Books for Soldiers

February 17, 2005

"It's dark, and cold, and I'm scarred..."

battlebot.jpgWe've been forwarded the first letter home from Iraq from the US Army's first Robotic Soldier:

Dear Mom,

01001 111011 0011101 001010011110 0011001001 111011 0011101 001010011110 0011001001 111011 0011101 001010011110 0011001001 111011 0011101 001010011110 0011001001 111011 0011101 001010011110 0011001001 111011 0011101 001010011110 0011001001 111011 0011101 001010011110 0011001001 111011 0011101 001010011110 0011001001 111011 0011101 001010011110 0011001001 111011 0011101 001010011110 0011001001 111011 0011101 001010011110 0011001001 111011 0011101 001010011110 0011001001 111011 0011101 001010011110 0011001001 111011 0011101 001010011110 0011001001 111011 0011101 001010011110 0011001001 111011 0011101 001010011110 0011001001 111011 0011101 001010011110 0011001001 111011 0011101 001010011110 0011001001 111011 0011101 001010011110 0011001001 111011 0011101 001010011110 0011001001 111011 0011101 001010011110 0011001001 111011 0011101 001010011110 0011001001 111011 0011101 001010011110 0011001001 111011 0011101 001010011110 00110.

Love,
Billy

(Translation:

Dear Mom,

KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS KILL ALL HUMANS.

Love,
Billy)

Posted by sferrell at 10:12 AM | Comments (1)

February 7, 2005

Will the real numbmonkey, please stand up.

monkey.jpgSo... who is numbmonkey, and what's he about? For those who want to get to know the man behind the monkey, here's my zseller ratings from Amazon. I think you'll be impressed:

5 out of 5: "Price was excellent. Excellent delivery time. Excellent shape." Date: 2/7/2005 Rated by Buyer: Dan

5 out of 5: "fast shipment - just what I ordered"
Date: 4/16/2003 Rated by Buyer: Reenah

5 out of 5: "As described. Really fast shipping. Thanks!" Date: 4/14/2003 Rated by Buyer: Jill

5 out of 5: "thanks!" Date: 4/22/2002 Rated by Buyer: deevah_909

5 out of 5: "Thanks. Highly recommend." Date: 2/11/2002 Rated by Buyer: maquina

5 out of 5: "Very prompt getting back to me and shipped item quickly." Date: 1/30/2002 Rated by Buyer: jkonecny

5 out of 5: "Very prompt, well packaged...no problems." Date: 1/7/2002 Rated by Buyer: musiclovers11

5 out of 5: "Excellent condition and great cd. Thanks!!!" Date: 12/31/2001 Rated by Buyer: tieta

5 out of 5: "Quick pay, easy transaction."
Date: 12/16/2001 Rated by Seller: dawndavina

And, I don't think it's bragging to point out that those ratings aren't just numbers. Those are "stars", people. Five out five s-t-a-r-s.

Posted by sferrell at 2:22 PM

January 7, 2005

Do you hear a bzzzzz??

bzz.jpgSo this morning my breakfast was brought to me by Wheaties. Delicious Wheaties, the breakfast of champions. Champions like Peyton Manning of the Indianapolis Colts. I didn't get to enjoy it very much because the dog had to go out so badly. As I walked around the neighborhood I realized I'd forgotten to bring a bag, but luckily a plastic bag from someone's New York Times was blowing by. Bringing you the world, everyday, the New York Times. I grabbed the bag before it flew out of reach and used it to grab the pup's poop. I tossed the knotted blue bag into a Rubbermaid trash bin. Rubbermaid, making the products that make your life easier, and then headed home. The dog enjoyed the fact that I ran, because it was raining and he hates that, and he likes to run. Luckily I was wearing my new Nikes. Nike--just do it!

So, what did you sell--err, do today?

What garbage.

Posted by sferrell at 8:24 AM

January 4, 2005

"What's Weird Here?"

surreal.jpg
Parker Brother's is proud to announce the release of its next big game. Sure to be a hit with kids and adults, "What's Weird Here" is the sur-reality game where you get to make the call on what's weird, bizzare, freako!!!

Just pull a image card from the top of the deck, and you've got thirty seconds to name as many freaky elements as you can find in the picture. Try it now with this FREE sample image!!! Is it the Olsen twins? John Stamos? The fact they're all at Disney World together? All three!!!???!!!

Posted by sferrell at 9:49 AM | Comments (4)

January 1, 2005

a-nti-yn rand

aynrand1.jpgIt seems that the Ayn Rand Institute is upsetting the applecart and Ayn Rand isn't happy about it. Why should the US Government send any money to the tsunami victims in South East Asia? asks David Holcberg at the ARI.

"ARI is asking "by what right" does the US Government send aid overseas," said Ms. Rand when contacted via paranormal psychic for comment (Ayn Rand died on March 6, 1982). She continued, "My favorite line: "...most of those affected by this tragedy are suffering through no fault of their own." From the pictures I've seen it's kind of hard to tell those who are affected through their own fault from those who are innocent victims."

ARI's argument is that the money is taken from US citizens against their will, and for the US government to use it in this way is the "vicious" morality of altruism.

"I agree with everything they say," said Ms. Rand. "But, I wonder why they don't practice what they preach. ARI is a 501(c)(3) educational organization. As such they are exempt from taxes and donations made to them are deductible for tax purposes. The basis of 501(c)(3) organizations is altruism."

The idea is that money being used for "charitable, educational, literary or scientific purpose" (in other words, for the general good) will reap benefits for the whole of mankind and should not be taxed. But is this altruism by which ARI benefits morally acceptable?

Ms. Rand shifted uncomfortably in her chair before continuing. According to an op-ed she showed us, written by Arthur C. Brooks at the Maxwell School of Syracuse University, non-profits such as ARI benefit from indirect subsidies from the US government "in the form of tax revenues not collected on tax-deductible private contributions to nonprofits."

Ms. Rand smiled. "If you follow Prof. Brooks' reasoning then the US Government's indirect subsidy of nonprofits such as ARI amounts to exactly the same sort of "vicious" altruism. I agree with ARI, this viciousness must stop. Let's start by stripping ARI of its 501(c)(3) status and work our way down."

Posted by sferrell at 5:34 PM

December 27, 2004

Reviews of shows I'll never see

Lword.jpgBased on this image alone, why don't I have Showtime?
Yahoo! News - Entertainment Photos - AP

Posted by sferrell at 3:55 PM | Comments (2)

December 22, 2004

Miss(placed) Plastic Surgery

plastic.jpg
Dateline: Sat Dec 18, 2054 7:52 PM ET

BEIJING

In a fitting bit of irony, A 72-year-old former-student who has had cosmetic surgery on her eyelids and cheeks more than thirty-two times in the past fifty years was crowned the winner Saturday of China's fiftieth pageant for such "manmade beauties." This is the third time that Feng Qian has won the award. Her second time as a woman.

Feng Qian received a $600,000 country club membership after being picked from among 20 finalists, who ranged in age from 18 to 162. Qian's domination of the competition, three first place wins and 6 second place wins in a fifty-year span, is due in large part to the ceaseless efforts of teams of plastic surgeons who respond to her every beck and call. Breast enlargement, reduction and replacement was performed during the competition for the very first time, allowing Qian to wear the exact same swim suit she wore in 2004 during the first competition.

Said Qian, "I'm almost perfect. Soon, someone must love me for my inner self which has finally been demonstrated by my outward, man-made beauty."

Yahoo! News - Student Wins China Plastic-Surgery Pageant

Posted by sferrell at 3:54 PM

December 16, 2004

Living in the lap of luxer-... uh, wait.

headrest.bmp
Dear Diary,

I've been so lonely. You know. Who but you would? But all that's changed thanks to this afternoon's purchase. Ha. I used the word "purchase." Is finding your soul-mate a "purchase?" Is connecting on an emotional, spiritual and--okay, I'll just say it--PHYSICAL level a "purchase?" Absolutely not.

I've never been happier.

And, I dare say, neither has she. She's perfect in every way.

Diary, don't be jealous, but I may not write for a while.

XOXO

Posted by sferrell at 8:46 PM | Comments (2)

December 13, 2004

I, Steroid

isteroid_sm.jpgBarry Bonds angrily swung his bat into the gates at SBC Park. The wood splintered and shards of the bat sprayed back at him. The pieces littered the ground at his feet. He raised his fists into the air and let out another inhuman howl. It reached out through the fog, echoed along the streets of San Francisco, and just barely reached the ears of Cecil Roethke, who at that moment was stretched out on the roof of a stolen ice cream truck. The smiling ice cream cone on its roof was all that stood between him and Bonds. That, and about one mile.

Inside the truck Fatty, one of the members of Roethke's elite of the super-secret-elite team, drummed his fingers on the dashboard. "Umm-- Boss? You sure he can't see us?"

Roethke stared through his binoculars--cheap, plastic Spongebob Squarepants binos he'd stolen from a drugstore just before stealing the ice cream and the truck it rode in on. "For the last time, he CAN see us. He's got telescopic vision."

"Then why..."

"Because the fog is jamming his sensors, and because he hasn't turned around." As Roethke watched, Bonds pulled another bat from the back of the U-Haul he'd arrived in. It was loaded to the gills with Louisville Sluggers. For half an hour he'd done just this: pull a bat out, stare at the gate of the ballpark, then club at it while the bat turned to splinters and covered the ground at his feet. Another howl erupted, this one broken by sobs.

Fatty pulled another Rocket Pop from the freezer and shuddered as he opened it. "It sounds like he's crying," he shouted to his rooftop boss.

"It is."

"He cries?"

"Not real tears, just a simulation. It was designed that way in case it ever won a World Series." Like that was ever going to happen without better all around pitching, Rothke thought. And those "In the Know" and "In Charge" "INSIDE THE BELTWAY" would never let that happen.

Bonds' newest bat splintered, just like the eighteen others before it. Rothke pushed his soggy paper ice cream vendor's cap back from his forehead. Wearing a replica of an ice cream man's uniform was a bad idea for two reasons: first, it wasn't 1954, which the uni was spot on for; and second, the paper hat was soaking up the humidity of the fog like a sponge. It was like having a wad of paper mache stuck to his head, like a second grader's art class interpretation of a yarmulke..

Fatty climbed up on the roof, Rocket Pop in mouth. Despite his concerns at being seen he thundered out footsteps on the roof and was wearing a bright orange "Syracuse Orangemen" shirt. He looked like their large, round mascot. At least he sort of looked like an oversized 10-year-old, Rothke thought, with all that ice cream around his mouth. At least that went with the ice cream truck theme.

"What set him off?" Fatty asked. Another howl rolled toward them.

"Giambi's steroid abuse testimony. Sheffield's comments. His own grand jury testimony. It's implication in the steroid scandal. All the speculation that he's been 'juicing.'" Roethke had been waiting for more opportunities to use the term "juicing" for days. This was his first chance and he'd taken it. He smiled. "It doesn't like being thought of as a cheater."

"But how... I mean, come on. Since when does a robot care--" Fatty stopped. He performed what might be an illegal act in the southern US on his Rocket Pop, then pulled it out of his mouth. "Wait, he... He doesn't know he's a robot?"

Roethke laughed. "Why would it? It knows one thing: how to play baseball. That's all it has ever known. And knowing only that, every experience, every urge, every connection it makes to others is through baseball. It will do whatever it takes to be the best. This steroid speculation is hurting that. So it's flipped out. We're here to turn it off until it can be repaired."

"Sounds like those Balco roboticists made him too human."

"What do you mean?" Roethke was amazed that Fatty continued to refer to it as "he."

"The drive to play a game, everything being squeezed through that urge. Isn't that exactly what made Giambi and the others use steroids in the first place. Nothing mattered but winning."

Roethke was about to say that Fatty was a wiser man than he looked when he glanced over his shoulder at Fatty. He was reading what he'd just said off his popsicle stick. Roethke grabbed it to check the font. "Crap! The NBA is onto us. We've got to move now!"

The two men with super-duper top secret clearance jumped to the ground and re-entered the truck. Fatty threw their giant butterfly net out the back and then turned to help Roethke remove the still frozen body of cryo-frozen Barry Bonds from the truck's freezer. He glistened under the street lights in his icy chamber, his black spandex workout suit as new as the day Roethke had helped to kidnap him from the Pirates.

"Will he remember anything?" Fatty asked.

Roethke nodded. "It's all implanted memories of the last seven years."

"Where's he been all this time."

Roethke lifted one end, and Fatty got the feet. As they ran up the street toward the ballpark, trying to stay out of the robot's line of site, Roethke said, "In Balco's cloning facilities. That Iraq thing ain't gonna fight itself."


Read more of the adventures of Cecil Roethke and his Insiders Team here.

Posted by sferrell at 10:23 PM

December 11, 2004

What if they'd turned "Independence Day" into a movie?

war.jpg

Overheard conversation between Steven Spielberg and Tom Cruise as they discussed their new film, WAR OF THE WORLDS:

"More orange juice?"

"No, thanks. More L. Ron Hubbard?"

"No, I'm good... Tom, what I'd like to do is make Independence Day, but not have it suck."

"Uh-huh... uh-huh..."

"I mean, man... did that film suck or was it just me? I'm thinking of that scene where everybody comes out on their front lawn, during the middle of the day, and looks at the ships... you know they're right there and everybody just stares..."

"Uh-huh... Uh-huh..."

"Well... I'm thinking that sucked for a couple of reasons... It lacked any tension or mystery, or ... ummm..."

"Believability?"

"Yeah, Tom... believability! It's the middle of the friggin' day! Talk about shooting your whole load!"

"So what if we made that scene, like... really creepy... and scary... and, just thinking off the top of my head here Steven... AT NIGHT!!"

"You're scaring me, Tom"

"AT NIGHT, STEVEN!!"

"YOU'RE SCARING ME, TOM!!"

Posted by sferrell at 11:31 PM

December 10, 2004

Now playing

Press Release for immediate release:

Traffic Games of Scotland

story.jfkgame.jpgTraffic Games is proud to announce its upcoming titles for late 2004 and early 2005. As usual, Traffic is ahead of the pack in bringing you jaw dropping graphics, stunning play, and intellectual, thought provoking settings. First up, assassinate a US president in "JFK: Reloaded".

Now you get to be a part of history, and learn a bit about it at the same time. Will John F. Kennedy's brains hit Jackie's dress in the right way? Will John John be making that heartbreaking salute? Can all of a nation's mourning have been caused by just a single shooter? You'll prove it can when you pull the trigger. Try to recreate the malice in Dallas in alternate weather settings. Bet you can't make LBJ president during a hurricane!

Murder and Mayhem more your style? Then go down the slippery slide into madness in true family style in "Helter Skelter: Manson Family Reunion." With authentic Beatles soundtrack humming in your head you'll be charged with orchastrating a raid on unsuspecting innocents. Best not touch any weapons yourself though! Do you have the charisma to enlist a bunch of sychophants into doing your bidding for you? Can you carve a swastika into your head without getting it backwards? Is there any time left for getting together with Brian Wilson for another song writing session? Betcha can't kill just one!

And if you can't... who wants to be Hitler?! Find out in Traffic Games's mid-2005 release!

Posted by sferrell at 3:34 AM

November 17, 2004

Cave Dweller (part 1)

The world hadn't yet recovered from the Third World War, and they weren't even calling it that yet, when he moved into the cave. If he'd been at sea-level he'd have been in the shadow of The Bomb, Los Alamos. Instead his cave was high up in the red rocks of a New Mexico cliff looking down on that radioactive remnant of U.S. strength.

"I'm removing myself from the system," he said. "I'm taking the numbers off myself--no more social security UPC code for me. I will live, alone, as a man, above man. Primitive, exultant." A two-headed lizard crawled over his shoe. He felt his knees go weak.

The sun was going down, burning the rocks an even deeper red, the shadows of the Los Alamos laboratory stretching toward him. He strung lights he had purchased from the KMart is Los Gatos, just off Route 3. They'd been on sale and had been purchased with cash, rather than credit. "The government won't follow my spending habits anymore." No credit lists. No tracking markers in twenty dollar bills. Counter-forgery-devices my ass! "I know when I'm being watched," he shouted out the mouth of the cave. From the back of the cave something growled and scrapped a heavy belly over rocks. He lowered his fist slowly and finished unpacking the electrical cord, one eye keenly peeled on the back wall.

When UPS delivered the coal burning stove and solar-panels he refused to sign for them. "I won't help you help the eye-in-the-sky track me. I'm disappearing. I'm no longer 'in' the 'system.'" He made air quotes, flick flick, in the around the words "in" and "system."

The UPS driver nodded. "That's cool and all, but you know, I can't let you have this stuff if you don't sign."

"Authority monkey!" He cackled and ran to the edge of the cliff. Beneath him was his cave, in his arms the smallest of the boxes. The cave was too far down. The box was heavy. His palms began to sweat.

"I've got somerope in the truck." UPS driver jerked his thumb toward his truck. "I could help you get that down there."

"Really? That would be awfully nice of--" he stopped as the electronic pad was raised before him. The plastic, inkless pen sitting neatly like a cigarette on an ashtray waiting for him to sign but not leave a real mark. "You know why they call you brown, don't you?"

"You're going to make a 'poop' joke aren't you?"

"No," he lied. "Poop," he thought.

The dry winter winds rustled the spruce trees outside his cave. The rope ladder was tied neatly in a spiral at the front, next to the screen door. He sat, watched a two-headed lizard get into a territorial fight with itself as he smoked what he had grown himself. "Los Alamos Yellow Cake" he called it.

"I'm out of the world," he wrote on a piece of paper, his last, and then threw it in the fire. It burned quickly, but the words hung in teh smoke coming from his pipe. A twig snapped.

Posted by sferrell at 10:02 PM

November 11, 2004

Words Words Words magazine

Please do check out the latest issue of Words Words Words which features work by a number of individuals, including myself. (sean ferrell)

Posted by sferrell at 10:59 PM | Comments (1)

November 2, 2004

review: Paris Hilton's "Confessions of an Heiress"

"All Ways We'll Have Paris"
by Sean Ferrell


A response to "Confessions of an Heiress" by Paris Hilton

Cecil Roethke and Mr. Smith waited in the empty warehouse. The dust kicked up by their shoes glowed in the sun shouting against the grimy eastward windows. It wasn't yet midmorning, Cecil thought, and I'm already exhausted.

"I don't get it," Mr. Smith said, his camouflaged blazer and vest making him both hard to see and dapper. "Why so close to L.A.? Shouldn't we be somewhere out of the way?"

"She's in the middle of a book tour and she's got high profile fashion shows and sporting events to hit. She could barely make time for this meeting as it was." Cecil looked at his watch. Not yet midmorning and she was almost two hours late. Right on time for her, probably.

"How come a top level assassin is writing books and starring on television and, those movies I hear about."

"Part of her cover, Smithie. Illusionists technique. Make everyone look one direction, go in the other."

Mr. Smith nodded as if understanding but Cecil knew he didn't get it. Unless there were shivs and garrotes involved Mr. Smith didn't understand anything. Cecil dabbed at some sweat building on his forehead. Not yet midmorning and it was hot as an
easy bake in the CIA's only remaining warehouse in L.A. The other warehouses had been rented out to the Immigration Dept. for "storage."

Mr. Smith asked, "She's late, right? When was she supposed to get here?" He was sweating too, Cecil could tell by the way he was walking.

As Cecil lit another cigarette a voice from the rafters answered, "We were supposed to meet ten minutes before you guys arrived. I've been waiting to make sure you weren't followed." The figure of a woman in a skin-tight, black leather catsuit, Dolce & Gabbana if Cecil knew his catsuits, descended on a nearly invisible
silver line from the ceiling. Mr. Smith already had a gun pointed and warily circled to her far side, made her the mid-point between Cecil and himself.

Cecil took a drag from his cigarette. "You keep a close eye on your appointments, Ms. Hilton."

As she ripped the leather mask from her face Paris Hilton said, "Always, when my life is on the line." She threw a hip toward the west wall creating a healthy curve on her good side. Her smile was vacant, inappropriately perfect for any occassion, Cecil thought. Her left eye squinted a little more than her right.

"Tall drink of water," Mr. Smith observed. Cecil waved him quiet and tossed his cigarette in the direction her hip pointed. Clattering sounds came from the roof. It was Fatty and Dunkirk, two more from Cecil's team, handpicked by him and "Those In The Know" in D.C. His team answered to an acronym inside an acronym. He'd long ago forgotten what the acronym's acronym was. Fatty and Dunkirk stood guard up top and amused themselves with throwing stones at pigeons.

After several odd moments of staring at Paris' impossibly thin nose Cecil croaked out, "You have the book?" Why were his cheeks so flushed, he wondered.

"Right here." She heaved a leather satchel up from her side. It was from the Gucci espionage line. It wouldn't blow up if tampered with by the wrong hands as much as revert to an out-of-fashion model when in a highly embarrassing public setting. Then it would blow up.

"How do you move so quietly?" Mr. Smith asked as he watched the book trade hands. Another rattling of stones from the roof.

"Nike Airs, 2006 model. From after Jordan's next comeback."

Mr. Smith nodded approval.

Cecil flipped calmly through page after page of "Confessions of an Heiress." One-hundred and seventy-eight pages, nearly all photos. The brilliant pink cover screamed both "Run away" and "Look at me" at the same time. The Daisy Duke pose on the back was ironically ignorant, or ignorantly ironic. Cecil's brain stopped functioning for a moment. When it unfroze he said, "Your list of 'Instructions on How to be an Heiress,' that's a little dangerous don't you think? "Number 13: Act ditzy. Always lose things." You're revealing that it's an act aren't you?"

A click and squawk from above. Fatty's high pitched giggle squealed out.

"Not a chance," Paris sighed. "It's written in such a way that people will think I'm trying, but failing, to be funny. Those who like me will love it. Those who don't will see it as unintentionally funny. They'll make fun of me for trying to make fun of myself and still being blissfully unaware."

"They won't buy it. How could they? No one is this--"

"Trite?" She laughed. "You black ops guys are so silly."
She swung her body to the other side. Now it was her good side. How is it possible to have two good sides, Cecil wondered. Or are they just equally not bad?

Paris strutted toward him. "It's all based on my show and the sex tapes. I've positioned myself to live down to the worst qualities expected: ignorant, entitled, slutty--and I've made them my strengths. There's no going up in the public's eye, but no going down either. I'm just there, constantly. And since I'm always there
I'm constantly re-suggesting myself. I'm that jingle you can't get out of your head. I'm the chain of stores that is around every corner. I'm a pop-up window. I'm spam."

Cecil was just starting to understand when two loud thuds from the roof made him jump. Mr. Smith pulled out his .357 again and Paris pulled out a gold plated Louis Vuitton semi-automatic. Pearl handle.

"That was no pigeon," Mr. Smith whispered.

From the corner came a snapping sound, a camera flash, and an evil chortle. A small man in a Nicole Ritchie mask ran across the dirty floor and dove at an open window. Leaping to the ledge he spun around, gave them the finger and shouted something meant to curl their toes, and dropped out the window. Cecil couldn't understand through the Nicole mask. He made a confused grunt.

"Huh?" Mr. Smith echoed.

Paris, shifted her weight back to her other good side and snarled, "It's the North Koreans. They've been trying to blow my cover for ever since the first sex tape."

Before Cecil could even realize that a picture of them would blow all their covers Paris sprinted across the warehouse. She hurled herself, not through the open window the spy had used, but headed for a large, dirt smeared plate glass window at the
east end. Just as the silhouette of the spy fell on the glass Paris leapt high into the air, curled upon herself and cannonballed straight through the glass.

Mr. Smith lowered his gun and said, "Is it just me, or is it getting turned on in here?"

Karate chop sounds could be heard coming through the broken window as small glass shards fell from the frame and tinkled on the ground below. Before the final piece dropped Paris re-entered through the door. She dragged the limp body of the spy with her, the Nicole mask dangling from one ear.

Paris' skin tight leather was shredded. She pulled disdainfully at it with a loud shout, removing the tatters. "Italian crap! D&C my ass." She was left in nothing but a bright pink bikini, silver dollar sized bra cups with a tortilla chip sized panty triangle at the crotch. Her hip bones pointed at the two men standing before her, each at an enticing angle matching that of her pistola.

"You boys want to put your tongues away and take care of this guy for me?"

Mr. Smith's gun dropped to the dirt. "Boss, I think I'm in love."

"We all are, Smithie. And we hate it."


See one of Cecil Roethke's earlier adventures here: http://www.uber.nu/docs/do.cgi/20040409

Posted by sferrell at 4:52 PM

October 29, 2004

Intercepted CBS E-mail

"Intercepted CBS e-mail"
by Sean Ferrell

To: d.rather@cbs.com
From: guts19@aol.com
Subject: Re: best weapon for destroying evidence


Dear Mr. Rather:

Thanks so much for your e-mail. While it is true that the assault weapons ban, also known as the Brady Bill, did lapse last week, it does not, unfortunately, mean that we are able to fill orders for assault weapons over the internet. However, we can provide you with information. Following are answers to the questions you posed in your e-mail to us.

First, the AK-47 does shoot 5.45mm bullets, as you guessed, so your current ammunition stash would work beautifully

with this item. As a side note, I think the AK a beautiful choice. It's the world's most popular automatic weapon and has enjoyed a wonderful
reputation since it's development in 1974.

Second, while I have no specific information on whether or not an AK-47 would "annihilate"
or "gut" a computer printer (I believe your e-mail mentioned it was a Canon printer) I can assure you that with a kill range of 1,350m and a 30 round
clip there is no reason to think that a close range assault on the printer, whatever it's recent "offense", would render it completely ineffective for printing purposes.

Finally, I would assume that a printer so devastated by an attack by one of our AK's would not be able to be examined for evidence of its involvement in a "theorhetical forgery case." I can't claim expertise in printing technology to say so definitively. Since CSI is on your network, maybe you could talk to one of those guys. My game
is small arms for home protection and hunting. Not computer equipment.

I hope to hear from you soon, and please let me know when this story you're working on will air. For the life of me I can't figure out how AK-47s and Canon printers would be involved in a story together, but that's why your the journalist, and I'm just a salesman.

Best to you and yours,

Barney "Guts" Petois, Manager
Little Pawn Gun Shop
Eastville, Texas

------------------------------------------------

To: e.bradley@cbs.com
From: cegorman@foxnews.org
Subject: Re: employment opportunities??

Dear Mr. Bradley:

I appreciate your writing concerning any open positions at our news organization and I can understand your concerns over recent changes, or as you called them "crazy-ass freewheelers f*%$ing up the network's credibility," at your current position
as a "60 Minutes" correspondent. However, we at FOX NEWS feel that you would ultimately feel constrained here as well. This is not to say that your journalistic integrity or prowess are to be questioned. Far from it. Trust me. That is most
definitely NOT IT. It's just that the "handwriting is on the wall," as it were. Your interest in leaving your position due to a LOSS of credibility is justified. Your interest in joining us is... well, to be honest, mystifying.

We do wish you the best of luck in securing a new position. Given the state of the market today you will certainly need it.

Regards,

Cynthia Gorman, Assistant Manager
Human Resources
FOX NEWS Compound

--------------------------------------------------

To: g.browder@cbs.com
From: babs@netzero.com
Subject: NEED AN EXPERIENCED LADY??!!??

DEAR MR. BROWDER:

I UNDERSTAND THAT CBS HAS RECENTLY CHANGED HOW THEIR NEWS ROOM IS RUN AND THOUGHT THAT YOU MIGHT BE INTERESTED IN MY SERVICES STOP THIS IS THE SECOND TIME I VE WRITTEN TO YOU STOP MY FIRST EMAIL WAS SENT BACK TO ME WITH AN AUTOMATED RESPONSE STATING
THAT MY SUBJECT LINE INDICATED MY MESSAGE WAS EITHER PORN OR SPAM STOP NOT KNOWING WHAT SPAM IS AND CERTAIN THAT THIS IS NOT PORNOGRAPHY I AM RESENDING STOP

AS I SAID BEFORE I HAVE NOTICED THAT CBS NEWS HAS CHANGED ITS FORMAT RECENTLY STOP WITH THE ANGLE BEING MORE IN LINE WITH SENSATIONAL OR QUOTE-RESEARCHED-ENDQUOTE STORIES I THINK I MAY BE THE SORT OF ANCHOR YOU NEED STOP HAVE YOU SEEN MY INTERVIEWS
QUESTION MARK I HAVE A TECHNIQUE WHEREBY I MAKE ANYONE CRY STOP

YOU MAY BE CONFUSED BY THE FACT THAT I RECENTLY QUOTE-RETIRED-ENDQUOTE STOP THIS IS NOT FULLY TRUE STOP MY RETIREMENT WAS DUE MORE TO THE FACT THAT ABCS PARENT
COMPANY DISNEY WISHED TO REPLACE ME WITH AN ANIMATRON STOP FOR OBVIOUS REASONS I WAS NOT INTERESTED IN CONTINUING MY RELATIONSHIP WITH THEM STOP

PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF YOU ARE INTERESTED STOP

SINCERELY BARBARA WALTERS

Posted by sferrell at 6:53 PM

October 28, 2004

The National Lip Synching Institute

A message from The National Lip Synching Institute

Thanks for your interest in The National Lip Synching Institute. Who are we and what do we do? If your lips are moving as you read this, you probably already know. If not, let me tell you...

Performing in public isn't what it used to be. Madonna's cone-shaped bras could only hold attention for so long, and unless you're willing to perform pornography on stage a la Christina Aguilera the audience will be yawning its way to the exit. What are you to do? Hey, hit the stage dancing, cavorting, and spinning like a top, of course. But, how can you possibly do that and sing at the same time? And, what if you can't sing in the first place, or if your album is simply the best recording out of the one-hundred you taped and you couldn't repeat it even if your singing coach sacrificed a chicken in your honor? Well, that's where the NLSI can help.

We'll teach you all you need to know to sing along with yourself (or someone else, wink wink) on a pre-recorded tape. This will open up hours of rehearsal time for all the leaping and jumping, not to mention going to Vegas to get married on a whim. Hey, Pepsi didn't sponsor you because you know how to stand front and center. It sponsored you because you act like you're hopped up on caffeine, so why aren't you?

If you study with the NLSI we guarantee results, and if you work extra hard you may even make it as far as some of our previous students. Superstars like Milli Vanilli, George W. Bush, and even Ashlee Simpson.

Don't forget, with the NLSI your lips won't be the only thing moving.

Posted by sferrell at 5:29 PM