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What Is Trump Hiding?

As The Onion’s 300,000 staffers in its news bureaus and manual labor camps around the world continue to pore through the immense trove of documents obtained from an anonymous White House source, the answers that are emerging to these questions are deeply unnerving and suggest grave outcomes for the American people, the current international order, Wolf Blitzer, four of the five Great Lakes, and most devastatingly, the nation’s lighthouses and lighthouse keepers.

Deep Blue Quietly Celebrates 10th Anniversary With Garry Kasparov’s Ex-Wife

PITTSBURGH—Red wine and candlelight on the table before them, Deep Blue, the supercomputer that defeated reigning world chess champion Garry Kasparov in 1997, and Kasparov’s ex-wife, Yulia Vovk, quietly celebrated their 10th anniversary on Wednesday at a small French restaurant near Carnegie Mellon University, where Deep Blue was created.

A Timeline Of Aviation History

This Saturday marks 90 years since aviator Charles Lindbergh made his historic first nonstop solo transatlantic flight from New York to Paris aboard the Spirit Of St. Louis. The Onion takes a look back at the most important milestones in the history of aviation.

Zales Introduces New Line Of Casual Dating Diamond Rings

IRVING, TX—In a move aimed at reaching the millions of Americans just having a little fun for now, jewelry retailer Zales announced Thursday that it has expanded its product line to include a brand-new collection of diamond casual dating rings.

Notable Athlete-Branded Products

With sports stars lending their names to everything from furniture to salsa, Onion Sports breaks down some of the most notable athlete-branded products.
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Very Few People Like Me

Very few people like me because I'm loud, and when I speak I usually demand something, only not in English, but rather by grunting. Then I get very angry when no one understands me, so I start to cry. That way sometimes waitresses will get close enough that I can grab their breasts.

People also hate it when I sing really loud in the park, due to the fact that I sit next to them on a bench and press my lips to their ear—and also because I sing by belching with my tongue stuck out and wiggling all around.

Those are very annoying habits, but they're only the tip of the iceberg. There are loads of other things I do that make people dislike me.

If someone drops something, they hate the way I laugh at them so loudly that I start to cough up bits of phlegm into their face, especially when they are in places where they can't move away from you, like in a movie theater or a hospital bed.

Once in a while people will act as though they like me, but when that happens I just try to have sex with them, whoever it is—the social worker, the UPS man, my mom.

It's not just what I do; very few people like how I look. I'm so greasy that people are uncomfortable being around me because they have to make such an effort not to look at the rivers of pus and grease that streak my forehead.

They're always nervous that I'll catch them looking at my lopsided, ugly, oily face, so they look down at the ground. That's why I like to urinate on public streets.

Then there's that smell that instantly fills up any room I step into. I smell incredibly bad, like sort of a cross between tequila vomit and the soup you make out of the brains of those men you dig up at the vagrants' cemetery.

And because of my stink, there's flies. Not those big black flies that you can catch and eat on the bus, but those little teeny swarms of fruit flies that lay their eggs in the matted tufts of your hair.

Would you like someone like me? Of course not. I am very unlikable. You're right not to like me.

I don't really wash myself, except for when I go to McDonald's, and even then I only do it at a booth right up in the front with a 32-ounce cup full of water and a whole big stack of napkins.

If they ask me to leave I order something and then, so I can get my money back, I plant a big fistful of hair in it that I yank out of some kid that runs past.

Sure, I know that very few people like me, but it's not all my fault. Someone else gave me that gash across my chest—the one that I pick at constantly, getting blood all over myself, before I try to shake hands with everyone.

Then again, people might not want to touch me because I'm always putting my hands down my pants and scratching myself. They hate it when afterwards I smell my fingers. And they hate it worse when I make them smell my fingers.

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