White House Press Secretary Tony Snow announced today that two weapons of mass destruction were found north of Baghdad. Perhaps the most shocking revelation in this story deals with the fact that the “weapons” are nothing more than Vice President Dick Cheney and President George W. Bush. Original Unoriginal sat down for cocktails at an undisclosed location in Baghdad with President Bush to discuss his latest strategy in “kicking terrorist ass.”

Original Unoriginal: “President Bush, your approval rating is at an all time low. CBS, Newsweek and NBC all report that over 70% of Americans disapprove with your job performance. How do you respond to these polls?”

President Bush leans back into his La-Z-Boy and takes a moment to ponder the question.

President Bush: “Well, I don’t. There will always be people who disagree. I don’t pay attention to ‘em – don’t let ‘em bother me. We went over there to do a job. Job’s not done yet. I think if over half of America disapproved with the way I did my job, I wouldn’t have one.”

At this point in the interview a cigar-chomping, beer-drinking Vice President Dick Cheney emerges from the shadows.  Through a thick cloud of cigar smoke we see the coldest of stares, and a shotgun. The Original Unoriginal chooses not to pursue above subject any further.

OU: “What compelled you and the Vice President to go out with Marine Force Recon?”

PB: “Well Dick’s been training with Recon since I spoke with him in Crawford about being my running mate back in ‘99. He knew that as my Vice President he might be called into action. We got him on some new growth hormones. He’s working out 7 times a day.”

The President screams at the Vice President.

PB: “Show ‘em your muscles Dick!”

The Vice President assumes a muscle pose.

PB: “Secondly, I wouldn’t ask any American to do a job that I wouldn’t do myself. Thirthly, I have to answer my critics. Sometimes they get under my skin.”

The President stands up out of his La-Z-Boy and gives the Vice President a high five.

OU: “Some people will applaud yours and the Vice President’s effort…”

The President puts his hand up in front of us. The Original Unoriginal gives him a high five.

OU: “in fighting terrorist actions, while others think it will further escalate tensions in the Middle East. How do you respond?”

President Bush takes a few long moments to answer the question. His face grows tense. I look at the man and see him contemplating the most intense and complex responsibilities any person could or should have to bear. He suddenly jumps out of his lazy boy, spilling his Jack and Coke all over the floor.

PB: “TOUCHDOWN! FUCK YEAH! TOUCHDOWN DICK! DICK YOU OWE ME MONEY! DICK YOU OWE ME CAAAASH!”

The room erupts in applause. Vice President Cheney smashes his beer bottle on the floor. Original Unoriginal turns around to find a big screen TV playing American Soccer – with the sound muted.

PB: “Bend-it-like-BECK-HAM!!!” (The President emphasizes each syllable by throwing punches at the air.)

The President runs around the room and gives a high five to all of his secret service agents. He sits back down in his seat, stands up, gives Original Unoriginal a high five, and takes his seat again.

PB: ”Beckham! Whew!  You know he's American now. What was your question again?”

OU: “We were wondering what…”

President Bush interrupts again.

PB: “Have you seen Dick’s ear necklace?”

OU: “Ear necklace?”

President Bush motions to Vice President Cheney.

PB: “Dick! Show ‘em your ear necklace. Have you seen Apocalypse Now? From That Henry Ford Italian dude.”

Vice President Cheney hands President Bush a necklace with numerous human ears attached. President Bush holds the ears for Original Unoriginal to get a better look.

PB: “100% pure Al Qaeda ears.”

President Bush pulls one of the ears close to his mouth.

PB: “Can you hear me Obama? We’re coming for you! Democracy mother fucker! WHEW!!!”

President Bush, laughing hysterically, throws the ear necklace back at an un-expecting Vice President. The ears fall to the floor and the Vice President grunts as he picks them up.

PB: “We’re kickin’ ass left and left here.”

The room erupts into laughter. President Bush runs around the room again to high five everyone. The President swiftly returns to recliner to resume the interview.

OU: “Your father was known for his service in the military during World War II. We were wondering how you…”

President Bush begins to look very emotional.

OU: “and the military…”

President Bush begins to cry softly.

OU: “Is there something wrong Mr. President?”

The President begins to hyperventilate.

PB: “My..My…my daddy never loved me.”

The President begins to sob uncontrollably and Vice President Cheney comes over to comfort him.

PB: “I’m the most powerful person in the world and…and…All I want is my DADDY’S LOVE!!!”

Vice President Cheney sits down in the La-Z-Boy and President Bush gets in his lap. Cheney consoles the President.

Vice President Cheney: “Who’s the most powerful leader of the free world?”

PB: “MMMMMMe.”

VPC: “That’s right.”

The President starts to calm down by nesting himself in the nurturing bosom of the Vice President. The Vice President runs his fingers through the President’s hair and begins to speak very softly.

VPC: “Did you know the 101st has on a small band of Taliban fighters pinned down outside of Fallujah?”

The President perks up like one of Pavlov’s dogs after hearing a bell. He stares at the Vice President, too anxious to make any words come out.

VPC: “That’s right. We got an Apache fueled and ready."

PB: “Can I borrow your grenade launcher?”

The Vice President messes up the President’s hair and slaps him on the back.

VPC: “You sure can Mr. President.”

The President wipes the tears from his eyes and touches the Vice President gently on the cheek.

PB: "You better not be foolin'!"

The President hugs the Vice President, sheds a few more tears and then runs out of the room quicker than Lindsay Lohan at rehab. Two large secret service men quickly grab both me and my underpaid assistant by the shoulders and escort us out of the room. We were told the interview would commence again at a later date.  Developing…

Prince Charming found her in the tower–the lovely princess Willownella, very sleepy and very innocent. The dragon had kept men away for at least a 100 years. Here was his pristine girl, still 16, 16 forever or at least as long as she slept (and the legal age of consent in the Enchanted Kingdom). After a 100 years there wasn't the slightest sign of wear and tear–here gown was bleach white, her skin unblemished, every blonde hair in place. She was snoring a little but that was to be expected. He could overlook that, and overlook the little streak of drool making its way down her cheek.

He woke her up with a kiss. She bolted upright like a vampire who's just been staked through the heart. One thing led to another. Apparently 100 years was long enough to wait without seeming like a slut. But what ensued was beyond even Prince Charming's sexual repertoire.

She got nasty. Real nasty. Let's just say that 100 years is a long time to go without a bathroom break. And that the torture chamber in the dungeon didn't go unused.

"The bitch is nasty," Prince Charming told me off the record. "One minute I'm giving her a little kiss and the next she's sucking my dick."

Joel Bracket, a stiflingly unintelligent Tight End on the Jesse Helms High School (Weevil, Ga.) football team announced yesterday to a locker room of bemused teammates that he intended on getting his first tattoo next month.Bracket, who is used sparingly because of poor blocking skills, little or no pass-catching ability and an almost unprecedented inability to remember even the most basic of plays was heard to say he was leaning toward "something that really says who I am. Something really, really unique. Maybe a ring of barbed wire around one of my biceps or a Chinese symbol. It's an important decision, maybe the most important decision of my life."

When told that unique meant "one of a kind" and therefore wasn't particualrly subject to degrees and that perhaps choosing a college or to entire military service might trump the choice of tattoo for being an important decision, Bracket blinked and replied, "whatever".

When asked why he was considering a Chinese symbol, Bracket said it had to do with "all that cool Bruce Lee shit" and had the added bonus of "nobody would know what it really meant. I'm really complex and I like being all mysterious and shit".

Bracket, who was referred to by even the most generous of his teachers as being "the most dim-witted, mouth-breathingly stupid — almost alarmingly stupid — teenager I've ever helped ramrod through the system" was then asked which Chinese symbol he was considering but was distracted by something shiny and wandered off before he could answer.

Dr. John, New Orleans' most recognizable purveyor of palatable, watered-down jazz/funk/soul delivered what must have been his millionth rendition of Right Place/Wrong Time at some club somewhere last night.

Visibly slouching under his beret, he all but ate the microphone, muttering lyrics that have been so oft repeated his mind was clearly elsewhere.

"Hell, I think I was wondering what movie to order in my hotel room later than night," the good Doctor subsequently explained, absentmindedly pushing a lime around in his Diet Coke with a pair of tiny red cocktail straws. "I haven't seen Rocky Balboa yet, and I saw it was available on demand. Maybe I'll check that out."

John then slouched off the bar stool in half-hearted response to the crowd of conventioneers (regional sales managers for a major retailer) calling for an encore. His mild disgust was barely concealed by the amber lenses of his round sunglasses as he put his fingers on the keys and said with a wince: "It looks like I'm in the right place after all." This drew a drunken cheer from the crowd and a twitch of nausea from John himself.

He then began playing, you guessed it, a chorus of Right Place one more time. He then segued into Iko Iko – a transition he didn't even realize he'd made until more than halfway through the song. Afterwards, he was visibly resigned.

"All these whitebread jazz and blues fans, clapping out of rhythm and shaking their heads side to side. Whatever. Yeah, I'll wear the beret and scarf if that helps. Ooh, don't I look like a musician? Cripes. All the beads and pins and crap. Just once I'd like to throw on a golf shirt and call it a day."

John then realized he was speaking relatively unfractured English. He quickly regained his performance persona: "Ah means t' said, 'less gets us some good time!' Yah yah right?"

After the show, several patrons observed John talking to Aaron Neville, and asking him "how the hell he puts up with all this bullshit."

Gil Saperstein, a Brown University sophomore double majoring in international finance and art history, is rocking the online world with the launch of FauxCooze, a new social network that strips pretense from its member profiles and resulting interactions. Saperstein, who built the network over the summer (rather than kowtow to his parent's high-pressure demands that he subject himself to a high-pressure internship at a prominent investment firm) is already courting offers from major players like Yahoo! and Google. Rupert Murdoch himself has been stalking the young e-trepreneur, both in person, and through consistent "pokes" from his own FauxCooze profile.
"FauxCooze takes online wanking to the most efficient level possible," explained Saperstien, who met us at a nondescript Connecticut diner for grilled Velveeta sandwiches and coffee. "Every pasty, pale-skinned misanthrope who dreams of interacting with beautiful, playfully aggressive, sexually uninhibited females finds a home on FauxCooze – because every member is simultaneously pretending to be a beautiful, playfully aggressive, sexually uninhibited female."

The wrinkle Saperstein invented was what he calls Fema-Profile Reconfiguration. When a male enters his information, that profile is preserved using those genuine credentials and information. Simultaneously, however, a duplicate profile is created by FauxCooze servers, except the information is revised based on idealized female characteristics.

"A Bill becomes a Billie, a Steven becomes Stephanie, Taylor becomes Tyler, etc." The transmogrification means that every member both participates and generates a receptive entity, so FauxCooze members are guaranteed to enjoy the delusion that they are interacting with a female in that flirtatious, alluring way – not so crass and immediate as a cyber-chat. Let's be blunt. Pornography is a hit-and-run solution for the socially inept. This gives them the sensation of engaging in actual relationships – then they can whack off."

OJ Simpson announced today his latest venture in the literary world. His sophomore effort, If Someone Else Did It, takes the infamous murders of Nicole Brown and Ron Goldman into uncharted waters.

"I knew we had to put a fresh spin on the story. It’s been told a thousand times. To me, it’s really a modern-day Shakespearean tragedy told in the fantasy/thriller genre,” comments OJ.

If Someone Else Did It examines a fictional “love square” between OJ, Nicole, Ron and OJ’s evil doppelganger – AJ Smithson.  The doppelganger administers repeated physical and psychological abuse to Nicole, all under the guise of being The Juice.

“AJ’s actions become more atrocious and bold as the story unfolds. As AJ’s character grows to be more malicious, OJ’s character grows to find inner peace and harmony in a crazy world.” OJ continues, “Both OJ and AJ are perfect examples of the classic archetypes of good and evil. AJ’s really a metaphor for all of our inner demons.”

The book’s most shocking and thrilling moments take place the evening of the murders. OJ is relaxing at his Brentwood Estate when his doppelganger appears mysteriously from the shadows. With a sinister grin on his face, AJ tells OJ of his intentions to murder both Nicole and her new young lover, Ron Goldman. This incites an uncharacteristic fit of rage in OJ and an intense life or death fight breaks out in the bedroom. The doppelganger manages to render OJ unconscious by the repeated slashing OJ’s hands with his evil fingernails. With OJ knocked-out, AJ takes a few moments to peruse OJ’s closet – finding a pair of Bruno Magli shoes and one black Aris Light XL glove. When OJ awakes, he turns on the news and finds that his both his ex-wife and her lover have been murdered. He quickly realizes that his doppelganger has framed him for murder.

OJ is quick to point out that the suspense does not end with the murders of Nicole and Ron. “There nothing more exciting than a car chase,” says OJ with a devilish smirk on his face. The rumored climax of If Someone Else Did It puts the reader in the passenger seat of the now famous white Ford Bronco. Hundreds of police cars chase the Bronco down a crowded Los Angeles freeway, with a framed OJ stopping at nothing to prevent his doppelganger’s escape.

The news sent shockwaves through the NFL community and its fans.

Oft-troubled and league-suspended NFL miscreant Adam "Pacman" Jones' image took what might be a fatal hit yesterday when it was discovered that the Tennessee Titan cornerback was contemplating spending his season-long suspension as a telemarketer.

A source claims Jones had been "staying up late, watching a lot of infomercials" and been obsessed with the idea of going into the telemarketing business from his home as a way of helping pay off his staggering legal fees.

"Fuck him. Fuck him right in the mouth," said Gomer Pigwife, a Tennessee native and Titans fan. "I've stood by that piece of crap for his entire career. Didn't give two shits what he did off the field so long as he took care of bidness on it … but this crosses a line. Telemarketing? Fuck me."

No word on what sort of product Jones might be trying to sell.

Yesterday's welcoming meeting for a new memeber of the sales team at Peachbutt, Inc. was cancelled after four minutes due to poor staff behavior.

Clancy Peachbutt was attempting to introduce new Vice-President of Sales, Harry Growcock, to his (Growcock's) new coworkers and staff but was unable to complete his welcoming speech because all in attendance save Mr. Peachbutt and Mr. Growcock were overwhelmed by fits of laughter and giggling.

"I can only assume that our people were laughing about some unrelated joke or something seen on television last night," said Mr. Peachbutt.

Mr. Growcock went directly to his office without addressing the room, but was heard to say "Oh, grow the fuck up" to a colleague.

"Hey, after a number of years working for this company I've pretty much gotten used to the boss' name," said one employee on the condition of anonymity. "But seriously, if you're gonna introduce a guy by the name of Harry Growcock, you've gotta give us a little warning in advance so we can try to keep it together."

Mr. Peachbutt's Executive Assistant says the meeting will not be rescheduled.

It may not have the visual sexuality of the Pam Anderson and Tommy Lee sex tape, but a collection of long-time college football broadcaster Keith Jackson's answering machine messages to his wife, Turi Ann, has been making the rounds on various web sites lately.The messages, compiled onto a CD and apparently taken withtout permission from the beloved and avuncular Jackson's home by a guest, are rife with with the homespun (if highly sexual) imagery that has been Jackson's trademark for over fifty years and suggest Jackson's bedroom persona may not be all that different from the one he's shared with football fans.

An example:

"As I gaze out across the Texas hill country, with the sunset boasting its colorful gamut from amber to indigo, and a possum-huntin' moon already high in the sky, I am forced to recognize a protuberance to the south of my own ample equator. This titan of trouser-town cries out for your recognition, my dimpled bride. It faces a third and long and only a head-first plunge into your musky swamp will satisfy the trembling, lusty-voiced, hundred thousand fan throng that is the Tostitos Fiesta Bowl of my libido."

No word on whether Jackson's ubiquitous phrase "Whoa, Nellie!" appears on the recording.

According to witnesses, prominent literary and cultural critic Harold Bloom “snapped like a dry branch,” in front of a New York bookstore, where legions of Harry Potter fans have been cueing up to purchase the latest Potter novel, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

“It’s crap! It’s fucking crap! It’s double fucking crap!” He ranted at the assembly of overtly nerdy adults and blank-faced children – many wearing faux dark-rimmed glasses and wizard hats – who seemed more perplexed by Bloom’s sub-references than intimidated by his harangue.

“What’s a Northrop Frye?” one school-aged boy with an “I Heart Hogwarts” t-shirt asked his mother.

“I don’t know,” she responded. “Maybe some kind of breakfast special?”

The 900-pound gorilla of literary criticism, Bloom is the Sterling Professor for the Humanities at Yale University and Berg Professor of English and American Literature at New York University. He is also a leading “bardologist” who has painstakingly analyzed the works of William Shakespeare, and has gone so far as to insist that Shakespeare “invented” humanity.

“What has [Potter author] JK Rowling invented? Broom fetishism? Fixation on some asinine delineation between normal people and these bullshit magical types? And you all pretend this is new?”

Bloom then spread the fingers on his right hand and began counting. “There should only be four contemporary authors on the shelves in that whole fucking store! Fucking [Cormac] McCarthy, fucking [Don] DeLillo, fucking [Thomas] Pynchon, and fucking [Philip] Roth!”

He then shook his closed fist at the hapless Barnes and Noble security guard who tried to placate him with a Grove Centenary Edition Samuel Beckett boxed set. Brushing the offer aside, Bloom cupped his genitals through his corduroy pants with both hands, and shouted, “I’ve got your Muggles right here!”

A minute later, Bloom reeled toward the curb, arms stretched overhead in total capitulation. He then propped himself against a parking meter and vomited. Hunched and wiping a smear of drool from his mouth, he hissed: “I quit. I surrender. You fucking cunts don’t want authentic imaginative vision, then you don’t get it! Spend your weekend soaking up that fucking derivative pabulum. Go ahead, just dumb yourselves right on down. Why hasn’t anyone read The Flight to Lucifer? You . . . you . . . literary lemmings!”

Bloom then smiled slightly, taking a touch of pleasure in his alliterative moment before a pair of police officers gently led him to a waiting ambulance.