A La Recherche Du Temps Stupide

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Vol 35 Issue 22

Woodstock '99 Revenue Projections Displayed On Multi-Colored, Laminated Boards Somewhere In L.A.

LOS ANGELES—Revenue projections for Woodstock '99 were recently displayed on laminated, multi-colored boards somewhere in L.A., it can safely be assumed. "Success of previous Woodstock ventures combined with media interest in the festival's 30th anniversary spells maximum name recognition for Woodstock in the year 1999," a man wearing a suit probably said while standing at the head of a 12th-floor glass-walled conference room in one of those big office buildings there. "The soundtrack album in particular shows potential for high returns in both urban and suburban markets." At the same time, 3,000 tie-dyed Woodstock '99 T-shirts were being manufactured in one of those Indonesian factories.

Guatemalan Earthquake Registers 0.3 On Area Man's Consciousness

PEORIA, IL—A massive earthquake with a current death toll of 206 hit Antigua, Guatemala Tuesday, registering 0.3 on the consciousness of local banking assistant Ed Zurlo. "Oh, yeah, there was something about that on The Today Show," said Zurlo, paging through a book of the upholstery samples available for his new Toyota Camry. "They had that tornado or flood or whatever down there in South America." Zurlo, who was also dimly aware of such previous disasters as Hurricane Mitch-related flooding in Honduras and the Lockerbie, Scotland, crash of Pan Am Flight 103, said he will likely select the burnt-cocoa crushed velour.

Mrs. Butterworth's Bottle Central To Terrifying LSD Experience

ATHENS, GA—An anthropomorphic container of Mrs. Butterworth's-brand maple syrup took on nightmarish qualities for University of Georgia sophomore Kevin Duffy, 20, Tuesday during a harrowing, LSD-induced hallucination. "She was talkin' to me, man," the visibly shaken Duffy said following the four-hour experience. "I was zoning out on the linoleum patterns in the kitchenette when I heard this soothing, matronly voice. Then I saw her, gently gliding across the countertop and gesturing eerily with her tiny, translucent arms." Duffy's terror, he said, reached a fever pitch at approximately 4 a.m., when the parameters of four-dimensional space-time began closing in around him "like a waffle iron." "She took off the top of her head, man," Duffy said, "and there was this amorphous, semitransparent mass inside, sticking to me no matter how hard I tried to escape."

Area Man Refuses To Accept Bus-Route Change

LUBBOCK, TX—After three years of catching the bus to work at the corner of 4th and Houston, area resident Willard Dawes refused to accept the Lubbock Area Transit System's reworking of its weekday route, which had been clearly delineated in several flyers. "The C bus should've been here at 3:18," Dawes said Monday, standing on the sidewalk in front of the MovieTime video store, two blocks east of the new pick-up point. "I know it will show up. I just have to wait longer." The change is the most jarring event in Dawes' LATS ridership since 1998, when a fender bender with a taxi seriously shook his faith in Chuck, the eight-to-four weekday driver.

I'm Thinking About Cutting Back On The Weed

Hola, amigos. What's up? I know it's been a long time since I rapped at ya, but I've had a lot of problems lately. First off, I been slaving trying to find a new job. The last time you heard from me, I was moving furniture. Well, a few weeks ago I was out for a night of partying with Ron, and before you know it, it was 2 in the morning and we were still going strong. Since it was a work night, and I like to drink responsibly, I was taking it easy on the beer. The weed was flowing like water, though.

Cybercrime

Last week, computer hackers altered several U.S. government web sites, causing the temporary shutdown of Internet servers including those for the FBI, the Department Of The Interior, and the White House. Why did the hackers launch the attack?

Everyone Doing It, Schoolyard Sources Allege

CHESAPEAKE, VA—According to top-level schoolyard sources, everyone is doing it. "Come on, we all do it," an older kid said Tuesday, speaking on condition of anonymity. "What are you, scared?" Anyone choosing not to do it may be subjected to an intensifying campaign of "bock-bock" chicken noises, students standing by the fence warned.

I Believe The Robots Are Our Future

Though we live in uncertain times, we must not forget that the most important thing in life is the legacy we will leave behind for future generations. It is not for our sake, but for theirs, that we must preserve and protect the basic values we hold dear. As we foolishly pursue our short-sighted goals at the expense of those who will follow in our footsteps, we must pause and be mindful of the little ones, our progeny, who will inherit our planet in the next millennium and beyond. Time and time again, gazing into the innocent, trusting photoelectric receptors of a tiny, newly developed cybernetic construct, I am reminded of a fundamental truth: I believe the robots are our future, and we must teach them well and let them lead the way.

Gore For President

Vice President Al Gore plans to formally announce his bid for the presidency on June 16. What do you think about Gore running in 2000?
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A La Recherche Du Temps Stupide

I was recently informed that the Twentieth-Century is nearly at an end, which astonishes me, because it seems like just yesterday that I was toasting its genesis in New-York's Winter Garden with Harry Houdini, Stanford White, the Floradora Girls, and Mutt & Jeff. Well, I hope you bastards all had fun this century, because I spent the latter half of it confined to a dank, fetid bed-chamber while having my urethra scraped.

My rotten son M. Prescott, who pretends to "edit" The Onion, but instead whiles away his hours in an opium-den in the Limehouse district, has recommended that I occasionally republish a favorite Message of particular historic importance, as a way to commemorate the passing century.

It is like that wit-less oaf to suggest such a ludicrous thing. How am I to select a handful of favorite columns when each practically pisses brilliance? Also, I hate to repeat my-self. I like to think that I vary the subject-matter of my columns enough to keep them interesting. For example, I assiduously restrict my-self to writing about my enormous goiters no more than three times a year.

But I am thinking I would like to take a nap now, so perhaps I will reprint an excerpt from a past column to-day. Standish has been kind enough to retrieve it from my vast archives, and although I can't recall ever having written it, I must admit it's pretty damn impressive. It's from 1926, and it's titled "Give Fascism A Chance":

Imagine a country where a man can be his own boss and, more importantly, the boss of others. Where a man can design his own paramilitary out-fit, wear tall leather boots, and goose-step down city streets with nary a word of complaint or public ridicule. A place where "fear" is the watch-word, where the press is a mouth-piece for certain political and oligarchal interests, and strident nationalism is force-fed to the populace with a giant iron eye-dropper.

I know what you are thinking: "It sounds too good to be true. The fanciful fairy-land of which Zweibel speaks can be found only in nursery rhymes and children's story-books." But I am happy to say that not only does such a utopia exist; it can be found in the modern Italy of Benito Mussolini.

O, I was such a coltish day-dreamer back then. Always imagining castles in the sky and what-not. I would sigh wistfully, if I still had my lungs.

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