Said Kevin Johnson, Chief Prosecutor with the Los Angeles division of the U.S. Department of Justice, “They set the benchmark for setting a course for adventure. Never before have we seen such blatant crimey-ness. They did it on national television, right in front of our faces, and they did it for real. These two shows should be recognized as the first wave of Reality TV. Soon they’ll be making another run, alright. A run straight to prison.”

At the forefront of the scheme were the two major players: Captain Merrill Stubing and Mr. Roark. Both were the alleged drug kingpins in the scheme that trafficked drugs via air to ship to land, infiltrating the U.S. and Canada with an estimated 500 tons of popular street drugs throughout the late seventies and early eighties, including Cocaine (street names: California cornflakes, Foo Foo Dust, Society High), Marijuana (Aunt Mary, Colorado Cocktail, Green Goddess), Quaaludes (‘ludes), and Heroin (Hi, Courtney Love!).

Unknown to most viewers, The Love Boat was actually cruising to Fantasy Island on every episode, where it would pick up a shipment of drugs that had been dropped from an airplane. This may account for the overzealous reaction of Tattoo on every episode, anxiously awaiting the drug drop and uttering those famous words, “Ze Plane, Ze Plane”. From there, the Love Boat would sell drugs onboard the ship and then distribute the rest on its return back to the U.S.

Furthered Johnson, “We believe that the proceeds from these deals allowed Mr. Roark to continuously supply his own addiction to fine Corinthian leather.”

According to the DEA, the major players in the ring were:

Captain Stubing and Mr. Roarke – trafficking ringleaders.

Tattoo – communications officer between air and land; linguist

Dr. “Doc” Adam – overseer of overdoses or drug related maladies.

Gopher - Drug runner…. it wasn’t just a clever name.

Isaac -  Logistics, Personnel, DJ, and Bartender

Julie McCoy – on-board party organizer, known for drug and sex-themed parties such as “The High Seas” and “Coco Puffs and Coladas”.

Vicki Stubing (Captain Stubing’s daughter) – child prostitute / coke whore.

Upon arrest, Captain Stubing commented, “It took you guys long enough to figure this out. As if people would really go on a cruise just for love. It was the 70’s and 80’s, man. It was all about Coke and Ludes, big hair, big shoulder pads, and partying like it was 1999.”

“That was some good shit, ya betcha,” said former Alaska Governor Sarah Palin when asked about the Love Boat’s one Alaska run. “I remember looking west, keeping an eye on those commie bastards from Russia, and that boat would obscure my view. Maybe we should consider charges of hindering national defense, too, ya? I wonder if Isaac is related to Obaaaaaaama….”

All members of the syndicate are currently being held until bail is set at Aaron Spelling’s luxury mansion in Beverly Hills. Calls to the mansion by the WSFB were taken by Torii Spelling and typically involved her asking this reporter what she was wearing.

“We’re sick and tired of not really having anything to protest about,” says event organizer Kevin Johnson. “Oops,” added Johnson, “I just ended a sentence with a preposition. That’s exactly the kind of mediocrity that has us so ambivalent! Our school system let me graduate using that kind of imperfect but not atrocious grammar, yet taught me enough to know that it’s incorrect. Where is the injustice of that? What are we supposed to protest about…sorry, about what are we supposed to protest?”

Added Johnson, “This Administration calls itself ‘progressive.’ We stand here today united against progress of any kind. Comrade Obama needs to understand: we’re here, we’re queer, and we have entirely too much discretionary time and money. Oh wait. We’re not queer. Well, Steve maybe, but not the rest of us.”

The truth is this fucking thing has the ability to kill you and everyone around you. Dead.

Let’s step back from the organically sustainable section at your local organic green market shoppe, and take a good hard look at this deeply lobed assassin.

Scenario #1 – Picnic

You’re at the park with your family. Your picnic basket contains an array of delectable treats, including a freshly blanched artichoke. You’re standing while you prepare the table to receive your food items, when one of your children comes running up to you and you spiral around to grab the mayonnaise when you lance the poor child in the jugular vein and inflict mortal injury.

Scenario #2 – Sunday Dinner

You’re hosting a Sunday dinner. Aunt Fleaux from Boca Raton is in town and you decided to make a special dish; artichoke Parmesan dip. You’re in the kitchen, getting ready to prepare the uncooked artichoke when Aunt Fleaux enters the room unbeknown to you, and grabs you by the waist. You spiral around in fright, the artichoke stem firmly in your iron grip, and project the steely thistle into the belly of Aunt Fleaux causing her irreparable intestinal damage from which she later expires.

Scenario #3 – Those People

In this final scenario, you’re in the kitchen preparing an all artichoke dinner while  looking out the window that faces your street. You notice two of those people coveting your mailbox area and you decide to investigate. Because you’re in a fight or flight state of mind, you’ve still got the raw artichoke in your hand and you’re holding it like a dagger. You approach those people and say, “what’s all this then?”. They immediately flee towards Whiskey Woods and you do not give chase. Instead, you abruptly turn to go back into the house when you impale your neighbor Bob in the groin with your artichoke as he had come out to see what was going on and to assist you if necessary. You see, Bob is very tall and his groinal region is about elbow-level to you and well, it was an accident after all. Bob is not seriously injured, but he may as well be dead after having a raw artichoke jammed into his crotchal area omfg can you imagine the pain.

Clearly you can see the potential life threatening and reproductive  organ defecting capability of the modern artichoke. Don’t you think it’s about time you find another kind of thistle to eat?

So listen. I know everyone thinks being Ke … I mean “Ben” is awesome and all that. I have a killer body, great hair, fantastic smile, and a smokin’ hot girlfriend known the world over. Fame, fortune, good looks, I have it all, right? I mean seriously, even Brad Pitt hasn’t got shit on me. Yeah, he’s got Angelina and all, and taggin’ that shit day in and day out must have its advantages, but how many fuckin’ kids has she dragged back from Bophutswana or whereverthefuck and set up at the Casa de Brangelina? Christ lady you’re a movie star, not Old Mother Hubbard. Give it a rest.

But I digress. Let’s get back to what’s important here, and that’s me. You think I’ve got it all? Are you kidding me? I don’t care how many friends and dream houses and sports cars I may have, because all that shit? It’s nothing. Meaningless, materialistic bullshit. It means nothing to me. And I’d give every bit of it up in a heartbeat for just one thing.

Please, just give me a cock.

Seriously, this shit is fucked up. You know what sort of numbers I could rack up if I had a dick? I’m literally surrounded by hot-as-hell faker-than-shit chicks who think I’m, like, the only guy in the entire world. And in many ways that’s true. I mean, have you seen the crowd I hang around with? I swear, the chick:dude ratio is like 15:1. And most of the guys? Well, let’s just say that they really dig the chick’s accessories a bit more than the average horndog.

And maybe that’s a coping mechanism, you know? Because those guys? You guessed it: no dicks either. Although if they had them I swear they’d spend most of their time trying to figure out how to adjust their package so it didn’t fuck up the fit of their jeans.

But if I had a cock, I could lay some serious pipe. No competition at all.

Think about how fucked up this is. You’ve seen my body, right? Well, you don’t get stacked like that accidentally. I spend, on average, like 3 hours a day at the gym. And when my workout’s done and I hit the showers, it’s a bit awkward. I mean, everywhere I look, there’s guys. Naked guys. And they all have dicks except me. Me? No dick. And you think guys don’t check? Think again. Everybody checks. I can hear their snickers.

They call me “Mr. Smooth,” and claim it’s because I’m so slick with the ladies. But I know what they really mean.

So please, someone, help me out here. I’m not looking for anything outrageous. I don’t need some sort of Foot Long Jet Propelled Dream Schlong with Optional Kick Starter. I just want a basic, average size, functional ABS plastic cock. It’s not too much to ask. Please, help me become a real fake plastic man.

And while you’re at it, a pair of nipples wouldn’t suck either.

The West Coast is at the bottom of the export list because the alligator farmers feel West Coasters already have a lot of other exotic meat options, given their propensity for trendy critter dishes paired with various combinations of arugala, goat cheese, nuts, dried berries, pomegranate juice, and arrays of colorful baby root vegetables.

“West Coast restaurants have a long list of tasty options for unusual meats that their customers will eat,” said Wally Dufresne, President of the Louisiana Gator Farmers Coalition, in a statement last week. “The problem is there is a sudden run on gator products nationwide. The manufacturers will pay much more for tail than the food service industry, so farmers are giving it all up to the manufacturers and getting rich. Not surprising, really – my cousin Aquanetta is a hooker in D.C., and she told me the manufacturing industry lobbyists pay a lot better than the food industry lobbyists. And I don’t need to tell you if anyone’s an expert on paying for tail, it’s a D.C. hooker.”

The chief culprit in this trend is not cowboy boots, as is commonly believed. There is a new naturopathic movement promoting health benefits for women who use gator skin douche bags to improve their libidos and prevent wrinkles. Current holistic health research has shown the use of gator skin for douching imparts minerals and enzymes which stimulate the production of the libidinous hormones bootayogen, cootairogen, and getmethatogen. The increase of these hormones also promotes elasticity in the skin, tendons, ligaments, and standards.

In a recent interview for Hot Cougar Health News, researcher Kitty Coocharetti stated, “This is exciting news for middle-aged ladies who still want to get down and dirty – and smooth and pretty. There is now a natural alternative to plastic surgery and drug therapies.”

Gator Poon Ladies Balloons, the sole manufacturer and patent holder for alligator feminine products, has signed Susan Sarandon as their National media spokesperson.  Said Sarandon at her press conference, “As a somewhat older diva who is tired of resembling a dried apple doll with a marginal eating disorder, I am thrilled there is a solution to both restoring my vanity to its unbridled obsessive splendor and resuscitating my libido to its former aggressively indifferent but manipulative fervor. This is a banner day for aging self-possessed man-eaters worldwide, indeed!”

Look for Gator Poon Douche Bags® on your local drugstore shelves beginning on Valentine’s Day next month.

According to claims made by ASM on the latest television spot for Snuggies, the item can be worn while doing a multitude of activities. The ad depicts everyday citizens wearing Snuggies as they do everyday things such as watching a child’s soccer game, driving to work, going to the movies, even performing their job duties, all while wearing the backwards robe/blanket thingy.

Since the TV campaign launched in September, calls to the Snuggie Hotline and 911 have been pouring in from people who have obtained injuries they claim were caused by their Snuggies.

“I’m a butcher”, said Lars Kuunch of Bushwhack, TX. “I work in the cooler, cuz I work with meat. It’s cool in there, so I wore my Snuggie, right?  Sonofabitch got caught in the meat slicer. I’m not the fuckin’ meat it’s supposed to be slicing, yeah? That’s what pastrami is for.”

A West Seattle Police Officer says his Snuggie caused him to trip and fall while he was pursuing a purse snatcher. The officer chose to keep his identity anonymous, but said, “I was off-duty, having some coffee at Tully’s at Morgan Junction when the perp grabbed m…the purse and bolted. I began pursuit, but tripped over my midnight blue Snuggie with gold piping. Damn near broke my neck and damn well lost m… the purse. They should warn you that it’s a running hazard.” Asked why he wouldn’t reveal his name, he stated, “It was a man-purse. And it was mine. The other cops would eat this shit up. Print that and I’ll choke you with my Snuggie.”

Perhaps most frightening of all is the case of the surgeon who got the sleeve of his Snuggie caught in a piece of medical equipment when he was performing a vasectomy.

Dr. Kevin Johnson, a Urological Surgeon at Seton in Austin, Texas… yes, Dr. Johnson works in urology… told this WSFB-AC reporter the details of this horrifying accident. “We keep the operating room at a low temperature to minimize the growth of bacteria and other miniscule shit. So I put on my Snuggie and started the procedure. My sleeve became hooked on the Emasculator 1000 and caused me to accidentally solder the patient’s rectum shut. We didn’t realize this until he farted and blew a High C note.”

Johnson went on to say “The makers of Snuggie imply that you can wear those things anywhere, anytime. I’m here to tell you, in my case and in my profession? Not so much.”

Mark Ingerstaan began working at the Sammie, Davis and Junior Law Firm two years ago, and since has seen co-workers pass him on the corporate ladder even though his performance surpassed theirs.  It wasn’t until a friend suggested that his Grillz might be holding him back from advancement did the reality hit Ingerstann.

“As soon as my friend explained to me that wearing Grillz in the workplace is not widely accepted  I figured it out,” Ingerstaan said.  “I knew I was doing a good job, and I was always the last one to leave the office.  I just didn’t think that anybody even noticed my Grillz, or would look down on me for flashing my bling.  I’m  just trying to impress my clients.”

When asked if he would now refrain from wearing his grill teeth to work, Ingerstann said “No, I got them permanently attached so yeah, I’m pretty much fucked.”

Four young men sit in a dimly lit room. A variety of brightly colored dice are visible on the tabletop. The smell of cheap pizza hangs in the air, spiked with a faint tang of stale sweat. At one end of the table sits Jim, a clean shaven young man in a polo shirt, an assortment of worn and weathered looking books laid out before him. Irregularly spaced around the table are Ben (Deathklok t-shirt, scruffy beard), Robbie (flannel button-up, goatee, wire-framed glasses), and Ed (muttonchops, Viking helmet, holding a plastic battle axe).

“As the rain falls softly on your cloaked shoulders,” says Jim, “you look upward and note the name of the tavern standing before you: The Wanton Wench.”

Ed leaps to his feet. “Aha! Sounds like the right sort of place for Slagathor to dip his wick!”

Ben and Robbie exhale in frustration, in perfect unison. “What?” says Ed.

“Dude, come on.  Not this shit again” Robbie answers. “Could we skip the whole ‘Ed tries to get Slagathor the Barbarian Laid’ episode tonight? I need to be home by 11:00.”

Ed shoots Robbie a challenging glance. “What can’st take precedence over Slagathor satisfying the pleasures of …”

“OH COME ON!” shouts Ben, slamming his fist on the tabletop. The dice rattle and bounce about.

“Dude, please,” continues Robbie. “Like you’d have a fuckin’ clue what to do. You haven’t touched a girl below the shoulder since you finished breastfeeding. Give it up already.”

Ed stands, brandishing his plastic battle axe menacingly. “MY LUSTS WILL NOT BE DENIED! SLAGATHOR WILL SPREAD HIS SEED, LEST…”

Ben throws his hands up is a gesture of surrender. “Dude, whatever. I’ll be in the kitchen eating Ho-Ho’s. Call me when this shit’s done.”

Jim looks up, concerned, and says in a conciliatory tone “Wait, Ben, what’s Melfollion doing while Slagathor…”

“Nothing!” answers Ben. “Drinking. Diddling my bunger with my wand. Anything to avoid this bullshit. Let me know when we can fight something.” With an exasperated sigh Ben turns and leaves the room.

Robbie eyes Ed with disdain. “Look, just make it fast, OK? And spare us the colorful details Jim. Parinofore will be hanging at the bar with Melfollion, trying not to catch a case of the Hyborean Clap from the stools.” With that he leans back in his chair, arms crossed, and waits.

Ed eyes Jim haughtily. “I enter the Wanton Wench….” Robbie snickers, and Ed, ruffled, continues “Errr … I stride with brazen arrogance into the tavern. Tell’st me, good gamemaster, of the variety of harlots available to me.”

Jim rolls some dice and replies “There are three women. And one dude.”

“Describe the wenches to me, good sir.”

“They are all beautiful, aged 18-23, with ample bosoms, supple hips, and lips that look certain to taste of mead.” Rolling some dice, Jim continues “They are all uniformly uninterested in you.”

Robbie laughs. “Well, Ed, this sounds pretty familiar …”

“SHUT UP ROBBIE!  Errr … ummm … I mean quietest thou tongue, Parinofore, or I shall cut it out’st. I amble casually up to the first comely maiden and jingle my purse full of gold coins.”

Jim rolls the dice once more. “She continues to ignore you. However, the well built, handsome man beside her notices the sound though, and arches his eyebrow at you while licking his lips.”

Robbie whoops excitedly. ”Ben, get in here!  Slagathor’s gonna get cornholed!”

“ROBBIE, CUT THE SHIT! I tell the guy to back off. And come off of it, man: She’s a goddamn whore, I have money, she should be interested!”

“Ed, stay in character.”

Ed looks crestfallen. “Oh. Uhh, I say ‘Fair maiden, I have much gold. And the enormous purple headed beast of my ancestors dwelling in the demesne between my thighs…’”

Robbie stands, a look of disgust on his face. “Ohferchrissakes….” He turns and storms out of the room.

Ed continues, “Will thou’st take my coin … and my seed?”

Jim rolls some more dice. “She says ‘Sure.’ She leads you upstairs to a small room, with a filthy mattress, lit by a single candle.”

Ed eyes Jim with suspicion. “Jim, she’s not gonna be a succubus again, is she?”

Rolling the dice, Jim answers “Nope.”
“A vampire?”

More die rolls. “Nope.”

“She not gonna sprout talons and …”

From the kitchen  Robbie scream “DUDE SHE’S A FUCKIN’ CHICK. I KNOW YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT IS, BUT WOULD YOU JUST PRETEND TO KNOW WHAT TO DO SO WE CAN GET ON WITH THE FUCKIN’ GAME?”

“FINE!” shouts Ed. “I slowly unlace the back of her…”

The dice clatter on the table.  ”OK, she’s naked.”

Ed looks perturbed, but continues. “Oh. Err … OK. I caress her back and then slide my finger …”

Jim shoots Ed a warning glare. ”Dude, let’s just keep it to the basic stuff. You know, ‘I get on top of her,’ ‘I do my thing,’ and so on, OK? My mom’s right upstairs — I don’t need the ‘you boys were watching PORNOS weren’t you?’ stinkeye again.”

“Oh, OK. I … uhhh … ungird … my loins and begin to get on top of her.”

Dice click and Jim responds “She grunts.”

“Grunts? How? Is it a good grunt?”

“Dude, it’s a ‘You’re a 285 pound hairy barbarian who hasn’t bathed in a month’ grunt. Interpret that how you will.”

Ed looks nonplussed. “OK, I … start to … you know. Do my thing.”

Jim rolls the dice and, after a brief pause, replies “Oh …. heh.”

“What?”

“I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“DUDE! WHAT?”

With a grin, Jim says “She pats you on the back and says ‘OK, we’re done! 5 pieces of the coin of the realm, fine sir!” Jim struggles mightily to wipe the smirk from his own face. And fails mightily.

“Wait! I didn’t …”

“Well, yeah, you did. A bit quickly.”

Ed glances down at the table, then looks to Jim with hope. “Well, did I … you know … enter the gates?”

“Sorry buddy, not this time.”

To be continued-eth….

“I don’t care what the fuck kind of fuckin’ preacher you are, that’s some bullshit,” opined the Momo Express as he drank from a paper bag. His compatriots agreed with his assessment. Big Anthony expressed a personal connection to the crisis that shocked the meeting members.

“Yeah, I think my brother on the PD is takin’ his K9 dog down there to sniff for people,” said Big Anthony.

“No shit? Fuggadaboutit, that’s big-hearted no matter what,” agreed Johnny Streets.

After discussing to which realm of hell Pat Robertson would be sent by Jesus, the discussion turned to the merits of Rush Limbaugh’s statement during a recent radio show that, “We’ve already donated to Haiti … It’s called the U.S. income tax.”

“That fat fuck,” was the opening remark that the participants could agree upon. From there, an argument ensued over whether Robertson or Limbaugh deserved to recieve urine in their coffee.

“I’d stick my dick in there and stir it!” proclaimed Johnny Streets in reference to urine in Pat Robertson’s coffee. Goolio wasn’t sure if Pat Robertson took cream in his coffee or not.

Consensus was achieved once the meeting participants decided that Jesus would stick Pat Robertson inside of Adolph Hitler’s ass, in Hell, leaving Limbaugh as the most deserving of urine in his coffee.

The meeting concluded with the four agreeing that if they ever got the chance, they would urinate in Rush Limbaugh’s coffee pot for a month, then pay someone in his building to keep doing it after they finished, then start sending him, “pieces of shit wrapped up in Ding Dong wrappers because you know that fat fuck would eat them before he figured out what the fuck was going on, the fuck.”