You Ungrateful Bastards!

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Vol 31 Issue 23

Doritos Good

WARNER ROBINS, GA—A five-year study released Monday by area resident Wayne "Bud" Junker revealed that Doritos-brand tortilla chips are, without question, good. "Whether original flavor, Cooler Ranch, or the zesty new 'Nacho Cheesier' variety, my exhaustive research indicates that Doritos are very good." To underscore the study's findings, Junker stuffed a fistful of Doritos into his mouth, exclaiming, "Mmm-mmm!" A 1995 couch-based study conducted by Junker concluded that Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey-flavor ice cream is delicious.

Jimmy Stewart: 'Please God, I Want To Live Again'

BEDFORD FALLS, NY—Legendary actor Jimmy Stewart, who died last week at age 89, begged God Monday for another chance at life. "Get me back! Get me back! I want to live again!" Stewart shouted from a snow-blown bridge. "Please God, let me live again!" Despite the impassioned plea, God decided not to permit Stewart to return to earth. His longtime guardian angel, Clarence, refused to comment, saying only, "I think I'll have another rum punch." Friends and family gathered at Stewart's home Tuesday to pay tribute, singing "Auld Lang Syne" and praising him as "the richest man in town." They denied rumors that God's decision was due to a 1929 sex scandal in which the beloved star was seen giving money to town tramp Violet Bick.

The Holy Woman Knoweth Well Her Place

To-day's sermon concerns Woman, a Vessel capable of both Holiness and Wickedness alike, but who all too often takes the latter Path, being as she is a Daughter of Eve, whose Envy, Ambition, and Weakness of the Flesh caused the Expulsion from Eden, and eternal Banishment from an Earthly Paradise for all of God's Children.
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You Ungrateful Bastards!

You bastards! Why will you not buy Old Uncle Zweibel's Patented Tripe-Flavored Ices? Damn you! Damn you!

Nearly half a million dollars I've sunk into this venture, and I'll be lucky if I see a penny of it. I added a whole new wing to the estate slaughter-house, kept continuously cold by precious ice shipped via barge from the Arctic Circle, so that tripe and other miscellaneous drippings collected from the slaughter-house floor could be frozen into delightful summer-time refreshments. It's the wonder of the age, by cracky, and it's going to pot because none of you damn fools will purchase my ices!

I also spent a pretty penny on elaborate molds into which the tripe is poured before freezing. Who wouldn't drool over a tempting tripe-flavored ice shaped like a steam-locomotive, the Lady Liberty, or Grant's Tomb?

I can't understand it. It's summer-time! The heat is stifling! The American people are languishing on the roof-tops of their sordid tenement houses, slowly being driven mad by the neighborhood organ grinder's cacophonous rendition of "I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles" below. This should be the ideal time to manufacture and sell delicious tripe-flavored ices. But no takers! I might as well have tried to sell rabies to dogs!

I'm always trying to do nice things for you. Who sponsored the public hangings and bear-baitings in the nearby village? Who gave every townsperson a shiny new button for their birthday? And who got the entire village hooked on opium? Me, that's who!

At this moment, my estate is lousy with melting, stinking tripe. We tried to feed some of it to the estate's herd of boars, but the spoiled goods exploded in their stomachs, and they died spectacular deaths. So now I'm forced to store crates of it in my armoire. Now I don't even have a place to put my jars of urine! This glut of tripe breaks my spirit. I've always prided myself on my uncanny ability to sell anything to anyone, be it through sheer force of personality, legal writ, or physical coercion. But I learned long ago that when plans backfire, it's best to find a scape-goat and pin the blame on it. You'll pay dearly for this, you bastards!

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