Those Motherfucking Robins Are On Thin Ice With Me

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Vol 32 Issue 01

Johnsville, Il, Renamed Walmart #11717

JOHNSVILLE, IL—In a special town-square ceremony Friday, Mayor Byron Elkins officially renamed the town of Johnsville, IL, pop. 2,372, WalMart #11717. "All WalMart #11717ians can be proud to call WalMart #11717 their home," the mayor said. "I think we can all agree that WalMart #11717 is a wonderful place to work and shop." Added Elkins: "Go WalMart #11717 High Cougars!" Other residents of WalMart #11717 were equally enthusiastic. "The arrival of WalMart in our town this year caused dozens of stores to close, eliminating over 400 jobs," said greeter and mother of three Marianne Gross. "But on the bright side, nearly 150 jobs have been created by the new store." Citizens of WalMart #11717 who behave will receive a subcutaneous corporate-identification implant chip good for an employee discount at any WalMart store.

Pierced Tongue Fails To Make Local Woman Less Boring

COLLEGE STATION, TX—Sources within the tongue-piercing community revealed Monday that area resident Jen Macalester, 20, is no less boring now than she was prior to last week's tongue-piercing at the Piercing Pagoda in College Station's CrossGates Mall. While Macalester had hoped the tongue ring would give her "an edgy, dangerous, anti-establishment air," in actuality it did little to disguise her unremarkable personality and utterly predictable tastes. In the wake of the piercing failure, Macalester has reportedly been significantly cheered up by Tuesday's release of the new 311 album.

Mars Probe Destroyed By Orbiting Spielberg-Gates Space Palace

CAPE CANAVERAL, FL—NASA officials have confirmed that the space agency's $170 million Mars Rover was destroyed Sunday by a ship-to-ship phaser fired from the defense array of the $950 billion Spielberg-Gates Space Palace, an opulent, Rhode Island-sized orbiting mansion which serves as an outer-space getaway for moviemaker Steven Spielberg and computer magnate Bill Gates. While powerless to counterattack, NASA pleaded with Spielberg and Gates to be more merciful with NASA equipment in the future. "While we greatly respect the advances Mr. Spielberg and Mr. Gates have made with their privately funded space fleet, and we apologize for our unauthorized entrance into their orbit zone, we beseech them to share the solar system with us." Spokespersons for Spielberg and Gates said the two ardent video-game enthusiasts were "just playing."

Jean's Karaoke Krazy!

So there I was last Friday night, wondering where the heck hubby Rick was. He had promised to take me to see Con Air, but it was almost 15 minutes until the start of the movie and still no Rick. I called the tire center where he works, but there was no answer. Great, I thought, he's probably out at Tacky's Tavern, and I'll be stuck home tonight all alone. I changed out of my nice sweats, climbed into bed and turned on QVC.

Zweibel Goes A-Courtin'

The estate was awash in jollity and good tidings this week during the wedding of my great-great-great grandniece Violet Carstairs Zweibel to some pansy who is heir to a vast gelatin fortune. Though the ceremony was held in my own court-yard, I was locked in my bed-chamber, doubtless out of fear that I would create a scene. Lousy ingrate family of mine!

Area Tank Top Strained Nearly To Breaking Point

SMYRNA, GA—A Smyrna-area tank top is under fire from local menswear advocates, who say the garment is so severely strained that it is in imminent danger of succumbing to explosive and potentially dangerous fabric-degradation-related rupture.
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Those Motherfucking Robins Are On Thin Ice With Me

Ever since my retirement last month from the sock factory, I've had a lot of extra time to spend around the yard. But the hours of pleasurable pruning with my new cordless rechargeable Master Clipper I had expected to enjoy have been cruelly withheld from me. Instead, my afternoons have been spent in an unending feud with those motherfucking robins that infest my yard. All my attempts to coexist with these creatures on my meticulously trimmed, lush suburban lawn have failed, leaving me with no choice but to exterminate them. Do you hear me, you lousy, cocksucking robins? This is war!

It was last week that I had withdrawn a hefty sum from my pension account and made haste to the Eastgate Plaza Lawn & Garden Place to pick out the finest riding mower known to man—the John Deere Lawn Rebel, featuring high-impact Euro-style wheels and nine-position fingertip height adjusters. I climbed right onto the patented Comfort Cushion(TM) seat and grabbed hold of the deluxe seven-speed gear shift, and drove her right out of the store and down Grant Avenue toward home, waving to everyone I saw.

I had just mowed the lawn Sunday, but I saw a few spots around the old maple tree that could use some extra attention. I could've used my Weed Eater Featherlite 15-inch gas trimmer that Gertie got me for our anniversary, but I saw this outcropping close to the maple's trunk as a good test for my new John Deere.

I cleared the patch without suffering so much as a nick to the green paint on the Lawn Rebel's detachable blower. At that point I decided to go ahead and mow the whole lawn. Why not enjoy myself?, I thought—I'm retired!

But I had gone no more than 20 feet when I noticed one of those no-good, motherfucking tweeters hopping in front of the path of my mower. I slammed on the brakes and brought the Lawn Rebel to a halt. That mower stopped on a dime, and lucky for that bird, too, because any lesser mower would've gone straight up its ass.

I got about one row done when I came to another goddamn chirping little shitball, just taking its gay old time sticking its fucking beak in the goddamn grass. I yelled, "Hey, get outta the way!" but then I realized it probably couldn't hear me over the motor, so I turned off the Lawn Rebel and yelled, "Hey, I'm mowin' the fucking lawn here, asshole!" Boy, was I steamed.

Finally I climbed off the Comfort Cushion seat and shooed the thing away. I started the engine up again and continued, only to have the same thing happen to me 11 more times just in the front yard. Now, this wasn't the first run-in that I'd had with these fuckers. I'd put a new white canopy over the deck this year, which was completely stained with berries from the neighbor's yard. Besides that, the last time I went to fire up the gas grill at the start of lawn-barbecue season, I found a robin's nest on the warming rack.

I swear, next time I see a robin's nest, I'm taking the eggs and smashing them with a fucking baseball bat.

Anyway, it was dark by the time I was done mowing, what with having to stop every 10 feet. Around 10 p.m., Gertie came running out with my heart pills expecting to find me laid out in the culvert.

After accepting a quick iced tea, I sent Gertie back in—by God, I wasn't done yet. I went to the garage and got out my shiny red Pioneer Plus 16-inch Chainsaw with the Menard's sticker still on it and went straight for the mountain ash where those birds were known to meet. Limb by limb, I reduced that tree to a pole. I even got out my Black & Decker collapsible ladder to get all the way to the top, but when I got there I didn't find any of the sons of bitches.

Defeated, I climbed down the ladder, bellowing, "Tomorrow, my fine feathered foes, is another day!" into the night sky. Fucking birds! Christ!

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