Forces nab Jacko’s #2 man in Pakistan

Authorities say Abu Faraj al-Libbi is Michael Jackson’s #2 man in Iraq.

By John Breneman

Al
Qaeda’s #3 leader, captured this week by Pakistani forces,
is also a top-ranking Michael Jackson lieutenant in the region,
according to completely fabricated reports.

Abu Faraj al-Libbi, a blotchy-faced Libyan terror kingpin,
reportedly suffers the same skin condition as the embattled
King of Pop, whom he met at a vitiligo victims support group
in 1992.

Sources say the pop star had a profound influence on the
young jihadist, who later worked as a Michael Jackson impersonator
and is known in some circles as "Iraq-O Jacko."

Al-Libbi refused to reveal any information about his relationship
with Jackson, but under intense questioning with women’s underwear
strapped to his head revealed that he once saw Osama bin Laden
molest his pet chimpanzee, Lord Fauntleroy.

He said he had last seen bin Laden six months ago at a Ramada
Inn in Baghdad, where the al Qaeda boss had arranged a secret
rendezvous to share tips about eluding manhunts with notorious
Boston mobster Whitey Bulger.

Bin Laden usually registers under the aliases Al Carter,
Fred Bush or Sammy McLaden, according to Al-Libbi, who also
confessed that bin Laden hates broccoli, has a schoolboy crush
on Laura Bush and never travels far unless accompanied by
his harem of bisexual monkeys.

Frito Bandito busted on immigration charges

By
John Breneman

Immigration officials say they arrested the Frito Bandito
at the Mexican border today trying to transport an 18-wheeler
full of illegal aliens to a corn chip-processing facility
in Chula Vista, California.

While officials from Homeland Security and the Department
of Justice wrangled for jurisdiction over the case some FBI
men tried to interrogate the alleged Bandito, but all he would
say was, "We don’t need no stinking badges."

The legendary snack food icon reportedly went "underground"
after Doritos and Cheetos and extra-strength Tostitos surpassed
his once-dominant Fritos in popularity among American consumers,
then quickly climbed to #1 on the INS "most wanted"
list.

The heavily armed Bandito surrendered without a firefight,
but he now claims he was roughed up by Immigration Dept. agents
who he claims yanked his mustachio and ruined his sombrero.
He referred all questions to his attorney F. Lee "Speedy"
Gonzalez.

Related
story:
Bin Laden
eludes Wile E. Coyote

Also under investigation
by the Humor Gazette:

Jolly Green Giant files racial
discrimination lawsuit

Pres. Bush awards Congressional Medal of Freedom to Captain
Crunch

Runaway bride-to-be abducted by aliens

By
John Breneman

The Georgia bride-to-be who disappeared days before her wedding
and told police she had been kidnapped has vanished again,
this time leaving a note saying she had been abducted by two
alien beings in a blue spaceship.

Jennifer Carol Wilbanks, 32, hopped a bus to Las Vegas last
week and turned up Friday in Albuquerque, New Mexico, where
she faces charges of false reporting of a crime and yelling
"Fire!" in a crowded theater.

Authorities say that upon returning home to Duluth, Georgia,
Wilbanks reunited with her jilted fiancé, rescheduled
her nuptials for today and upped the number of bridesmaids
and groomsman to 18 each.

But this morning family members found a note from Wilbanks
saying a pair of alien thugs had forced her to board a late-model
UFO. There was also evidence that she had shed her Earth clothing
and shaved her head.

Police say they are not buying the UFO story and are pursuing
an anonymous tip regarding alleged DNA similarities between
the bride and groom. They said other possible reasons for
her latest disappearance include depression over how the moral
decline of the media threatens the sanctity of marriage and
bad hair day.

President pumps petroleum plan

By
John Breneman

Stating that America will run out of gas by 2041 if we do
not act now, President Bush last night unveiled an Energy
Security reform plan that gives people the option of establishing
personal petroleum accounts.

The nation forgot to have an energy strategy for the last
few decades so "now we find ourselves in the fix we’re
in," the president explained during a rare press conference.
He said as soon as he heard Americans were worried about high
gas prices he invited the Saudi
prince out to his ranch to talk about reducing our
dependence on foreign sources of oil.

Bush’s own quest for black gold began shortly after college
when he bummed some capital off his dad’s pals and started
an oil company called Arbusto.
But his drills came up dry and the thing went busto. Energy
analysts say it is too early to tell if his military drilling
of Iraq will yield dividends.

President Bush also used the news conference to remind people
of his controversial plan to fix
Social Security by funneling tons of funds to Wall
Street.

Asked for his view on the role of faith in American politics,
President Bush said each individual’s relationship with his
or her SUV is "a personal matter."

A White House spokesman gave the president’s performance
high marks, except for the part where he accidentally
distanced himself from powerful right-wing religious fanatics.

Related story:
Jon
Stewart explains Social Security reform

Bush puts the moves on Saudi prince

Despite some flirtatious hand-holding, sources say President Bush couldn’t get to second base with swarthy Saudi Crown Prince Abdullah.

By John Breneman

Holding hands with his special friend Prince Abdullah, President
Bush said today he tried everything to get the bashful Saudi
monarch to drop the price of oil — from flowers and chocolates
to butterfly kisses and promises of geopolitical favors.

But don’t expect Bush’s wooing to pay off at the pump. Despite
charming him with pickup truck rides and brush-clearing lessons,
sources say the president couldn’t even get to second base
with the sexy Saudi.

However, the two men did share a hearty laugh at one point.
When Bush asked what he could do to reduce America’s dependence
on foreign oil, Abdullah quipped that he could urge people
to drive more fuel-efficient vehicles. The president managed
to keep a straight face for a few seconds before erupting,
"Heh, heh, heh. Heh, heh, heh."

Sources say the president rejected diplomatic advice from
Tom Bolton, the controversial United Nations nominee who said
Bush should order a Secret Service man to get the prince in
a chokehold and push his face into the windshield of Bush’s
pickup truck until he cried "Uncle Sam" and agreed
to drop oil prices.

Instead, Bush gave the prince a piggy-back ride around his
Crawford, Texas, ranch and engaged in some playful banter
about Saudi Arabia’s woeful human rights record. The prince
also showed off his mischievous side, at one point gesturing
to the Bush twins, Jenna and Barbara, and asking the president,
"How much for the women?"

When pressed about the high cost of crude, the prince said
he could maybe knock off a penny or two, but explained that
he had a fiduciary responsibility to his wealthy backers to
keep their profits as high as possible. Bush said he understood
completely.

After his play date with the prince, Bush said he will keep
trying to seduce the Saudis but won’t waver from his strategy
of seeking new sources of oil in protected wildlife refuges
and politically unstable regimes.

Pope says: Don’t call me ‘Eggs’ Benedict
XVI

By
John Breneman

The new pontiff, Pope Benedict XVI, today sent a strong signal
that he will have little tolerance for anyone blasphemous
enough to address him by the nickname "Eggs," as
in Pope "Eggs" Benedict XVI.

A source close to the Egg Man said he was afraid this might
happen when he selected the name Benedict, but decided to
forge bravely ahead rather than switch at the last minute
to Pius or Cyrus or Dubya.

The new pope, a German cardinal named Joseph Ratzinger ("Joey
Rats" to his Sicilian friends), has been called "Panzer
Cardinal" and "God’s rottweiler" by critics,
but he also answers to "God’s pit bull" and "God’s
schnauzer." He did serve in the Hitler Youth as a boy,
but escaped without being tagged with the nickname "Nazi
Joe."

The custom of papal nicknames dates back to the very first
pope, St. Peter (32-67 A.D.), an orange-faced, triangle-eyed
pontiff called "Pumpkin Eater" by his foes.

Almost every Pope Boniface has been called "Old Bony
Face" and Pope Eugene IV (1431-47) was haunted by the
epithet "Gene, Gene, Pontificating Machine." Of
course, the papal wagsters were merciless with Pope Sisinnius
(708 A.D.).

The newly installed Pope "Don’t Call Me Eggs" Benedict
pledged to be a divider, not a uniter, by spreading his message
that Allah and Buddha can hit the bricks because the Roman
Catholic Church is the one true religion.

Humor Gazette spokesmodel Tiffany Tiara-Smith celebrates being crowned Miss Satire.

Humor Gazette thanks
‘the little people’
for Satire Awards

By John Breneman

Thanks largely to an impressive turnout by the "my mom"
demographic, the Humor Gazette has won first-place honors
in four categories in the quarterly contest sponsored by The
Satire Awards.

The $1.2 million in imaginary prize money ($37.25 after taxes)
will be used to break ground on the 56-story Humor Gazette
Building in downtown Manhattan and hire five new writers,
four of them monkeys.

Below
is a scene from the lavish, red-carpet Satire Awards ceremony,
held this year at an abandoned warehouse in Pismo Beach, Nebraska:

"In addition to the proverbial ‘little people,’ I’d
like to thank President George W. Bush, without whom none
of this would be possible. Thanks also to Donald Rumsfeld,
Saddam Hussein, John Kerry, Yasser Arafat, Britney Spears,
Speed Racer and Jacko. My sincere gratitude Humor Gazette
technical guru Jeff Raper; yes ladies, that’s his real name.

(Red light flashed 10 seconds ago; music begins playing)

… and I’d like to thank my crack team of attorneys,
agents, publicists, existential satirists, botox aestheticians
and liposuction technicians. Oh and Johnny and Ronnie and
Pee-Wee and Osama and Moammar and Groucho and Hunter and Jose
and Howard and we’ll always have Paris … and Martha and
John Paul and the Donald … and Jesus Christ and Condoleezza
Rice …

(Long hooked cane appears from Stage Left and yanks hapless
douche behind curtain)

Satire Award winners from the last quarter include:
1st — Most believable: Rumsfeld
offers proof of link between Saddam Hussein and … Rumsfeld
1st — Best Headline: Speed
Racer busted for speeding, possession of speed
1st — Best Current Events: A
tip of the hat to Arafat
1st — Best Celebrity: Scent
of a pop tart: Britney’s new perfume
2nd — Best Presidential: Pet
Goats for Bush in ’04
2nd — Best Related Picture: Baby
Pees on Bush
2nd — Best Site Design
3rd — Best Sports: Donkeys
defeat Elephants in political football

Humor Gazette CEO Arturo DiMaunchie today announced a new
initiative to get people to vote for the Gazette in the next
installment of the seemingly perpetual Satire Awards competition,
saying the awards boost morale on the publication’s one-person
staff.

Enter
private voting booth here

EDITOR’S NOTE: After a brief sabbatical from 20 years
in real journalism to focus on fake news writing, I am back
in the workforce as an overnight online editor at BostonHerald.com.
Looks like I’ll be writing some columns too.    –
– John Breneman

Boston
Marathon fan wins Armchair Division   (April
19, 2005)
Opening
Day at Fenway: Hub fans bid curse adieu   (April
12, 2005)

Boston Marathon fan wins Armchair Division

By John Breneman

The Boston
Marathon is insane, right? I mean just do the math.
Twenty-thousand runners times 26.2 miles of ankle-busting,
knee-crunching pavement from Hopkinton to Copley Square.

By my calculations that’s total 524,000 miles traveled …
on foot. I found that quite an impressive statistic until
I realized I could get that same mileage — without the estimated
40,000 blisters and umpteen cardiac seizures — from a couple
of old Toyotas.

I was actually planning on running this year because I could
really use the $100,000 grand prize. But I had to pull out
because of, uh, a ruptured flexor ligament in my, um, quadriceps.
Yeah, that’s it.

I’m kidding, of course. I could no more run 26 miles than
sneak into the papal conclave and cast a ballot for my favorite
Cardinal, St. Louis first baseman Albert Pujols.

Believe me I tried, and nearly died, at last year’s race.
Here’s what happened:

I got to Hopkinton real early to get a prime parking space,
then walked eight miles to the Main Street starting line and
waded into the scantily clad sea of humanity. The aroma was
a pungent blend of Ben Gay, Aspercreme and Triple-Action Gold
Bond Powder.

Just as I was elbowing my way into position, the starter’s
gun went off. Bam! I was instantly trampled by a pack of 9-year-old
Cub Scouts jogging for the Jimmy Fund and a contingent of
bald hippies raising money for bone marrow transplants and
medicinal marijuana.

Before I could even scrape the burnt wheelchair rubber off
my back, I looked up and saw a couple stringbeans from the
Kenyan junior varsity whiz by at approximately 35 mph. "See
you in Beantown fellas. I hope."

Once I found my stride, I was like Rocky charging up those
stairs in Philadelphia with that inspirational soundtrack
blaring in my head. I was able to keep that up for nearly
200 yards.

That’s when my right kneecap flared up as if I’d been stung
by a giant bee, but it was actually just my ACL snapping like
a dried-up gumband. No problem, I thought, I’ll just tough
it out. But by the time I reached the first mile marker I
had tripped over my shoelace, twisted my left ankle and tried
four different breathing methods, finally settling into a
sort of arhythmic "gasp-wheeze-gulp."

At around three miles, I narrowly avoided a 10-runner pileup
on Route 135. EMTs arrived on the scene within seconds, took
one look at the twisted heap of human wreckage and radioed
for the Jaws of Life.

Assuming the slow pace of that fabled long-distance champion,
the tortoise, I somehow made it to the five-mile mark in Ashland.
I swung my hand out to grab some water, but missed and accidentally
punched myself in the face. The force of the blow knocked
me into a motorcycle cop and, though the pepper spray clouded
my vision, I managed to scramble away before he could cite
me for resisting cardiac arrest.

By now my carbo-loading pasta dinner from the night before
was really paying off, but my Cuervo-loading experiment was
having the opposite effect. Pretty soon the acid reflux kicked
in, warming my esophagus with the tangy taste of peptic acid
and ravioli. Fortunately, I became distracted by what felt
like an ice-cream headache in my left lung.

I switched to kilometers for a while to make it seem like
I’d covered more ground, but got depressed at Mile 8 in Framingham
when a guy with a peg leg and a bandaged head marched by playing
a fife with two drummers close behind.

Around this time things were getting a little fuzzy, and
I really couldn’t say where I got that pony, but I rode that
little guy all the way to Natick — part Paul Revere, part
Rosie Ruiz — before a vigilant race official ordered me to
ditch my steed.

Was I there yet? Nope.

Shortly after I crossed into Wellesley, I was overtaken by
the Grim Reaper (with #17642 pinned to his long black cape).
I assumed he was looking for the tubby, crimson-faced guy
who blew by a few minutes earlier with a purple vein the size
of a Vienna sausage keeping time on his left temple.

Halfway up Heartbreak Hill, I was gripped by the sensation
that an angry falcon was trying to claw my heart out of my
chest cavity. But that was just a hallucination. What really
happened, an MRI revealed later, was that my aorta got plugged
up by a chunk of Power Bar that I found on the road.

Undeterred, I ignored the brush fire burning its way through
my innards, from my pancreas down to my bladder, and convinced
myself that the dark blood trickling from my right ear was
probably normal. But then one of my leg cramps began emitting
a high-pitched whining sound, something like a circular saw
cutting through a fibula or femur.

To this day, I have no recollection whatsoever of Miles 22-25.

I must have regained consciousness with about a quarter-mile
to go because I distinctly remember the ghost of the legendary
Johnny Kelley (#1 now and forever) tapping me on the shoulder
and yelling at me to "keep going, kid."

Reliable sources report that when I finally staggered across
the finish line, I guzzled four gallons of blue Gatorade and
hailed an ambulance.

The doctor said I would eventually regain most of the feeling
in my pelvis, but advised me to get used to the sandpaper
sound between my second and third vertebrae.

Later on, I would be disqualified for the pony incident and
for purchasing piggy-back rides through much of Brighton and
Brookline.

But that’s OK, because I actually have a small confession
to make. I never even tried to run the Boston Marathon last
year, and a ruptured quadraplexor tendon did not prevent me
from joining the field.

I was home watching the action on TV. Somewhere along the
line I decided to crown myself winner of the Armchair Division.
And you know those ceremonial garlands the winners get to
wear on their heads? Well, mine was made of guacamole Doritos.

You see, most of us can only imagine what it would be like
to run those 26.2 miles, to participate in a singular event
that symbolizes mankind’s capacity for not only endurance
and perseverance, but also for good will.

Twenty-thousand hearty souls logging half a million miles,
raising millions for charity. We salute them all. This concludes
our live coverage of the 109th running of the most patriotic
race in America.

Related story:
Rev.
Jesse Jackson mulls pope bid

Bush names Patriots football ambassadors

By John Breneman

President
Bush welcomed the New
England Patriots to the White House for the third
time in four years on Wednesday, then stunned the Super Bowl
champs by asking them to serve as U.S. ambassadors for football.

The president told Patriots coach Bill Belichick he has learned
that millions of people throughout the world refer to "soccer"
as "football." This could pose a potential threat
to national security "or something," he said.

"Football is an American game and people ought to play
it around the world, like democracy" said President Bush.
"We need to make sure we live in a world where football
means football. Soccer calling itself football is like communism
calling itself democracy."

The president explained that in many countries, young school
children are brainwashed with anti-American propaganda and
taught to love soccer instead of real football.

"In Texas we have a word for soccer — boring,"
said Bush. "There’s no action, no good-lookin’ women
in beer commercials, no pickup trucks, no Viagra. I guarantee
you’re not gonna see me choking
on a pretzel from watching soccer on TV."

By the time President Bush reached the climax of his speech
— "Either you’re with us or you’re with the soccer people"
— the Patriots had slipped out the back.