can Kill You” post for this emergency bulletin: Pigs remain sentient after death and will also kill you from beyond the grave, if given the chance.

I’m not talking about the long-term, calculated revenge of too many Baconators at Wendy’s; I mean a direct, pre-emptive strike against the most dangerous target in the room if armed with enough kinetic energy–and there’s obviously a great big bullseye on celebrity chef Paula Deen.

The Food Network star was handing out hams to a Georgia food pantry Monday when she made the near-fatal mistake of tossing one to an associate. The ham, imbued with the rage and dark, necromaniacal energies of the recently murdered, leaped out of the man’s hands and made a return trip straight against Deen’s face. The scene was reminiscent of the facehugger scene in Alien, if the ham had claws, an ovipositor and went “SKREEEEE!” as it sailed through the air.

Paula’s nose ended up a bit sore but otherwise she survived the ordeal, even so far as to laugh about it to interviewers afterward in a showing of true Southern ladyship. She may in fact get the last laugh, as searching “Paula Deen ham” nets one with a multitude of delicious-sounding recipes to use against the aggressive product. Arm yourself as you see fit.

This time around, however, even though I’m a stout Christian, I have to admit the Jews and Muslims got this one spot on: Don’t mess with pigs because they will find a way to mess back. And when the aporkalypse comes, I know exactly where I’m going to be: hiding behind Paula Deen.

Unmentionable Ops

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I will attempt to describe the events that transpired today in as delicate and least imagination-inducing terms as possible. I really did have something else planned today—a fun discussion on the latest watchgroup list of toys that will kill you—but that has been postponed for the following account. Feel free to laugh. Feel free to become disgusted. But I’m telling you all this because, some day, It May Happen to You.

It all began innocently enough. I was in my car, on my way to do some library perusal and shopping. Passing through a village, I felt a small buildup of internal pressure and relieved it as anyone traveling alone has the Constitutional right to do. There was a moment of relief… and then the terror spread. I had discovered only too late that something dark and vile had stowed itself away in such an innocent, routine function, and as a cold chill ran up my spine I knew it was threatening to unleash itself further upon the fabric of the unsuspecting community.

An emergency stop at a public isolation chamber for damage assessment revealed that my defenses had been compromised. I was on my own for this one, home base too far away to request backup. There was no Going Rogue, either. I would have to go commando.

The process of re-instating the defense line would prove more difficult than imagined. I managed to infiltrate a supply drop and exchange for a 3-pack of cotton, no-bunch armor, but as I approached their public isolation chamber, a sign prohibiting the passage of the newly-acquired supplies was clearly displayed. Curses, these people were clever! I considered sneaking in, but knew I would never survive an interrogation if I was caught. I would have to move on unprotected.

Finally, however, I found a new target: an isolation area within a complex of supply drops. I made my move, defense item concealed within my jacket pocket, and conducted the rebriefing with expert precision. Freshness level returned to Daisy, I proceeded with my day inconspicuously, America none the wiser to the threat I was forced to neutralize—and that many more brave souls face every day.

Knowing is half the battle, fellow citizen. The other half is avoiding too much dairy.

Dear Tweenage Girls Who Faced Injury and Death for the Sole Purpose of Seeing a 15-year-old Boy:

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I feel my pageviews rising, and it feels dirty.

It is with an almost macabre fascination with which I read the account of how more than 3,000 of you — some towing frazzled parents, I’m sure — packed into a Long Island mall in order to catch a glimpse of Justin Bieber, who I’m informed is some sort of popular music performer still in the larva stage.

As the mall filled, like a squealing, strawberry lip gloss-scented scene from Dawn of the Dead, space was quickly compromised and tensions rose. Were some of you smushed face-first against storefront windows? Did any of you literally fall into The GAP?

Please excuse my facetious line of questioning. It is actually quite fortunate that, once you made your riotous surge forward toward… well, nothing, since the beloved manchild still had not arrived, that none of you were killed beneath the trampling force of your own kind’s pink Skechers. With only a few minor injuries, the prevention of tragedy is obviously attributable to the Nassau County Police Department, who quickly devised a crisis-averting strategy after their first plan — begging one of Beiber’s record company execs to Twitter you all down a notch — failed. Honestly, I’m still not sure whether you should be proud or ashamed that you managed to get a man arrested for refusing to tweet.

At the end of it all, there is only one real question that begs to be answered: Why? What would possess so many of you to wait hour upon hour, enduring potential crush trauma, for the chance to see the same kind of roughly foppish, disheveled-haired minor that populates your school lunchrooms?

It is not merely your generation. When my subspecies was your age,some of our females had disgustingly loyal dedication to media-hyped (and perhaps genetically stunted) boys such as Leonardo DiCaprio and “The New Kids on the Block.” Our generation’s girls, too, would stand in line forever if they had to, just to offer worship to these individuals in the form of their presence. If you ever asked them why, they would always say it was because certain stalkee was “dreamy.”

Yes, it is only fair to admit we males had some heartthrobs back then, as well. We had, um… give me a second… Well, there was Melissa Joan Hart, for one. Oh, and the girl who played Kelly on Saved by the Bell! And the pink Power Ranger? Maybe? Anyway, the point is that while we may have ogled them a bit, we never scribbled “Future Mr. the Teenage Witch” and would always prefer standing in line for the release of the latest Donkey Kong Country game over a chance to receive an autograph from one of these ladies. There is something wired within some of you females that was never connected in us — or maybe we just didn’t realize what exactly girls were yet.

Therefore, while I know better than to ask you to repent of your teen idolatry, I shall leave you with a thought: Very few of my generation’s women care that much about Leonardo DiCaprio anymore and chances are you can find the majority of the original “New Kids on the Block” asking if you want the 3-year extended warranty at Best Buy. Mark my words: there will come a day—sooner than you expected—where you will look back upon the “dreamy” Justin Bieber and your experience at that mall and wonder, perhaps with a faint air of wistfulness, “I cracked a rib for that?”

And with that I must bid you farewell. Dancing with the Stars is coming on and I do not wish to miss Melissa’s delightful Charleston.

Sincerely,
Tim Latshaw

P.S. You may wonder why I did not mention another current obvious obsession of your kind. The answer is simple: I’m just trying to pretend these don’t exist. (Comments NSFW)

Simple Saturday: Ups and Downs

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This week literally felt like a roller coaster, to which I blame work and Potter County, Pennsylvania.

First of all, though, I must mention great news on the video game journalism front. UGTV.ca, the site I’ve been writing for since the middle of the year, has finally emerged from its binary cocoon into the beautiful (and burgandy-ish) LeftStickRight. The general format and offerings are the same, but the interface is more reader-friendly and we will soon have a communal Twitter account for quick impressions and news. It’s one step closer to class, professionalism, and a cushy job in the industry.*

(*Cushy job in the industry not guaranteed.)

OK, so the week started off beautifully. I was still on my 6-day vacation and went out geocaching with a friend. We chose Potter County in the Keystone State to pick up on a series promoted by the tourism departments.

Potter is nicknamed “God’s Country,” and it’s not difficult to see why. Most all of it is open forest and state parks; unpopulated and pristine. Unfortunately, God apparently loves long uphill climbs and Potter County geocachers love placing their quarries at the top of them. Sure, the first few are a little exhilarating and the vistas up top were satisfying, but by the end of the day a sidewalk ramp was enough to make me quake in despair. All said, geocaching is a great exercise aid, since I never actually turned back from a pursuit all day and ended up with quite the workout. Amazing how Tupperware and ammo cans can motivate the addicted.

I recovered before heading back to work and I’m glad I did, since I received a fun surprise: hey, you’re in charge tonight and half the newsroom is out sick! I’ll spare the languishing details, but I ended up spending 14.5 hours working pages and pondered just sleeping on the floor at the end, curled up in my own creation.

The week’s over, though, and things have balanced out. I even have a few new entry ideas rattling about my synapses, so I’m feeling good about the next. Have you ever had a ridiculously long work period? Feel free to talk about it; I’m interested in hearing about them.

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