Tag Archives: life

Fox News Headline of the Day: Michigan Man Surprised He Isn’t Kidnapped Child

vincentSelf-Portrait, by Vincent Van Gogh

Vincent looks the reporter earnestly in the eyes and begins to tell his story:

“I always knew my parents were gypsies. When I was growing up my friends even called me Heathcliff. My governess would chastise me and turn my buttocks pink whenever I mentioned the subject, but that was only the “foreplay,” if you will. Later they would take me to the drawing room.  My father, a very important merchant, in those days, kept his katana swords in there. She would stand before them and unsheathe the longest one, named Lady Anna for a woman of my father’s acquaintence. (It was rumored that I was half-japanese, but I knew this was an untruth.) The name didn’t suit her–she looked like Lady Colombia to me–with the sword stretched out before my neck and screaming “YOU ARE YOUR MOTHER’S CHILD.”

My only refuge was my secret cave. One afternoon, I fell to the floor, beating down the clay in a fit of rage. I lay there imagining that a very large beast had stepped there and shit me out from under it. I swore to find my real parents. Meanwhile, I began to paint my real family. The first painting I completed was of a woman full of mirth, helping her actress daughter, a prima donna, dress for her show. I imagined that I was this daughter, secretly dressed as a woman, ready to receive roses. I would sleep with any man who approached me afterwards, so warm with the glow of success. I named it “Cornelia.”   Every Sunday after that, I would scrutinize the photos of lost children on telephone poles and milk cartons, always seeing some similarity in the child’s afro or his manner of dress.

One fateful afternoon, I met a very similar actress in a bar. I felt immediately that she was my sister and that I had had visions of her, a sort of sanguine bond. When the thought struck me, I began to kiss her cheeks. She was confused for a moment and told me to slow down. I insisted that she did not understand, so I set out to show the obviousness of our connection. I asked her where her father was. Her eyes lost the familial sparkle. Does he not collect knives, smell so sweetly of poppy fields, and have many intimidating tattoos? She assented. I then called the newspapers, elated.

I heard from her a few weeks later, and she asked to meet me. I agreed and I was shocked to see her tear-stained face and she walked into the restaurant. She picked up the nearest glass and shattered it against my right ear, which is why I have this bandage.”

The reporter asked, “So, you aren’t the mystery kid after all?” Vincent looked away abashedly and clucked his tongue.


Sunday Edition-This Week in Pictures: Magic Mushroom Imperialism Begins

Kuwait City, Kuwait:
The Feast of Belshazzar, by Rembrandt

Little Rock, Arkansas:

drownDrowning Girl, by Roy Lichtenstein

Buffalo, New York:

guitarThe Old Guitarist, by Pablo Picasso

Las Vegas, Nevada:

sleepingSleeping Gypsy, by Henri Rousseau

Kingston, Jamaica:

dance-to-the-music-of-time-4971-midDance to the Music of Time, by Nicolas Poussin

Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam:

tigressDes Caresses, by Fernand Khnopff

CNN Headline of the Day: Tame Your Flame


The Lady of Shalott, by John William Waterhouse; Reverend Robert Walker Skating on Duddin, by Sir Henry Raeburn

Lady Shalott gazes at her reflection in the water as she drifts along: “Rowing for the Summer Olympics is in just 3 weeks! Like noble Cleopatra, I too have the strength of a Greek athlete within me, and I will make it across the Panama Canal. My beloved Robert would be so proud of me. Too proud to bear it, I like to think. He shall probably buy a bed of roses to lie in before he must continue training for the winter Olympics”

Meanwhile, Robert glides: “Ever since I was a young man, to be an Olympic ice skating champion has been my dream. To let my penguin tail flap in the wind would be my pride. We can be a power couple in our own right, like Sonny and Cher…yes, we should name our first son Chaz.”

That night, as Lady Shalott dozed off, Robert sat there watching her sleep. Suddenly, he jumped out of bed and threw cold water on both of them. “Lady, my Olympic flame burns when I watch you sleep. You see, I have found Faust’s secret knowledge and I can hold this back no longer. It’s like a constant rain cloud over me, and I can only find peace when I pirouette.”

“Well, Robert, you should probably find a way to tame this flame or else Zeus might make you commit seppuku for this outrage against manhood. But I will support you anyway because I love you”

Robert got back in the cold bed and curled up next to Lady Shallot, thankful for her goodness.

At the Olympics, as Miss Shalott stood waiting for her event to start as she watches the long jump competition. She saw the last competitor of the event, number 902, and found herself admiring his eminetly frog-like legs. He could carry her over a river, and no heavy traffic could stop them from crossing a road. She watched in earnest as he soared through the air, and landed farther than all the rest. He jumped up, pumping his fist, and declared that all his earnings would go to PETA.

Robert came up behind her and gave her a squeeze and she screamed.

She hurried to the bathroom and splashed her face with water, but she continued to swell with desire. She wiped soap across her cheeks, trying to exorcise the demons that forced their way into her mind. But there was no luck left for her. She was deeply disturbed.

CNN Headline of the Day: Chinese Mystic Sells Curses for Bad Bosses

both Faune Blanc, by Pablo Picasso and The Advance of Socialism: A Crowd Tramples a Bourgeois, by Anton Hansen

Chinese mystic: Hark! I smell pigs! Yes, pigs, indeed. Pigs and silk and leather and blood,  oh that most overwhelming smell makes my own bile boil!

He looks out into the crowd of raving peasants. One whose voice carried over the rest could be heard to say, “Let us burn their Armani-Chang ties, and feast on their butter for dinner! Ay, throw them through 5 rings and hear their skulls ping pong down the falling waters of Beijing!”

Chinese mystic: Calm your souls. I have composed a tune on my bamboo tube, our new national anthem. Let it be heard that freedom rings–that means clap your hands!

The crowd drifts into a serene swaying motion, as if it were one mass of grain or, perhaps, a bag of sand, thrown off of a hot-air balloon, and it unconsciously begins to chant.

“I’ve got soul but I’m not a soldier
I told the man, when he came around,
that it doesn’t matter any more.
My soul is not for sale, and it need not be

for now I have liberation and buttery mastication

I’ve got soul but I’m not a soldier.
As the old saying goes,
a bird in the hand…”

Suddenly the famed Chinese mystic is grasped with terror, seemingly paralyzed as he lets the bamboo fall to the earthen ground.

“Is that a child being clasped to the breast of one of you noble herdsmen?! What is your name, dear cadre?” he cried out. “Why you shall be on every poster in the Old Kingdom! The new face of the people!”

A random passerby pointed out that he was not Chinese, but Indian, the son of a prince from Kashmir.

“SILENCE, you porcine beast masquerading as an ivory knight. Hark! The game of chess is over. Who is with me?! The pawns revolt has begun! Cast him to the ground!”