Les Nessman and Saddam’s genocidal campaign against the Marsh Arabs


Les Nessman didn’t feel like he had to share an office with others, so he had tape on the floor to lay out the boundaries of his imaginary office.
Pathetic, but amusing.
What if Les Nessman had been sent to Iraq to cover Saddam’s genocidal campaign against the Marsh Arabs and had ended up in a mass grave with tens of thousands of other victims? Would he have marked out the boundaries of his own “personal grave” to set him apart from the others he was forced to share a grave with?
Of course not, stupid. Because he’d be dead.

Stung by the spelling bee!


The Caesar Chavez Middle School Spelling Bee was drawing to a close. Twenty-three kids had left the stage, and it was down to Shirley and Humberto.
Once again, a blue card was drawn from the deck on the podium.
“The word is insomnia,” said the judge. “Insomnia”
Shirley took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Insomnia,” she shouted. “I-N-S…”
The auditorium burst into chaos. Half the audience raced to the exits. The other half drew guns and shouted various curses in Spanish.
The Spelling Bee judge sighed. “I hate holding these things in San Diego.”
Eventually, Humberto won.

Pink Donkeys Pink Elephants


Most people see pink elephants when they’re drunk, but tonight I saw a pink donkey.
“What’s the deal?” I asked the pink donkey.
Ever seen a donkey shrug before? Well, now I have.
“Blame George Soros,” said the pink donkey. “He’s been buying up liquor stocks and forcing the companies to add a special secret ingredient that turns pink elephants into pink donkeys.”
“So everybody sees pink donkeys now?” I asked.
“Nope,” said the donkey. “Just the drunks in the red states.”
“Is it safe?” I asked.
“Hell no,” said the donkey. “You’ll be dead in minutes. Hillary in 2008!”

Achmed’s Alley


I’m standing on the corner, gun in hand.
People quickly peer out of windows, lean out of doorways and parked cars.
Buses crawl by.
I take aim, and shoot them all.
I reload, and a schoolgirl hugging a cat comes out from behind a lamppost.
Drilled her right through the forehead. Ten points.
Suddenly, a man in a turban with a bomb in his hand leans out of the bus.
I plug him, too.
The lights come up.
“What do you think you’re doing, Achmed?” yells the instructor. “A curse upon your mustache!”
I beg forgiveness and reload.



“Fifty billion” said Thabo, watching the telly of the G-8 press conference.
“That’s an awful lot of jack,” said Mohammed. He crushed his soda can and tossed it into the wastebasket. “Awful nice of the blokes to offer it up. So, how do we get our mitts on it?”
“We just need a name, a flag, and a big enough bag,” said Thabo.
Mohammed reached into the wastebasket.
“Daliwali,” he read from the can.
“Pretty.” Thabo smiled. “How about the flag?”
Seven hours and two suit rentals later, they were heading to Edinburgh.
All in the good name of Daliwali.

The Wild Journalist


The legendary Wild Journalist was renowned for its drab plumage, tireless hunting of facts, and hard-nosed competitive nature.
Down through the ages, onlookers would stand in awe of its relentless pursuit of news, serving the public’s interests by seeking out and spearing vermin among public office and commerce with acid tongue and razor-sharp wit. No community was complete without its population of Wild Journalists serving to guard them from vicious predators.
Once common, today the Wild Journalist’s numbers have greatly declined in recent years, thinned by various domesticated breeds: Celebrity Asskissers, Empty-suited Egos, Craven Appeasers, Corporate Tools, and Agenda-Driven Propagandists.

Welcome Home


“Welcome home, Sir” said the staff. “The Lincoln Bedroom is unavailable, but you can sleep here.”
Bill held up the sweat-soaked pillow, sniffed it, and tossed it back on the stained lumpy mattress.
Oh, the indignity.
First, he had to sleep on the floor when he was off touring the tsunami-stricken areas of the Indian Ocean.
But now, after all those years of sleeping in the master bedroom of the White House, he was consigned to this disgusting closet.
The Millard Fillmore “Suite.”
Eight years of lousy tips, back to haunt him.
Time to find an intern and a cigar.