Weekly World News

clipped from laughlines.blogs.nytimes.com Stories The Times Missed

Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?

BARACK OBAMA:
The chicken crossed the road because it was time for a CHANGE! The chicken wanted CHANGE!

JOHN McCAIN:
My friends, that chicken crossed the road because he recognized the need to engage in cooperation and dialogue with all the chickens on the other side of the road.

HILLARY CLINTON:
When I was First Lady, I personally helped that little chicken to cross the road. This experience makes me uniquely qualified to ensure -- right from Day One! -- that every chicken in this country gets the chance it deserves to cross the road. But then, this really isn't about me.......

DR. PHIL:
The problem we have here is that this chicken won't realize that he must first deal with the problem on 'THIS' side of the road before it goes after the problem on the 'OTHER SIDE' of the road. What we need to do is help him realize how stupid he's acting by not taking on his 'CURRENT' problems before adding 'NEW' problems.

OPRAH:
Well, I understand that the chicken is having problems, which is why he wants to cross this road so bad. So instead of having the chicken learn from his mistakes and take falls, which is a part of life, I'm going to give this chicken a car so that he can just drive across the road and not live his life like the rest of the chickens.

GEORGE W. BUSH:
We don't really care why the chicken crossed the road. We just want to know if the chicken is on our side of the road, or not. The chicken is either against us, or for us. There is no middle ground here.

COLIN POWELL:
Now to the left of the screen, you can clearly see the satellite image of the chicken crossing the road...

ANDERSON COOPER - CNN:
We have reason to believe there is a chicken, but we have not yet been allowed to have access to the other side of the road.

JOHN KERRY:
Although I voted to let the chicken cross the road, I am now against it! It was the wrong road to cross, and I was misled about the chicken's intentions. I am not for it now, and will remain against it.

NANCY GRACE:
That chicken crossed the road because he's GUILTY! You can see it in his eyes and the way he walks.

PAT BUCHANAN:
To steal the job of a decent, hardworking American.

MARTHA STEWART:
No one called me to warn me which way that chicken was going. I had a standing order at the Farmer's Market to sell my eggs when the price dropped to a certain level. No little bird gave me any insider information.

DR SEUSS:
Did the chicken cross the road? Did he cross it with a toad? Yes, the chicken crossed the road, but why it crossed I've not been told.

ERNEST HEMINGWAY:
To die in the rain. Alone.

JERRY FALWELL:
Because the chicken was gay! Can't you people see the plain truth?' That's why they call it the 'other side.' Yes, my friends, that chicken is gay. And if you eat that chicken, you will become gay too. I say we boycott all chickens until we sort out this abomination that the liberal media white washes with seemingly harmless phrases like 'the other side'. That chicken should not be crossing the road. It's as plain and as simple as that.

GRANDPA:
In my day we didn't ask why the chicken crossed the road. Somebody told us the chicken crossed the road, and that was good enough.

BARBARA WALTERS:
Isn't that interesting? In a few moments, we will be listening to the chicken tell, for the first time, the heart warming story of how it experienced a serious case of molting, and went on to accomplish its life long dream of crossing the road.

ARISTOTLE:
It is the nature of chickens to cross the road.

JOHN LENNON:
Imagine all the chickens in the world crossing roads together, in peace.

BILL GATES:
I have just released eChicken2007, which will not only cross roads, but will lay eggs, file your important documents, and balance your check book. Internet Explorer is an integral part of the Chicken. This new platform is much more stable and will never cra...#@&&^(C% ......... reboot.

ALBERT EINSTEIN:
Did the chicken really cross the road, or did the road move beneath the chicken?

BILL CLINTON:
I did not cross the road with THAT chicken. What is your definition of chicken?

AL GORE:
I invented the chicken!

COLONEL SANDERS:
Did I miss one?

DICK CHENEY:
Where's my gun?

AL SHARPTON:
Why are all the chickens white? We need some black chickens.

(Sent by Roy Wilson)

COLUMN: What Will It Be This Time?

By Tobin Barnes
I’m going to lay my cards on the table. No jokers.

Obama’s my guy.

Has been since last fall when the multitudinous candidacies first started to shake out. I like the sense of dignity he brings to the table and also his long-term view of the nation’s problems. We’ve been short-sighting ourselves way too long now.

Meanwhile, my wife’s been for Clinton all that time—still is. She likes her feistiness and her constant championing of the underdog. My wife can’t stand to listen to Jay Leno tell jokes about Hillary. So I have to sit there and snark in private through all the pantsuit quips.

That doesn’t mean I couldn’t support Clinton if she somehow became the nominee, despite the best political judgment, which has been famously wrong before.

Both Clinton and Obama would be much better than McBush, as some pundits have perhaps unfairly labeled John McCain. (No one ever said politics is fair. You make your own bed, but, unfortunately, other people get to tuck you in.)

Whatever, I don’t want a 72-year-old McCain Presidency that could run on to an 80-year-old Presidency and all that implies, particularly when “stay the course” might be it’s mantra. As David Letterman said about a potential eight more years of Bush,
“Hey, cut me off another slice of that!”

So I suppose my wife and I will cancel each other out when it comes down to South Dakota’s June 3 primary. So it goes. I obviously didn’t marry myself, and thank goodness for that.

Not sure those last two primaries, South Dakota and Montana, will make much of a difference anyway, but nevertheless, it’ll be South Dakota’s biggest hurrah in Presidential politics since 1968 and 1972. Those were years when two Democratic native sons, Hubert Humphrey and George McGovern respectively, ran for President.

Humphrey was born in Wallace, SD, and grew up in Doland, SD. McGovern was born in Avon, SD, and grew up in Mitchell, SD. Both went on to distinguished lives and careers, including terms in the United States Senate, Humphrey representing Minnesota and McGovern, South Dakota.

Humphrey once said, “I learnt more about politics during one South Dakota dust storm than in seven years at the university.” He also said he didn’t mind being caught shedding a tear now and then because there’s more than enough tough guys in the world.

McGovern grew up as a small-town minister’s kid and went on to serve as a heroic bomber pilot in WWII. His wife Eleanor, who died just last year, grew up in the little burg of Woonsocket, between Huron and Mitchell. George and Eleanor met as high school debaters. It turned out to be Woonsocket over Mitchell in that one. She and her sister beat George and his partner.

I not only share the same hometown as McGovern, but my mother sometimes walked to school with him, and my brother dated his daughter for a spell, and I got to play tennis with him once.

Of course, none of this has anything to do with Presidential politics as much as pride of place and origins.

When Humphrey and McGovern ran for President in 1968 and 1972, they each lost to Richard Nixon, Humphrey in a tight popular-vote race and McGovern in one of the biggest Presidential landslides of all time.

Also, in each case, South Dakota chose Nixon over it’s own native sons. From my point of view, not a proud voting record.

South Dakota had presented the best it had to offer, each made of great Presidential material, and their state and nation rejected them. But then, South Dakota’s never been a bastion of support for Democratic Presidential nominees, except during the Depression when the common man of South Dakota was sorely down-and-out and therefore immune to conservative ideology.

Using twenty-twenty hindsight, it’s not difficult to imagine either or both Humphrey and McGovern being better Presidents than Nixon—in depth of character and integrity, if nothing else.

And that appears to have been plenty.

Album Covers

COLUMN: When 'yippie' meant something else

By Tobin Barnes
Happiness is life after roommates. That was my topic last time.

I referred to some of my past bad roommates, including the stinky guy who slept on grey sheets and never took a shower. I could have also added that he was a Yippie, a proponent of every radical political movement on campus.

But he and his ilk were a distinct minority at my college. Much more interest was dedicated to fraternities and sororities and who was pinned to whom. Actually had a column in the college newspaper about the latest burgeoning love affairs amongst the Greek set. Yeah, old-school crapola.

Nevertheless, a goodly number of students knew absolutely nothing about the Greek alphabet and preferred it that way. And that pretty much divided things up: You had your Greeks and your Freaks and your In-Betweens. That’s how you got classified.

My roommate felt comfy in the Freak category. He was Mr. Counterculture in thought, word, and deed. Freaks did their best to avoid appearing anything like the all-American boy, or girl, for that matter.

He liked to go over to the student union and “rap” about radical political agendas, how to get out from under The Man, and how to overthrow The Establishment.

Back then, rapping didn’t have anything to do with music, or, more accurately, what they now like to think is music. Rapping then was getting into sincere discussions, looking for answers, and maybe solving a world problem in a half hour.

A lot of student union rappers thought we needed another revolution. At least it’d get rid of Nixon.

My roommate posted the sign “Viva la Raza!” on our dorm room door, like he was Pancho Villa or something. I had no idea who or what la Raza was at the time, which put me at a disadvantage since I lived inside that door. But I sure as heck wasn’t going to get into a rap session with my roommate about it.

And what puzzled me even more about the la Raza thing was that he was a blond, white-bread guy of obvious Scandinavian descent. Sign should have read “Uff da!”

Yeah, I could have talked about all that in my last column, but I thought that’d be overkill. Instead, I promised I’d excerpt some stuff from an article I ran into on rantfarm.net about the writer’s roommate. It was what got me going on roommates in the first place.

Starts out like this (my comments are in parentheses):

“Dear Everyone,

“I have lived with druggies, weird people, and just plain inconsiderate people. None of them compare to the roommate I have now. He is literally the most annoying person I have ever met in my life. Living with him is like water torture....”

(His name isn’t Dick Cheney, is it? Have you ever gone hunting with him?)

“He is so cheap that he only has one bowl. It is a Superman bowl. He is a grown adult. And what does he do with this bowl? When he’s done using it, he puts it right over the drain so that nothing else can drain out. Not NEXT to it, but right OVER it. Why, God, does he do this?”

(God: “Because I have given him free will.”)

“When he eats, he holds his spoon like a toddler, gripping it with his fist, and his thumb faced toward the round part. He also scrapes his teeth against the metal. Sometimes I want to grab the spoon and smack him with it.”

(I think it’s important that you do.)

“He just looks like a doofus. Yes, I used the word doofus. Because it’s perfect.

“He prefaces every question with: “Question …” or “Can I ask you a question?”
Just ask the stupid question.”

(Question. Why does this upset you so much?)

“He is a philosophy major. Therefore it is impossible to have a normal conversation with him, like, ‘Wow, there’s a hot girl!’

“‘Define hot, is that subjective or objective?’”

(I now feel better about my roommates knowing that he feels bad about his.)

LETTERMAN: Mother's Day

Ralph lines from "The Simpsons"

clipped from laughlines.blogs.nytimes.com “Simpsons” character stumbles onto the truth of many iPods: Some classic Ralph lines from the show: Eww, Daddy, this tastes like Grandma! Lisa’s bad dancing makes my feet sad. Daddy, I’m scared. Too scared to wet my pants. This snowflake tastes like fish sticks. My parents won’t let me use scissors. Slow down, Bart! My legs don’t know how to be as long as yours. Principal Skinner, I got carsick in your office. Bushes are nice ’cause they don’t have prickers. Unless they do. This one did. Ouch! This is my sandbox. I’m not allowed to go in the deep end. My cat’s breath smells like cat food. I ate too much plastic candy. I ate all my caps…ow! Oh boy, sleep! That’s where I’m a Viking! And when the doctor said I didn’t have worms any more, that was the happiest day of my life. Me fail English? That’s unpossible.

COLUMN: Life Without Roommates

By Tobin Barnes
Last time, I talked about the joys of growing older.

Commented on some research from the University of Chicago that said that for every ten years that go by in our lifetimes, we become five percent happier.

Course, that’s on average. Some people, as we know, turn into monstrous grumps as they codger out, while others were card-carrying grumps from the beginning and have only become grumpier as more water goes under the bridge.

But overall, I’m buying the older-get-happier premise, if for no other reason than that old witticism we’ve all heard: Life begins when the kids leave home and the dog dies.

In our case, the cat just died just a couple weeks ago, but the dog’s hanging in there tough.

Yeah, it makes sense to me that as we age, we mellow out, maybe coming to terms with the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,” as Shakespeare described life.

Added to that, there’s a few nasty things we don’t have to confront anymore.

For one, the older we get the less we are forced to live with other people; that is, other than our spouses.

Anyway, no roommates equals happiness.

But when younger, for academic or economic reasons, we find ourselves in disturbingly close quarters, making daily compromises with people who have made peace with alien lifestyles.

Roommates, forsooth!

My first one at college was a doozy. Thought I’d meet new people by allowing my name to be dropped into the roommate lottery.

Big mistake.

First off, the guy I drew smoked up a storm, but that wasn’t the main problem. Thanks to my old man’s three-pack-a-day habit, cigarette smoke was like mother’s milk to me. Naturally, I’ll probably live five years less because of that early domestic smog, but putting up with another smoker in a dorm room was just another day on the job.

My gripe on this guy was his bring-tears-to-your-eyes B.O.

He was so unkempt, even his sheets were disgustingly grey.

A friend walked into the room with me one day, and he immediately exclaimed, “Gees, what stinks in here?” At first he hadn’t noticed my roommate wallowing in his sty of a bed. Once his presence was established, nuff said.

Never saw that roommate go down to take a shower—not for one entire semester. Maybe he splashed himself with water once in a while, but I can supply no corroborating evidence in that regard.

His personal hygiene was somewhere between a caveman and Attila the Hun. Stinkiest sonofagun I’ve ever been around. After that semester I migrated to balmier climes down the hall.

Another couple of roommates I had would periodically go brain dead.

One time I bought a multi-pound, family-sized bag of salted peanuts in the shell. It was such a big honking bag, thought I’d have the ballpark experience for a good month or two, eating healthy human portions every now and then.

One day my other roommate and I were off somewhere, and when we got back, the coffee table was heaped several inches deep with peanut shells. Nearby a dead plastic bag slumped dejectedly on the floor.

My roommates evidently couldn’t eat just one—handful, that is. Didn’t even clean the mess up.

Yeah, good times. I’m sure you’ve had them as well.

So why dredge this up now?

Well, all this roommate stuff was inspired by an article I read about another neanderthal roommate published on rantfarm.net. I’ll tell you more about it next time.

Boating Bloopers

(Sent by Roy Wilson)

Kentucky Hunter Safety Course

(Sent by Roy Wilson)

Latenight Monologues

clipped from laughlines.blogs.nytimes.com Aired Wednesday night on NBC: Barack Obama spoke today about the need to send a man into space. The man he wants to send, the Reverend Jeremiah Wright. And on ABC News tonight, they said gas prices are now flirting with $4 a gallon. Flirting? Huh? Aren’t we a little beyond flirting? Aren’t we getting screwed at this point? Boy, it is hard to keep up with all these crises we have in America. Remember last week, when everybody in America was obese? Remember that? This week there’s a food shortage. What happened over the weekend? Did we pig out and eat all the food? And police in China have discovered that many of the “Free Tibet” banners that these protesters are waving were actually made in China. I guess officials got suspicious when they noticed the banners were made out of lead.

Latenight Monologues

clipped from laughlines.blogs.nytimes.com Aired Tuesday night on NBC: MSNBC is reporting that the Department of Homeland Security wants all 80 million of America’s recreational boaters to be on the lookout for terrorists in small boats trying to explode a nuclear bomb. I don’t believe it. What are we paying, $50 billion a year for homeland security? All they can come up with is three drunks on a waverunner in Lake Havasu? Well, the State Department announced today the most dangerous place in the world, no longer the Mideast; it is now between Rev. Jeremiah Wright and a microphone. Read more …