Yesterday, Alan Cole, 45, reported some very unusual side effects after receiving the Covid-19 vaccine.

                 “Well, everything was fine… and then about six hours after I got the vaccine, both of my forearms started swelling up, like, four times their normal size,” Mr. Cole says.   “And then for no apparent reason, I started eating spinach like crazy.  And then I felt a burning desire to become a sailor… or to cuss like one… or at least learn how to tie a fucking anchor hitch knot, for fuck’s sake.   That was quickly followed by the urge to smoke a pipe.  Again, for no fucking apparent reason what so motherfucking ever.  Odd.   In addition, I had this urgent taste for some extra virgin olive oil, so I would drink a ton of that.   After which,  I felt this strange, uncontrollable urge to have sex with skinny, flat-chested bitches.  And finally, my appetite to eat spinach grew even more intense, so I would put some of that extra virgin olive oil on top of that shit.  Only to find out the olive oil was not so extra virgin at after all.  After which, I would go forth and beat the living shit out of any fat guy with a bushy moustache that I saw.  Again, for no goddamn apparent reason at all.”

            Mr. Cole did report one additional, significant side effect of note.

             “So… there was another fucked-up, consequential thing that happened to my ARM after I got the Covid-19 vaccine,” Cole says.   “My Adjustable Rate Mortgage increased by .3%.  Ain’t that a bitch!”

 

 

 

           Today, Yosemite Sam cancelled his NRA membership, citing America’s senseless gun violence, politics, and a need to disassociate himself from the terrible acting of Charleston Heston in the movie The Ten Commandments, as the reasons.

        “Truth be told, they was about to cancel my membership anyways due to non-payment,” Yosemite says.   “Times are tough and dagnabbit, I’ve got better things to spend my money on instead of a highfalutin organization that actively fights against sensible gun control.  From now on I’m going to spend my money on practical stuff like, roller coaster rides, anger management classes, undistilled moonshine, moustache waxes, and the thrill of hookers, my height, who are also too short to get on roller coaster rides.”

         In the interim, Yosemite researched and tried to come up with a suitable replacement for his arsenal of pistols.

         “I considered a number of different weapons to deal with varmints including a tank, a rocket launcher, and various anvils loaded with explosives.  But before I got a chance to get it on, so to speak, with my weapons, I was served with a Cease and Desist letter from a certain Coyote who will go unmentioned.”

                 Yosemite has since chosen a rather large machete as his weapon of choice.

        “This big knife is a lot quieter than my guns, and I never have to reload.  Downside is…  it’s a bit bulky.  It drags the ground when I walk, and it’s a lot harder to sneak it through the TSA airport security people than my old musket and UZI.  But I still got the best of both worlds,” Yosemite says.  “My machete provides me with protection against the various rascals out here.   And with it I can still exercise my right to bear arms.  And here’s a bonus;  everytime I say machete, I get the sensation of Danny Trejo searching for his keys in my pants pockets.”

              Last month, Howard the Turtle, sold his shell, bought a shipping container and has made it his new home.

                      “My old shell didn’t have quite enough room to accommodate my newly acquired hobbies, which include indoor pole dancing, Jello wrestling, and speed chess,”  Howard says.

                Howard’s old shell home was only four square feet.   He looked at other types of metal container homes with more space, including, an empty coffee can, a mailbox, an old Kenmore washing machine, and the dumpster behind the 7/11 on South Broadway.  Howard found those housing options unsatisfactory, especially the washing machine and the dumpster.

          “The fabric softener made me itch and the spin cycle gave me vertigo.  And frankly, I wasn’t crazy about the dumpster’s location.  And the rumors about the rats who bombastically debate the aphorisms and irony of Nietzsche, in the alley, late into the night, was a real concern.”

           Howard’s new shipping container home has a total of one hundred and sixty square feet of living space.

                   “My old home was basically a one bedroom studio apartment.  I sold it to a hermit crab who was also looking to upgrade to a larger living space,” Howard says.  “It was a relatively smooth legal transaction, except for the excessive realtor’s commission, and the part where they had to surgically detach the shell from my back, which created a gaping hole and exposed some damaged shingles.  Which made my home owners and health insurance rates shoot through the roof!”

                 Shipping container homes have become very popular over the past several years.

             “I love my new home,” Howard says.   “It’s located on great beach front property and it’s roomy enough to accommodate the thousands of turtle hatchlings that emerge every summer.   There are a few downsides, however.  Because it’s a big metal box, it basically becomes an oven in the summertime.  And I have to crank up the AC full blast to keep from becoming turtle soup.  In addition, because my home is a big, metal box, it’s been struck by lightning thirty-six times… this week.”

                  Yesterday, Travis Belcher, a bar of soap, filed a complaint with the WormHole Square Labor Commission under the Occupational Health And Safety Act, citing unreasonable and hazardous working conditions.

                   “My work assignment was to wash a three hundred and fifty pound sumo wrestler,”  Mr. Belcher says.  “I’ve had jobs in the past that put me in some dangerously, nasty places like, Afghanistan, where I had to scrub the hands of Afghan opium, poppy farmers, inside a horse trough, while being shot at by the Taliban.  I’ve also had to scrub the hands and faces of Iraqi oil well workers, inside a wishing well tainted by fracking and the bathwater runoff of Saddam Hussein.  That’s right, a nickel would get you clean hands and a hope and a prayer of living to age thirty.  And a dime would get you a clean buttocks and hopes of  living to age thirty-one.”

              Mr. Belcher remembers, drops his head with residual dread, continues.

              “But this sumo wrestler washing gig was by far the worse.  I mean – working conditions that were so dark, dank, and confined, with unbearable humidity so wet and heavy that only a mosquito in a scuba suit could survive.  All this after the guy had just finished a sumo wrestling match that went into triple overtime.   Operating in those tight, grimy, crevices was like navigating through a crack-alley in Baltimore City at midnight,” Belcher laments.  “We’re also talking sweaty arm pits lined with enough hair to upholster a full-sized futon.  And I’m not one hundred percent sure… but I think the guy had at least three asses.   I’m not sure that’s even legal outside of the state of Georgia.”

            Mr. Belcher’s complaint is still under review by OSHA investigators at this time.

 

                               Yesterday, at approximately 1:45 PM, a velociraptor who was disguised as the Monopoly Man, breached WormHole Square High School and attacked substitute teacher, John Lacy.

                                “Honestly, I thought it was one of the students, at first,” says Mr. Lacy.  “You know, because of the violent nature of the attack and because the assailant had very bad grammar.”

                Eyewitness accounts suggest that the School Police Officers were derelict in their duties at the time of the attack.

               “Not true,”  says School Police Officer, Randy Ruckleshouse.  “I was in the cafeteria at the time of the incident, weighing the pros and cons of ordering something on the menu that vaguely resembled meat loaf.  When the distress call came over the radio, I did what any highly trained professional cop would do.  I ordered the meat loaf… with gravy.”

                     And there are a lot of questions as to how the velociraptor gained entry into the school in the first place.  A velociraptor with no ID, sporting a vintage moustache and wearing a top hat?  Really?  Who let this creature into the school?  Again, eyewitness accounts point to lax security screening by School Police.

               “Not true,”  again says School Police Officer, Ruckleshouse.  “How was I suppose to know that thing wasn’t a student?   Yeah, he had a moustache, but most of the kids in this school have been left back so many times, they all have moustaches.  Even the girls!”

                      Mr. Lacy, who was grading papers at the time of the attack, says the whole ordeal has him second guessing whether or not he wants to continue being a substitute teacher.

                    “I just don’t know if I have what it takes to be a teacher at the high school level anymore,” Lacy says.  “I’ve become jaded and… well, not having arms is going to make certain requirements like, lesson plans, pointing to the blackboard and beating erasers, a challenge.  I took this job because I thought it was be safer than my old gig, which was disarming WWII floating mines.   Sure, I thought I might get shanked by one of the students, shot up by a deranged psychopath… or forced to sit through a PSTA meeting in its entirety.  But I never imagined getting mauled by a highfalutine miniature T-rex.”

                      The velociraptor in question is believed to be the same creature who has previously attacked an eighty-eight year old grandmother, a pimp, an Amish man, and a subway performer.  The velociraptor was last seen running through the school’s cafeteria, where it avoided the meat loaf and exited through a side, emergency door.

                      Last week, NASA’s rover Perseverance touched down on Mars after a long, six month journey through space.

                 “After spending billions of dollars on this mission, the dryer sock I lost right after my divorce, was the last thing I expected to see on the surface of Mars,” says Shaun Leonard, director of NASA’s Planetary, Rocketship, and SuperNerds Division.   “Our mission is to find out whether or not life ever existed on Mars.  So far we’ve seen images of dust storms, red rocks, a plasticine George Jetson action figure, and something we believe was once an old Arby’s restaurant.  And a pile of something we have determined to be sandwich meat from that Arby’s, which we believe can now be used as rocket fuel.  We’ve also discovered mineral samples in a dried river basin that, under first examination, suggested that water was once present on the surface of Mars.  But under further evaluation, it was determined that the dried river basin was simply the calcified, bitter tears of millions of Detroit Lions football fans.”

                      The Perseverance Rover is equipped with the latest cutting edge scientific technology, including, X-ray cameras, Air Bags, and an optional Bose sound system.

                “Some parts of the Perseverance rover were assembled with LEGO pieces to help keep the weight and costs down,” says Leonard.  “In addition, the mission was rerouted around the New Jersey Turnpike to avoid addition costs in tolls.”

                    As for the Lost Dryer Sock, Leonard was stunned to see it appearing in images coming from the Perseverance rover into the NASA control room.

                        “I remember that sock well,” he says.  “It started out as a pair of white, mid-calf crew socks.  I remember the last time I wore them.  I was playing Dungeons and Dragons on my day off,  while binge watching the Star Trek Original series, Next Generation, Voyager, Discovery, Enterprise, and the little known spin off, Picard & His Deep Space Nine.”

  “My wife had had enough… of not having enough,” Leonard says.  “So she announced her intention to divorce me.  It was during a scene where Spock finds out his passport has expired.  He was also diagnosed with arthritis in his fingers, putting the Intergalactic Bowling Championship in jeopardy.  Needless to say, I considered her timing extremely insensitive.”

     The Lost dryer sock was last seen running into a crater on Mars called Jezero.  NASA has now lost all visual contact of the sock.

 

               A few weeks ago, Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow on Groundhog’s Day, predicting six more weeks of winter.  However, subsequent photo analysis has revealed that the groundhog also saw the ghost of Prince, which prompted debate and controversy.  The Jimi Hendrix Purple Hazatometer confirmed these findings.

                          “We’ve never seen this phenomenon before,” says Rochelle Coats, chief meteorologist from NASA.   “In the past, the groundhog has seen his shadow in the shape of a middle-aged lentil bean with a touch of scurvy.  But this additional spectre is new and honestly, we’re not sure what it means.”

                 For clarity, the Nasa team consulted Lisa Flemming, President of the Prince Fan Cub, for answers.

                   “It obvious what the groundhog’s reaction is telling us,” says Ms. Flemming.   “We are going to experience six more weeks of winter… plus Seventeen Days.  In addition… Sometimes It Snows In April.   Furthermore, there is an increased likelihood of turbulent seismic activity, resulting in a possible… HouseQuake.   This disruptive activity will be foreshadowed… When Doves Cry.“

        Ms. Flemming considers the entirety of the situation for a moment.  Her brow furrows with deep concern, continues.   “And after all is said and done, there will be a deluge of Purple Rain, which will saturate the earth until everything is Soft and Wet, followed by a massive outbreak of pink eye and finally… we will see the most cases of blue balls the world has ever known.”

                 Every seventeen years, cicadas, also known as locusts, return in massive, swarming numbers in many parts of the United States.   And this year… is the year.

               “It’s been seventeen years and once I get these twenty-eight layers of sleep-crust out of my eyes, I’ll be ready to go”, says Nowell, spokesman for the 2021 Cicada Return.  Nowell uses a small wire brush to remove the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes, continues.   “It’s good to be back.   Hibernating for seventeen years has its perks, don’t get wrong.  But I mean after you get up, you’re looking at a lot of problems.  Like, I’ve got the worse bedhead, bedsores, and morning breath you could imagine.  You just don’t understand.”

                Nowell gargles with some mouthwash spits, continues.  “In addition, unless you pay in advance, you’re looking at seventeen years of back rent due.  That’s why I set my alarm clock for sixteen years, eleven months, and three weeks.  So I can roll out of here before my landlord, Mr. Lee, shows up.  They cut the gas and electric off years ago.  That’s why it’s so damn dark and cold in this joint.”

       Scientists are not exactly sure how and why cicadas reemerge every seventeen years.   Nowell shares his insight.

                           “You see, during our seventeen year underground dormancy, there will be a time period above ground, within that, when certain events will occur that will be so utterly existentially fucked-up that we just don’t want to witness to any of it.”

                    Trump.

             “Exactly!  We waited until his shitstorm, Kabuki sideshow, landfill of swamp nightmares was over before we came back.”

                  On what he missed the most while he was in hibernation, Nowell gets a little misty-eyed in between encrusted eyelids.

           “3 Doors Down.  And now I’m awaiting there return.”

            A lobster, known as Kurt, read his last will and testament yesterday, before being removed from his tank and, no doubt, steamed and eaten with garlic lemon butter sauce.

                    Initially, Kurt had left all of his worldly possessions to his brother, Lazarus.  But because Laz, as he was known, had just been pulled from the tank a few minutes earlier, Kurt decided to distribute all of his possessions amongst the remaining lobsters in the tank.

                     Kurt’s Will read as follows:

        To my other brother, Larry, I leave my twenty-four piece Sears & Roebuck tool set and a 1988 vintage bottle of Bartles and Jaymes wine cooler.   To my uncle, Frederick, I leave my Weber barbecue gas grill and a half-bag of Kingsford charcoal briquettes.  To my best friend Trevor, I leave my childhood sled and my collection of Biz Markie mixed tapes.  And to my beloved wife Alice, I leave 10,000 shares of Blockbuster Video stock, three, ten dollar Red Lobster gift cards, my parking pass to the left hand corner of the tank, and a half-bag of Kingsford charcoal briquettes.

               Last month, Majorie Tanner Bates, filed a complaint with the WormHole Square Celebrity Commission, alleging an insufficient amount of notoriety in her life.

                     “Everyone is supposed to have fifteen minutes of fame,” says Ms. Bates.  “Collectively, I’ve only had twelve minutes and forty-four seconds of any kind of fame.”

           Counting the six minutes, forty-one seconds she was on the local news for witnessing a UFO… which later turned out to be a drone delivering a large silver dildo to a college dorm.   And then the five minutes, twenty-eight seconds she was interviewed at a local flea market for selling a set of rare Mr. Magoo cufflinks.  Additionally, she was on TV for thirty-five seconds in a PSA about the dangers of Spontaneous Human Combustion after consuming a corndog, immediately followed by a Red Bull.   That indeed would be a total of exactly twelve minutes and forty-four seconds.

                         “I am due two minutes and sixteen seconds of fame to make me whole again,” Ms. Bates says.  “I suffer from severely low self esteem, Estrogen, and television ratings.”

           To settle her complaint, the WormHole Square Celebrity Commission sent a reporter/photographer ( an intern with zero photography experience and with a jaundice eye ) out to cover Ms. Bates and her latest celebrity-level, newsworthy accomplishment.  Unfortunately, the Commission could find nothing noteworthy about Ms. Bates at the time of their visit.   The two minutes and sixteen seconds of fame that she is still owed will be put into their official file to be reconciled at the appropriate place and time.