What's he building in there?

Edward Petrenko to me, Lee

Ray Stevens can’t have a desk because Ray Stevens has managed to accidentally burn down every house he’s owned since 1964 because he keeps trying to light a grill in a carpeted rumpus room.

John Semley to Edward, Lee

False. Ray Stevens lives in a modest hovel below America’s biggest ball of mud off Highway 66 en route to San Antone.

Edward Petrenko to me, Lee

Ray Stevens is still trying to buy back his childhood shed after accidentally losing all his money to a man claiming to be a genie during the Jordanian leg of his Ahab the Arab tour.

John Semley to Edward, Lee

Ray Stevens is the embodiment of the ancient evil that loomed across America before Columbus even brought cholera and genocide from the Old World. Every 27 years Ray Stevens appears in the form of fear incarnate and lures a child into a sewer where he devours their innocence, leaving only their velcro shoes outside a storm grate as evidence.

Lee Tipton to Edward, me

Ray Stevens is wearing a rice hat, pulling another instance of himself across the Great Wall of China on a rickshaw, as the two of him rhyme “wang” with “mang.”

John Semley to Lee, Edward

Ray Stevens just confused having an idea with rhyming “Guantanamo” with “yo-ho-ho” and then that with his digitally-modified baritone singing “da-dope-do-do.”

Edward Petrenko to me, Lee

Ray Stevens is currently wearing a referee’s uniform, standing next to a “Illegal Immigrant Olympic Long Jump Event” sand pit he set up that starts on the US side of the border and ends on the Mexican side, firing a starter pistol wildly into the air, then dejectedly rhyming “hopeless” with “George Lopez.”

John Semley to Lee, Edward

Ray Stevens is reticulating the final splines on his “Americasville” in Sim City 3000.

Lee Tipton to me, Edward

Ray Stevens is filming his Krautrock single Trans(nationals), which is a static shot of him playing a Mexican homebrew of Dig Dug. He is shrugging playfully as he loses on purpose.

Lee Tipton to me

Blog post: “Ray Stevens: What is He Doing?”?

John Semley to Lee

Ray Stevens is trying to Google his name into significance and happens upon a blog post that he doesn’t get is making fun of him. In the adjacent room, a breakfast steak sizzles knowingly in a flat iron pan.

Edward Petrenko to Lee, me

Ray Stevens is pointing to a chart that shows one large taco at the top with arrows pointing to dozens of smaller tacos below it, then pointing to another chart that is just an American flag with tiny tacos instead of stars. He then folds his arms, looks at the camera, shakes his head, purses his lips, and shrugs his shoulders.

Lee Tipton to Edward, me

Ray Stevens is superimposing his own head over every instance of Wile E Coyote riding a rocket.

John Semley to Lee, Edward

Ray Stevens is on ancestry.com, trying to trace back his lineage to an oak tree that predates the Iroquois.

Edward Petrenko to me, Lee

Ray Stevens is shamelessly asking an Asian friend of his if it would be possible to “reprogram” Pac Man to make him look like Carlos Slim, and to “reprogram” the dots to look like American jobs. His Asian friend then reveals himself to be Ray Stevens. Their magic carpet then takes them far, far away, to a land without race, where all Ray Stevenses can live in honky-tonk harmony.

John Semley to Edward, Lee

Ray Stevens is in his Texarkana ranch house, reinforced athletic socks kicked up on a coffee table book of compiled Elvis Sightings; drifting into a mid-afternoon siesta he not only doesn’t deserve but resents the name of.

Lee Tipton to me, Edward

Ray Stevens is taking all 13 of his flat-faced, softball-playing daughters to Olive Garden, to steal fake grapes as pre-emptive props for when Sarkozy loses an election.

John Semley to Lee, Edward

Ray Stevens is regaling a total stranger with an anecdote about drinking Barbisol on a dare.

Lee Tipton to me, Edward

Ray Stevens is watching Airplane! on a TV with spoilers.

Lee Tipton to me, Edward

Ray Stevens is trying to twist all the yellow and green blocks off a rubicks cube.

John Semley to Lee, Edward

Ray Stevens is having it out with the 3rd generation Latino contractor who is trying to rationally explain why putting Maserati doors on Ray Stevens’ bedroom is going to be tricky.

John Semley to Lee, Edward

Ray Stevens just keeps on driving south down the I-90, knowing this string of Waffle Houses will give way to an IHOP eventually.

Edward Petrenko to me, Lee

Ray Stevens’ fourth marriage has fallen apart, upon his discovery that Jo-Anne was two transsexual Democrats in a trenchcoat.

John Semley to Edward, Lee

Ray Stevens is ceremonially burning his Culpepper flag comforter, because its laundry day at the Stevens Compound.

John Semley to Edward, Lee

I’m supposed to do my TL post tomorrow and have nothing. Can I use these? Credit all around obviously.

Lee Tipton to me, Edward

Yeah man that’s what I’m feeling.

Ray Stevens is branding his name into the federal building

Lee Tipton to me, Edward

that federal thing was a half finished thought. let me think on it

Edward Petrenko to me, Lee

Go nuts – stealin’ our jokes, like a regular Carlos Mencia, or generic sillygal Jimmy Grant!

Lee Tipton to Edward, me

Ray Stevens is distributing the last 32 minutes of Bad Boys 2 on so many CD-Rs

John Semley to Lee, Edward

Ray Stevens is alive and well and living inside anyone who has ever purchased a hot dog at a ballpark. Ray Stevens got Johnsonville Brauts.

Lee Tipton to me, Edward

I’m actually really quite pleased with us

Edward Petrenko to Lee, me

Ray Stevens is writing his fifth frantic complaint to the makers of Wooly Willy, demanding they send him enough iron filings to be sculpted into both a beard and a turban on the same Willy.

John Semley to Edward, Lee

Ray Stevens just signed a multi-hundred dollar endorsement deal with Spitz and Ray Stevens is regretting not grabbing another handful of Spitz from the loose bag on the CEO’s desk.

John Semley to Edward, Lee

Ray Stevens just figured out a way to absorb smokeless tobacco through his eye by plopping two Skoal Bandits under each lid and making himself cry a little bit.

Edward Petrenko to me, Lee

Ray Stevens just remembered that his jail sentence ended two years ago, and he doesn’t need to hide cigarettes in his butt anymore.

John Semley to Edward, Lee

Ray Stevens is wondering if he can make himself disappear by tucking his denim shirt into his blue jeans and leaning against his Ford F450.

Edward Petrenko to me, Lee

Ray Stevens just used a Gator to tow his golf cart to a lawn mower repair shop to have a kegerator installed in the trunk.

John Semley to Edward, Lee

Ray Stevens is watching “wrasslin’” on the tee vee and don’t you goddamn dare bother telling him to pronounce it any different.

Lee Tipton to me, Edward

Ray Stevens is hosing Ozzie’s piss off the Alamo with a shaken up tall boy of Billy Beer

John Semley to Lee, Edward

Ray Stevens is drinking a 2 litre of Mountain Dew: Code Red out of the bottle, sitting in a lawn chair at the bottom of an empty swimming pool.

Lee Tipton to me, Edward

Ray Stevens is the first and only Jungian Archetype discovered by the Butthole Surfers

John Semley to Lee, Edward

Ray Stevens just accidentally signed his anonymous petition for a Ray Stevens U.S. postal stamp “Ray Stevens.”

John Semley to Lee, Edward

Ray Stevens just yelled “yee-haw” as he drunkenly dove out of the way of a Conestoga wagon barreling down on him at speeds of seven furlongs/fortnight.

Edward Petrenko to me, Lee

Ray Stevens just woke up from a bender in a silo that had been welded shut from the outside, and had to carefully talk himself out of panicking by reminding himself that, in spite of it all, this is still America.

Edward Petrenko to me, Lee

Ray Stevens has ruined his last eight meals because he has refused to admit to his live-in stepdaughter that the leafblower has no place in the kitchen.

John Semley to Edward, Lee

Ray Stevens is mixing sugar into the gas tank of his riding mower with a wooden serving spoon, prepping a few Oklahoma juleps for the greyhound racetrack tailgate party.

Edward Petrenko to me, Lee

Ray Stevens puts on a Washingtonian powdered wig before he addresses a Tea Party rally, while he grudgingly plunks down eighty-five cents in full view of a toll road’s security camera, and in the afterglow of times he believes himself to have sired another child.

John Semley to Edward, Lee

Ray Stevens is…WASHTUB BASS SOLO!!!!

Edward Petrenko to me, Lee

Ray Stevens just threw up on the front yard, in full view of the neighbours, then proceeded to clean it up by lighting a trash fire on top of it.

Edward Petrenko to me, Lee

Ray Stevens is inconsolably incapable of making love to his wife in the wake of Jimmy Dean’s passing.

John Semley to Edward, Lee

Ray Stevens just got red in the face for the first time since 1974 after trying to chip a golf ball over the roof of his bungalow and driving it right through the bay windows.

John Semley to Edward, Lee

Ray Stevens is lying to the Associated Press about how close he was with Jimmy Dean.

Edward Petrenko to me, Lee

Ray Stevens, despite countless attempts to remind him not to, still responds out loud to any question a radio commercial asks him.

John Semley to Edward, Lee

Ray Stevens is trying real hard not to think about the outboard motor he found sitting in his sunroom when he snapped into consciousness this afternoon.

Edward Petrenko to me, Lee

Ray Stevens has returned to touring after spending fifteen months recovering from eating fried baloney straight out of the pan, as all his plates had been destroyed shortly after his discovery of skeet shooting.

John Semley to Edward, Lee

Ray Stevens is writing the dictionary people to try and get a cross-hatched illustration of his 3/4 profile next to the phrase “Fuck A Duck,” which he may have known wasn’t in the dictionary, had he ever read or seen a dictionary.

Edward Petrenko to me, Lee

Ray Stevens’ back pain has reached a new all-time high and his comedic confidence an all-time low after alienating every masseuse in the phone book with excessive “towelhead” jokes, deliberate farting, and using a slide whistle to draw attention to his gathering erections.

John Semley to Edward, Lee

Ray Stevens is wiping his tears with instructions for setting off a Roman Candle after sleeping through the annual 9/11 Memorial Fish Fry at the local firehall.

Edward Petrenko to me, Lee

Ray Stevens gives ninety percent of all his income to his local Methodist church in a frantic attempt to atone for walking into a synagogue one time, after mistaking it for the trampoline store he was looking for.

John Semley to Edward, Lee

Ray Stevens is standing by the microwave, watching the 7-11 ham & cheese log warm from the inside out, ‘cos baby, that’s America to Ray Stevens.

Edward Petrenko to me, Lee

Had to leave on account of work, but this is my favourite email chain ever.

Lee Tipton to me, Edward

Ray Stevens is responding to the nacho sombrero by joylessly eating 65 sliders off the brim of a Stetson.

Lee Tipton to me, Edward

Ray Stevens is slated to play every role in a pop-up book about the Federal Reserve.

Lee Tipton to me, Edward

Ray Stevens is more conflicted about Israel than anyone else in America.

John Semley to Edward, Lee

Ray Stevens is shocked to find out there’s 15,000 battered housewives in America and he’s still eating his plain.

Lee Tipton to me, Edward

Ray Stevens is dabbing at the brownface makeup on his collar with a denim serviette

Edward Petrenko to me, Lee

Ray Stevens has flushed all his elastic bands down the toilet, now that he’s realized you can castrate a bull with a bolo tie.

Lee Tipton to me, Edward

Ray Stevens is gunning a Dodge Charger through the screen of a drive-in playing Frida in slow motion.

John Semley to Edward, Lee

Ray Stevens isn’t engaged in any sort of high-speed pursuit, but he still smirks every time he crosses county lines.

Edward Petrenko to me, Lee

Ray Stevens doesn’t need no police constable telling him that wife surfing isn’t a sport, godgummit.

Edward Petrenko to me, Lee

Ray Stevens doesn’t believe in global warming, but he still blames it when his stills burn down.

John Semley to Edward, Lee

I am putting these on terminal laughter now.

-Carlos Mencia

QUEBEC CITY, QUEBEC – A local man has spoken of his inner torment after discovering his long-lost father is actually a notorious pirate.

Five years ago Michel St. Pierre, 38, was informed that he had been adopted as an infant. After hearing the news, he became determined to reconnect with his biological parents. While his adoptive parents remained curiously tight-lipped, after scouring local records, St. Pierre’s quest yielded the booty he had been searching for. But Michel fell into a deep depression when he discovered his father’s true identity: infamous pirate Jack Sparrow.

“I was stunned, I fell into a state of total shock. I just couldn’t believe it. It came as a complete surprise to me.”

St. Pierre, given up for adoption as a 4-month-old, has told of his astonishment at finding out he was the son of a no-good filibuster.

“When you find out you are adopted, naturally you always wonder if your father could have been someone famous. Joseph Gordon Levitt, Badmotorfinger-era Chris Cornell, Heath Ledger and the singer of Days of the New had all crossed my mind as potential fathers. But this, I never could have even imagined. There was nothing to suggest that this would be the case.”

Michel had a loving upbringing, the youngest child in a family of five, but in a statement made to the local media he asserted that there were always lingering suspicions he was different from the bunch.

“The people who raised me — my parents — were great people, but very straight-laced. They had very conservative and religious tendencies, whereas I like to illegally download music, freeboot, rove, raid and generally quest for loot. I think I take more after my biological father in that regard.”

Even so, he states he could have never suspected the truth.

“It has deeply disturbed me and sent a shock through my whole life. It’s been like a theme park ride. I’ve reevaluated everything, and still don’t know where I stand.”

“Now that it’s been brought to my attention, I can totally see the similarities,” said Phillipe Landry, a friend of Michel. “But I never would have guessed otherwise. He looks just like everyone else does around here.”

When reached for comment, Jack Sparrow was typically evasive, smiling wryly and saying, “Perhaps he’s one of Keith Richards’ many kin.”

Evasions aside, however, a DNA test between pirate and Broadbent confirmed the paternal link. Doctors at the Institute for Paternity Tests found the presence of the rare “AR” and “RR” protein. This string of proteins, found in both men’s DNA has not been seen for years. It was once prevalent, but had been thought to be completely decimated after the fatal scurvy outbreak of 2004 on the privateer ship, the Verbinski.

Back at home, some of the Sherbrooke native’s neighbours are excited at the news they have a second-degree connection to the iconic swashbuckler. Trudy Datson, St. Pierre’s kitty corner neighbour and notorious local gossip was delighted, but not exactly surprised. “I always knew there was something fishy about a middle-aged man with a parrot on his shoulder.”

The buzz around the neighbourhood was not all positive, however. Some neighbours are anxious about the close connection to a known criminal.

“Don’t like his style much, but the kid’s OK, I guess,” said Reg Brick, a local wagon-maker. “Though I tell ya, the second he brings around that Barbary corsair who fathered him, there’s going to be a whackin’.”

“We had a similar thing in the neighbourhood a few years ago when that guy with scissors for hands started hitting on that goth chick.”

The news hasn’t been all bad for St. Pierre. He disclosed that he just received a large sum of money for optioning his life story to MGM for a film trilogy set to star Johnny Depp, titled Chocolat 2: Nougat.

Rider found at the site of the Protestant Church fundraising event “Boleyn For Dollars.”

-  Bible (uncut)

-  Head of lettuce

- Head of current wife (cut)

William Shakespeare

Notorious playwright William Shakespeare, notorious for bon mots, puns, witticisms and wordplay, was also noted for the specific rider attached to his appearances at the Globe Theatre.

- 3 X Playwriting for Dummies book

- Quicke Guide to Kinges and Queenes of Eenglande book

- Complete Works of Christopher Marlowe book

- Photocopier

Gandhi

Infamous, extremely secret rider found in cell phone pocket of Gandhi’s shawl.

- 5 (five) x AK 47

- 10 (ten) x Smith and Wesson pistols

- 10 (ten) x Cushions (Purple, Velvet exterior, Goose-feather lining – NB: the feather of any of other bird will NOT be acceptable, for reasons of morality and comfort.)

- 5 (five) x Fasting Men and Women (varying in age and creed)

- 3 (three) x Fast Men and Women (under 20, pls, pref Asian)

Gaaaaaaghhr

Famous Neanderthal, invented fire. Rider for his 10,050 B.C. speaking tour “The Three Uses of Sticks.” Found etched in stone.

-One large roasted elk (NB: Only Irish Elk, please. Any other elk is unacceptable), to be delivered to my tent at the completion of each lecture

-One large wheel, to be delivered to me immediately after invention

-Exactly one hour before each lecture, I need a hot coffee, freshly chilled. When I say freshly chilled, I mean it: I’m not fucking around here. I don’t know why this seems so hard to understand, but believe it or not this is probably the one thing that gets fucked up the most. I will put it plainly enough that even a barely functional idiot who has never used a pot, seen a coffee bean or heard of temperatures could not fuck this up. Do not bring me a warm coffee. Do not just try to slip me a fast one by throwing ice cubes in my hot coffee, watering it down once the ice melts. Also, do not think that you can get away with just taking a hot coffee and sticking it in the refrigerator for an hour. I will notice. I won’t even need to taste it to notice. I can smell the difference instantly. If its a hot coffee that has been left to sit out and become cold with time, I will reheat it myself with the same fire that I invented, and throw it on you. I want one hot coffee, freshly chilled. Fuck this up and you will be fired on the spot.

-8 boxes of Trojan-brand rabbit-skin condoms

Elie Wiesel

Noble prizewinning author Elie Wiesel has a very specific pre-reading ritual that requires plenty of concentration and a healthy dose of camp.

- Vaseline

- Tissues

- DVD Copy of “Boat Trip”

(Frank&Beanz)

Madam Eta Carinae thought she’d have a quick lunch break before heading back to work. Looks like she got a little mooney for her homonocleus nebula snack and it exploded all over her! Uh oh… Here’s hoping she’s like us and packs a stick-on stain remover. In space, everyone can see your faux pas.

…..They get an attack of GREASE FACE!

As much as I love giving Arcturus a rough time about her shine, I’m going to let this slide, because she actually looks remarkably put-together compared to the way I normally look when I’m all spaced out. I just have to ask, though: why wear the over-the-top glare? I mean, we get the point: you’re a star. Do you really need those four stripes of light to draw attention to yourself? Talk about outfit overkill. Also, what is up with that camel toe?

Glare alert!!!

….They do the morning-after walk of shame!

 

-FRANKENBEANZ

…and so, as the horses galloped towards the cliff, blinded by the Caspian sunset, I leapt off of the carriage, reins in hand, and… and…

I’m sorry, why are you yawning? Have you a sleeping illness? Myself, I was stricken not once, but twice during jungle shoots for my orangu-friendly line of…

Again! My dear lady, you have yawned once again! Speak, now, fair maiden, else the cruel winds of weariness tear us apart!

…I’m sorry, could you repeat that?

…not even a little?

My good lady, I am stunned. Stunned! That my entire cavalcade of appeal – my muscles, my hair, my accent, my de-buttoned blouse by Vincenzo of Mantua, my jaw – all of my seductioneering charm has failed to whip you into frenzied abandon…

No. Impossible, I’m afraid. You are mistaken. You are in a diabetic shock… well, perhaps in an amorous shock, whereby you have regressed to a stage of eroticism, and you taunt the one that causes your very soul to quiver, your bowels…

No, I am NOT crying. My stone-hewn cheekbones are but glistening with the oils of a thousand and one Arabian trysts, or the salty spray of loves left lying on Maltese beaches, or, or moisturizing patchoulis from my Arouse the World in 80 Lays balloon exodus! No, tears have no place in these, the eyes that have gazed upon the bosoms of princesses, and at a wink, catapulted the clothes from their sumptuous forms!

…oh, there have been princesses! There have been more princesses than non-princesses, I would imagine, if it were possible to keep count by this point.

No, no, a gentlesir never indulges in regiphilia and tells. …but, ah, yes! Perhaps, my graceful swan, you hint thusly to be made a royal in the ways of romance yourself!

…still no? Then pray, damsel, to lay upon one so humble the divine digits of your domicile, that when the great fortress walls built up around thine heart do crack and crumble under desire’s duress, your fair figure might find glorious release on the pillars of…

Fine. Fine. To err is human, after all, and we two are but humans, no? Take your leave, but do make mention to your sisters and chambermaids of my temporary residence at the Inn of Ramada.

Delay yourself, lass! Lass! Alas, the lass, she has forgotten her gloves. …ahh, I see. Coy girl, her game is intricate – like the bra hooks she intends me, and me alone, to tear asunder. Love’s light faintly glimmers on the horizon once again!

Barkeep! Hear my command – more “Maximum Ice!”

And of course, I don’t give one good damn about the age difference! Hell, I think it’s kind of cool! Call me old-fashioned, and I guess you’d know what that stuff’s all about more than I would, but I’m pretty sure there was a time when the perfect woman was a frail bourgeois-in-decline who struggles in vain against the ravages of her late thirties, and honey, you’re strugglin’ in vain like a real champ! We reeaallllly don’t even need to install those dimmer switches at my dorm, truuust me.

Besides, with age comes wisdom, and you, my – m’lady, have taught me so much. And like, I dunno, this is kind of weird I guess, but thanks for opening me up, you know, sex-wise. I didn’t really date a lot in high school or whatever, and I mean well – sheesh man, lets just say I’d never done it in a remote New England infirmary before! Frig, when you were done with my thirteenth distinct encounter with sex, let’s just say I wasn’t much more mentally prepped to leave that place than you were! And hey, kinda crass, but I’m throwing it out there: If you don’t count tears, that’s the most W-E-T I’ve ever seen you!

Sorry. Sorry I said that. That was…

Plus I mean it’s such a riot when we’re just chilling out in the common room and having a few drinks, y’know? God, I mean, finally, a girl who doesn’t mind reverting to literal childhood, in her mind, once in a while! It’s really been hella cool, sharing tumbler after tumbler of bourbon with you, watching the condensation drip from your glass as it shakes violently in your tiny, like, good-looking hands.

And I know you’ve been jerked around by a lot of your boyfriends in the past, but I’d like you to think that maybe I could be a fresh start for you. I think I’m just as good as any of those guys, anyhow. I mean, come on, I think I can compete with the business guy with syphallis, probably any of those sightless African-American stable boys, and even that Polish merchant marine you’re always shuddering involuntarily about. That dude sounded like this one bro-ey jock from my high school, Freddy something. I mean I guess sometimes I worry you’ve still got feelings for that Finnegan guy, his name taking up as it does nearly every single word you say when you’re sleeping with your eyes open. But dude’s been your half-brother for something like, what, 40 years? Why not let the new kid step up to the plate? Just saying is all.

Shit, man, it’s a little early to say so, but I kind of think we’re kind of, well, wicked for each other. I certainly won’t let fate intervene with me having a found a girl like you, no sir, not if this here fellah has anything to say about fate! Not money; not your hysteria; not my parents; not those decorative pistols on your mantle over there, loaded as they may be with symbolism and bullets. Nothing will separate us, not even, like, tons of morphine. No, there is no amount of soothing, self-administered morphine that could ever numb this love, is there, my sweet little Chamomile?

MONTREAL, Canada (IP) – Noted CTV News journalist and coke fiend Mutsumi Takahashi was brutally slain last night in what appears to be the latest attack by a killer dubbed by the media as the “Mass Media Murderer”, or “That Splendid Guy”. In a week that has also seen Connie Chung hung, Dan Rather splattered and Soledad O’Brien o’fryin’, there is hushed speculation that any reporter could be next.

Most notable about the killer’s style, beyond targeting reporters, is his seemingly endless creativity in setting up his murders so as to have an amusing headline. Upon hearing of Bryant Gumbel’s liquefaction, rival news networks anchors gleefully reported the tragic creation of “Gumbel Gumbo”. But now, network partisanry has subsided in favour of muted, happy-faced terror.

“I’m not scared of him – in fact, I really hope we can be friends”, said NBC reporter Tom Brokaw, who shook nervously aware that his last name kind of sounded like ‘broke jaw’, or possibly ‘croaks – aww’. When asked if he thought he was being targeted, Brokaw claimed he thought he saw the murderer on the street, but it turned out to be Hollywood hunk and noted great guy George Clooney. “I’ve always pictured this killer as a really nice, devastatingly attractive guy”, said Brokaw. “So handsome, in fact, that if he wanted anything – anything – that wasn’t my life, he could have it.”

Reaction has been varied, but drastic. “I had my kids – my three, wonderful kids Joey, Gerry Junior and Farrah, daddy loves you – draw pictures of us and the murderer playing in the park some day”, stated Geraldo Rivera in a groundbreaking ceremony at the new Mass Media Murderer Children’s Hospital, funded by Rivera’s own recently-founded Stop The Insane (From Killing Me) charity. “You wouldn’t murder a reporter with glasses, three kids and a charity named after you, would you?”, asked Rivera.

Another public appeal came from ABC’s Barbara Walters, who is filing a class-action suit to find the murderer pre-emptively innocent. “We’ve all thought about murdering people we didn’t know, for no reason, and hell, maybe we’ve even tried it once or twice. But to do it serially is just a cry for help, and we must open our arms to protect our organs and skin from his knives of misunderstanding,” said Walters from her panic room telephone.

The suit comes after the dramatic, Emmy-nominated murder of Stone Phillips. On his way to a punny demise after being crushed by an elaborate Acme boulder trap installed by the murderer, a hospital bed-ridden Phillips dictated his dying words, lamenting his lack of effort in trying to appease this endlessly “inventive” and “virile” killer. Before a teary-eyed group of unidentified mourners, Phillips sobbed: “this watch… it could’ve bought him a better watch. This suit… could’ve saved him the trouble of doing laundry. This screenplay of mine for a Broadway musical-newsical… it could’ve… …”

Recently retired CBS “60 Minutes” anchor has come out as saying that the press could easily bring this man to justice if only they would report on him on any of their massively popular programs. “As soon as my laundry’s done, I’m going to go down to CBS, grab a camera, and tell the world that these prime-time pigeons haven’t been stoolying like they should. It’s shameful to see our once-proud press reduced to a bunch of simpering ninnies too scared to put their own ass on the line.”

It should be noted, in the interest of full disclosure, that this reporter thinks the nice-man murderer should kill this uppity prick next. For Insignificant Press, I’m Edward X. Rakedveins. …whoops.