SubscribeAn All Too Telling Photo Caption From Reuters
A non-photoshopped boner from Reuters:
Wearing a Bill Clinton mask, a supporter of Republican presidential candidate and former Arkansas Governor Mike Huckabee stands outside a campaign rally in Des Moines, Iowa January 1, 2008.
Apparently the folks at Reuters don’t appreciate sarcasm.
Or maybe the joke is inconceivable to them.
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January 2nd, 2008 at 11:14 pm
Reuter’s is French for “Frigging Idiot’s”
January 3rd, 2008 at 7:08 am
“PABLO’S CORNED BEEF ODYSSEY” – a Caucus Special and a new experiment in discontinuous narrative, starring all your favorites – Colt Luger! Hillary Clinton! Jerry and Jerry, the Hollywood Moguls! Human Hog Rosie O’Donnell! Plus Special Guest Victim – Pablo!
Rated “R” for inadvertent cannibalism and Clintonian dental hygeine
At the sprawling Porco Pueblo Meat Processing Plant in Mexico City, it was the start of another busy day. The slope-shouldered and oppressed workforce shuffled inside for another day of grim toil at the slurry vats and on the killing floor.
Outside, doddering cattle and tottering pigs huddled dumbly in their pens, awaiting their fate. Inside, the reeking stench arose in heavy clouds from the bubbling cauldrons when the rumble of the endless conveyor belts was interrupted by a sudden cry of alarm.
“Jefe! Jefe! Come queeck! Pablo has fallen into the slurry vat!”
“Santa Maria! Not another one!”
“Si! Queeck – turn off the machines!”
“Turn them off? No – we are behind schedule. We must maintain production!”
“But Pablo –“
“Forget Pablo! Pablo is gone! Now, back to your station – pronto!”
“Si, mi Jefe…” sighed the downcast peon as endless cans of ‘Uncle Sam’s All-American Corned Beef’ clanked and rattled along the assembly line.
“Adios, Pablo” he whispered. “But I theenk we shall meet again…at dinnertime”.
…
At that same moment, Colt Luger, Masterspy, was defending America from his climate-controlled office at the CIA’s new multi-billion dollar facility, the George “Nostradamus” Tenet Building.
Hmm, he mused, focusing on the flimsy pages of the crossword puzzle book. These are tough clues.
“Massively overfunded, incompetent and unaccountable Federal agency”. Hmmm. Three letters”.
You got me. Let’s try another: “Byword for multiple intelligence failures”. Three letters again – gee.
Here’s one: “Live and let live is their motto”. Three letters. Gosh; another toughie.
Just then the phone rang on his desk made of mahogany and precious Bongo horn.
Colt knew what he had to do:
“Hello? Who’s there?” he said, picking up the receiver and searching relentlessly for the facts.
“Agent Luger? This is Jim Lakwitt, Special Aide to the President calling. The President has a question that only the Agency can answer”.
“A question? What is it?”
“Normally, it’s an interrogative statement issued in order to apprise oneself of certain factual information” sighed Jim Lakwitt, wincing at the ancient joke. “But that’s not important now. The President wants to know who played The Skipper on ‘Gilligan’s Island’. Can you tell him?”
“Um, sure” said Colt, punching the data into the Agency’s new supercomputer, nicknamed “Big Brain”. In a few seconds the answer came back:
“Alan Hale Junior” it read.
“Well; what’s the answer?” demanded Jim Lakwitt.
“Forrest Tucker” said Colt.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely! It’s a slam du-“ choked Colt, suddenly recalling the inter-Agency memo on Phrases to Avoid From Now On. “Um, it’s a sure thing”.
“Great! Thanks, Agent Lungfish”.
“Er, no problem-o” responded Colt, returning to his crossword book.
“Hmmm. ‘Rogue Federal Agency working against the Administration. Three letters’. Hey! I think I know this one…Nope. Can’t fit ‘State Department’ into three letters. Darn”.
…
In Hollywood, Jerry the Movie Executive stood by the pool, talking on his cel to Jerry the Producer.
“Tell me, Jerry: what makes Hollywood run? Cocaine and blowjobs? I mean besides that. Uh huh. That’s right – money – and I’m looking at the box office for ‘Redacted’, for ‘Rendition’, for ‘Lions for Lambs’ and I’m not seeing money, Jerry. I’m just not”.
Jerry listened for a moment.
“Look, all I’m saying is that we need to reconsider the main storyline and make it a little more market-friendly. How’s this? Instead of calling it ‘Army of Shame’ we change it to something more, um, positive, like ‘Go! American Fighting Heroes, Go!’ or ‘The Glory Guys’” – Jerry listened for another moment.
“No, Jerry. Not ‘Glory Hole Guys’ – c’mon; you know I don’t make that kind of picture anymore. Anyhoo, the Marketing people can tell us which one tracks. And instead of the GIs, like, you know, raping and killing all the little Iraqi children, we have them building a school instead, or a church or whatever they have over there”.
Jerry held the phone away from his ear and flinched.
“I’m just thinking out loud here, Jerry. Cripes. How many raping and murdering movies can we make? When is enough enough? When it stops making money, that’s when. Now look, Jerry. I know we’re artists and everything but business is business…”
…
At a campaign rally in Cornbread, Iowa, Hillary Clinton surveyed the crowd while her “husband” warmed them up.
Look at their stupid faces, she fumed. Just look at them; staring up at him like he’s Martin Luther Mandela or something. Look at their shining, upturned, blank little faces. Stupid hicks.
She adjusted her green nylon pantsuit. Almost time she thought. Come on, Hillary – smile. That’s it – you can do this. Push the corners off the mouth away from the teeth – just like they coached you. Feel it moving, that’s it. Almost there…
“And so, without furtha adoo, let me intraduce thuh next President of the United States, mah bewtaful wahf, Hillary…Rodham… CLINTON!”
Not yet! she thought. Not ready! A desperate Hillary grabbed her leathery jowls in both hands and yanked them upward, exposing the gleaming yellow of her teeth. Stay in place, damn you! Stay in place…
…
Meanwhile, a dusty truck rumbled across what used to be called the border between America and Mexico. Inside, sweltering in the darkness and on their way to a new life, Manuel and Manuela, plus their entire teeming family, clung to the swaying cartons. If they knew any English they could have read the colorful logo of Uncle Sam’s All-American Corned Beef…
Well, where’s all this going? Search me. We’ll all find out tomorrow, when “PABLO’S CORNED BEEF ODYSSEY” returns!
January 3rd, 2008 at 10:56 am
Reuter’s is German for “nitwit,” “clueless” and “brain dead.”
January 3rd, 2008 at 2:23 pm
Wow. What am I always told by liberals - that journalism is a liberal job because they’re so much more intelligent, more willing to question authority, more willing to take the “unpopular” stance on issues, etc.
The more I think about that - the more I laugh.
January 3rd, 2008 at 4:09 pm
The real Clinton does not look as good as the guy in the mask. Reuters is clueless.
January 4th, 2008 at 5:18 am
“PABLO’S CORNED BEEF ODYSSEY”, a Caucus Special, an experiment in discontinuous narrative and, I now realize, a complete Revenge Fantasy on my part, returns with what would normally be called “Chapter Two” but since this is all a-linear and post-modern and stuff, it’s just called “Chapter”.
Rated “R” for inadvertent cannibalism and Rosie feeding frenzy
Don Rumsfeld, Strategic Genius (retd), and his pals George Tenet, Rick Sanchez and Paul Bremer sat around Don’s kitchen table, planning their next adventure.
“So it’s agreed?” asked Don. “We’re all putting our life savings into a new business; a farm that’ll crossbreed ostriches and cows to produce eggs containing milk and/or cheese, right? And delicious steaks that taste like bird, right? As well as tasty cattle wings and cow flavoured drumsticks”.
“Right, Boss” agreed all three, as usual.
“So, what’ll we call these fabulous animals, once we’ve bred them?” asked Don, probing and questioning as always.
“Cowstriches” said Tenet.
“Ostricows” said Sanchez.
“I can make food in my nose” said Bremer, probing a nostril and gobbling the outcome.
Rumsfeld sighed. Well, they were still his team. And he was still the Boss.
In his fertile mind, Don could already see the rolling plains covered with vast grazing herds of ostricattle as far as the eye could see. What a vision, what imagination, what boldness! He knew he was still the smartest guy in the room, especially this room.
“Are we sure this will work? The cross-species thing, I mean” asked Sanchez.
“Sure” said Don. Look at this postcard from Arizona. See? It’s called a ‘jackalope’. Look at the size of that thing. I tell you, we’re gonna make a fortune with our ostricattle farm”.
“You’re right again, Boss” agreed Sanchez.
“I hope you fellas are hungry” said Mrs Rumsfeld, bustling over and setting the laden tray on the table. “I’ve made Don’s favorite”.
“Corned beef – great!” smiled Don.
…
In Buckshot, New Hampshire, Hillary Clinton’s motorcade thundered to a halt outside the Quik-E Snak Diner.
“What now?” snarled the Inevitable Next President.
“Just a short stop, Senator” said Chadd the Campaign Manager. “You go in, have a little snack, give The Speech, talk a few questions from our planted questioners and then we’re outta here”.
“Terrific” mumbled Hillary. “What am I having for lunch?”
“Well, our research says this is a pretty blue-collar area, so no lobster, no filet mignon, no Thai food, no…”
“Goddammit” cursed the Woman from Hope.
“They do a Corned Beef Lunch Special” said Chadd. “Our polling shows that’s just the kind of meal that’ll track really well for you around here”.
“Fine. Whatever. Let’s get this over with…”
…
At Hunter College Rosie O’Donnell was just winding up her speech to the students about the oppression and suffering endured by those few brave souls who dared to speak truth to power in the long dark night of Bush’s fascist Amerikkka.
“I could be arrested, right now, for giving this speech…” choked the mountainous man-woman, as the students applauded rapturously but she wasn’t.
Later, across the street in Finnery O’Flannagan’s Irish Pub, Rosie wiped that sneer off her face long enough to accept the attention and adoration of her student fans.
“How about some lunch, Rosie?” asked Jenny the Student Union President. “You must be starving”.
“I’ll say; I could eat a horse” remarked the bloated Bostonian, scanning the menu board for ‘Horse’ but not finding it.
“Oh well; I’ll have a large corned beef sandwich. And a cup, no, a bowl – no, a bucket of beef stew. And some chicken – no, make it a whole chicken. And a stack of pancakes – no, two stacks. And the roast beef sub – extra mayo. And a seafood platter. With extra clams. And a Diet Coke”.
…
In Mexico City a wailing crowd of mourners followed Pablo’s coffin to his final resting place.
“Pablo touched many lives…” intoned the priest but as his teeming family lowered the frail wooden coffin into the dusty ground only few of them knew that it contained nothing but rocks. There was no body to bury; Pablo was gone, Pablo was someplace, or some places, else.
…
“How’s your lunch, Senator?” asked Mike the Short Order Cook. “Pretty good, huh?”
Actually, it’s a little chewy, Hillary thought to herself.
“Great” she lied. “Delicious. Corned beef’s my favorite”.
…
“How’s about some more sandwiches, fellas?” asked Don, always the generous host.
“You bet” agreed Tenet.
“Sure thing, Boss” agreed Sanchez.
“Mine has a tooth in it” said Bremer. “I’m gonna put it under my pillow”.
…
In the secret CIA cafeteria Colt Luger, holding his tray, shuffled along in the dinner line.
“What’ll it be, Colt?” asked Lunch Lady Agent Doris.
“Um. What’s the Special today?”
“Hot dogs or Spam”.
“Hot dogs or Spam? Are you kidding me? Who knows what’s in that stuff. I’ll have the corned beef”.
“Coming right up, big guy”.
…
“Another keg of beer, Rosie? Some more corned beef?”
“Well, (erp) why not? But with extra ketchup this time”.
…
“I don’t feel so good” belched Rosie, wiping her chins. “Excuse me…” the gorged and replete former comedienne rose from the table and staggered to the Men’s Room.
The occupants quickly re-directed her to the room next door and once inside Rosie threw herself to her knees and vomited copiously into the once gleaming bowl.
“Geez - what was in that corned beef?” she gasped, spitting out a little piece of gristle. “Phew. Well, that made room for dessert anyway”.
…
At the trendiest table in Hollywood’s trendiest new eatery, The Veal Crate, Jerry and Jerry were doing lunch.
“You moguls ready to order?” enquired Tammy the Waitress.
“Sure. I’ll go with the corned beef” said Jerry.
“Same for me” said Jerry. “Great minds think alike, huh?”