Carlos Jackson, 44, who works at the WormHole Square Fertilizer Plant, was discovered in a restroom yesterday, stuck in a state of confusion over the company’s hand washing policy.

                      “It really doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me,” Carlos said.  “I shovel cow doo-doo into bags from sun up to sun down.  Why do I have to wash my hands after I use the rest room, if I’m just gonna go back out there and shovel more cow doo-doo?”

                According to Carlos, the company apparently has another sign posted that is somewhat perplexing as well.

                       “Yo, they got a sign over the main first floor stair case that reads:  ELEVATOR OUT OF ORDER.   Okay, so that’s nuts because the whole joint only has  one level.”

                     Carlos is reportedly still in the restroom debating whether to actually wash his hands or not, before returning to work.   “Yo, I just talked to my union rep and we’ve worked out a reasonable compromise to end this stalemate.  I’m going to wash one of my hands before I go back in there and being shovelling the product again.  That way, I’m obeying company policy and I’m not driving myself crazy doing something that makes no fucking sense what so ever.”

 

               Early this morning, George Pilsner, 38, was assailed by two hundred and fifty-seven feet of register receipt tape, as he self-checked out of the WormHole Square grocery store.

                    “Is it me, or does it seem like grocery store register receipts are getting longer and longer these days,” said Sally Salisbury, 72, who witnessed the altercation.   “And this register receipt was particularly aggressive, I thought.   First, swooping around that young man like a viper, engulfing him with an endless barrage of worthless coupons, rebates, and unreachable cash back points.”

                          The receipt tape continued to wrap around Mr. Pilsner until he was completely covered, mummified, and rendered unable to move.  It was at this point that several customers began complaining to the store manager that Mr. Pilsner was holding up Self Check Out Lane.

                 “My ice cream was melting, so I called for the manager,” said Chaucey Ray, 41.  “I mean, I felt sorry for the guy, and all.  I mean… no one expects to go into a grocery store to pick up some beans and potato bread, and what not, only to be turned into King Tut.  I mean… that would wreck anybody’s day, right?  But still, my Ben & Jerry’s was starting to go soft.  What was I supposed to do?”

                   Mr. Pilsner was later hauled away by a group of archaeologists from the Egyptian Origami Consortium.

                             Yesterday, Sean Evans, the host of the popular YOUTUBE show, Hot Ones, actually melted on set, as smoke, steam and volcanic ash drifted from his ears.   The show features Sean asking celebrity guests questions as they both eat chicken wings doused in hot sauce, that get increasing hotter and hotter as the conversation goes on.  Yesterday, the show featured a celebrity guest who is actually part jalapeño pepper, cayenne pepper, and hot coals exotic dancer, named Sizzler Six.

                    “Sean was hanging in with the Sizzler Six dude until he got to the eighth chicken wing, which had Dragon’s Tonsils hot sauce on it,” says onlooker, Neil.   “Then Sean’s face turned baboon’s-ass red and I could see that he was in trouble.”

                  The ninth chicken wing ( of ten ) on the agenda had been soaked in hot sauce called Diablo’s Volcanic Lava & Blast Furnace Hemorrhoidal Sauce.

                      “That one really fucked Sean up,” continued Neil.  “He took one bite of that chicken… with that hot-ass sauce on it… and the dude started melting like MC Hammer’s bank account, two years after You Can’t Touch This came out.  Smoke started coming out of his ears, and shit.  The sprinklers came on.  It was crazy up in there, man.”

                       The fire department had to be called in to contain the smoke.  Several spatulas had to be employed to pry Sean up from the table.  He was treated with an IV of freon gas, ice water from an Antarctic glacier, and two litres of Arnold Palmer Half and Half Iced Tea Lemonade.  He was then placed in a cryonic chamber for six hours, where he was forced to chant the lyrics to multiple Coolio rap songs.

 

                                                             Yesterday, the Lost Dryer Sock was spotted riding a horse in the Equestrian event at the 2021 Tokyo Olympics.

                              “I didn’t really know what to make of it at first glance,” says Sue Spignoli, equestrian judge and part-time belly dancer.   “The sock was riding the horse with reckless abandon during the jumping portion, in which he knocked over poles, a cameraman and a peanut vendor near the finish line.  However, during the horse ballet, the sock and horse performed multiple elegant moves which can only be categorized as a cross between Baryshnikov and Mr. Ed French kissing in the front window of a New York deli on a moonlight summer night.  Beautiful.”

                       The Lost Dryer Sock was subsequently disqualified from the Equestrian event when the horse broke tradition by accepting a dollar bill that was stuffed into its G-string by one of the other equestrian judges.  And then as quickly as it had appeared, the Lost Dryer Sock was gone from sight, exiting the venue with a Pegasus-like maneuver.

                            Last week, a Munchkin who is known as Quimby Dextometor, was banished from MunchkinVille when it was revealed that he was not actually of dwarfian height.

                         “The bastard is actually 5ft, 7 inches tall,” remarked the Mayor of the MunchkinVille, Wilson Dextometer.  No relation.  “I don’t usually swear, but this character has been perpetrating this lie for years and the situation just brings out the ghetto in me.”

                It seems that Quimby is part accordion.  His mother, who was a Munchkin, apparently had sexual relations with a Hohner diatonic accordion way back in the Hayday of Vaudeville and Oztoberfest.  For his part, Quimby swears that he didn’t realize until recently that the lower half of his legs were expandable.

                  “You think I would have stayed in MunchinVille all these years had I known I was not really a dwarf?” Quimby says.  Regret crawls over his face.  He continues.  “I missed out on a lifetime of dreams.  I could have played in my high school Polka marching band.  I could’ve split from MunchkinVille and become the mascot for Jack In The Box.”   Quimby’s regret deepens.

               The Mayor issued Quimby’s Proclamation of Banishment after receiving numerous complaints from the residents of MunchkinVille.

                 “Good, I’m gone, anyway,” says Quimby.  “Gonna follow a couple of my other dreams like becoming a ninja.  And if that don’t work out, next, secret agent.”

                        Good luck with that.

 

                         WormHole Square WebComic & NewsLike Blog will be going on vacation starting 49 seconds after you read this update about no updates for two weeks.   It’s been three hundred and fifty-six years since we’ve taken a real vacation.  It was 1849 to be exact.  ( Check the math )  A pocket full of gold nuggets.  We’re in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico.  Two weeks later, hazy to zero memory of what went on spells one hell of a vacation.  In the summer of 1975 we took three days to go to Woodstock, but no one was there, so that wasn’t a real vacation.   And last summer, our whole gang relaxed on a beach near the Chesapeake Bay for eighteen minutes… until the authorities insisted that we were not on a nude beach.  Still trying to figure up why they singled us out, when there were also several hermit crabs who were quite the opposite of their namesake.   Exhibitionists everyone of them.  Flaunting their unmentionables, all while mocking us as we were being chastised by the beach patrol.  The beach patrol is probably one notch above a mall security guard, but two notches below the post office police.

              At any rate, we’re checking out for a bit to relax, unwind, and to clear up those pending charges pertaining to pelican fights in MW’s basement.  Some things never end.   Thanks for reading on our pages and we’ll see you soon ( actually, you’ll see us ) on July 26th.

       MW

                               Last week, The International Planetary Committee and Dry Cleaners Association, determined that Sumo wrestler, Joe Nagahide, like planets in our solar system, has his own gravitational pull.

               “It was an astounding discovery,” says Lynn Chevenay, Chairperson of The International Planetary Committee and Dry Cleaners Association.   “We discovered it by accident, really, while Mr. Nagahide was visiting our headquarters with a Japanese delegation.  Mr Nagahide was walking by our cafeteria, when all of the sudden… dozens of otherwise inert food items began to gravitate around him.  I’m talking burgers, fries, Italian meatballs, macaroni salad, tuna  sandwiches, etc., and even an armada of corndogs.  Mr. Nagahide then consumed every last food item in his orbit, including the corndogs and even the sticks that hold them.  Subsequently, Mr. Nagahide’s loincloth was stained with fallout from the Italian meatball sauce.  Immediately, several of our members began taking readings with their gravimeters. The results were conclusive and compelling.  While other members began to apply perchoroethylene, bromopropane, and lemon juice to get the Italian meatball sauce stains out of his loincloth.   Collectively, our members were thrilled to experience a body mass of his size with its own gravitational pull and also, what we think was, a rather rare nearby WormHole, at the same time.”

                  Despite having his own gravitational pull, The International Planetary Committee and Dry Cleaners Association has determined that Mr. Nagahyse is not a planet.

                    “He’s large enough to be his own planet,” says Ms. Chevenay.   “And although he’s gotten an official planet designation from George Jefferson, he lacks an official endorsement from George Jetson.”

 

                                    Yesterday, the Dobson’s, a seedless grape couple from the lower Eastside Vines community, were rejected in their attempt to adopt children.

                              “We discovered some troubling information in their background check,” says adoption caseworker, Jason Wright.   Apparently, several years ago, Mrs. Dobson worked in a club as a stripper.  That’s simply unacceptable.”

                  “Yes, it’s true, I did work as a stripper when I was younger,” says Mrs Dobson.  “However, I only peeled back a little skin.  It was tasteful and I only did it long enough to pay my way through etiquette school… where I learned the skills to become a successful call girl.”

                 Caseworker Jason Wright continues.  “Then it says here that two years ago Mrs. Dobson was convicted of stabbing a fisherman in the neck with the remnants of a bottle of Pinot Grigio, all because he whistled at her in a karaoke bar.”

                 “That was just a flat out misunderstanding,” says Mrs Dobson.  “Turns out, the fisherman was whistling that Don’t Worry Be Happy Song.  But just as well, everybody hated that song.  If I hadn’t done it, somebody else would have.”

                       And Mr. Dobson was busted by the Feds last April for running an illegal pelican fighting ring in his basement.

                      “We have to expect a certain standard of acceptable behavior, past, present, future,” says Mr. Wright.  “The Dobson’s were rejected because we felt that they would not provide a child of any age with a safe and nurturing environment.”

           Mr. Dobson, on his pending pelican fighting charges:  “That situation is still making its way through the legal system.  I fully expect to beat the rap, considering the fact that everything we did was by the book.  The pelicans all signed waivers and releases.  The refs were all trained in CPR, beak trauma, and how to spot depression in flightless birds… so we’re legit.”

                WormHole Square Webcomic and NewsLike Blog, which has been updated each and every Monday since Napoleon Dynamite hit Uncle Rico in the face with a steak.  However, it  will not be updated on Monday (today ), but will be updated on Tuesday of this week instead.

               “I found this bit of news to be somewhat frustrating and inconvenient, as I schedule my  nose hair removal to WormHole Square’s weekly updates,” says Sherman Agnew.   “For some reason, it always makes my laugh and cry to the same time.  Furthermore, I often read the newsfeed to my cat as she paints murals with nothing but her paws, acrylic paint, and nine lives full of vivid recollections of fishbones and back alley shenanigans.”

                     The WormHole Square staff gave no logical reason for the delay.

                  “There was an octopus strike last week,” says WormHole Square creator, MW.   “Everybody knows that.  Sooooooo, there was no ink to be found in which the cartoons are drawn and the words are written.”

                    WormHole Square will be updated on Tuesday.   Sorry for the delay and thanks for reading!

                                      Yesterday, Agnes Turner, 46, was found deceased in her kitchen, under a pile of plastic storage containers.

                      “At this point in our investigation, we’re considering this an accidental homicide,” says, Detective Ron Snodoff.   “We believe the victim, Ms. Turner, was preparing to make one of her signature king-sized, colossal, Cesar salads when the tragic crime occurred.  She opened the kitchen cabinet to retrieve the giant salad bowl, which was in the back.   There was then a severe foundation breach when a two ounce sauce container fell out of the cabinet.  It was followed by several four ounce food containers falling out as well, continuing the breach.  It then escalated into a deluge of Rubbermaid, Ziplock, and Tupperware plastic containers bum-rushing out like a vengeful, overturned Acme tire truck.  Sadly, it culminating with the onslaught of a gang of forty ounce, sixty ounce, and the finally the big five hundred 0unce salad bowl completely engulfing the victim.”

                 Ms. Turner had been missing for six days, when her husband Claude suspected something was amiss.

                 “My plastic three compartment plastic serving tray wasn’t in the kitchen cabinet in its usual place,” Claude says.  “Bottom right, midway back, it’s always been there.  Always.  Odd.”

              But Claude didn’t realize his wife had been lying lifeless under a tomb of plastic volumetric spheres and shapes for days.  It fact, cadaver dogs were brought in and discovered Ms. Turner’s body two weeks later.

                       “Initially, the dogs were thrown off by the scent of residual Thousand Island salad dressing, or we would have discovered the body a hell of a lot sooner,” says Detective Snodoff.