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Vol 33 Issue 06

History Channel Repeats Itself

NEW YORK—Tragically failing to learn the lessons of its own programming, the History Channel repeated itself 11 p.m. Sunday, airing Man's Inhumanity To Man: The Horror Of Auschwitz just three days after its initial broadcast. “This informative and important Holocaust documentary imparted many poignant lessons last Thursday,” Harvard University history professor Dr. Edmund O. Haller said. "But what has humanity really gained from witnessing The Horror Of Auschwitz if the History Channel ignores its painful lessons and allows it to air again? This is an atrocity that, sadly, could have easily been prevented if we had only learned its lessons the first time." Haller urged the management of the History Channel to watch its own programming attentively, “lest future generations be forced to repeat this dark hour of cable-TV programming.”

Sinatra, Hope, Reagan Deadlocked In Race To Grave

LOS ANGELES—Frank Sinatra’s recent hospitalization has pulled the aging crooner into a virtual dead heat with comedian Bob Hope and former president Ronald Reagan in their hotly contested race to death’s door, it was reported Monday. "We feel good about Mr. Sinatra’s prospects in this competitive graveyard derby," said Dr. Ben Ellis, Sinatra’s personal physician. "He is largely incoherent and responds poorly to bathing and feeding." Despite Sinatra’s rapidly deteriorating condition, officials for Hope and Reagan are confident. "Apart from one or two public appearances in the past year, Mr. Hope has been unable to function in any meaningful capacity outside his home," a Hope publicist said. Reagan, meanwhile, is proving a strong contender with a progressive neurological disease eroding his very wits. Las Vegas oddsmaker Danny Sheridan has Sinatra a slight 5-3 favorite to depart first, with Reagan second at 2-1.

Casey Martin Vs. The PGA

Last week, a federal judge ruled that golfer Casey Martin—who is afflicted with a circulatory disorder that makes it painful for him to walk—may use a motorized golf cart during PGA competition. The PGA contends that the use of a cart constitutes an unfair advantage, and plans to appeal the decision. What do you think?
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I Don't Need You People

That's it. I've finally had it up to here. Yet another pitiful excuse for a nurse has been hired for me, again without my approval. She's just a young wisp of a girl, and very sensitive to boot: Scold her in the slightest, and she dissolves into hysterics. Just to-day, I barked at her to pop one of my eyes back into place, and she dashed out of my bed-chamber, tears gushing down her face.

Well, the hell with that. And the hell with you all! I don't need anyone's aid to get by. I'm T. Herman Zweibel, world-famed publisher of The Onion news gazette. I practically invented the notion of self-reliance. So I'm running away from home and will leave no forwarding address. So long, you bastards!

I know what you're thinking: "The man is 127 years old and doesn't even have complete fore-arms. How will he survive?" I intend to live simply and close to the earth, just as I did during my rugged pioneer boy-hood. I'll just take along some flour, some hard-tack, a three-legged stool, and some ocelot-skins for clothing. Didn't think I could do it, did you?

I suppose I'll also need my musket to shoot game. And kitchen matches, too. I'd better summon Standish to get them from the larder. Wait, I can't do that, for he'll wonder why I need them, and, being a sharp man-servant, he'll put two and two together and realize I intend to run away. I will have to make fire by banging flinty rocks together. And I'll need a plough. I'll have to borrow one from a farmer. I'll use my electrically-fired wheel-chair to pull the thing.

I will also require a velveteen cushion on which to rest my boil-covered bottom. And a daguerreotype of my blessed mother. Those will be my sole comforts as I set out alone into the harsh wilderness.

I realize that the out-of-doors is fraught with many a peril. The last time I was out-side, in 1923 I believe, I somehow got caught in a cotton-gin. I don't want to speak of it further.

Fare-thee-well, jokers, and good riddance. The last sound you will hear from me is that of my bed-chamber door closing behind me. That is, when I learn how to work the blasted door-knob.

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