"Totally coup, yo."

Jones


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The Uncivil War: Cousin Against Cousin

Sep

05

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By Eileen Jones

How does your extended family shake out politically? Me, I come from a rabid tribe of right-wingers containing a renegade band of fulminating lefties, plus a couple of pleasant and reasonable moderates nobody listens to.

Fortunately we’re all scattered across the country, trying to make sure each relative has his or her own state in which to be an opinionated pain in the ass. This prevents family quarrels. Or at least, it did for many years. But now, with the internet and all, family harmony is steadily breaking down. Communication, that’s the problem. If you give people the means to do it, they’ll tell you what they think, and that’s when you get those mass-killings we read so much about these days.

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BECOMING A BETTER PERSON

Aug

05

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How to Avoid not doing nothing

BY EILEEN JONES

I don’t know if you’ve ever considered trying to become, ahem, a Better Person. Not that I recommend it—everything associated with becoming a Better Person (BP for short) is pretty unpleasant. Like most of humanity, I’m comfortable in a state of complete moral rot, which makes self-improvement difficult. But, I don’t know, there’s something in the air lately. Everybody’s all, “yes we can!” Oddly well-behaved young people now expect you to recycle and be tolerant and volunteer for stuff and not drink so much, and are shocked when you disappoint them.

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Arm or Leg?

Mar

01

by

John Stossel’s Great Invisible Handjob

BY PAUL JONES

Picture this: You’re walking down a city street when suddenly you hear a faint rumbling in the distance. You continue on, turning your head round as you walk, trying to detect the source or spot a physical sign of the tremor. No other pedestrians or motorists seem at all aware of any abnormality. Shrugging your shoulders, you’re about to dismiss it, just as a sloshing gastric seism seizes you. The rumbling is coming from within and, as this realization grips you, your bowels begin to convulse ever more violently. Panicked, you shuffle forward, clenching your buttocks tightly. Luckily you spot a toilet at the end of the block, but when you approach it you discover, to your horror, it’s coin operated. You assume a defensive stoop and fumble around in your pocket for quarters you’re fairly sure you don’t have with one hand, clutching your stomach with the other. The intestinal protestations are reaching a fever pitch, a churning uproar. You shout at passersby between moans, begging them for spare change, but your animal hysteria keeps them at bay. Each one of them is identical, you notice: sleazy, malignant and faintly sickly, with a maniacal avian glare, greasy plume and mustache-a cross between Freddie Mercury and a velociraptor. Deaf to your pleas, they simply sneer at you and whine, in piercing, nasal unison, “Give me a break!”

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