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Report: Well, Here We Go

WASHINGTON—With Donald Trump’s two remaining GOP rivals suspending their candidacies and clearing a path for the billionaire businessman to assume the Republican presidential nomination, reports indicated Wednesday that, well, hoo boy, here we go.

Ted Cruz Dressed For Campaign Rally By Swarm Of Loyal Vermin

INDIANAPOLIS—In what has reportedly become a daily routine on the campaign trail, Republican presidential candidate Ted Cruz stood alone in the center of his hotel suite Tuesday morning where he was carefully dressed and groomed by a swarm of loyal vermin.

Facebook’s Plans For The Future

From instant articles to live video, Facebook continues to look for new ways to expand its reach and offerings. Here are some plans on the horizon for the social media giant

The Pros And Cons Of Taking A Gap Year

Malia Obama will wait a year between graduating high school and attending Harvard in 2017, in what is becoming a rising trend among American students. Here are the pros and cons of taking a gap year:

God Loses Pouch Filled With Crystals That Give Him Powers

THE HEAVENS—Grumbling to Himself as He frantically retraced His steps across the Heavens, God Almighty, He Who Commanded Light to Shine out of Darkness, admitted to reporters Monday that He had somehow managed to lose the pouch containing the enchanted crystals that give Him His powers.

Man Practices Haircut Request Before Heading To Barber

MINNEAPOLIS—Having scripted a set of lines he hoped to deliver with confidence and decisiveness, local 34-year-old Jason Clyne carefully rehearsed his haircut request several times Friday before heading to his local barbershop, sources confirmed.
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Just Like Everything Else!: Fox 8 p.m. EDT/7 p.m. ABC Pete's wife is still on him about building that darn shed, these kids are going to be the death of Sheila and Dave, and the hot next-door neighbor is up in EVERYBODY'S business! Sunday nights on ABC couldn't be any more familiar!

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Ugh, This A Place Where Bartenders Wear Bow Tie

PITTSBURGH—Saying they should have known from the moment they walked in the unmarked speakeasy entrance and spotted the extensive wood paneling, customers confirmed Friday that, ugh, this is one of those places where the bartenders all wear bow ties.

All's Right With The World

Huzzah and greetings to the fine Onion reader-ship! All is well with you, I hope! You have a crust to gnaw upon and whale-oil aplenty, I trust? No more boils than usual? Excellent! Now, be not misled by my unaccustomed cheer. My concern for your welfare is genuine, I assure you, for everything is splendid to-day.

Yes, that's right, I am full of good-will this morning for reasons upon which I cannot put my finger. No, it is not the tincture of laudanum I placed in my thin gruel. If anything, I took less than usual. It is not the ceaseless flow of money into my coffers, for I have yet to affect the sale of the Typesetter's Stone, let alone that of the Middle-West, and I am currently rather light in the pockets for a multi-millionaire.

And, no, it is not my physical well-being that prompts this unusual display of glee. In fact, my iron dentures rusted shut under a cascade of vinegarish drool last night and had to be unseized by black-smith's torches just minutes ago–they are cooling to a dull cherry-red even as I dictate this–and I bloodily shat some vaguely spleen-like organelle into my bedpan during break-fast. Physically, I feel as miserable as ever.

But if my heart is light within its sheath of crackling gray fat, who am I to question it? All is right with the world. The birds sing and the fawn frolics. Cherubs sing and play upon airy spinets. And God is in his counting-house, counting out his money. I haven't felt this good since just before the influenza outbreak of 1918, when I myself contracted the disease.

And before that, I had not felt light-hearted since the Great Black Season of 1894, when many ill events coincided across the Republic. That was the year Red Indians ate every man, woman, and child in Weehawken, NJ, the year Mother Zweibel died of hysterical lycanthropy, the year base-ball gained wide-spread acceptance. Come to think of it, I only experience times of buoyant mood when disaster is about to bring the shit-hammer down upon my head.

Menstruating Christ! Does this magnaminity of soul fore-shadow some horrible disaster awaiting me, perhaps before the New Year? Should I take this lightness of heart as a sign to post my Swiss guard six deep around my death-bed, to summon my food-tasters three?

Ah, bull-shit! What could go wrong? After all, I have my millions, my news-paper, my 632-room estate, and my strapping young son N. Aeschylus by my side.

What could possibly go wrong?

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