Bizarro Bookshelf- A work years in the making, Rush Limbaugh has finally finished his self-insert historical fanfiction, Rush Revere and the Brave Pilgrims: Time-Travel Adventures.
Rush Limbaugh's avatar in this romp through time and space is Rush Revere, a svelte and swarthy colonist with a head that looks like a steamed ham wearing a powdered wig. Also, Rush Revere is the character he uses to sell his line of teas, so there's that. Rush's marketing mimic travels America, warning all he sees that, "The Liberals Are Coming!" Trivia: This is also the tagline for the popular Cinemax title "The Naily Show: With Lance Stewbeef."
Rush Revere is a substitute middle school teacher (or as they're more popularly known, "The underemployed spitball magnet who keeps making us watch Dunstin Checks In) who just so happens to own a time machine of a sort, but more on that later. Revere's disregard for physical laws places him on the deck of the Mayflower, which is the first place anyone wants to go when they enjoy dubiously legal cigars, progressive synth-rock, and Elton John.
Oh, and did I mention there's a goddamn talking horse named Liberty? Not impressed? What if I told you--SPOILER ALERT--that horse was the time machine I mentioned earlier? Awwww yeah! And even though horses are physically required to poop every five minutes, Liberty can at least warn you beforehand that you'll need a shovel in a few seconds.
"This country is made up of exceptional people and stories of rags to riches," Rush explains.
Now wait, wasn't "free market capitalism" a distant second beneath "basic survival" on the list of Pilgrim concerns? Not so! Enterprising pilgrims built lucrative businesses by attaching belt buckles to clothing that did not necessitate them. And there's that instant oatmeal guy. You know he made bank! No, you can shut up about Quakers and Pilgrims being two different things. They wear the same hats and everything! Explain that, liberal!
As for Thanksgiving, Rush Revere wants you to know the truth! You see, this first Thanksgiving is a demonstration about the failures of socialism. By exchanging food and agricultural tips, the Pilgrims and the Natives both became wealthy. I mean, if you stop and think about it, mass starvation and death by exposure to the cruel New England winters is a form of wealth since you go to Heaven afterwards. They've got golden streets, for God's sake! As for the Natives, they earned their pay too; though most of it was delivered to them in Smallpox Dollars. Not a popular item among coin collectors, incidentally.
Even though Limbaugh insists that his latest book is not partisan, he still tackles it with the same gusto that he applies to every other aspect of his life; excluding physical fitness, which was corrupted by Michelle Obama. No true patriot does cardio. That's what horses are for.
"But our president, President Obama, recently said exceptional Americans are few and far between.....And the fact is, way too many people believe it. Way too many people believe that prosperity, success, or whatever is an exception now, that it really is impossible--and it's not, folks."
There's a lot we can learn from the timeless story of the Pilgrims and the Natives. Why do you think the Native tribes all own those huge casinos? Because with a little luck and the favor of God, you can go from rags to riches playing slots. Just as Ezekial and Spirit Arrow clasped hands and formed a successful business partnership, you can join hands with a Chippewa's one-armed bandit and seek your fortune in quarters.
These are the principles that America has forgotten thanks to Socialist Communazis, and these are the principles that will capture the stunted imaginations of indoctrinated children everywhere. This book is a surefire Christmas hit, because if there's one thing children love it's reading several hundred pages of historical fiction with no wizards, no shirtless werewolves, and no turgid body parts of any kind.
Showing posts with label Art. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Art. Show all posts
Monday, September 9, 2013
Human Signpost Signals Chaos
Bizarro Lawton, OK (BP)- Motorists were perplexed and upset Monday morning by a PIzza Hut employee twirling a large cardboard arrow outside of a strip mall.
"He had the arrow flying all over the place!" shouted bewildered driver Ashley Wilks. "You couldn't read the sign, but you could see pizza. But the arrow was pointing every which way, so I didn't know where the pizza was!"
The sign announced a free order of cinnamon sticks with an order of two large, two-topping pizzas. The Pizza Hut is located about fifty yards from the sidewalk in the parking lot of Lawton Shop-More Center.
A crowd soon assembled around the gyrating young man, desperately following the tip of the arrow as it spun around his legs and over his shoulder. One elderly bystander injured his neck when the sign was spun into the air like a baton.
"Jesus Christ, I just want to know where the damn pizza is!" screamed a hysterical man as he searched the skies for some kind of flying Pizza Hut.
Lawton Police soon arrived and directed the terrified throng to the restaurant they were seeking. Human signpost Jaime Francisco explains why he didn't take the obvious step of clearing up their confusion himself.
"When I get into rhythm, it takes over my body. The sign is me, and I am the sign," explained Francisco, a member of the Guild of Human Signage Professionals. "It doesn't pay well, sure. But I don't do it for the money. I do it for the love of the art. And to prove to my father that my degree in interpretive dance isn't 'useless.'"
"He had the arrow flying all over the place!" shouted bewildered driver Ashley Wilks. "You couldn't read the sign, but you could see pizza. But the arrow was pointing every which way, so I didn't know where the pizza was!"
The sign announced a free order of cinnamon sticks with an order of two large, two-topping pizzas. The Pizza Hut is located about fifty yards from the sidewalk in the parking lot of Lawton Shop-More Center.
A crowd soon assembled around the gyrating young man, desperately following the tip of the arrow as it spun around his legs and over his shoulder. One elderly bystander injured his neck when the sign was spun into the air like a baton.
"Jesus Christ, I just want to know where the damn pizza is!" screamed a hysterical man as he searched the skies for some kind of flying Pizza Hut.
Lawton Police soon arrived and directed the terrified throng to the restaurant they were seeking. Human signpost Jaime Francisco explains why he didn't take the obvious step of clearing up their confusion himself.
"When I get into rhythm, it takes over my body. The sign is me, and I am the sign," explained Francisco, a member of the Guild of Human Signage Professionals. "It doesn't pay well, sure. But I don't do it for the money. I do it for the love of the art. And to prove to my father that my degree in interpretive dance isn't 'useless.'"
Thursday, August 29, 2013
Bizzarketplace of Ideas: Rejecting Male Literature
Anita Sylvanstra is a feminist blogger and involuntarily terminated barista with an Associates Degree in Transgendered Sculpture. Her current objective is to turn her blog into a full-time careeahahahahaha
The Year I Rejected Male CIS-liture
After being asked to abdicate yet another community college creative writing course for "plagiarizing the thesaurus", I found myself perusing perfectly typical literature by perfectly typical CIS-gendered authors. I first delved into the pages of Kafka's The Metamorphosis, though my reaction to his other works was an unadulterated clowncar of "meh." By the time I concluded the aforementioned novel, my inner Venus was alight with Genderfury (Copyright 2013, Sylvanstra Genderprises). Since when is transforming into an insect an excuse to foist your breadwinning role on your sister? You possess six hands on that thorax, sir, and only require two for standing. Methinks your productivity would increase four-fold. As my indignation blossomed, I pondered from whence this fury originated. Certainly, Metamorphosis is sexist, but so are other tomes beyond number, celluloid travesties, and every program produced by CBS. For what should I credit my rage, which confounds me like a rat in a cage? But then, an epiphany! Metamorphosis and every other book I had absorbed in 2013 were not self-same! Kafka was a man!
I had not connived to avoid men. It simply was. Reading women is one of the many great hazards a professional-level blogger has when challenging archaic notions of gender and culture. Spare me your sympathy. This is a burden that I have chosen to bear. The bulk of the femliture I purchased emerged from the sultry depths of the YA genre. I found myself enmeshed in a veritable cornucopia of feminine prose. Alas, when I at last emerged from this estrogen hotspring--my skin smelling of rosemary and jasmine--I found myself unfulfilled.
Should you turn on your television after eons of binge-watching television online, you might find your ears revolt at the sound of obnoxious commercials promoting the majesty of Geico Insurance by means of a cockney gecko. My journey was similar, but rather than being subjected to an irreverent CGI reptile, I found that every book penned by a man contained no women. Rather, I found male deficiencies molded into female form.
Clearly, I am unaccustomed to wielding the psyche of a male protagonist, and my ability to objectify women (as all men are known to do) was bedecked with rust. Thus, it was vexing to encounter scores of acclaimed men portraying the female mind in a manner that was inconsistent with my encounters in femliture. Verily, they appeared extraterrestrial in comparison. At last, I had broken free from the bondage of dead white men mansplaining to me! Oh, if only these poor fools had a guiding light in a brave Blog-Her such as myself!
As a highly capable student of the arts, my mind was unwittingly poisoned by the ichor spewing from the typewriters of charlatans. Hemingway and Pound spat on my embattled gender, and I delighted in their casual misogyny. Male authors were evaluated with lenience. For what were they but victims of their circumstances? The cultural zeitgeist had not yet moved! After rejecting the fascism of testosterone, I saw the folly in this reasoning. Even if these men were responsible for compelling works that transcend time in their relevance, it was obscene beyond all imagining that I was expected to know what it means to be a woman after reading novels from men who regarded us as second-class citizens (not that I let literature define every aspect of my life rather than evaluating it on its academic merits or cultural insights).
That is not to suggest women should avoid Kafka! Nay, perish the thought! But to expose them to this malicious assault on their gender prior to the latter years of college (everyone DOES go to college, right?) is simply a tragedy of the patriarchy. Exclusive access to femliture is what young women require. And not that gender-traitor BITCH Jane Austen with her lacy dresses and submissive ways! I merely mean that white male authors cannot accurately portray any character that isn't a white male themselves. Similarly, I resent the fantasy genre for permitting non-elves and non-direwolves to depict characters they could not possibly comprehend (for more on this, see my sister blog "Orcs are Beautiful Too"). After all, white males are not omniscient. That's not to imply that I am, but actually I'm not sure how I should continue this line of reasoning. Deep breath. New paragraph.
Forsooth! Envision young lasses that are confined to classrooms where teachers profess the glorious white male, who spits in the face of their femininity! Though there are contemporary male authors who are conscientious of their privilege, their numbers are few. Modern publishers greet the white male's manuscript with an enthusiasm they would dare not provide small-scale female writers like J.K. Rowling. Franz Kafka wrote a story about a family's young breadwinning son transforming into an insect, perhaps because on some level Kafka understood that he is vermin. Unworthy of his place in Her-story.
My tale of abstinence--be it from red meat, mirrors, showers, psychiatric medication, paying student loans, earning any income whatsoever, and sex--might imply that I have learned a lesson about consuming certain kinds of literature in moderation. Yet, my year without male writers or any positive human contact of any kind has made me ardent in my resolve to blog in support of female writers until my fingers are but scrambling spider's legs (only ten of them, not eight, although I don't know if my thumb counts because all it really does is hit the spacebar). Young women musn't be allowed to judge themselves through the white male lens. If they are to judge themselves by any metric, allow them to consider if they are attractive enough to woo a 120-year-old vampiric man who still hangs around high schools. Empower them with stories of child murder contests with love triangles! Regale them with explicit tales of bondage play! Only then will our gender find the literary freedom it deserves.
The Year I Rejected Male CIS-liture
After being asked to abdicate yet another community college creative writing course for "plagiarizing the thesaurus", I found myself perusing perfectly typical literature by perfectly typical CIS-gendered authors. I first delved into the pages of Kafka's The Metamorphosis, though my reaction to his other works was an unadulterated clowncar of "meh." By the time I concluded the aforementioned novel, my inner Venus was alight with Genderfury (Copyright 2013, Sylvanstra Genderprises). Since when is transforming into an insect an excuse to foist your breadwinning role on your sister? You possess six hands on that thorax, sir, and only require two for standing. Methinks your productivity would increase four-fold. As my indignation blossomed, I pondered from whence this fury originated. Certainly, Metamorphosis is sexist, but so are other tomes beyond number, celluloid travesties, and every program produced by CBS. For what should I credit my rage, which confounds me like a rat in a cage? But then, an epiphany! Metamorphosis and every other book I had absorbed in 2013 were not self-same! Kafka was a man!
I had not connived to avoid men. It simply was. Reading women is one of the many great hazards a professional-level blogger has when challenging archaic notions of gender and culture. Spare me your sympathy. This is a burden that I have chosen to bear. The bulk of the femliture I purchased emerged from the sultry depths of the YA genre. I found myself enmeshed in a veritable cornucopia of feminine prose. Alas, when I at last emerged from this estrogen hotspring--my skin smelling of rosemary and jasmine--I found myself unfulfilled.
Should you turn on your television after eons of binge-watching television online, you might find your ears revolt at the sound of obnoxious commercials promoting the majesty of Geico Insurance by means of a cockney gecko. My journey was similar, but rather than being subjected to an irreverent CGI reptile, I found that every book penned by a man contained no women. Rather, I found male deficiencies molded into female form.
Clearly, I am unaccustomed to wielding the psyche of a male protagonist, and my ability to objectify women (as all men are known to do) was bedecked with rust. Thus, it was vexing to encounter scores of acclaimed men portraying the female mind in a manner that was inconsistent with my encounters in femliture. Verily, they appeared extraterrestrial in comparison. At last, I had broken free from the bondage of dead white men mansplaining to me! Oh, if only these poor fools had a guiding light in a brave Blog-Her such as myself!
As a highly capable student of the arts, my mind was unwittingly poisoned by the ichor spewing from the typewriters of charlatans. Hemingway and Pound spat on my embattled gender, and I delighted in their casual misogyny. Male authors were evaluated with lenience. For what were they but victims of their circumstances? The cultural zeitgeist had not yet moved! After rejecting the fascism of testosterone, I saw the folly in this reasoning. Even if these men were responsible for compelling works that transcend time in their relevance, it was obscene beyond all imagining that I was expected to know what it means to be a woman after reading novels from men who regarded us as second-class citizens (not that I let literature define every aspect of my life rather than evaluating it on its academic merits or cultural insights).
That is not to suggest women should avoid Kafka! Nay, perish the thought! But to expose them to this malicious assault on their gender prior to the latter years of college (everyone DOES go to college, right?) is simply a tragedy of the patriarchy. Exclusive access to femliture is what young women require. And not that gender-traitor BITCH Jane Austen with her lacy dresses and submissive ways! I merely mean that white male authors cannot accurately portray any character that isn't a white male themselves. Similarly, I resent the fantasy genre for permitting non-elves and non-direwolves to depict characters they could not possibly comprehend (for more on this, see my sister blog "Orcs are Beautiful Too"). After all, white males are not omniscient. That's not to imply that I am, but actually I'm not sure how I should continue this line of reasoning. Deep breath. New paragraph.
Forsooth! Envision young lasses that are confined to classrooms where teachers profess the glorious white male, who spits in the face of their femininity! Though there are contemporary male authors who are conscientious of their privilege, their numbers are few. Modern publishers greet the white male's manuscript with an enthusiasm they would dare not provide small-scale female writers like J.K. Rowling. Franz Kafka wrote a story about a family's young breadwinning son transforming into an insect, perhaps because on some level Kafka understood that he is vermin. Unworthy of his place in Her-story.
My tale of abstinence--be it from red meat, mirrors, showers, psychiatric medication, paying student loans, earning any income whatsoever, and sex--might imply that I have learned a lesson about consuming certain kinds of literature in moderation. Yet, my year without male writers or any positive human contact of any kind has made me ardent in my resolve to blog in support of female writers until my fingers are but scrambling spider's legs (only ten of them, not eight, although I don't know if my thumb counts because all it really does is hit the spacebar). Young women musn't be allowed to judge themselves through the white male lens. If they are to judge themselves by any metric, allow them to consider if they are attractive enough to woo a 120-year-old vampiric man who still hangs around high schools. Empower them with stories of child murder contests with love triangles! Regale them with explicit tales of bondage play! Only then will our gender find the literary freedom it deserves.
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Chicken Soup for the Bizarro Soul: The Punishment, The Poems, and The Puppies
Teen Beaten Back to Life
Bizarro Ozark, MO (BP)- A 16-year-old boy who fell from an overpass and broke his spine found himself healed in a miraculous act of heroism. His savior was not an EMT or a skilled spinal surgeon. In fact, it was two police officers doing their duty to protect the public.
Drivers noticed M. Hutchinson walking down the side of a busy road, oblivious to the traffic zipping by at 50-miles-per-hour just feet away.
"He wasn't drunk or anything, that I could see. He seemed really upset, though," said a Nancy Wetherbee, who called 911. "I just wanted to stop him from hurting himself, or causing an accident."
By the time police arrived, Ms. Wetherbee's worst fears had already been realized. Hutchinson lay at the base of an overpass, having apparently fallen or jumped off. His back and heel were broken by the impact, and the agony left him moaning and delirious. Officer Frye Bacon and his partner, Officer Ouda Compton, approached the crumpled body.
"We ordered the subject to get to his feet several times, but he refused," said Officer Bacon. "We determined that he was a deadly threat to the free world, and we deployed our non-lethal defense cudgels."
Non-lethal defense cudgels, known commonly as "nightsticks", are designed to disable (alleged) lawbreaking degenerates with generous applications of blunt force trauma.
For the next ten minutes, the responding officers beat Hutchinson with blows driven by their undying love of American justice. At one point, unbeknownst to either men, the displaced vertebrae in Hutchinson's spine was pushed back into place. The teen was not out of the woods yet. Though the bone structure was restored, Hutchinson's damaged nervous system couldn't reach anything below his waist.
Meanwhile, according to police reports, the teen began cursing at the officers.
Officer Compton recommended a change in tactics. "No matter how many times I struck him in the groin, he wouldn't comply with our commands. And then he started saying stuff like, 'Stop hitting me you asshole! I can't feel my legs!'"
Compton's face goes red as he remembers, his chubby fingers clenching and unclenching. "I was like, 'Okay. Time to ride the lightning, you little shit.'"
Both officers drew their tasers and fired 19 times, no longer shouting commands.
"He wasn't talking shit then," said Officer Bacon. "I was a big man. I WAS SUCH A BIG GODDAMN MAN."
The constant application of voltage was just the thing Hutchinson needed. Not only did feeling return to his lower body, but he was finally able to stand. After being frisked and cuffed, an EMT was called to remove the taser barbs in accordance with police standards. When the ambulance finally arrived, the paramedics were in for a shock.
"We found the officers on the scene, sweaty and spent," said EMT Ben Dover. "When the suspect described his symptoms to me, it became clear that something very serious had happened to his spinal column."
Hutchinson was transported to a nearby hospital, where it was discovered that he had suffered severe spinal trauma--all of which had been rectified by the actions of the Officers Bacon and Compton.
"It's amazing," said Dr. Rex Sever. "I don't know how those officers learned to treat spinal injuries, but they couldn't have done a better job."
The Chief of Police agreed, granting the hero officers a month of paid leave. Hutchinson is expected to be released from the hospital soon and face charges of disorderly conduct and resisting arrest.
Cursing Allowance Empowers Young Writers
Bizarro Monroe, SC (BP)- Creative Writing students at Monroe High School were surprised and delighted when teacher John Walters confirmed that, yes, it was acceptable to curse in their writing.
"I feel so goddamn liberated!" said student Cynthia Leigh.
The teacher's new policy had immediate and dramatic effects on the pieces being turned in. Word counts nearly doubled, dialogue replaced stilted descriptions, and students became more invested in peer reviews.
"Holy shit, man! I love workshop day!" said aspiring poet Shaun Foley. "I'm always finding badass new ways to fucking curse!"
Walters was encouraged at first, but the compelling results came with a price.
"I wanted to give them complete creative freedom, to let them spread their wings," said Walters, drinking something from a coffee mug even though the only coffee machine in school was in the teacher's lounge and it had been broken for weeks. "I thought they would get it out of their system, but it's only gotten more ridiculous by the day."
For example, Walters provided us with a sample from Haiku Day:
Henry "Bitchslapper" Webster
That fuckin' flower
Waves in the wind or some shit
Bitches love flowers
"I don't really know what to do," Walters groaned, his hands pressed to his face in sorrow. "The principal wants me to start putting classwork up in the hallway to improve morale, I have to explain to parents why their kids aren't bringing home things to put on the fridge. And the class is dead set on entering the 2012 Young Writer Showdown. I'm screwed."
But anyone can see that Mr.Walters' Freshman Creative Writing kids are humming with creative energy. Shattered are the cruel chains of puritan oppression. Every child is undergoing a personal renaissance, escaping from the oppressive dark ages to challenge a world that scowls upon empowerment through art. The Bizarro Post has taken up the task of distributing the works offered for publication by Walters' students. We've stapled them to telephone poles, nailed them to church doors, and hot glued them to stray animals (and animals we assumed were stray) in an act of subversive guerrilla publishing that we are sure our favorite young authors would approve of.
The world will see the glory of your tutelage, Mr. Walters. On behalf of everyone at The Bizarro Post, you're welcome.
NSA Puppy Parade
Bizarro Washington DC (BP)- In attempt to repair tense public relations and increase national morale, the NSA have combed their catalog of intercepted data for pictures of adorable puppies and made them available online.
"We've got sleepy huskies, happy puggles, and every single breed of dog crossbred with corgis. My favorite one is the malamute corgi," said Agent __________ __________.
Critics have noted that the exif data is still intact on the files, which compromises the safety and privacy of pictures that were intended for friends and family. Since the pictures were grabbed directly from the photographer's cell
phone and not modified, they sometimes contain unobscured faces, license plates, and other information that could be used to facilitate identity theft.
"But the puppies are really cute," said Haley Wilson, a teacher from Bizarro Madison, Wisconsin. "And you can search by all kinds of photo tags. My favorite one is 'guilty faces', the way they've got the puppies sitting next to a trashcan they tipped over and looking at the floor. They know what they did wrong! Yes they did! Yesh they dyiiiiddd!"
Bizarro Ozark, MO (BP)- A 16-year-old boy who fell from an overpass and broke his spine found himself healed in a miraculous act of heroism. His savior was not an EMT or a skilled spinal surgeon. In fact, it was two police officers doing their duty to protect the public.
Drivers noticed M. Hutchinson walking down the side of a busy road, oblivious to the traffic zipping by at 50-miles-per-hour just feet away.
"He wasn't drunk or anything, that I could see. He seemed really upset, though," said a Nancy Wetherbee, who called 911. "I just wanted to stop him from hurting himself, or causing an accident."
By the time police arrived, Ms. Wetherbee's worst fears had already been realized. Hutchinson lay at the base of an overpass, having apparently fallen or jumped off. His back and heel were broken by the impact, and the agony left him moaning and delirious. Officer Frye Bacon and his partner, Officer Ouda Compton, approached the crumpled body.
"We ordered the subject to get to his feet several times, but he refused," said Officer Bacon. "We determined that he was a deadly threat to the free world, and we deployed our non-lethal defense cudgels."
Non-lethal defense cudgels, known commonly as "nightsticks", are designed to disable (alleged) lawbreaking degenerates with generous applications of blunt force trauma.
For the next ten minutes, the responding officers beat Hutchinson with blows driven by their undying love of American justice. At one point, unbeknownst to either men, the displaced vertebrae in Hutchinson's spine was pushed back into place. The teen was not out of the woods yet. Though the bone structure was restored, Hutchinson's damaged nervous system couldn't reach anything below his waist.
Meanwhile, according to police reports, the teen began cursing at the officers.
Officer Compton recommended a change in tactics. "No matter how many times I struck him in the groin, he wouldn't comply with our commands. And then he started saying stuff like, 'Stop hitting me you asshole! I can't feel my legs!'"
Compton's face goes red as he remembers, his chubby fingers clenching and unclenching. "I was like, 'Okay. Time to ride the lightning, you little shit.'"
Both officers drew their tasers and fired 19 times, no longer shouting commands.
"He wasn't talking shit then," said Officer Bacon. "I was a big man. I WAS SUCH A BIG GODDAMN MAN."
The constant application of voltage was just the thing Hutchinson needed. Not only did feeling return to his lower body, but he was finally able to stand. After being frisked and cuffed, an EMT was called to remove the taser barbs in accordance with police standards. When the ambulance finally arrived, the paramedics were in for a shock.
"We found the officers on the scene, sweaty and spent," said EMT Ben Dover. "When the suspect described his symptoms to me, it became clear that something very serious had happened to his spinal column."
Hutchinson was transported to a nearby hospital, where it was discovered that he had suffered severe spinal trauma--all of which had been rectified by the actions of the Officers Bacon and Compton.
"It's amazing," said Dr. Rex Sever. "I don't know how those officers learned to treat spinal injuries, but they couldn't have done a better job."
The Chief of Police agreed, granting the hero officers a month of paid leave. Hutchinson is expected to be released from the hospital soon and face charges of disorderly conduct and resisting arrest.
Cursing Allowance Empowers Young Writers
Bizarro Monroe, SC (BP)- Creative Writing students at Monroe High School were surprised and delighted when teacher John Walters confirmed that, yes, it was acceptable to curse in their writing.
"I feel so goddamn liberated!" said student Cynthia Leigh.
The teacher's new policy had immediate and dramatic effects on the pieces being turned in. Word counts nearly doubled, dialogue replaced stilted descriptions, and students became more invested in peer reviews.
"Holy shit, man! I love workshop day!" said aspiring poet Shaun Foley. "I'm always finding badass new ways to fucking curse!"
Walters was encouraged at first, but the compelling results came with a price.
"I wanted to give them complete creative freedom, to let them spread their wings," said Walters, drinking something from a coffee mug even though the only coffee machine in school was in the teacher's lounge and it had been broken for weeks. "I thought they would get it out of their system, but it's only gotten more ridiculous by the day."
For example, Walters provided us with a sample from Haiku Day:
Henry "Bitchslapper" Webster
That fuckin' flower
Waves in the wind or some shit
Bitches love flowers
"I don't really know what to do," Walters groaned, his hands pressed to his face in sorrow. "The principal wants me to start putting classwork up in the hallway to improve morale, I have to explain to parents why their kids aren't bringing home things to put on the fridge. And the class is dead set on entering the 2012 Young Writer Showdown. I'm screwed."
But anyone can see that Mr.Walters' Freshman Creative Writing kids are humming with creative energy. Shattered are the cruel chains of puritan oppression. Every child is undergoing a personal renaissance, escaping from the oppressive dark ages to challenge a world that scowls upon empowerment through art. The Bizarro Post has taken up the task of distributing the works offered for publication by Walters' students. We've stapled them to telephone poles, nailed them to church doors, and hot glued them to stray animals (and animals we assumed were stray) in an act of subversive guerrilla publishing that we are sure our favorite young authors would approve of.
The world will see the glory of your tutelage, Mr. Walters. On behalf of everyone at The Bizarro Post, you're welcome.
NSA Puppy Parade
Bizarro Washington DC (BP)- In attempt to repair tense public relations and increase national morale, the NSA have combed their catalog of intercepted data for pictures of adorable puppies and made them available online.
"We've got sleepy huskies, happy puggles, and every single breed of dog crossbred with corgis. My favorite one is the malamute corgi," said Agent __________ __________.
Critics have noted that the exif data is still intact on the files, which compromises the safety and privacy of pictures that were intended for friends and family. Since the pictures were grabbed directly from the photographer's cell
"But the puppies are really cute," said Haley Wilson, a teacher from Bizarro Madison, Wisconsin. "And you can search by all kinds of photo tags. My favorite one is 'guilty faces', the way they've got the puppies sitting next to a trashcan they tipped over and looking at the floor. They know what they did wrong! Yes they did! Yesh they dyiiiiddd!"
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
REDACTED Furious Over CIA REDACTED
Bizarro Langley, VA (BP)- Pierre Monet (born Joe-Bob Riggs), was ecstatic at the chance to finally put his bachelor's degree in interior design to work after nearly a decade of underemployment [Editors Note: Any job's actually "overemployment" with that degree, am I right?]
His first client was the CIA.
"I was thrilled! The cavity search was a small price to pay for being allowed to work on this massive project," said the artist in an interview just after his hiring was approved.
For months, he labored in secrecy within the bowels of the CIA's notorious complex. Displays were built, plaques were inscribed and redacted, and artifacts arrived by the dozen. Saddam's mustache. Pinochet's child-sized iron maiden. Julian Assange's thumb drive of embarrassing fetish pornography. The _______________ used to____________John F. _________. All of these treasures and more were lovingly displayed by Monet.
"I was so proud. And the guys in the office loved it! They would stand around looking at the displays and thinking back to old times until they noticed I was near enough to hear them. Then they would shoot at me a little bit until I moved along. Real jokers."
But when it came time to reveal his work to the public, he learned that there would be no ribbon cutting. There would be no visitors, or press. When Monet threatened to tell the press about his display, he was involuntarily placed in a mental hospital due to his "wild conspiracy theories".
"It's not so bad in here," said Monet in a closely-supervised meeting with Bizarro Post reporters. "The people in here believe just about everything I say. I'm pretty sure I even saw my therapist taking notes when I talked about my masterpiece. Someone's going to blow this thing wide open. The truth is spreading more every day!"
Today the truth was casually revealed during a brief feature on the museum by Richard Engel on NBC's "Nightly News". When asked if the acknowledgement of the museum's existence proved the designer's "conspiracy theories" were all true, curator Toni Hiley shrugged.
"Never heard of him. Nobody here has. You haven't either," Hiley said before turning to the camera. "None of you have."
The staff of the Bizarro Post would like to affirm that we have no knowledge of any of this, and don't know who this article is even profiling, and please don't waterboard us.
His first client was the CIA.
"I was thrilled! The cavity search was a small price to pay for being allowed to work on this massive project," said the artist in an interview just after his hiring was approved.
For months, he labored in secrecy within the bowels of the CIA's notorious complex. Displays were built, plaques were inscribed and redacted, and artifacts arrived by the dozen. Saddam's mustache. Pinochet's child-sized iron maiden. Julian Assange's thumb drive of embarrassing fetish pornography. The _______________ used to____________John F. _________. All of these treasures and more were lovingly displayed by Monet.
"I was so proud. And the guys in the office loved it! They would stand around looking at the displays and thinking back to old times until they noticed I was near enough to hear them. Then they would shoot at me a little bit until I moved along. Real jokers."
But when it came time to reveal his work to the public, he learned that there would be no ribbon cutting. There would be no visitors, or press. When Monet threatened to tell the press about his display, he was involuntarily placed in a mental hospital due to his "wild conspiracy theories".
"It's not so bad in here," said Monet in a closely-supervised meeting with Bizarro Post reporters. "The people in here believe just about everything I say. I'm pretty sure I even saw my therapist taking notes when I talked about my masterpiece. Someone's going to blow this thing wide open. The truth is spreading more every day!"
Today the truth was casually revealed during a brief feature on the museum by Richard Engel on NBC's "Nightly News". When asked if the acknowledgement of the museum's existence proved the designer's "conspiracy theories" were all true, curator Toni Hiley shrugged.
"Never heard of him. Nobody here has. You haven't either," Hiley said before turning to the camera. "None of you have."
The staff of the Bizarro Post would like to affirm that we have no knowledge of any of this, and don't know who this article is even profiling, and please don't waterboard us.
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