Conflicts Re-Escalate with Penistani Insurgence into Vaginia

Labianopolis, Vaginia- The furtive peace that existed between the states of Penistan and Vaginia collapsed last night as Penistani insurgents penetrated deep into Vaginese territory. Vaginia's halt of all tomato juice exports, a resource that held considerable sway in keeping the Penistani military out Vaginian affairs, reignited the violent struggle between the two nations which has raged intermittently over the last few months.

The Penistani government openly condemned the attacks, saying that the invasion is the product of rogue Penistani militants who "just keep getting caught up in the moment," and "aren't really thinking through their decisions." Militia leaders, based in the Penistani region of Ballsra, share a different sentiment. "Tactically speaking, we saw the opportunity and knew it wouldn't last forever. They had their borders open and were pretty much saying, 'come on in.' The UN may condemn our decision, but how could what felt so right be so wrong?"

The invasion was swift and decisive, beginning with a hard surge through the tactically weak Pink Canyon, which exists just on the Vaginese border and is known for its distinctive reddish limestone rock formations. After some brief "shock and awe" tactics were employed, generally involving the consistent advance and withdrawal of what Penistan considers to be some rather impressive military equipment, literally millions of troops were suddenly and abruptly unloaded into the country.

The massive invading hordes pressed upward through the harsh and bitter terrain that surrounds the outskirts of the nation. In spite of amazingly stacked odds against them, sheer numbers ultimately drove the ground forces to success. Furthermore, after a brief respite from the insurgence, the Penistanis instigated a gratuitous second and slightly-longer-lasting invasion campaign involving the exact same tactics once again, though with significantly diminished troop numbers.

Vaginese citizens and government officials expressed dismay at how briefly the invasion process lasted. "Things ended way to soon. We were hoping for a war with some endurance, instead we got weeks of Penistani posturing and a couple days of actual fight. Penistan may be proud of itself, but we're pretty unsatisfied." said Admiral Fallopia, commander of the Vaginian navy.

While the UN remains indecisive regarding the advance of Penistani troops in Vaginia, the organization expresses growing concern over the possibility of further troop movements into Vaginia's northern neighbor, Uteropia.

Mexican College Student Secretly Resents White Roommate's Mexican Jokes

Santa Cruz, California- Paco Hernandez Escobar Honda Del Sol, a Chicano college student attending the local university, secretly resents his Caucasian roommate's consistent telling of hilarious Mexican jokes. "Cliff always makes some reference to me eating 'tacos y burritos' and then says something lame about how he just likes to tell those jokes because they're 'so wrong' and 'tacky' to cover his ass." says Hernandez. "What an asshole."

Roommate and white guy Cliff Biffworthy remains blissfully ignorant of Hernandez' true sentiment. "Paco understands, or should I say, 'comprendos' that it's just part of my sense of humor. If it's funny it's funny. I mean, both of us know I'm anything but racist," says Biffworthy, "When we're between classes or, in the case of Paco, taking a break from sitting around outside Home Depot, my comedic know-how helps us both relieve stress."

In spite of this subtle yet substantial tension, the two not only remain roommates, but spend a fair amount of time together as well. According to Hernandez, Cliff plays an excellent roll in motivating him to stay in shape. "We went to the gym the other day, and while I was running on the treadmill, Cliff came over and turned up the speed. He said I'd have to push myself harder if I wanted to be a contender in that big 'T.J. to San Diego marathon' that 'us Mexicans' apparently always compete in." says Hernandez, "Douche bag." he added.

In spite of this, Biffworthy insists that Paco "loves" him. "Nothing gay though, we're talking pure platonics here." says Biffworthy, "I showed my appreciation of our friendship with a special picture I made with Microsoft Paint for his birthday. He thought it was great."

"That picture is an affront to my culture and my heritage. Fuck that guy." says Hernandez.

Goodyear Blimp Diagnosed with Anorexia

Goodyear officials announced in a press conference yesterday that their beloved blimp has been diagnosed with anorexia. "Our suspicions arose about two months ago, when we noticed that the blimp's structural ribbing was showing much more prominently than usual. It's all gone downhill since," said Goodyear press representative Jim Hatfield.

Many experts blame the portrayal of unrealistically thin airframes on television and in magazines for the recent spike in flying machine eating disorders. "Just look at the once-glamorous and startlingly slim supersonic Concorde airliner," said leading medical expert Sarah McArthur, "that is one waft-like airplane, to an extent that's just unhealthy. They grounded that jet for a reason."

Additionally, TV coverage of the lithe and slender fighter jets utilized by Coalition forces in Iraq and Afghanistan have also lead some of the chunkier aircraft to develop body-image issues. "When you look at what's on the runway today, the name of the game seems to be thin and angular. Just look at the tiny airframe on the F-22 Raptor. No wonder it doesn't show up on enemy radar." says McArthur.

Even in the face of its popularity, not all flight enthusiasts are "in" to "thin." "When I'm experiencing turbulence, I like a little something I can grab on to, you know?" states frequent flier Michael Donovan. "Say what you will about the glories of being thin, but I know what puts my tray table in its upright and locked position."

Some major manufacturers are releasing new models that seem to defy the slim paradigm, like Boeing with its "more-to-love" 787 Dreamliner and Airbus' "voluptuous" A-380.

Even so, the plight of the Goodyear Blimp endures. "We all think Goody B. is beautiful just the way it is," says Hatfield, "but when that blimp looks at itself in a mirror, it sees an enormous, bloated, and cumbersome aircraft that requires an immense gasbag just to haul around a tiny 8 seat compartment. These notions are clearly all a matter of negative body image, and reflect nothing of reality."

The Goodyear blimp could not be reached for comment, as it was locked in the bathroom purging large amounts of helium into the atmosphere.

Major Recall In Effect After Lead Products Found to Contain Toys

Cosolidated Ore, a leading producer of lead and other heavy metal based products, today announced a complete recall due to the discovery of unsafe toy levels within their metal. Lead-based items laced with the contaminant, all of which were produced at outsourced facilities in China, include car batteries, bullets, fish sinkers, and radiation shielding equipment commonly used by radiologists and haz-mat workers.

“Consolidated Ore is working around the clock to rectify this situation, and we are prepared to accept full responsibility for any fun-related health issues suffered by the public either now or in the future,” said company press representative Sheila Meyers in a statement made yesterday, “Also, you can rest assured we will be rethinking our relationship with our Chinese contractors.”

Exposure to toys, a product commonly utilized by children, may cause adults to experience inappropriate joy, gaiety, childlike hyperactivity, and in cases of heavy exposure, nostalgia comas. Furthermore, children who come into contact with the toy-tainted products often believe that their parents are treating them to goodies outside of birthdays and Christmas, leading to a degenerative condition that turns kids into spoiled little shits.

While industry analysts predict that Consolidated Ore may lose millions of dollars in related lawsuits, the impact on the consumer has proven itself to be quite serious as well. “This is unacceptable,” said Dr. Franklin Higgins, a hospital radiologist. “My livelihood and personal health are both at stake here. Just the other day an entire shipment of lead-lined x-ray vests came in, except half the order turned out to be made from stitched-together Easy-Bake Oven mitts. Does Consolidated even understand the consequences of prolonged x-ray exposure?”

“I was late for work because my new car battery was full of Pokemon.” said Bill Hasborough, motorist.

Even the war on terror has been negatively affected. “I was on a routine patrol last week, manning the 80cal [machine gun] on the leading vehicle, when our convoy was ambushed by insurgents packing RPGs.” said Private Jackson Cole, who is currently on his third tour in Iraq, “I returned fire, hoping to pump those bastards full of lead, but was surprised to find myself pelting the enemy with foam NERF darts instead. It was really embarrassing.”

Fortunately for Cole and his convoy, the insurgents, being children themselves, reacted by jumping up and down excitedly, snatching up the foam darts as quickly as possible, and running home to play with them.

CyberHippie: A CyberPunk Short Story

All of the following 3v3nts actually happ3n3d in r3al lif3.
This whol3 thing is compl3t3ly tru3.
...
The y3ar is 2033.

Santa Cruz, California

Jackson "StarKrystal" Horner cranked up the Pink Floyd, took another bong rip, stuffed a handful of organic Cheetos into his mouth, and plugged the USB 4.0 Cerebral I/O cable into the neural jack behind his ear. He struck the space bar on his Apple JobsBook and his vision became laced momentarily with half-loaded graphical images. A few seconds later, his computer's neural interface had fully overridden all of his sensory organs, and was piping into his head a metaphorical virtual reality construct of what is known today as the internet.

It was, as always, glorious. StarKrystal found himself standing on a street whose bold lighting and epic hustle made Times Square look like an alleyway between the Saloon and General Store in some 1930's depression era cow town. An international throng of people speaking dozens of languages scurried about. Out of nowhere a busty platinum blonde "accidentally" bumped a particularly explicit portion of her anatomy against him (right, her breasts) and blinked flirtingly in his direction. StarKrystal considered this poorly veiled solicitation, but then remembered how the last one of these he met turned out to be a 52 year old male day-trader in Hong Kong.

He could easily have hailed a Google HoverCab, which acted as a vehicular metaphor for their world-famous search engine, but instead opted to fly, which was of course an effective option as long as one knew where one was going, which was the case for StarKrystal. He donned his Neo sunglasses, a digitally rendered throwback to an old movie from the late '90's which still maintained a cult following, and shot up into the air at a speed that only a university sponsored high bandwidth quantum cable connection can provide.

Within milliseconds he arrived at his destination, though he had set his interface to simulate a longer, 60 second sequence of thrilling flight, just so he could feel badass. That destination was RoboCheLives.com.

RoboCheLives.com was represented by a large, feral looking barn at the edge of a woods that appeared to have been converted into a house and then finally some kind of half-baked laboratory. The smell of pot and body odor, beautifully rendered in virtual zeros and ones, wafted gently from the windows. An ultimately pointless and preachy garden of digital organic vegetables and marijuana grew in a small patch out front, while a group of fruit picker robots had formed a picket line in front of it, rebelling against the oppressive technicians who crossed the border from Mexico illegally every season to manage them. Flanking both sides of the barn's main door were two massive tapestries, each adorned with that iconic picture of Che Guevara seen on so many tee-shirts throughout the ages, except this time with a cybernetic glowing green robot eye.

StarKrystal walked in and saw that the forum was already well underway. Other revolutionaries such as himself were present, seated in the small circular amphitheater that had been constructed within the barn. At the stage in the center was a holographic projection of what appeared to be design schematics for a robot, next to a table baring some object hidden under a towel.

"It is at this point in our forum discussion," said the man of the hour, CHEwOnBush, the lead scientist and UC Santa Cruz biology alumnus behind the project, "That I present to you, the fully functional brain of Che Guevarra!" And with unfathomably cliche gusto, CHEwOnBush whipped the veil off the object, revealing what was indeed a human brain floating in a solution. There was even a cute little hammer and sickle tattooed just left of the frontal lobe.

The revolutionaries of RobotCheLives gasped in awe and then threw themselves into discussion. Emoticons flew haphazardly through the barn. One of them, taking the form of an ejaculating penis, nearly splooged in StarKrystal's face before it flew out a nearby window and evaporated in a poof of machine language as a moderator deleted it.

"Where did you find the genetic material needed to clone the brain?" asked DieByMyHandDubyaIV.

"That is an interesting question, with an interesting answer." said CHEwOnBush. "I was at the Fidel Castro Museum in Havana, there to learn more of the famous friendship shared between Castro and Che. I came upon a glass display case containing a mannequin that was wearing one of Fidel's original uniforms from the sixties and seventies, and noticed something peculiar: there was a small stain just to the left of the uniform's crotch. I had a hunch like none other before, so than night, I snuck back in and tried to bribe the guards and cleaning staff with a local delicacy, 'tacos y burritos.' Perhaps you've heard of them." The crowd chuckled at this. "At first they were pretty indignant, telling me I was an ignorant piece of crap and that tacos y burritos weren't even Cuban food. But soon the fact that they were starving to death for our righteous communist cause lead them to accept my offer, and I was allowed to take some scrapings from the portion of the uniform in question.

"My hunch was correct. The mysterious stain on Castro's pants did in fact contain a bountiful amount of Che Guevarra's genetic code. I honestly cannot account for this, but at least we have results: the revitalized mind of a revolutionary."

This story, of course, led to further discussion and the spawning of more inappropriate emoticons. Many people speculated as to what the reborn Guevara would be able to do for the cause.

"Maybe RoboChe will finally be able to repeal NAFTA with his shoulder mounted plasma torch!" speculated PinkoPete6969.

"We never actually acquired the necessary budget for the plasma torch-" said CHEwOnBush, trying to speak over the virtual din of excited chatter.

"Will he have conservative radio talk show jamming equipment?" asked FuQRepubliKKKanz.

"Well, actually, he..." The scientist could barely get a word in edgewise.

"I bet his super-human robot dexterity will make him especially proficient at turning American flags upside down!" shouted GivePeaceAJoint.

"Yeah, and his flamethrower could burn them in seconds!" said LookEveryoneImAMilitantHomosexual.

"Hold up, everyone, hold up." said CHEwOnBush, finally managing to calm the crowd down a bit. "As you know, the project was only 15% complete when my laboratory ran out of money. Unfortunately, funding it through the donations of interested individuals was not sufficient. So my colleagues and I were ultimately forced to turn to..." CHEwOnBush steeled himself for a moment before uttering the following words, "corporate and government sponsorship."

"The corporations?! That's bullshit! The fucking corporations, man! Unbelievable!" someone shouted.

"The corporations killed my auntie with their SuperSize For a Dollar Initiative, and the government impounded my van!"

"Four more years of Bush? Fuck that shit, man!" remarked somebody who happened to be having an acid flashback to 2004.

StarKrystal finally stood up and said his peace. "This goes against everything Che stood for. Everything. In fact, this doesn't just go against what the man himself believed; the very idea of implanting the cloned human brain of a dead man into a robot via the means of corporate and government sponsorship constitutes a total abomination of nature!"

"Hey folks, we had to get this paid for somehow." said CHEwOnBush in as reasoning a tone as he could muster, "It may be 2033, but rebuilding the mind of a man who's been dead for well over half a century and putting it in a robot still ain't cheap. Yes, we did have to compromise a few of the originally planned features; we won't be seeing a body odor generator or a Cannabis Cultivation Pod, nor will RoboChe be able to project that iconic picture of himself into the sky, forming the Che Signal. But his mind will be fully funtional, and he'll have a digital vocoder so that he can speak and mobilize the people, not to mention the physical strength of twelve men."

The crowd's response generally ranged between begrudged murmuring and a few remaining raised voices of discontent. The pervading consensus was that they'd just have to sacrifice some integrity if RoboChe was ever to become a reality.

Even so, StarKrystal still wasn't satisfied. To hell with the awesome advances in science that this accomplishment entailed, what about the project's image? The robot schematic wasn't even wearing the metal beret that they'd planned for earlier, it lacked the much-anticipated scruffy steel wool facial hair, and now that the body odor generator was out, it wasn't even going to smell like it had been hiding in the jungle for four months. And worst of all, what was Che going to think once he found out that his rebirth had been funded by capitalist governments and the greedy corporations that control them?

Then a horrible thought occured to him. StarKrystal knew that money acted as the proverbial parasitic tendril through which the corporation exerted control. Potentially, by accepting their funding, the RoboChe project wasn't only compromised in terms of form, but worse still in terms of function. They had already perverted the exterior, but who knew what twisted plans the corps had for RoboChe's purpose. Surely they would denounce the revolutionary's status as a free thinking human being, downgrade him to the level of machine, and utilize him for their own insidious, greedy purposes.

No. Something had to be done. And quickly.

Flood Dream

Gosh, I'm glad this dream didn't turn out to be just another subconscious allegory for me pissing the bed. Granted, it's been a while since I've had one of those, but hey, you never know.

I dreamed that it rained hard for several days, until Moraga and Lafayette started to flood. I was driving home through the windy, narrow part of the main road between the two cities, and began to encounter large puddles in the middle of the street which had accumulated from water that was flowing down the hillside. Conditions became continually worse as I went along, and eventually I was driving through moving streams of water, which cascaded down the hill to my right and then flowed over the ridge on the left.

Every stream became more dangerous. My car hydroplaned a couple times, and I nearly lost control. Then I noticed that the water reached up to my fender, and I was practically fording some of the rivers. Finally, the current got the best of my car and it lost contact with the pavement for good, beginning to drift towards the steep downward slope on the opposite side of the road.

I opened the sunroof and climbed out on top of my car, where I managed to catch on to an overhanging tree branch and climb up. From there, I watched in dismay as the deadly current tumbled my car over the hill and out of sight.

The tree that had saved me was rooted in the upward sloping hill on the right side of the street. I shimmied over to the base of the tree, made contact with a relatively dry portion of the ground, and somehow managed to climb the rocks leading up to the top.

When I got there, I found that the valley on the other side had turned into a lake, and was feeding the stream that had carried my car away. Even more amazing was that people had already managed to set up lake-oriented businesses in the area. For example, a stereotypically scruffy old bearded sailor dude in a yellow rain jacket had opened up a ferry service, for which a long line of people had accumulated.

I noticed that my family was already in line, and nearing the front. It wasn’t just my mom and dad and my brother and sister, but my grandparents from both sides and the dog. My brother had even managed to salvage his girlfriend. Lucky bastard. Here I am, eternally damned to be alone, minus one beloved automobile, minus one life and one home, and my brother gets to keep his girlfriend. Gee, good thing this is just a dream.

“Oliver! We thought we’d never see you again!” They believed that surely I’d perished on whatever mundane errand I was running.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“The whole bay area is uninhabitable. So anywhere but here.” Someone tells me. “This guy is renting out ferries to take people to higher ground.” Where higher ground was exactly, I never found out.

We were next to board. The last ferry to leave was a sturdy looking barge. Some people who paid the old sailor enough had even loaded their cars on board.

“Well, that’s it for the barges.” said the old man. “Who’s next?” Our group stepped forward. “I’m running out of vessels, but methinks I’ve got something that can accommodate the lot of ya.” He lead us over the dock to a long inflatable kayak type affair. It looked really old and dilapidated, and a patchwork of different fabrics sealed the many holes it had acquired throughout the ages. “All aboard!” he said.

My family reluctantly climbed in. The dog stood on the bow, looking surprisingly at home. I hesitated and asked the sailor rather bluntly, “Is this thing really going to stay afloat?”

He looked at me for a moment, then abruptly produced a pistol from somewhere and held it against my temple. “Is she seaworthy, yee ask? Well, let’s find out!”

I knew that meant he was going to shoot me, though how that would determine if the boat would float I don’t quite understand. I guess it’s just a testament to the logical bankruptcy of my dreams. At any rate, he pulled the trigger and instead of a bang I heard a turbine whirring while feeling a strong insistent sucking against my forehead.

“I just be kiddin’ with ya,” he said, “I just use this to deflate me boats quickly. Of course she be seaworthy, ya landluberous trout!” What? “Now I don’t got all day. In with yeh!”

I climbed into the one remaining seat, which was at the very front. As I sat down I noticed that there were at least a couple of inches of water flooding the bottom. “Arrrrgh, that be a part of her wondrous functionality!” he said. “Don’t ferget yer paddles!” He passed each of us a wooden oar, my 70+ year old grandparents included. “Now, off with yeh!” He cast off the rope holding our “sea fairing vessel” to the dock, and then pushed us out onto the lake unceremoniously with his foot before turning away to light his incredibly predictable corncob pipe.

And so we began paddling “out of the bay area,” whatever that means. Eventually we found San Francisco and began to follow the bay bridge away from it. None of this makes any sense geographically, regardless of how flooded anything was, but hey, logically bankrupt, remember?

Oh, and somewhere along the way, we met a group of business men leaving the financial district. Somehow they were still complaining about how shitty the Nasdaq was doing, and I remember something about how they thought PG&E was going to stop powering their high rise office building. “Yup, those bastards are gonna rip the wire right out.” one said, looking back at his place of work. Apparently, there was one single wire running into the entire sixty story skyscraper, and the assholes at PG&E were going to send someone out to take it away. Bummer.

The other thing of note was that the city skyline, while partially submerged, was ridiculously futuristic. The buildings were all shiny and even more monolithic than usual. Then I woke up.

DREAM ANALYSIS:

Beats the shit out of me!

NEW DREAM

A few nights ago I dreamed I was a lizard, a small gecko, I think. I remember having greenish, almost translucent skin and little suckers on the end of each finger for gripping to ceilings and such.

Anyways, in this particular dream I was, as a lizard, high-tailing it down the highway, zipping over a six lane autobahn, easily keeping pace with the most lead-footed motorists on the road. It was a very sunny day.

Something got my attention and I glanced behind me to see my dad's Cadillac coming up the road. As the car pulled along side me, I noticed that my fourteen year old sister was driving, and she was crying.

While in motion, I hopped up off the road and stuck easily to the side panel, then proceeded up to the driver side window. Sophia saw me there and rolled it down. I asked her what was wrong. She didn't seem at all perturbed by the lizard who was speaking to her as she barreled down the freeway in a car she didn't know how to drive.

"It's your drug problem!" she said between sobs. "It's time for you to admit that you need help!"

"Oh." I said. "Well, I'll think about that."

I scuttled off the side of the car, landed back on the pavement easily, and continued to speed down the road.

Oh, and I don't have a drug problem. Sometimes I'll take the green stuff when it's offered, other than that... nope. Dreams are THILLY!