Abusive inebriate John Wayne Bobbitt was such a cock-knocker that in 1993 his wife Lorena severed half his penis, hurling the bloody nugget into a field.
The missing member was recovered after an exhaustive search, and the cock (by which we mean the ironically-named Bobbitt) made whole.
Sadly, the couple divorced in 1995.
Not Only Did JWB Lose Sensation In His Penis, But Also Any Notion Of Dignity.
Jay Bush, the balding, squishy spokesperson for Bush’s Original Baked Beans seems like a nice enough guy. With his rounded, non-threatening contours and schlumpy, vulnerable charm, Bush is an able enough pitchman for his family’s product.
Then there’s Duke, Bush’s golden retriever and sole confidant. Two details about Duke serve as a radical distinction from other dogs.
1) Duke speaks. This in itself is unusual, as human-like speech has previously only been evinced in some more advanced members of the Great Dane family. In most cases, those animals formed words with great difficulty, and no one was likely to confuse them with a human speaker. Duke speaks more eloquently than does his ostensible “master.”
2) Whereas dogs, and golden retrievers in particular, are prized for their loyalty, Duke is a treacherous cur. For reasons known only to the conniving canine, Duke is continually seeking to sell the Bush Family’s secret recipe to competitors. That the animal is compelled to do this despite the near impossibility that Duke would be able to utilize any money he received from betraying the Bush Family, points to an advanced–and dangerous–psychosis.
The fact that Duke, after several times nearly succeeding in selling the time-honored recipe, is still positioned so securely within the company should be troubling to stockholders.
If the public face of Bush’s baked beans can’t command even the loyalty of his own dog, while at the same time choosing to remain ignorant to the mounting evidence of Duke’s perfidy, how much faith can the public have in Bush Brothers and Company?
Accountability, and lack thereof, is a slippery slope. One day America loves you for your savory products, the next some little girl finds half a pinky finger in her chile con carne.
If Bush Brothers & Co. wishes to regain the trust of the baked beans buying public, they must take drastic and immediate action to reassure nervous shareholders that theirs is a company on the grow, free from internal distractions.
Actor and pederast Jeffrey Jones, featured in such modern classics as Howard the Duck and How High, has once again run afoul of the law. Apparently, the in-demand actor has been so busy learning his lines, he sometimes forgets that he’s a voracious short eyes, constantly on the prowl for his next catamite. This aberrant compulsion makes the talented thespian a very real danger to the community, and as such, Jones must register as a sex offender wherever he goes.
Jones has now twice failed to do that.
Is There A Single Detail About This Man That DOESN'T Scream "Run Away?"
Courtney Love, Generation X’s heroin-slagged answer to Yoko Ono, is an oozing societal sore which refuses doggedly to heal.
The most heinous of her crimes, of course, is being so loathsome that Nirvana’s Kurt Cobain found the taste of a shotgun preferable to the thought of spending even one more second listening to Love’s screeching voice.
Included among the vast legion of people who consider Love an epic cooze is the talentless harpy’s own daughter, Frances Bean Cobain. The younger Cobain prevailed upon the court recently to emancipate her from the chemical-crazy she-beast from whose cankerous loins she sprang. The court mercifully agreed.
Unfortunately for young Francis Bean, the trust fund left for her by her father’s estate won’t be as easy to emancipate. Just as Krist Novoselic and Dave Grohl already know, nobody clings with greater tenacity to the fruits of more talented labors than does Courtney Love. Adding insult to injury, the trust fund has grown mysteriously lighter, to the tune of $8 Million.*
Hey Pretty Lady, Was That Your Fine Ass I Saw Down At the SELL-UR-BLOOD The Other Day?
In a final irony, the ravages of an indiscreet lifestyle have transformed Courtney Love from a shapely, Anna Nicole Smith-wannabe into a virtual doppelgänger of Yoko Ono: a yellow, shriveled, screaming mess.
Word came quickly from Pyongyang today in an effort to quell the persistent rumors that Supreme Leader Kim Jong-il is displeased with North Korea’s poor showing at the World Cup. The team’s first match, a respectable 2-1 loss to highly ranked Brazil, was followed by a humiliating 7-0 ass-whupping at the hands of Portugal.
This Man's Poor Performance Not Only Shames His Nation, But Also Costs His Daughter Her Thumbs
Said a representative of the impoverished third-world hellhole:
The Dear Leader is very pleased with the effort of our beloved national athletes, although he is, of course, disappointed at the results. Likewise, there is no truth to the rumors that Kim has executed the atheletes’ parents, only to cook them and serve them to the defeated players upon their return.
He continued:
Nor should any credence be given to the wild allegations that the water supply to atheletes’ homes has been cut off. Like everyone else in North Korea, they never had running water.
Following their disappointing performance, the players are no doubt eager to leave the chaos of the free world behind and return to a simpler life in North Korea.
The athletes will be given a hero’s welcome. Just as Promethean Times went to press, Pyongyang announced that the Dear Leader would be hosting a private banquet for the footballers upon their arrival in North Korea.
"When You Great Athretes Get Home, I Got Rearry Big Surprise For You. I Think You Rearry Gonna Rove It!"
. . . Ms. Price let her husband die. As such, our vulgarity is germane to the discussion.
Even if this unrepentant black widow never sees a courtroom for her deeds, she’s doomed to live out the rest of her days, saddled with the guilt of killing the goose that lays the golden eggs.*
*By ‘goose that lays the golden eggs’ we mean ‘small black actor who, insofar as we are able to determine did not actually lay golden eggs,’ but was a human being with all humanity’s accordant dignity, and deserved neither his sad death nor the snide comments Promethean Times has been making since then, up to and including this sentence.
Directed more by some entropic and unknowable inertia than by free will, Dora felt herself take two uncomprehending steps backward until her backside met the stove, which squealed briefly in protest.
The smoking gun in her right hand was spent and had become heavier somehow, as if it had swapped cold lethality for substance. She let it fall, refusing to acknowledge either it or the spreading pool of blood spotlighting Martin like a mandorla on an Orthodox icon.
Mama’s voice worried inside Dora’s head: Baby, did you mean to do it?
As hot, bitter tears spilled over the back of the hand clutched to her mouth, Dora answered: I don’t know.
Ailing nutjob Gary Brooks Faulkner apparently decided that if his time was short, he’d do his damnedest to drag Osama bin Laden down to hell with him. Supplied only with the essentials–pistol & ammo, dagger, night-vision goggles and hashish–this nutty buddy somehow made his way from Colorado to Pakistan to go mano a mano with the FBI’s most-wanted man.
Reportedly, Faulkner didn’t waste valuable energy and time attempting to determine friend from foe. Anyone foolish enough to approach the Bucket-List Rambo received the same response: wild-eyed death threats.
Sadly, Pakistani forces managed to capture Faulkner after a tense standoff. In doing so, they denied this patriotic and batshit crazy American the honor of laying down his life in a knife fight with a cadre of bin Laden’s elite guards, while their master huddles cowering behind them; or of tumbling off a sheer cliff while locked in a death-embrace with bin Laden himself, perhaps voicing a cool exit line like, Neither of us comes back from this one, Osama; or as is a lot more likely, a lonely death from exposure in the vast and trackless wilderness of Pakistan, Faulkner’s final hours haunted by delirium and a maddening thirst, huddling pathetically in the meager shade provided by a boulder while hurling increasingly weak and nonsensical curses at the punishing sun.
For those who don’t know, a hate crime is a crime that is committed against a black, disabled, jewish or gay person that isn’t committed by a black, disabled, jewish or gay person.
The distinction can be tricky. Simply hating someone and then committing a crime against them is not sufficient to be considered a hate crime. Likewise, because a crime is hateful, doesn’t automatically qualify it as a hate crime. For example, stabbing an elderly woman 13 times in the face for her social security check is not, in and of itself, a hate crime. Supposing however, that the old lady in question is a lesbian while her attacker is not, then it is indeed a hate crime.
Hate crimes are considered more heinous than other crimes. As such, they carry stiffer sentences than their non-hate brethren, in much the way that stealing $1,000,000 is considered worse than stealing $49.50. Given that the first sum is worth more, most people would agree that the theft of same should carry with it a more rigorous penalty.
Logically then, the types of people who are potential victims of hate crimes are of greater value to society than those who aren’t. Were this not the case, all crimes of a similar nature (i.e., assault, rape, murder, being salty) would be punished equally under the law.
Since all crimes of a similar nature do not meet this criterion, it follows that the least worthy element in our society is the straight, white, ambulatory male.
When Viewed In This Light, It Does Make A Certain Sense.
Promethean Times 