Archive for April, 2008

GARDENA, Calif. — When Bob McPherson saw an ad for a topless dancer job on Craigslist, the unemployed and large-breasted McPherson went and applied for it. But when the club, The Hungry Tiger, told him that they were only hiring women (without even seeing how well he danced), he decided to sue the club for discrimination.  Well, McPherson won his case and he is now shaking his stuff every night. “I was wrong to deny him employment,” says Bobby Rales, the club owner. “After we retrofitted the poles to accommodate his weight, things have been going surprisingly well. He really is a good dancer.” McPherson is now taking in five hundred a night and he’s getting offers to star in man-boob movies.  One patron concludes, “He’s got a nice rack and as long as you don’t look at his face or down south and you’ve had a lot to drink then it’s just like watching a woman. Just make sure though you don’t try stuffing a one down his g-string…that ruins it.”



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NORTHRIDGE, California — Do you know where your bazizzy is?

Dr. Jerome Marks was fired from Northridge Hospital last month because administrators and other doctors were not pleased with the way he was communicating with patients; he is now counter-suing for wrongful termination.

Apparently, freedom of speech is something that we value, but only conditionally.

Marks is a proctologist who performs rap and hip-hop music when he’s not in the O.R.  Last year he began do raps for his patients to help explain their conditions and treatments. Problems arose, however, when one of the patients, 83-year-old Darma Feingold, a major hospital donor, asked a nurse what Dr. Marks meant when he told her, “You’ve got some shizzy in your hizzy.”

The nurse, an ex-lover of Marks’ lover (and his former backup singer), encouraged Feingold to file a formal complaint and reported the incident to hospital officials, after which they decided to terminate Marks’ employment.

“Patients don’t understand medical jargon, but people really get rap,” says Marks. “If I tell you that you have a squamous carcinoma in your rectum, you have no idea what I’m talking about. But if I tell you that there’s a ‘dawizzy in your bazizzy’ then you know what’s up with that.”

Marks has put together a proctology-themed rap album (“It’s My Duty to Heal Your Booty”) and will be touring in support of it while waiting for his case to go to court.

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California faces a budget deficit of astronomical proportions this year and the legislature (D) and Gov. Schwarzenegger (R) have been struggling with ways to close the chasm. Schools and prisons consume most of the states dollars so cutting teachers and releasing prisoners early are two things that both parties agree must happen. But many Californians worry about the fate of the state if prisoners are allowed to hit the streets early and our schools are shorted teachers.

Assemblyman Don Bosco (I), however, has come up with a plan that will not only save our schools, but will also give freed prisoners something to do with their time: Bosco wants to send our most violent and corrupt citizens back to school. Bosco’s R.R.R. program (Raping, Rioting, and Arithmetic) will train prisoners to become teachers.

“Most of those being released have been rehabilitated and are eager to give back to society,” says Bosco. “We have to cut teachers, but we shouldn’t cut basically decent convicts out of a way back to a normal life.”

Many parent and teacher groups are naturally concerned about having convicts in control of the classroom, but one education expert thinks that the whole thing makes perfect sense. “Many kids have behavior issues and have little respect for traditional teachers,” says Dr. Betsy Rosman. “If you have an ex-con telling a kid to sit his butt down and shut up then he’s going to listen. Schools are like prisons anyway so this won’t be much of a transition.”

The governor and the legislature will be reviewing the plan in the weeks ahead and a vote will be taken before the May revise. In the meantime, it might not be a bad idea to teach your child how to handle a corn dog stick during a riot.

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Birdy, Birdy in the Sky

Look out below

PASADENA, Ca. – Birds like Joe Mayberry, but he doesn’t necessarily like them. Well, it is actually difficult to say for sure that they like him, but if going to the bathroom on a human is a sign of affection in the bird world then they definitely like Joe. For the past year, every time Joe goes outside he is immediately swarmed by birds and they do their business all over him. It’s a pretty messy situation.

Mayberry initially thought the whole thing was some kind of a fluke – perhaps some new flock of birds had moved into his neighborhood or the birds were ill– but when it happened time and time again no matter where he was at, Joe realized he or the birds had some kind of a problem. “This has ruined my life,” said Mayberry. “I’ve lost my girlfriend, my job, and now I am agoraphobic. It’s like having a terminal illness.”

Joe contacted L.A. Animal Control about the issue a few months ago, and after they stopped laughing, they told him that there was nothing they could do about it. “One of them told me to wear something that was easy to rinse off and they started giggling and hung up,” said the distraught Mayberry.

Scientists at UCLA have taken some interest Joe’s problem, but they are at a loss to explain the oddity. “We tried several things, including having him dress up as a bird, but nothing has worked thus far,” said Dr. Greg Mendel, a professor of zoology. “I came up with this idea to cover him with cow crap, but he didn’t want to do it. And now I’m stuck with a pile of manure in my office.”

They say, however, that every cloud has a silver lining, and every bird crap covered man is…well,…a bird crap covered man. But Joe has managed to make some lemonade out of his lemony predicament: he is now being hired to stand in parks and be shat on. “They use me when they are cleaning statues. They want to clean up Mt. Rushmore and they offered me some good money, so it looks like I’m going to be spending my summer in South Dakota.”

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El Cuerpo Muerto

by Sylvia Weiser and Isadore Wendel

EAST HO – The calendar on the wall reads “Noviembre,” and the first day is circled in red: no matter what month it is, it’s always the Day of the Dead at El Cuerpo Muerto, a muy folklorico East Hollywood cantina. Artists, writers, showbiz hipsters, and the occasional serial killer have gone blissfully toes-up on the generous drinks for decades, and the buzz on its dining room is universally, “to die for,” so we were both excited to death to give the place a read and write-up.
Reservations? Lo siento, senores. El C.M. doesn’t offer them, and so we found ourselves at the back of a line that snaked into the adjacent oncology clinic. The night was warm, the crowd was friendly, and we actually forgot that we were waiting as we laughed at the antics of a young man dressed as the devil, and his pet monkey Jesus, performing for our amusement (and spare change). When we finally squeezed through the arched wooden doors, the same young man (or his [d]evil twin?) greeted us like old friends, seized our collars, and escorted us with much bwahaha laughter to our cold stone benches over an open pit. With a flourish, Juan de Messer – our prankster host’s name – pressed a button and a coffin rose, opening up with a shudder into a spacious table. Awesome. Then the food came. Doble awesome.

Enchilada La Llorena, stuffed with “crying cheese” – “si, it make noise like baby crying when you cut in with the fork, senor” – commemorates the legend of a distraught young mother – the victim, they say, of a man’s treachery – who drowned her two young children in a river and then, regretting her deed, goes about the world howling her loss and attempting to steal living kids. The cheese does emit a kind of curdling shriek when cut; depending on your taste (and on, could be, the amount of Tequila in your system), you might find the sound funny. We did. Huesos Viejos – “old bones” – takes the popular beef dish ropa vieja one step farther: strands of slow-cooked beef are shaped into skeletal limbs (leg or arm depending on your preference) and rolled around seasoned beef marrow. This dish will bring out your inner canibal – as will its neighbor on the menu, the pieza del resistancia entitled cabeza del jovencito or “young monkey’s head.” Our initial response was “no f’ing way” when we learned the name of the dish, but we all know that alcohol overrules taste and decency, so we dug in and never looked back and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. The cabeza turned out to be so delicious – an entrancing mix of textures from crunchy to squishy, eyes as succulent and smooth as quail eggs, brains like pink noodles, and the contents of the nose redolent of more vegetables than a can of V8 – that we concluded monkeys were born to serve man, and that to serve man monkey was, in fact, an act of kindness.

It is in its charnel house of desserts, though, that El Cuerpo Muerto shows inspiration that seems not of this world. Forget your usual candy skeletons and cowboy-hatted ghouls; the bakers at this place keep vampire hours, and it shows. Religious depictions: a sugar-cookie St. Sebastian, shot full of chocolate arrows, dripping strawberry icing from jelly-filled wounds. Great moments in Mexican history: the Alamo in dulce del leche, scattered pecans coated with coconut or cinnamon representing Davy Crockett’s and Santana’s men respectively. And we ate three of the prominent-politicians-skewered series: Vicente Fox upon a sugary pitchfork, raspberry blood and a licorice mustache; Cardenas as a severed head with churro eyeglasses; and George Bush as a vanilla sheep, with curling candy hair and bright caramel eyes. By the time we signaled Juan de Messer to lower our table into the pit and bring us our check, we’d tasted death a dozen ways – and loved them all. If Los Angeles is hell, El Cuerpo Muerto is a kind of heaven. Gracias a Dios.

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