Owner of hummingbird feeders ruler of all she surveys

“Sup of my plenitude, my loyal vassals. Bow before me and know awe.”

TIPTONVILLE, TENN. – Carol Devins, a 58-year-old schoolteacher and grandmother of six who hangs hummingbird feeders in her backyard every summer, is the unquestioned ruler of all she surveys, the benevolent sustainer of many animal subjects and the creator-destroyer of worlds.

“Don’t be frightened, my winged liege – I am merely refilling thine beloved honey chalice,” Devins said to a hummingbird in a nearby tree.

“I am not some lumbering cockatrice,” she reassured. “It is I, who manifested all you see around you. I, who ward off the pillaging wasps, those wicked interlopers in my kingdom, with a deft spray of Raid.

“I do it all for you, made all this for you,” she said, motioning with a grandiose arm wave to the 12-by-15-foot terrace in her backyard where six hummingbird feeders hang, “so that you may live and love, that your progeny may outnumber the stars and return here to worship me.”

Devins has watched with growing megalomania as the first hummingbird visited her test feeder three years ago, leading to this year’s yield of 12 birds – each named and profiled by color, visiting habits and quickness in pinpointing the single feeder containing trace amounts of cyanide, which exists to remind the birds that utopia comes with a price.

“I giveth, and I taketh away,” Devins said with a crooked grin during a recent refill.

Neighbors, who often see Devins admiring her own handiwork, are unaware her handiwork includes the aphid infestations in their flower gardens, which she masterminded in order to eliminate competition for the birds’ affections.

“The other day I asked Grandma for cereal,” said her 5-year-old grandson, Noah Devins, “and she just filled a bowl with honey. I wish Mom and Dad would come back from trucking soon. I’m hungry.”


NPR reporter won’t stop gaying everything up with his NPR voice

“I don’t know what grossed me out more – that I could hear his saliva, or his semicolons,” said a Pizza Hut employee after taking Scott Buckley’s order.

ST. LOUIS, MO. – Whether ordering drive-thru, playing fantasy football or grounding his eldest stepson, National Public Radio correspondent Scott Buckley won’t stop gaying everything up with his NPR voice, say people who cringe at him. Every aspect of his daily life has been gussied up in NPRspeak, a style of enunciation apparently required of all freelancers for the network. “He didn’t always used to sound like Ira Glass’s house boy,” said confused wife Judy Buckley. “He’s from Kansas City, where people are hardworking, down-to-earth, heartland folk – y’know, straight.” The shift occurred when Buckley landed his first NPR assignment, a 20-minute segment about boll weevils on “All Things Considered.” Soon his self-consciously urbane speaking style – characterized by upspeak, sibilance and a faggy air of learned wonder – was distracting his children from the content of the bedtime stories he reads to them. “When he talks, I can hear the inside of his cheek brushing up against his teeth,” said mechanic Ruben Arnold, who withstood a phonetic explosion of lilies last week when Buckley asked for an oil change. “It’s the sound of someone thinking he’s better than me.”

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Olympic heroes inspire American people to walk to fridge more stridently

Danell Leyva, who won a bronze medal on Wednesday, practicing the same abdominal flexion that you do when you’ve spilled white-cheddar popcorn all over yourself in bed and you’re sitting up to clean it.

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA – The awe-inspiring feats of the 2012 U.S. Olympic team in London have inspired the American people to perform their own acts of physical excellence, such as walking more stridently to the fridge during commercial breaks, chewing their buffalo wings more rigorously and maintaining better form while squatting on the toilet.

“Gabby Douglas taught me that, through discipline and unshakable determination, you can sculpt your body into a wonderful instrument,” said Regina Waldman, a 29-year-old schoolteacher from Decatur, Ohio. “And that, if you need to shake out a clingy turd, you’ve got to maintain a good lumbar curve.”

As of day 9, the U.S. team led China 37-34 in the total medal count and tied them for gold medals at 18, proving we are still the most dynamic country in the world if you go by .00016847 percent of the population who have dedicated their lives to being dynamic and have been funded by the other 99.9998315 percent of us.

Gym membership across the country has enjoyed a late-summer spike, and gym attendance is still a thing that happens. Forty-year-old sales executive Mark Jacquez said he did 10 grandma push-ups “just like that” after watching Michael Phelps win his 19th Olympic medal, breaking the all-time record.

“Today I was looking at my body in the mirror, which I usually avoid, and I realized that my left pec casts a shadow, but my right one doesn’t,” he said. “I’m going to work on getting them even. Titty shadow for none or both, by god.”

If he fails, Jacquez says he will take comfort in the fact that he tried his best, just like an Olympian would. He will also purchase brighter light bulbs for his bathroom.

Music: ‘Reiki Whale Song’ is ‘Face Down Ass Up’ of whale recordings

In 2000, washed-up comedian Andrew Dice Clay tried resuscitating his career by releasing “Face Down Ass Up,” a CD of live standup that became a benchmark in verbal smut.

When I was subjected to its lowbrow horrors on a road trip with my ex-convict uncle, I thought no live recording would ever again stoop to its depths of racism, misogyny, homophobia and raunch.

That was before I heard “Reiki Whale Song.”

The reissue of this 2001 disc of whale recordings — a staple in massage, sleep therapy and tantric sleep massage therapy circles — is laced with enough dick-and-pussy jokes to make Andrew Dice Clay sound like Delilah telling one of her listeners to be-strong-you’ll-get-through-this.

Five minutes of “Reiki” and a whalesong-fluent listener is forced to ask: Where in the grimiest basins of the Pacific Ocean did producer Kamal find such ignorant, probably drunk, humpback whales?

And why hasn’t the RIAA slapped a parental advisory sticker on this filth?

“EEEEEEEWWWWWWWUUuuuuuuuUUWWWWWEEEEE,” bellows one belligerent whale in opening track “Whale Dreaming,” a pot shot at Jews that sets the tone for the rest of the album.

“OOOOOOOOOoooooooAAAAWIIIIEEEeee,” says the same calf later in the track, and it makes you want to stand up from your bar stool to whistle and click back, “Do you suckle from your mother’s yard-long teat with that mouth?”

Because so little of this recording can be quoted in a family blog, the challenge for a reviewer is to convey its extreme ugliness in paraphrased translations.

The track “Song of the Deep” is not about the ocean’s geographic profundity but about the relative blowjob prowess of baleen and toothed whales.

“Out of the Blue” examines the contraceptive uses of AIDS-infected octopus carcasses and how they – surprise, surprise – aren’t the best idea.

On “Travellers of the Sea,” one humpback makes liberal use of three slow clicks – a whale phoneme that bundles the meanings and shock value of the N-word, the C-word, both F-words and “starfish.”

Imagine if every instance that Clay ever spat “hickory dickory dock, your mom was sucking my cock” were converted into bullets – then loaded into a slo-mo machine gun aimed at every enlightened heart. That’s the equivalent.

Even if you’re the ideological lovechild of Adolf Hitler and Lisa Lampanelli, and you have no qualms about this disc’s content, you still have to fault its style and form. These “songs” have no sense of beauty, logic or meter.

In “Enchanted Worlds,” a five-minute line reading ends with a plaintive “UUUEE?” Another five minutes later, the next line concludes, ““UUUEE?” That would be a cool rhyme … if it weren’t the exact same word. Whale or human, you can’t rhyme a word with itself. That is not a rhyme. Everyone knows this.

But the most insidious thing about this recording is its infiltration of human culture.

Today, CD copies of “Face Down Ass Up” are rare. They double as trailer park ashtrays. Their jewel cases prop up truckstop tables with short legs.

But “Reiki Whale Song” is everywhere. Blissfully ignorant parents dub it over their birthing videos. Yuppies fold themselves into lotuses to it. It has inspired 10,000 cat portraits.

Ten thousand cat portraits, people. Do you want the chakra of your cat to be tainted by the cetacean equivalent of “Rita’s Ass Tunnel”?

After the 2006 reissue, which beefed up the ambient synthesizer and harp accompaniment, “Reiki” became an even more seductive cultural menace. Who knows what yet another reissue might bring — maybe more flute?

Whatever it is, it must be stopped. And we can do that through the power of our dollars. If you’re going to purchase a whale recording, try something like “Whales: Zen Serenity” or “Rapture of the Deep: Whale Recordings.”

Those are mostly ventriloquist fart jokes.

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Woman’s life saved by transcendent power of indifference

Above: Ramona Rose, recovering in ICU, gazes at the mystically floating photo of Luis Martinez (inset), still not giving even half a shit.

BOSTON – In what witnesses describe as a miracle of affect, a woman on the brink of death at Bethel Israel Medical Center was saved by the transcendent power of a janitor’s indifference as he emptied the trashcan in her room Saturday.

Dr. Stephen Charlier, who led the medical team working to revive Ramona Rose, a 57-year-old heart attack victim, said the patient had been legally dead for two minutes when the alleged miracle happened.

“She was flatlining, no pulse, and we’d tried everything,” Charlier said. “I had almost lost hope when I heard the rustling of trash bags behind me. So I turned to yell ‘Not now, Luis!’ and when I looked back down, she was wide awake. Her vitals had stabilized. It’s like he just … ignored her back to life.”

Dr. Charlier logged no metaphysical shenanigans in the medical report. But the patient reported an out-of-body experience, saying her spirit watched from above as a jet of apathy casually sprang from the custodian and cupped her in its nonchalant, life-bringing embrace.

“It’s like this colorless aura of not-giving-a-shit rose out of him, enveloped my soul and sort of … roped it back into my body,” Rose said while in recovery. “Next thing I know I’m in my bed, and my savior had gone to refill the bathroom toilet paper rolls.”

Ramona’s sister, Jacqueline Rose, said the event reaffirmed her family’s belief that feelings and belief have tactile influence over the physical world, especially the belief in belief, which is the most precious belief of all, after the belief that feelings are the bedrock of belief. Feelings.

“It’s like the end of that Nicholas Sparks novel where the main characters don’t know or care about each other for like 25 years, and then one of them indirectly saves the others’ life with an act of disinterest, and you think they’re going to meet but then they don’t,” Jacqueline said. “I wonder why that book didn’t sell as well as the others.”

The custodian, Luis Martinez, could not be reached for comment as he was busy disinfecting bedpans.

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Guy at party condemns violence in Juarez while smoking cartel-supplied weed


EL PASO, TEXAS – A guy at a house party in Sunset Heights ranted Saturday night about the drug violence in Mexico while baked out of his mind on weed grown and smuggled into the U.S. by the Sinaloa drug cartel.

“Over 10,000 people have been killed in Juarez since 2008 — someone has to do something,” said Jesus Galvan, 22, taking a hit off a joint packed with chronic smuggled into the U.S. by a cartel-commissioned truck driver one week ago.

“These are our neighbors, our cousins, our raza,” he said, passing the cartel-brand product to his actual cousin, a third-generation U.S. citizen who speaks no Spanish.

As his cousin toked from the joint, which came from a dime bag bought for $20 ($12.50 of which will filter back up the supply chain to crime lord El Chapo Guzmán), Galvan recounted an intensely personal anecdote.

“My friend’s coworker’s cleaning lady’s son-in-law was kidnapped by a gang of Zetas and held for ransom,” Galvan said. “His family gave the gang the $3,500 they asked for, and they still killed him. The rest of America doesn’t understand, but when you know someone who works with someone who employs someone who is related to someone who died, man, it hits close to home.”

Galvan, whose marijuana purchases have cumulatively funneled $42.73 worth of bribes to public officials so far this year, blamed corruption on both sides of the border for making the problem untenable.

“As Americans we aren’t excused of responsibility. Evil triumphs when good men do nothing,” he said, jumping to the other side of the smoking circle so he can get a second hit before his turn. “We should throw another benefit show.”

With his listeners nodding at this stirring call to action, Galvan got up to go snort cartel-supplied cocaine in the bathroom.

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Bad texter actually an ancient wraith of insecurity made flesh


“My subtextual silence will feed your darkest imaginings.”

YOUR CITY – That special friend of yours who never texts back is actually Zurg’zon, an ancient daemon of self-doubt incarnated in the age of cell-phone technology to torment weak mortals. “Sry was away from my phone what’s up?” reads one insidious text in your inbox – in fact a resentment spell – six hours after your lunch invite ceased being relevant. With stunted conversations and strategic silences, your special friend ­– a vessel for an unholy being of incalculable age – connives to chip away at your self-worth and win your soul for its lord and master, Satan. The confidence-murdering spirit laughs wickedly when it sends you vague or ill-timed texts, forcing you to re-text and come off like a totally smothering bitch. Zurg’zon, who has manifested 2,983 times since the dawn of man, grows in power with each technological age; past incarnations include a carrier pigeon that just did not give a fuck and a Civil War soldier who accidentally on purpose mailed his wife a love letter meant for his mistress and then, in the ultimate blow-off, died in battle.

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Spontaneous human combustion leads to not-so-spontaneous human mop-up

Above: the right leg of Vicki Perez, who clearly didn’t care who she was inconveniencing when she burst into flame

DENVER – The spontaneous combustion of an area waitress – which resulted in a tower of blue flame that consumed her head, torso and arms in 30 brief but horrifying seconds – took considerably more time to clean up, says the busboy charged with the task.

“Man, that shit took forever to scrub out of the rug,” said 18-year-old Nathan Cortez, the employee at Alma’s Diner saddled with cleanup duties after Vicki Perez mysteriously burst into flame in front of screaming customers and coworkers on Saturday.

The aftermath was long, laborious and not spontaneous at all, Cortez said.

“First the cops came to get eyewitness accounts and evidence, blah blah blah,” he said. “That took like three hours. Can you believe that? It was two skanky legs, three fingers and an earring. BAG THAT SHIT ALREADY.”

But the real nitty-gritty began after authorities left.

“She chose to get torchy at the entrance to the kitchen, so we ended up having to mop the tile and scrub the carpet,” Cortez said. “She couldn’t wait two more steps? I mean, fuck.”

The seven-hour cleanup involved sweeping up soot, removing human grease-stains and disinfecting bits of intact flair for reuse. The ceiling fan directly above Perez will have to be replaced after its exposure to high-temperature flames capable of incinerating 95 pounds of inconsiderate human flesh.

Cortez, for one, said he was shaken by the experience.

“I’ll never forget the sight of Vicki turning to us with blue flames shooting out of her mouth and screaming, ‘Help me! Help me, I’m dying!’” he said. “But I’ll also never forget how no one helped me reapply Fabuloso after the first layer dried.”

Denver police, who have been up to their asses in paperwork over this thing, released a statement classifying the case as unsolved.

“The type of person who would inconvenience so many with so much needless bullshit is the type of person we don’t want around anyway,” it concluded.

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Email auto-responders engage in sassy exchange

AUSTIN – Two email auto-responders, neither set to limit daily responses, engaged in a sassy exchange of emails that flooded their vacationing owners’ inboxes with barely concealed spite.

Nonprofit founder Veronica Solis unwittingly set off the 11-day war of bot-enabled words when she emailed graphic designer Carl Parman at 5:03 p.m. Friday, right before she left for vacation.

Parman, on break since Thursday, had already turned on his notoriously passive-aggressive auto-responder. It over-asserted:

“Sorry, I will be on vacation from Friday, June 1, to Sunday, June 10. If your email is urgent, please contact my partner Jerome Silman. Otherwise I will reply upon my return.”

Solis’ auto-responder, which she activated in the interim, answered in the cold third person – not even bothering with the illusion of personability. It performed a virtual hairflip subject-lined “ON VACATION.”

“Veronica will be away from the office starting Monday, June 4, and back on Monday, June 11. She’ll get back to you as soon as possible when she returns.”

In an insincere pledge of helpfulness it added mockingly:

“If the matter is an emergency, you may call her cell phone.”

Parman’s auto-responder, bitchily, was having none of it. If it had lips, it would have mouthed its next words slowly so Solis’ auto-responder’s stupid ears might understand.

“Sorry, I will be on vacation from Friday, June 1, to Sunday, June 10. If your email is urgent, please contact my partner Jerome Silman. Otherwise I will reply upon my return.”

And if Solis’ auto-responder had ears, its gigantic hoop earrings would have been dangling furiously as it intoned with icy standoffishness:

“Veronica will be away from the office starting Monday, June 4, and back on Monday, June 11. She’ll get back to you as soon as possible when she returns. If the matter is an emergency, you may call her cell phone.”

Solis’ auto-responder should be glad that Parman’s auto-responder doesn’t own a purse because if she did, ooh girl, she would have been zipping it up to hit a bitch. The correspondence continued to spiral into ever harsher reiterations of sublimated oh-no-you-di’ints.

Solis and Parman each returned to their offices on Monday, June 11, to discover their inboxes flooded with 6,930 auto-responses – each one a seething escalation in a cold war of preprogrammed politesse.

Both have since changed their auto-response settings to “limit responses to once daily.”

Thumb wrestler secretly gets off on sport’s homoerotic undertones

In this NSFW screenshot from one of Gibson’s home videos, two thumb wrestlers’ hands lock up at the beginning of a match – or as Gibson calls it, “foreplay.”

SPRINGDALE, ARK. –  Accountant Jeffrey Gibson frequently challenges friends, co-workers and fellow elevator occupants to thumb wrestle him while secretly getting off on the homoerotic thrill of one male thumb dominating another male thumb in a writhing battle of epic masculinity.

“I like thumb wrestling, but Jeff likes it a bit too much if you ask me,” said Doug Callahan, Gibson’s co-worker. “Don’t ever find yourself standing in a line with him. He will challenge you, and if he wins, he’ll pin you longer than three seconds – much, much longer.”

Gibson says his interest in the sport is innocent, but friends suspect there’s more at play when a never-married 43-year-old man shows obsessive zeal for a pastime otherwise known as what to do when tic-tac-toe gets boring on road trips circa 1980.

The sport, which originated in the bathhouse waiting lines of Ancient Greece, has long been unfairly associated with homosexuality. Hasty conclusions are drawn when two throbbing, turgid digits slam against one another in a skin-on-skin struggle that can only end with one man’s submission to another.

But in Gibson’s case, sources may be on to something.

“Once, Jeff tried getting me to take my shirt off because we were supposedly working up a sweat,” said Ronald Dubow, Jeffrey’s cousin. “When I refused, he accused me of being gay.”

Gibson shrugs off the suspicions, saying he simply appreciates the test of strength whether he ends up on top or on bottom. He balked when asked why he never challenges women.

“That’s disgusting,” he said. “I would never do that to a lady.”

With his web browser set to private, Gibson watches cosplay threesomes at 3 a.m. before double- and triple-checking to make sure nothing shows up on his search history. He lives alone.