TALLAHASSEE, Fla. (CAP) - The massive oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico threatens an economic and ecological disaster on tourist beaches, wildlife refuges and fishing grounds in Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama and Florida. But it's not all doom and gloom in the Gulf - the accident has proven a godsend to one ailing business, Giant Sponge Unlimited LLC.
"They say there's always a silver lining, and in this case I have to say that spill really saved our bacon," said the company's founder, Fred Prywatki, who so far has provided more than 1,000 giant sponges to the cleanup effort. "My mother always asked me, who's ever going to need that many giant sponges? And I never really had a good answer for her.
"Until today," said Prywatki, smiling broadly and folding his arms behind his head.
The company responsible for the spill, BP Global of Great Britain, "will pay us pretty much whatever we ask," explained Prywatki, whose company is the only manufacturer of giant sponges (many of them roughly 100 feet in diameter) in the Western Hemisphere.
He noted BP's willingness to pay handsomely for his product represents a big change from his last venture, Fred's Science Museum in Woburn, Mass., which closed after three months. "There it was tough to get people to pay a measly four bucks admission, even when we threw in Pizza Hut coupons," he explained.
BP has tried numerous methods to contain the spill, including Prywatki's sponges, a giant metal dome lowered over the spill area, and millions of rolls of Bounty paper towels dropped from helicopters.
"We had to stop that last one because they were knocking the oil-covered turtles unconscious," explained BP Chief Executive Tony Hayward, looking noticeably pale while lighting a cigarette with a shaky right hand. "That's considered bad form among environmentalists, evidently."
Taking a long drag and then rubbing his furrowed temple with his free hand, Hayward added, "It's a good thing I got a $32 million bonus last year, or this would all be very hard to stomach."
For those of you out in the rest of the country who may be wondering, there’s more to Massachusetts than just taxes and liberals. We also have clams. And lately, we have two controversies that have been dominating discussion here: the debate over whether to allow wind turbines and casinos, unfortunately not together.
I’d been waiting to weigh in on these subjects until I’d done the proper research, by which I mean, until I’d seen a headline about them on the front page of the Boston Herald. I’m still waiting, unless wind turbines or casinos happened to be the subject of the recent cover story entitled “Button-down Mayor Says ... Screwgle Google,” the latest proof that ink fumes have permeated the building.
As far as the turbines go, though, I can’t help but wonder why people hate them so much. I find them to be kind of soothing — it’s like looking at a giant pinwheel. A giant, monstrously expensive, bird-annihilating pinwheel.
Now, we all know that the late Sen. Ted Kennedy didn’t want them marring the view from his Hyannisport compound, but let’s face it: It’s not Ted Kennedy’s view, it’s the people’s view. This would explain why Scott Brown has mounted a wind turbine to the back of his pickup, right next to the Truck Nutz.
And personally, I’d love to look out on a series of wind turbines from my compound, because that would mean ... I’d have a compound. Right now all I see when I look out my window is the guy across the street looking back at me, and frankly, it’s starting to creep me out.
Now, some say the energy we get from these babies will actually be too costly to justify the expense of building them, so I’m hoping they figure that out before they start construction, even if that would violate the state’s massive infrastructure projects credo (“Build first, ask questions later”). Also, they should make sure they don’t hire the people who did the Big Dig, unless they want the turbines to take 16 years and then fall over.
But the one argument I’ve heard that actually makes some sense (no, not the part about the birds —they need to start looking up, for crying out loud) is the following: Members of the Aquinnah Wampanoag Tribe have said the turbines would desecrate tribal burial sites. By which they presumably mean “potential sites for future Indian casinos,” whose swimming pools will be filled with re-animated corpses and Craig T. Nelson.
Which brings us to the casinos, which I’m still not sure how I feel about. On the one hand, they could prove disastrous for compulsive gamblers and their families. On the other hand, maybe Tom Jones would come! So I’m torn.
One thing I’m definitely in favor of, though, is the idea of warning labels on the slot machines. I pictured something informative but catchy, like: “NOTICE: For best results, place your life savings, your clothing and your portable oxygen tank into the slot below. An attendant will be along shortly to carry your wrinkled naked body back to the bus.”
So you can imagine my disappointment when I heard that the Massachusetts House of Representatives had rejected that particular amendment. Seems there was an issue with the proposal: According to the State House News Service, the warnings “would require the listing of so many odds that the sign would be up to three times larger than the machine itself.” Which means the warnings about the buffet would probably have to blanket the entire building like a giant field tarp.
Regardless, both casinos and wind turbines sound on paper like fine ideas; the first one will bring in tons of tax revenue, and the second will help the environment, not necessarily in that order. You might quibble over the details, but at the end of the day, what could possibly go wrong?
With the possible exception of Massachusetts taxpayers getting screwgled.
Peter Chianca is a managing editor for GateHouse Media New England. Portions of this column appeared previously on The Wicked Local Blog. Follow him on Twitter at twitter.com/pchianca.
Last week, a new study revealed that only a quarter of Americans can name more than one of the freedoms guaranteed by the First Amendment. Yes, I know what you’re thinking: There’s more than one?
And the answer is, yes there are, but the study said that twice as many people could name members of TV’s Simpson family than could name two or more of those freedoms. Which, granted, isn’t an especially fair comparison, given that “The Simpsons” has been on for so long now that it’s impossible not to know them; it’s rumored that Woodrow Wilson ended his 1912 debate by telling Taft to eat his shorts.
But it wasn’t just the venerable Simpsons that people were more familiar with; the study also said that more people could name three “American Idol” judges than name three First Amendment rights. (Which is ironic, considering that Simon is actually exercising at least one of those rights every time he tells a contestant that if she’d sung like that 2,000 years ago, people would have stoned her to death.)
So I figure it falls to me to fill you in on some First Amendment freedoms you may be unfamiliar with. And, contrary to what one-fifth of the study’s participants thought, one of them isn’t the right to own a pet — although I can see where they’d think that, given Thomas Jefferson’s fondness for his pet sheltie, Beauregard.
1) Speech: This is the right that guarantees you can say whatever you want, wherever you want, safe in the knowledge that your government can’t throw you in prison for it. No, what they’ll probably get you on is tax evasion. (It’s worth noting, however, that despite this freedom you can still not yell “Fire!” in a crowded theater. This was particularly important when the Bill of Rights was written, because theater tickets were much cheaper then.)
2) Religion: This is the right ensuring that if any public employee (teacher, librarian, DPW worker, etc.) even accidentally insinuates that there may be some kind of supreme being (for instance by screaming, “Oh my God, I’ve stabbed myself with my compass!”), it is legal for him or her to be immediately tackled by undercover Secret Service agents. It also keeps the government from telling you what religion to practice, even in the case of Tom Cruise.
3) Assembly: You remember when you were in school, and every so often they’d haul you all down to the gym for an assembly, and someone would talk to you about hygiene or the dangers of LSD? It’s sort of like that.
4) Press: Particularly important to the people in my profession, this is the right that declares we can print or broadcast whatever we want, as long as we don’t mind being firebombed. (It’s worth noting that the fledgling government almost immediately regretted this one when the Norwich Packet ran a story about “George and Martha’s Steamy Summer SEX ROMP.”)
5) Petition for the redress of grievances: According to historians, even the Founding Fathers didn’t really know what this one was about, but James Madison thought it sounded “wicked dramatic.” One thing we do know is that as originally written, the S’s looked like little F’s.
Speaking as someone who, in all seriousness, had a framed copy of the Bill of Rights on his wall until we took it down to paint recently and I accidentally stepped on it (which, believe me, made me feel really bad, like the ghost of John Hancock was going to visit me in the night and stick me with his quill), I found the study disturbing, to say the least. But on the plus side, I suppose it could jump-start some interest in the foundations of this great democracy, and finally get people to better appreciate our freedoms.
Although “The Simpsons” may need to go off the air first.
Peter Chianca is a managing editor for GateHouse Media New England. This "Best of Chianca" column is from 2006. Follow him on Twitter at twitter.com/pchianca.
Am I the only one who loves looking at wind turbines, like the ones approved yesterday off the coast of Massachusetts? They relax me -- it's like looking at a giant pinwheel. A giant, expensive, bird-annihilating pinwheel.
Now, we all know that Sen. Kennedy didn't want to look at them off in the distance from his Nantucket compound, but personally I'd love to look out on them from my compound because that would mean ... I'd have a compound. Right now all I see when I look out my window is the guy across the street looking back at me, and frankly, it's starting to creep me out.
Then there are the arguments that it will interfere with air and sea travel, but I would point out that, unlike icebergs, captains (and pilots) should have a reasonable idea of when they're coming up on one of these, and can simply head a few degrees port or starboard. Or aft, when appropriate.
Now, some say the energy we get from these babies will actually be too costly to justify the expense of building them, so I'm hoping they work those numbers out before they're already half-built, which sounds like something that would happen around here. Also, they should make sure they don't hire the people who did the Big Dig, unless they want them to take 10 years and then fall on people.
But the one argument I've heard that actually makes some sense (no, not the part about the birds -- they just need to look up, for crying out loud) is the following:
Members of the Aquinnah Wampanoag Tribe of Martha’s Vineyard have vowed to sue to stop Cape Wind from being built, saying it would interfere with sacred rituals and desecrate tribal burial sites.
Woah, Nellie -- nobody said anything about desecrating burial sites! We all remember the outcome last time that happened:
All I have to say is, the minute anybody spots Craig T. Nelson ... run!
So what, you may be asking, is exactly the news value of a piano being dropped off a tall building onto another piano? To which I respond that you, sir, would not last very long in the mainstream media, except perhaps at PBS, where piano droppings are limited to Victor Borge specials.
No, as anyone in the biz can tell you, something heavy crashing into something else heavy is always news. It's true of sumo wrestlers, and it's also true of pianos. Especially when the pianos are being dropped by students paying $38,000 a year to go to MIT. They have a lot of free time to drop stuff over there -- at those prices shouldn't they be working on cold fusion or something?
Regardless, here's the video:
Hmmm ... I was expecting something a little more, well, explosive for my $38,000. Watch and learn, you MIT pansies:
PHOENIX (CAP) - A new law that requires police to question people about their immigration status if they suspect they are in the country illegally should help curb the flow of illegal Irish, Polish and Swedish immigrants through U.S. borders, say supporters.
Maricopa County Sheriff Joe Arpaio, whose tough crackdowns have made him a hero in the anti-illegal immigration community, pointed out that the new law would not unfairly target Mexicans, as some of charged.
"The law gives police authority to question anyone they think is here illegally, not just people of Hispanic origin," he pointed out. "So if someone is very pale and blond, that might be cause to investigate as to whether they're here illegally from Sweden.
"Or they might be an albino, in which case they might be here illegally from Albania," he pointed out.
Besides skin shade and hair color, Arpaio said police will be trained to spot other characteristics that may denote whether someone might be in Arizona illegally. For instance:
Funny accent;
Sandals;
Eating croissants and/or strudel;
Spearing pigeons and putting them into a pillowcase for possible later consumption;
Saying "coffee" like "cawfee."
"That could mean they're from New York," said Arpaio. "I hate New Yorkers." He noted, however, that since the law doesn't technically make it illegal for New Yorkers to be in Arizona, officers would just "give them a hard time."
While the new law has drawn protests around the state and the country, it has some high-profile supporters, such as Arizona Gov. Jan Brewer, who signed the bill last week. Brewer said she doesn't like the term "racial profiling," preferring instead to describe the newly proscribed methods as "pro-American policing," or PAP.
"Just look around - these people could be from anywhere," said Gov. Brewer, gesturing to the angry crowds gathered in protest around the Arizona Capitol. "There are a lot of very swarthy people there, and I think police need the freedom to question them as to their status."
When pointed out that the people could just be tanned as a result of living in Arizona, Brewer responded, "Can I see your papers, please?"
Can someone tell me how Massachusetts' favorite most-wanted fugitive Whitey Bulger manages to travel all over the world without anyone batting an eye? Now he's in Canada, supposedly. If you or I tried to get into Canada, we'd probably wind up in a holding tank for having fruit in the car.
You would think somebody would have spotted Bulger and turned him in by now. I know I look for him whenever I'm traveling -- usually what I do is when I see an elderly man in sunglasses or a trenchcoat, I take his picture immediately. If the guy doesn't smash my camera and hit me in the side of the head with a crowbar, I figure it wasn't Whitey.
Anyway, I propose that it's time we just stop looking for the guy and redirect those efforts to looking for terrorists and people who are liable to do some actual damage. How many problems is an 80-year-old mobster actually going to cause? And if he really is living in Canada, that's punishment enough.
It’s school vacation week, and in my house that can only mean one thing: People go away and leave their dogs with us. Typically they do this in the middle of the night, hoping we won’t notice.
Ha ha! I kid our friends whose dogs are at this very moment lying in a pile on my couch, waiting for someone to come along and scratch their bellies. Actually, my wife loves taking them in to share space with our own three dogs, because as she says, once you have two dogs you might as well have 10. The most we’ve ever had at one time is six, but I’m more than willing to take her word for it.
Anyway, as people whose house is often full of dogs, we like to keep up with the latest dog-related news stories, and I can’t think of a more significant doggie development than the one this week out of Cambridge, Mass.: the plan to convert dog waste into electricity in public parks. Anyone who doesn’t think this is the best thing to come out of Cambridge since Matt Damon and Ben Affleck clearly hasn’t had to trek to a garbage can carrying the least fashionable handbag ever.
The plan is the brainchild of a Cambridge artist, because that’s the way things work in Cambridge: Even the artists are coming up with alternative energy sources. This is in direct contrast to the artists in places like, say, Rockport, Mass., who are still coming up primarily with paintings of shacks. (These provide very little energy unless you happen to burn them afterward. You know who you are.)
The artist, Matthew Mazzotta, says the energy would come via a special “methane digester,” which is apparently some sort of mechanical device and not your elderly uncle who supplements every meal with extra portions of broccoli and sauerkraut. According to the Cambridge Chronicle, the dog poop could run a popcorn machine or a tea-maker, “with free samples for park-goers.” Er … When they say “free samples,” I’m going to assume they mean the tea and popcorn.
And as much as you might prefer your tea not be associated with anything that comes out a dog (either end), you have to admit it’s a revolutionary idea. “As long as people are walking dogs and throwing away dog poo, a flame can burn,” says Mazzotta on his website, I believe quoting FDR.
But I’m presuming that the effort doesn’t have to end with popcorn poppers and park lampposts. Given the amount of raw material we have here in America (by which I mean, my front lawn), we might eventually turn this into some serious energy — not to mention the program’s contributions to world peace. Turn all that waste into electricity and suddenly all those annoying people whining about dog mess will be skipping hand in hand with the dog lovers down the sidewalk, not even looking down.
It sounds fanciful, I know, but it isn’t all just pie in the sky — according to Mazzotta’s website, this is already happening. For instance, one of his links is labeled, “This family turns pony manure into gas for their kitchen stove,” which I’m sure would be very informative if I could bring myself to click on it.
Regardless, the project has my support, and I’ll do my best to promote it. Even if it hasn’t turned up yet in an Al Gore documentary (suggested title: “An Inconvenient Woof!”), you can take it from someone who knows — this is an idea that smells like success.
By which I mean, my front lawn.
This column appeared originally in North Shore Sunday. Peter Chianca is a managing editor for GateHouse Media New England. Follow him on Twitter at twitter.com/pchianca. To receive At Large by e-mail, write to info@chianca-at-large.com, with the subject line “SUBSCRIBE.”
LOS ANGELES (CAP) - Divorce court records show that CNN host Larry King's marriage to his seventh wife, Shawn Southwick, finally fell apart when Southwick discovered that King thought he'd actually been married to Three's Company star Suzanne Somers.
"My client was horrified to discover that her husband had mistaken her for Ms. Somers," said attorney Sol Rothstein, who successfully represented Mel Gibson's former wife Robyn in their divorce proceedings. "He blamed his researchers, but we suspect he just wasn't paying attention."
Southwick says she got suspicious when, over breakfast one day, "Larry looked up from his blintzes and asked me, So, what was John Ritter really like? I told him I'd never met John Ritter.
"Then he said, Here's a question from the Twitter: Suzanne, I'm 45 and overweight, would biodenticals work for me? I said, 'Larry, my name is Shawn!' And he just said, Really? Well waddaya know about that? We'll be right back! Then he asked for more blintzes."
Records indicate that at various other times during their 13-year marriage, King, 76, may have also mistaken Southwick for Sharon Stone, Kathy Griffin, Liza Minnelli and Bill Maher.
"Often during sex," noted Rothstein.
King would also occasionally tell Southwick that she reminded him of his wife. When she would respond that she in fact was his wife, King would allegedly say, "Seattle, you're on with Nancy Sinatra!" and disappear from the room.
Rumors have linked King to an extramarital relationship with Southwick's sister, Shannon Engemann, but both Engemann and King have denied the affair.
"He may have schtupped the sister once or twice, but only because his researchers told him that she was his wife," said King's attorney, Alan Schwartzbaum, who recently won a $3.1 million settlement for John Mayer's penis. "Have you seen the two of them? I know I can't tell them apart."
I recently discovered the only thing more humiliating than throwing your back out while candlepin bowling; namely, throwing your back out while taking off your candlepin bowling shoes. I managed to do this despite the fact that billions of people manage to remove shoes every day without serious injury, many of them more than once. Just ask Mr. Rogers.
The day was going so well, too — I had even bowled a personal best, coming close to breaking 100 thanks to resourceful use of the bumpers. Then I leaned over to take off the shoes and I felt it — the muscles in my lower back giving way like failing cantilevers on an uninspected bridge.
I tried to put a good face on it for my kids and our companions until I managed to hobble back out to the car, but it wasn’t easy, given that my upper body was suddenly at a 90 degree angle from my legs — I looked like I’d just stopped in to bowl a quick string on the way to my bell tower.
Unfortunately, situations like these aren’t especially unusual for me; a couple times a year my back decides I’m getting a little too cocky and decides to show me who’s boss. And never when I’m doing something manly like moving furniture or lifting floor joists into place — although in my defense, who knew I should have made it a point to always bend my knees when I sneezed?
Given that, you’d think I’d be prepared for the occasional bout with back pain. Yet somehow I’ve never gotten around to buying a cold pack or a heating pad — and trust me, there are few things more pathetic than a grown man sprawled on the couch with frozen vegetables down the back of his pants. (Most doctors recommend 20 minutes corn, 20 minutes peas.)
However, I won’t deny that there are certain mitigating factors that make back problems more bearable. For instance:
1.) The drugs. These are a miracle of modern science, but I should point out that I in no way advocate the regular use of painkillers. Unless you have access to the really good stuff, like the ones Matthew Perry had.
2.) Guilt-free TV watching. For instance, when my back went out this last time I finally got to sit and watch “Superman Returns,” which I thought was actually pretty good. Of course, given the drugs I had taken, who knows if it was actually the movie I thought it was; I’m lucky I didn’t wind up wandering the streets like Margot Kidder.
3.) No one can blame you for not washing dishes. Not that I wash many dishes to begin with, but the chance of it is always hanging out there for the able bodied.
As for the negatives, let’s see … ah yes, that would be the excruciating pain.
This last bout was bad enough to land me at the chiropractor, where he determined that my body was so out of whack that one leg was actually measuring quite a bit shorter than the other one. This might have come as a shock had he not presented it to me so professionally; for instance, not once did he call me “stumpy.” But the great thing about going to the chiropractor is that one minute you have terrible back pain, and he works his magic, and voila! — it’s gone just a few short months later.
But what’s behind my bouts with backaches? Part of it is genetic — catch us at the right moment and some of my family reunions look like a convention of Tim Conway impersonators.
But a lack of regular back exercise probably doesn’t help, along with an expanding midsection that might be throwing off my alignment, like one of those action figures that you can’t get to stand up because its head is too big. So it may be time for a change: A better diet, and maybe some regular exercises to strengthen my back muscles.
I’ll get on those as soon as I finish giving up sneezing.
Peter Chianca is a managing editor for GateHouse Media New England. He’s away from his desk right now; this column is from 2007. Follow him on Twitter at twitter.com/pchianca.
SOUTH AFRICA (CAP) - The discovery of two apparently 1.9 million-year-old fossils by paleontologists in South Africa is just the latest example of God's creativity in placing skeletons of creatures that didn't exist into the Earth's crust when he created it about 6,000 years ago, say creationists.
"It really is something," said Bob Henderson of the Institute for Creation Research. "This is how much care God took in creating the Earth - He included an amazing diversity of fossils representing ancient humans and other creatures that never existed, just to keep us guessing.
"Oh, that wacky deity," said Henderson.
Creationists, who believe the planet's species were each designed specifically by God rather than having developed gradually over millions of years through evolution, have different explanations as to the existence of the fossil record.
"The most obvious explanation is that He placed them there to test our faith, and that those who believe them to be evidence that humans descended from apes will burn in eternal hellfire," said Henderson. "But it also shows how He had a sense of humor. I mean have you seen some of those old skeletons? They're hilarious."
Asked about scientists' assertions that the newly discovered skeletons represent a link between apes and early humans, Henderson just shook his head and said, "Scientists! We haven't agreed with them on anything since the last Ice Age movie came out."
Asked about the fossils' discovery while at a Tea Party rally in Sheboygan, Wisc., Republican luminary Sarah Palin pooh-poohed scientists' attempt to insist that they "you know, mean something."
"Hey scientists - how's that naturally-selectiony thing workin' out for ya?" she asked. "Personally I don't know how anyone can believe in the theory that human beings like myself could have come from a creature with such a small brain," she added, apparently without irony.
Whenever people ask me why I don’t quit journalism, with newspapers going under left and right and so much upheaval in the industry, I always have the same response: “What, and leave show business?”
But the real reason is, I feel like what we’re doing here in journalism — especially at the local level — is actually pretty important. Unfortunately, people may not realize this until we go out of business and the only person left to cover their towns is Perez Hilton, whose reports will consist of a picture of the school committee chairman with “SHUT UP!” written over him with a white marker.
So you can imagine my concern at the latest disturbing development in the world of journalism: The Singularity Hub blog is reporting that there are several plans afoot to introduce actual, working robot journalists. I have some concerns about this idea, not the least of which is that it’s just another group of robots that could wind up subjugating mankind. The only reason the human journalists haven’t done that yet is because we don’t have lasers.
The blog offers several examples of how the robot journalist will gather information; for example, it “detects changes in its surroundings, decides if they are relevant, and then takes pictures with its on-board camera.” This is a definitive advantage over human reporters, who primarily tend to detect changes to the selection in the newsroom vending machine. (“Flash! The Combos have been replaced by Cheez-Its,” etc.)
On the other hand, the robot also “uses Internet searches to further round out its understanding.” So it doesn’t have anything over us in the relying-on-Wikipedia department.
Personally, I don’t see how anyone can call something that doesn’t complain, procrastinate or stay up ’til all hours consuming unhealthy food a real journalist. But the blog points out that since the robot gathers primary source information from people in the field, “that’s real journalism,” as unsophisticated as it may be. (Which is actually exactly what I tell all the people who call me to complain about our selectmen coverage. This means you, Mrs. Henderson!)
But generic sports stories are one thing — there are plenty of other types of journalism that you’d be hard pressed to get a robot to execute. Take for instance a humor column, which relies not on rote formulas but on the creativity and ingenuity of the writer. (Note to self: Insert joke about SPAM here.)
I also wonder if a robot could do a heart-tugging feature story or an in-depth news analysis. I guess the more ways we have to efficiently collect information the better, but I still say human journalists are better equipped to get to the essence of the story by choosing just the right words. Or, in the case of TV journalists, looking smoking hot and not like Jabba the Hutt’s smelter droid.
So I propose a deal: Robots can collect all the information they want, but we humans should still be the ones to ask the really tough questions and write the big stories, so the robots can actually benefit from our skills.
And in exchange, we’ll take lasers.
This column appeared originally in North Shore Sunday. Peter Chianca is a managing editor for GateHouse Media New England. Follow him on Twitter at twitter.com/pchianca. To receive At Large by e-mail, write to info@chianca-at-large.com, with the subject line “SUBSCRIBE.”
VATICAN CITY (CAP) - In the latest development in the ongoing Catholic Church child abuse scandal, Pope Benedict XVI is blaming his failure to stop pedophile priests on a hearing problem that has plagued him for decades, or at least since the first abuse reports surfaced.
"For years, I thought my aides were telling me that people had come forward to say the priests were amusing children in their parishes," said Benedict in a prepared statement released by the Vatican. "With laughter being one of God's greatest gifts to mankind, you can understand why I didn't think this would be a problem."
Benedict claims he reassigned the accused priests, rather than remove them from a position where they would come into contact with children, because he was trying to "spread the laughter."
"Now I understand why the Cardinals would give me such funny looks when I would react with such delight every time the topic of children being amused came up," added the Pope, noting it was similar to the times when he would tell them long, wistful stories about his time spent in the Hitler Youth, only to find out recently that it wasn't actually the Bavaria chapter of the Boys & Girls Club.
Some are skeptical about the Pope's claims, though, pointing out that many of the accusations came in lengthy written reports outlining the potential scope of the abuse claims. But Benedict says most of his memos and reports were read to him by an aide who had a speech impediment, which compounded his hearing problem.
"For years when we were discussing keeping abortion under control, I thought the topic was portion control," explained the Pope. "Which frankly I could stand to have a little more of, the way I love that apfelstrudel."
For April Fool's Day over at Popdose, I compiled a list of films featuring, what else, fools -- both the comic and the tragic. (Sarah Palin's not on there because she hasn't made a movie, although I'm sure that's coming.) It was tough to narrow down, but here's what I came up with:
Leo Getz (Joe Pesci) in Lethal Weapon 2
Dr. Einstein (Peter Lorre) in Arsenic and Old Lace
Fredo Corleone (John Cazale) in The Godfather, Part II
Igor (Marty Feldman) in Young Frankenstein
Carl Spackler (Bill Murray) in Caddyshack
And I already thought of someone I forgot: Stephen Stucker as Johnny in Airplane! "Look, there's a sale at Penny's!"
When I was a kid, our family went to the movies a lot. But I don’t think my parents did this to foster a love of the cinema, or else they wouldn’t have taken us t a Disney double feature of “Song of the South” (one of the few films to achieve the elusive combination of being both racist and boring) and “Condorman” (you can Google it).
No, they did it because movies were something you could do with a family of five and still have enough money left to buy groceries and electricity. This was back when you could go to a family film with less than $50 in your pocket — today you could only do that if you left the kids in the car, which is frowned upon. Still, until recently you could still get away with not spending a fortune if you took certain steps, such as going to an early matinee, and sneaking in the candy in plastic baggies taped to your torso.
But keeping costs down is about to get harder, with the news that admission for 3-D movies has just gone up 20 percent. And I’m sure this will soon apply to all movies, since apparently if you don’t make your movie in 3-D these days, James Cameron will come to your house and kick you in the knees.
In fact, the Wall Street Journal just cited a theater I’ve been to often — the AMC in Danvers, Mass. — as the poster child for the price increases, with 3-D tickets shooting up to $17.50. (That would be for one.) So if we do the math, we’re talking a good $70 ($70!) just for admission, and an easy $30-plus for popcorn, nachos and a Coke that strains the sides of the cup holder like Kevin Smith in a coach seat.
It’s tempting to dismiss Ebert as some Luddite traditionalist, but that’s hard to argue about a guy who’s on Twitter 24 hours a day. Besides, I know that if I had paid $17.50 to see “G-Force,” which is basically a 90-minute demonstration (in three dimensions) of how gerbils have bowel problems just like the rest of us, I would have returned my 3-D glasses stained with my own tears, had I not hidden them in my coat so I could wear them to the beach this summer.
It wouldn’t be as depressing if movies weren’t just one of many formerly economical pastimes soon to be out of reach of people with incomes still in the five figures. Like bowling, where they now charge you by the hour so they can factor in the 10 minutes it takes you to get the knots out of your shoelaces, or video arcades, where you have to spend $20 just to bribe the carnies not to kidnap you.
Still, not every theater has gone over to the dark side — I just took my son to Cinema 95 in Salisbury, Mass., which appears to be owned by actual humans, and two tickets for “Diary of a Wimpy Kid” came to just $13. It was in glorious 2-D, which means none of the boogers flew out of the screen at me. I’d have been willing to pay extra for that.
But if eventually all movies are 3-D and charge so much for the privilege that we only get to go once or twice a year, I guess it will be time to find something else to do, like stand in Best Buy and watch whatever’s showing on the display models. Or maybe just joining Netflix for $8.99 and watching whatever they send us at home.
At least there we can keep the gerbils at a safe distance.
This column appeared originally in North Shore Sunday. Peter Chianca is a managing editor for GateHouse Media New England. Follow him on Twitter at twitter.com/pchianca. To receive At Large by e-mail, write to info@chianca-at-large.com, with the subject line “SUBSCRIBE.”
LOS ANGELES (CAP) - In a bizarre accident on live television, tween pop idol Justin Bieber was knocked into a puddle of "slime" at the Nickelodeon Kids' Choice Awards and almost drowned.
"We knew the puddle was there, but we didn't think it was deep enough to endanger anyone," said telecast producer Frank Haliman. But apparently producers didn't take into account Bieber, who is "just a little over four feet tall and very delicate," noted Haliman.
Bieber had just finished performing on the show when an errant stream of "slime" - the network's signature green goo, actually made of oil, house paint and recycled lard - grazed the singer, pushing his little body into the goo pool.
"I feel bad we didn't better consider the Bieber factor," said Haliman, noting a similar incident happened during the dress rehearsal, when a particularly strong gust from the building's HVAC system "blew little Bieber face-first into the kid who plays Gibby on iCarly."
Bieber's near-drowning was one of two serious slime-related incidents on the show - singer Katy Perry opened a box expecting to find the name of an award winner, and instead was hit square in the face by a torrent of slime shot out of an industrial strength fire hose.
"It seemed like a funny idea in the writer's meeting," said Haliman, admitting however that the Nickelodeon writers "do so much blow it's hard to go by anything they come up with."
Perry had to have more than a pint of slime removed from her nasal cavity and, according to her agent, Mitch Rosemont, has had difficulty singing in key since the incident. "Even more so than usual, I mean," said Rosemont.
So how did I become one of those parents? You know, the kind who are always telling their kids about how tough times were back when we were young, when we only had five TV channels, and there were no DVRs, and the phones were all tethered to the wall by odd springy cables. If anyone who lived through the Depression ever hears me talking like that, you have my permission to walk over and whack me with your cane.
Still, that’s just what I find myself doing when my 10-year-old daughter insists that she wants — wait, scratch that — she needs a cell phone, despite the fact that, as far as I can tell, there’s no one she needs to talk to; she certainly doesn’t have any interest in acknowledging the existence of our house phone. (Of course, neither do I — whatever those callers want from me, it’s probably nothing good.)
No, apparently what she needs to have is the (presumably God-given) ability to text, along with various other “smartphone” extras. This is a fairly foreign concept to me, since until my company issued me a Blackberry as part of its plan to bind me to my job like Gulliver was tied down to the beach by the Lilliputians, I had a phone that basically just made phone calls. Apparently it could text, but I never used that function because, one, my thumbs were too large, and two, you couldn’t text for a pizza, which comprised my central use for the device.
In fact, when I showed the phone to my daughter and my 13-year-old nephew, they looked at it sort of like people in the ’70s must have looked at pet rocks. (Yes kids, that’s how tough my childhood was — our pets were rocks!) It’s a nice little novelty, they seemed to be thinking, but it doesn’t really DO anything.
But her request has me more than a little torn. On the one hand, I managed to survive my childhood with no means of outside communication whatsoever, save the occasional pay phone. On the other hand, giving my daughter a cell phone would be a good start to my plan for her as a teenager, which is to have her wired for sound like an FBI stoolie.
And it’s not like we’re not already on our way to being a technologically enhanced family. My son, who’s 8, somehow sweet-talked his way into getting a “PSP” this Christmas, which is a device that can house music, videos, photos and videogames featuring actual tiny little humans. After seeing only the top of my son’s head for days, we had to come up with some PSP ground rules, such as no more playing when it became apparent that he’d entered a trance-like state, and no bringing it in the kitchen so he wouldn’t wind up covering it with ketchup. (We had to institute that last rule for pretty much everything.)
As for my daughter, we’ve reached a temporary compromise that if she goes out with a friend and needs to keep in touch, she can take my old pet rock phone. And if she goes over the texting limit she has to pay the charges out of the allowance we give our kids as a thank-you for the short breaks when we’re not acting as their butler.
Sure, it’s no “smartphone,” but it does the job, and its inadequacy will give her something she’ll eventually be able to complain to her kids about. If she can learn how to communicate in their strange telepathic squeaks, that is.
This column appeared originally in West of Boston Life Magazine and North Shore Sunday. Peter Chianca is a managing editor for GateHouse Media New England. Follow him on Twitter at twitter.com/pchianca. To receive At Large by e-mail, write to info@chianca-at-large.com, with the subject line “SUBSCRIBE.”
For the latest evidence that teenagers have yet to fully evolve, you need look no further than East Bridgewater, Mass., where a couple took a Paris vacation and left their 16-year-old son behind. After all, what could possibly go wrong?
The East Bridgewater couple found blood and urine smeared on the floors and walls, basketball-sized holes in the walls, an antique sofa had been set on fire, marble counter tops were cracked, flour was stuffed down the toilets, doors were pulled down and windows were smashed.
That's not to mention the jewelry, electronics, golf clubs and other items allegedly stolen from the house, some of which teens were reportedly trying to fence at the high school this week. Whatever happened to guests just sending a nice thank-you card?
Meanwhile, some teens who were there say the $45,000 in massive damage and theft is all being taken out of proportion:
Peterson said he was invited over to the house for a party, but didn’t do anything except punch a hole in the ceiling.
And I'm sure if the invitation had said anything about not punching holes in the ceiling, he would have limited his activity to the jewelry theft and furniture burning.
On the plus side, unlike Risky Business, there have been no reports of area hookers using the house as a brothel. Yet.
HOLLYWOOD (CAP) - News that Oscar-winning actress Sandra Bullock's husband Jesse James cheated on her with tattoo model and amateur porn star Michelle "Bombshell" McGee threatens to damage the reputation of trashy tattooed women everywhere, according to some prominent skanks.
"It's bullcrap! Now everywhere I go, people look at me like I'm some kind of nasty pig," said Tawny Chmielewski, 32, an exotic dancer from Bayone, N.J., who has tattoos of snakes, skulls and bleeding hearts covering both arms and legs and flames shooting up the side of her neck. "Even more than usual, I mean."
Chmielewski's concerns are well grounded, according to a new study out of the Pew Research Center.
"The approval rating for trashy skanks has dropped six points in the past week," noted Dr. Francis Spitznagel, who conducted a flash poll on the subject at the Pew Center. "It went from 8 percent all the way down to 2."
But Chmielewski and others like her say that just because McGee carried on an affair with the husband of America's sweetheart and took $30,000 from In Touch Weekly to dish about it doesn't mean that all women with full-body tattoos and breast implants are similarly skanky.
"I know I don't shack up with just anybody," said Chmielewski. "He has to be hot and well-endowed, and have some bitchin' tats." Asked if she would sleep with a married man, she replied, "No effin way! Well ... it kind of depends on his tats."
Fred Shambertz, editor of In Touch Weekly, also defended McGee, noting that James had indicated to the tattoo model the he and Bullock were separated. "Michelle is the victim in all this," said Shambertz. "The skanky, fake-breasted tattooed victim who got paid $30,000 to talk about her sex life."
You may recall how a few years back, some people were all in a tizzy about the introduction into Massachusetts of Alcohol Without Liquor (AWOL) machines, which were devices that turn alcohol into a mist so you can inhale it. I guess it turns out they didn't have much to worry about, since AWOL bars, featuring roomfuls of hipster drinkers with airplane oxygen masks strapped over their mouths, didn't exactly take the country by storm. Apparently, people felt like it wasn't liquor if you didn't feel logy and bloated afterwards.
Well, I think some folks from Harvard have figured out how to make the whole breathable products business work: They've invented "Le Whif," which allows you to breathe such addictive pleasures as chocolate and coffee. Which, let's face it, is what we'd all have been doing with chocolate and coffee for years if it weren't for the risk of choking and drowning.
According to a press release, Le Whif – made in collaboration with ArtScience Labs – uses particle engineering to form chocolate and coffee in microscopic sizes that are small enough to become airborne, though too large to enter the lungs.
Supposedly it will quench your desires without the calories, says inventor and Harvard professor David Edwards, who noted, “This has Cambridge written all over it." Presumably alluding to the fact that if you're spotted in places like Lawrence or Brockton, Mass. inhaling your coffee through a lipstick tube, a beat-down will ensue.
It’s common knowledge that marriage is hard work. Although not my marriage, which involves round-the-clock bliss and paradise with my lovely wife, who reads this column.
But most marriages are tough, mainly because of all the things they don’t tell you before you tie the knot. Things like the fact that your spouse may be a slob, or be more interested in the football playoffs than taking care of the kids, or lack even the most basic vestiges of common sense. OK, it’s mostly the women who don’t get told things.
And apparently there’s at least one other thing nobody warns spouses about: smells. You would think that by the time you marry somebody you’d have figured out what the person smells like, but this fails to take into account that when you first date someone, you’re on your best behavior, smell-wise. Besides, smells might be one of those things that change as you get older, like hair sprouting from places you’d previously have expected only in a David Cronenberg movie. (You know who you are.)
Which brings me to Francis Bibbo, a science teacher and inventor of the “Better Marriage Blanket.” According to a press release from Bibbo, the blanket provides ammunition against “romanticus interruptus,” which I suppose would be anything that might ruin a romantic moment between husband and wife. The best way to ensure this doesn’t happen would be to take the blanket, wrap the husband in it, and throw him in the river.
But that’s probably going too far. Turns out Bibbo is speaking specifically of protecting spouses from untoward emissions that might make things unpleasant in the boudoir. He based his blanket on military chemical suits, going on the theory that members of the military very rarely complain about how each other smell when they’re under nuclear, biological or chemical attack.
But let’s face it, the Better Marriage Blanket is a daring thing for somebody to invent, because it’s hard not to assume that Bibbo’s own marriage is a regular smell factory. One pictures Mrs. Bibbo making tearful, frantic calls to her mother, a clothespin affixed tightly to her nose, as Mr. Bibbo wanders through the house emitting wavy lines that are actually visible to infrared cameras.
But it turns out that Bibbo got the idea not from his own marriage but from his trips deer hunting, when he apparently wore a military chemical suit to keep the deer from smelling him. I imagine he cut quite a profile standing there in the woods with his bow and arrow, wearing a full-body activated carbon fabric suit designed to trap in all his smells. You could spot him by looking for the deer, squirrels and other hunters backing away verrrry slooowly.
So Bibbo eventually got the idea to turn the suit into a blanket, to be used in places where people are likely to emit odors they’d rather other people didn’t smell, like TV rooms, hospitals, planes, cruise ships, dorms and senior citizen homes, where they should probably affix them to every bare surface, like smell-absorbing wallpaper. He even foresees its use in the space shuttle, where astronauts can finally stop blaming the solid rocket boosters.
But it’s primarily for couples who want to keep their smells to themselves. “If you are going to need a blanket to stay warm, you may as well have one that absorbs odors,” Bibbo points out. No word on whether the blanket will also muffle the potential noise pollution that could accompany smells and thus spoil a romantic moment, or whether you have to deal with that the old-fashioned way, by playing “Freebird” at a high volume.
No matter what, though, I’m sure Mr. Bibbo is right that his invention will improve marriages. In fact, I recommend that every husband run right out and buy the anti-smell blanket for his wife, and present it to her on their next anniversary. And let’s hope that activated carbon fabric floats long enough for the Coast Guard to pluck him out of the river.
This column appeared originally in North Shore Sunday. Peter Chianca is a managing editor for GateHouse Media New England. Follow him on Twitter at twitter.com/pchianca. To receive At Large by e-mail, write to info@chianca-at-large.com, with the subject line “SUBSCRIBE.”
LOS ANGELES (CAP) - The new music video for the song Telephone, featuring Lady Gaga and Beyonce as scantily dressed, highly sexualized lesbian mass murderers, has watchdog groups and religious organizations apologizing for their criticisms of Madonna during the 1980s and '90s.
"I sort of can't believe now that I got all over Madonna's case for Dress You Up (in 1985)," said Tipper Gore, co-founder of the Parents Music Resource Center, after watching the Telephone video in slack-jawed amazement. "Say what you want about Madonna, she never crawled up the bars of a prison cell to show off her barely pixilated lady parts."
"And believe me, we watched all Madonna's videos very closely," added husband Al Gore, who said Madonna's output seemed "very quaint" compared to Telephone, which he said might even be contributing to the global luke warming epidemic. "The way this 'Ga-Ga' person and Beyonce ate that sticky bun made me feel, frankly, dirty."
The video also shows Gaga kissing a fellow inmate in the women's prison yard, gyrating down jailhouse corridors with other prisoners in bras and thong underwear, and poisoning an entire diner full of people for no apparent reason.
"And don't forget the parts where her lithe, pale body is covered by nothing but a few strands of police tape," noted Al Gore, causing Tipper to glare at him icily.
Even the Vatican, which slammed Madonna's 1989 Like A Prayer video and banned her from Vatican City after she released Erotica in 1992, is backtracking.
"Madonna is welcome back here any time," insisted Pope Benedict XVI, who watched the Telephone video on Saturday and immediately issued an order to have Lady Gaga burned at the stake, before aides reminded him the church doesn't do that any more.
Welcome to your new, improved credit card bill. As you may have heard, recently passed regulations dictate that we change certain business practices. But even though our previous methods may have been designed to wring every possible cent out of our card members, we want to make sure you know that our top priority has always been you, the interest-paying customer.
With that in mind, following is a governmentally required summary of some of the changes you’d notice if it were possible for a regular human to decipher a credit card agreement:
1) From now on, rate increases will apply only to new charges. It used to be when we decided to raise our interest rates for some arbitrary reason — you sent your payment 10 minutes late, we didn’t like those unicorns on your checks, we got bored, etc. — those new rates would apply to the balances you’d been accruing since before those online gambling sites you love so much even existed. Now they will apply only to charges accrued after the increase, which, fortunately for us, will still be tremendous.
2) We can no longer raise rates in the first year of a new account. This means at 12:01 on the first day of your second year, expect your rate to pop like the cork out of a champagne bottle. (We drink a lot of champagne here.)
3) Annual fees can now be no more than 25 percent of your total credit line. In a related development, congratulations! We’ve raised your credit line by 150 percent. Information about fees relative to that increase will come in a separate letter that we’re hoping you throw away without actually opening.
4) The payment due date will now be the same each month, so you’ll know exactly when your payment is late, as opposed to before when you just had a general, nagging feeling of lateness that you would try to put out of your mind. The amount by which we raise your rate when you’re late will still be chosen completely at random, though.
5) People under 21 will now need their parents’ permission before they can get a credit card. We highly recommend parents do give permission, however, so that their teens will have a credit card in case of emergency, such as a big sale at Abercrombie & Fitch. Ha ha! Just a little credit card humor there. We know there’s never a big sale at Abercrombie & Fitch.
(Please note: This company in no way endorses teens sneaking their mother’s credit card from her purse and using that card to make extensive, debt-inducing online or in-store purchases. Although that is something a teen reading this could, technically, do, and it could be weeks or even months before anybody caught on. We’re just saying.)
6) We are now required by law to tell you that if you pay only the minimum balance each month, no matter how much you owe, you will be paying us back for the rest of your life. Then, after you’re gone, we will transfer that debt to your next of kin, and so on, until our dying sun expands to hundreds of times its normal size, engulfing all the planets that surround it. Whereas if you pay an extra $2.75 each month, your balance will be paid off in about a year and a half. We were sort of counting on nobody ever figuring that out.
In conclusion, we want to assure you that, despite what you may have heard about us spending the last six months looking for loopholes, we’re here to provide the best service possible to our customers. We want to make sure that you use your credit cards in the manner they were intended: as a convenient method for making reasonable purchases, not as a vehicle to live beyond your means and accrue possibly debilitating personal debt.
Also, they made us say that.
This column appeared originally in North Shore Sunday. Peter Chianca is a managing editor for GateHouse Media New England. Follow him on Twitter at twitter.com/pchianca. To receive At Large by e-mail, write to info@chianca-at-large.com, with the subject line “SUBSCRIBE.”
HOLLYWOOD (CAP) - Sarah Killen, the woman Conan O'Brien chose at random to follow on Twitter last week, will write and produce an NBC sitcom based on her Twitter feed starting this fall.
The show, tentatively titled Lovely Button after Killen's Twitter username (@LovelyButton), will feature Danica McKellar, best known as Winnie Cooper from The Wonder Years, as a woman who tweets about peanut butter and planning her wedding.
"We think Sarah's 33 tweets will make a fascinating basis for a sitcom," said NBC CEO Jeff Zucker. "She's clearly got what 18- to 49-year-old men are looking for, whatever that is."
The sitcom was originally planned to revolve around the changes in the main character's life after Conan O'Brien follows her on Twitter, but NBC had to scrap that angle after being threatened by O'Brien's attorneys.
"Apparently there's still some resentment there," admitted Zucker, who removed O'Brien from The Tonight Show after seven months to replace him with former host Jay Leno. "We sent (NBC executive) Dick Ebersol to his house to try to talk to him, but Max Weinberg came out and hit him with a timpani."
Some analysts say NBC is scrambling to compete with rival CBS, which recently announced a sitcom starring William Shatner based on the Twitter feed S--t My Dad Says, tentatively titled Oh, The Things My Dad Says!
My family and I went to an actual, real-life bookstore the other night. I like to do this every so often to support the publishing industry, given that the vast majority of my books are purchased used on eBay. You’d be amazed at how little you can pay for a book if you’re not one of those people distracted by unidentifiable stains.
Anyway, during this visit I was surprised to find an entire wall devoted to nothing but comic books. They called them “graphic novels,” but I know a comic book when I see one — I can tell by the little boxes, and the drawings of people with bodies attainable only through the unlicensed use of gamma rays.
I can’t say exactly how I feel about comic books being given such prominence in legitimate bookstores, though. I know when I was a kid, finding your favorite comics was a challenge. They were such an afterthought that most drugstores were more likely to have those magazines on the top shelf wrapped in brown paper than they were to have comic books. (I never found out what was in those magazines, but I suspect it was articles about adult topics, like escrow.)
As I recall, it took me years to find a regular supplier: I finally discovered that Kurtz’s Stationery in my little hometown of Carmel, N.Y. had one whole shelf devoted to comics, nestled in the back of the store among the tobacco products. I use the term “back” loosely, since a grown adult could walk the entire length of the store in about four strides; if you were 10 and sprinting breathlessly toward the comics, it probably took about six.
The width of the single aisle would have been a tight squeeze for most modern air travelers — there was barely enough room to fit a single customer and the ever-present owner (Mr. Kurtz, I presume), an ancient man in giant horn-rimmed glasses and flannel hunting shirt, perched on a stool behind the penny candy bin. The store’s been closed for years, but somehow I picture him still there, silently waiting for someone to just try to pocket a Tootsie Roll without him noticing.
It was an interesting sensation being in Kurtz’s. What it lacked in space it easily made up for in utility — not an inch of wall space was unused, its shelves stacked to the ceiling with magazines and newspapers of all sizes and stripes. On a particularly dim day, walking in gave you a distinct feeling of having burrowed into a newsstand from the bottom up.
The store was on the route to the deli where my father bought bagels every Sunday, so we worked out a system; he would drop me off on his way, and I’d have approximately 12 minutes to flip through every new title and make my purchase before he pulled up on his way back. That probably sounds like plenty of time, but not when you only have $2 and have to narrow it down to five comics when there are at least 10 you want.
So who got left out? The Fantastic Four? Ghost Rider? Daredevil? Certainly not Spider-Man, and he probably had three or four different titles devoted to him at that point. (I could name them all, but I don’t want the bullies from my elementary school to track me down and give me wedgies. With Facebook I think that’s possible.)
Which brings me to my concerns over my bookstore visit. Back then, I think part of the joy of reading comics was that the effort you put into finding them made you feel like you were part of an exclusive club. A club full of slightly chubby, nearsighted boys obsessed about whether it would be cooler to have super strength or be able to walk through walls, but a club nonetheless.
Finding them in a major bookstore, so easily accessible, seems to take some of the fun out of it. Sure, I enjoyed reading them for their entertainment and educational value — for instance, from “Savage Sword of Conan” I learned that there was a period in our history where women wore nothing but metal bikinis — but I think my fondest memories are of tracking the comics down, whether lucked upon at random or during my regular Sunday run. I even thought about buying a few the other night, just for old time’s sake.
Not in the bookstore, of course. I’m sure I could find them much cheaper on eBay.
This column appeared originally in North Shore Sunday. Peter Chianca is a managing editor for GateHouse Media New England. Follow him on Twitter at twitter.com/pchianca. To receive At Large by e-mail, write to info@chianca-at-large.com, with the subject line “SUBSCRIBE.”
WASHINGTON (CAP) - The U.S. government has joined with other nations from around the globe to state that the world is not coming to an end, despite the unprecedented weather and earthquake incidents of recent months.
"The idea that the world is ending is, frankly, uh ... ludicrous," said President Barack Obama, speaking from Air Force One, surrounded by his family and closest advisors. "Everything is going along, uh, just the way it usually does."
Obama's staff was on the presidential plane for a "change of pace," said the president, and definitely not because they were heading to a secret rendezvous area to board a fleet of high-tech "arks."
"No matter what you read on TMZ," he added.
Governments of other nations corroborated Obama's assertions. In England, Ben Bradshaw, Secretary of State for Culture, Media and Sport, addressed reporters to confirm that people had nothing to worry about.
"Pish-posh, everything's fine," said Bradshaw, speaking from the office of Prime Minister Gordon Brown at 10 Downing St. in London. "World coming to an end - nonsense." He then poured himself a glass of water, spilling most of it onto the prime minister's desk as his hands shook uncontrollably.
Asked where the prime minister was, and the royal family, and the 20-plus other secretaries and ministers in Brown's cabinet, Bradshaw responded, "What's that? Oh, out for a stroll, I suppose. Not headed to a secret rendezvous area, I can tell you that."
He then closed his eyes for about 30 seconds and muttered, "Blasted short straw," before laying his head down on the prime minister's soggy desk.
My latest list of the seven most important things on the Internet at this very moment:
