Disappointed lead scientist Steve Squyres has confirmed today that the once extremely active Mars rovers “Spirit” and “Opportunity” now only contact Earth when they need money.
"Although we shouldn’t really be shocked by it, we did expect better from the two of them, ya know?" lamented a notably dejected Squyres, who added: "I don’t want to compare them to such derelicts as Viking, but they’re on a slippery slope."
The two Rovers, costing an initial $820 million, have since requested four so-called “mission extensions”, each averaging $104 million. While administrators at NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena, CA were happy to foot the bill while valuable science was coming in, their patience has been tested since the early 2010’s, when transmissions from the golf cart sized rovers became limited to “Need another $120 mil, btw”, or “Hope everything’s alright, need more $$$’s LOL”.
The lack of valuable data transmitted from the rovers over the past few years has led many at NASA to loose patience while the twin rovers reportedly “find themselves”. NASA’s chief scientist, Dr. Waleed Abdalati has stated “While we don’t like to pick favorites within the space program, Spirit and Opportunity should really look to Curiosity as an example, and re-examine what they’re doing with they’re lives.”
Although the prodigal rovers were unavailable for comment, Spirit’s self-proclaimed partner Erica stated “Spirit’s not going to talk to you unless you tell NASA to stop controlling him like he’s some sort of child”. After which, she asked our reporters if they had a cigarette, and then slammed the door on their faces.
God, the creator of the Universe and chief executive of the afterlife expressed his dismay today at the continued reclusiveness of famous astronaut into the nether-world. Citing repeated no-shows at premier “heavenly sphere” social events, and Armstrong’s refusal to conduct interviews, the Lord suggested that He’s running out of patience with the first man to set foot on the moon.
"I don’t know, it’s just a little surprising to me that Howard Hughes, and J.D. Salinger are regular social butterflies up here, but Neil still just keeps to himself" said God of the famed commander of Apollo 11. "I mean, he even signed the guest book with an ‘X’, in case we try to sell his autograph. Who does that?"
The Ruler of the Known world added “Look, I created the moon for Pete’s sake, I know he was there, I’m not going to ask him a bunch of stupid questions about a cover up or what have you, but you just have certain expectations of a guy to relax once he’s shuffled off the mortal coil, you know?”
Armstrong’s Soviet counterpart Yuri Gagarin added to God’s concerned. “I am very disappointed with Neil. As a Soviet, I didn’t even believe in God or heaven, but I still reach out to people and socialize. I wish Buzz [Aldrin] were here, at least he knew how to have a good time.”
At press time, Mr. Armstrong had declined to comment.
It’s hard out there for a walrus like myself. Sometimes I feel that it takes everything I have not to have a complete nervous breakdown, or totally blow-up on a complete stranger because they cut me in line at a super market, and were simply the straw that broke camel’s back, you know? Whenever I start to feel completely overwhelmed by the pressures of modern life, I remind myself that I need to muster up the courage to face my adversity with all the grace this 3,500 lb Sea Mammal should, and that I need to let go, and let God.
But that doesn’t always stop me from letting the little things get to me. I’m recently divorced, and while I’m trying slowly to piece together some sort of romantic life, it is difficult not to get discouraged. The dating scene in Los Angeles (my home town) is not only not walrus-friendly, it’s downright aggressively anti-walrus. Just last week I went on a date with a lady my co-worker, Phil, set me up with, and it turned into a complete disaster. I had been really excited for this date, because it was the first time I had been out with a woman since my wife left me for the store manager of a FedEx Kinko’s. I got my haircut, bought a new outfit from Men’s Warehouse, hell I even got my tusks whitened. So I pick this girl up, and we went to Bubba Gump’s down at Santa Monica pier, and everything seemed to be going smoothly, you know? We were making more than just small talk, and only a few of the tables stared at a human woman sitting down to a late-lunch with a massive amphibian. We paid the bill, left a decent tip (though the waitress was a bit on the cold side, but I get that a lot) and decided to take a nice, romantic walk down the pier.
That’s when things started to head south. I notice that there’s a coast guard helicopter hovering directly overhead. No big deal, right? Wrong. It turns someone at the restaurant had called animal control, reporting a wild walrus run-amok in Santa Monica. Now, I don’t know if this was just a case of mistaken identity, or if someone is really just that cruel and intolerant, but the next thing I know, I’m being tackled to the ground by the bunch of over-rated zoo keepers they call animal control, stripped naked, drugged, and dragged back into the ocean. It was mortifying for me, and my date, and what’s worse is that someone took a picture of me mid-arrest, and posted it on facebook, so now all my co-workers know.
I was so ashamed.
Obviously I’ve felt a little vulnerable after that incident, and it’s going to take me a while before I’m ready to go out again. I still live in hope that somewhere out there, there’s a girl for me, who will love me for who I am, and see past the chronic dampness, the extra weight, and the constant and sometime overwhelming fish odor. Until then, well, I’ve just got to keep on getting out of bed every morning, and hope that tomorrow will be a better day.
Thanks for reading.
-Bernie the Walrus
National holidays usually find us drunk, belligerent, and in no mood to take shit from trash-talking, 50 cent juice drinking, punk motherfuckers who should know better. Here, for your pleasure and potential use, are a series of “last words that piece of shit is ever gonna hear” for each Holiday.
New Year’s Day: If you don’t shut your goddamn mouth, I’m going to grind you up and use you as fertilizer for the flowers I’m going to put on next year’s Pasadena Small Business Owner’s Association float for the Rose Parade.
Martin Luther King Day: I have a dream that one day, you’ll wise up and shut your goddamn mouth. I have a dream that clowns like you will one day vanish from the face of the earth. I have a dream that every five-dollar dipshit like yourself will take a step the fuck back, because they realize… that I’m their worst god-damn nightmare.
Groundhog Day: (for use when threatening a groundhog, or similar good-for-nuthin’ rodent motherfuckers) You better get your buck-toothed ass back down in that hole, or the last shadow you’re going to see will be of me standing behind you with this here shotgun. (provided you have a shotgun, if not substitute with any heavy gardening equipment)
Valentine’s Day: You better watch yourself little man, or the only Valentine’s Day gift your wife is gonna get next year will be the complimentary Russel Stovers they pass out at the Widows Support Group meeting.
President’s Day: Some dumbass: “What are you lookin’ at?” You: “I cannot tell a lie, I’m lookin’ at some dumbass who just spoke his last words.”
Mardi Gras: I’m going to give your sad, sorry looking ass the benefit of the doubt and assume that when you threw those silly fucking beads in my direction you meant it as a gesture of respect, because that’s what people do in whatever rotten shithole of a country you’re from as a way of acknowledging how excruciatingly painful the last sorry seconds of their lives would be if they pulled some sort of stunt with a bad- motherfucker like me. Because I will guarantee you, son, that the only flash you’ll see from me will come from the barrel of my .45 pointed right at your sorry-ass kneecap.
St. Patrick’s Day: You must not be Irish my friend, because your luck just ran the fuck out.
April Fool’s Day: You: You know, I’m in a good mood, in fact, I feel great. So, since I don’t want to spoil this fine, lovely temperament, I’m not going break both your legs and throw you in the river, I’m just going to let you go. Some Clown: R-R-Really? You: Yeah, now you just go on your way, and we’ll forget this ever happened. (“Some Clown” walks quickly towards the door only to notice that it’s locked from the outside) You: April Fools, motherfucker.
OR: Fool my once? Shame on you. Fool me twice? You’s a dead motherfucka
Good Friday: Today ain’t your day my friend, because I’m a Roman Centurian re-enactor and the guy who plays Jesus just called in sick.
Easter Sunday: One more peep out of you, cocksucker, and I’ll leave your body in the park for the kids to find on their Easter Egg hunt.
Tax Day: It’s tax day, motherfucker, and I’ve come to collect.
Earth Day: D’you know how I like to celebrate Earth Day? By putting dipshits like you in the ground. And then planting trees.
Cinco De Mayo: Feliz Cinco de DIE-O, cabron.
Mother’s Day: I’m going to hit you so hard your mother’s uterus is gonna feel it.
Memorial Day: You had better remember one thing little man, if you ever forget who you’re talking to again, I’m going to burn my name onto your forehead with a blowtorch, ya hear?
Flag Day: (Ideal if you have an irreverent neighbor named “Mr. Tanner”) ——— The way I see it, Mr. Tanner, is you’ve got three choices: 1.) Properly illuminate the Stars and Stripes that you have erected in your front yard 2.) Remove and properly store Old Glory at night and during inclement weather, or 3.) I turn you into a scar-spangled Tanner.
Father’s Day: When I’m done with you, those incoherent scribble drawings you made as a kid that your Daddy still hangs up in his office are going to look like self-portraits.
The Fourth of July: When in the Course of human events it becomes necessary for guys like me to dissolve the sinewy bands which have connected some motherfucker like yourself with his balls and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God entitle them to cut off some-clown-who-don’t-know-how-to-ackrite’s balls, a decent respect to how fucking serious I am right now requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation of some motherfucker like you and his balls.
I hold these truths to be self-evident: That you’re a clown who messed with the wrong man, that you gonna die tonight, and that before you do I’m gonna cut your balls off with a rusty pair of rusty school scissors.
Ramadan: I hoped you liked yesterday’s dinner enough for it to be your last meal, because your ass is dead before sundown.
Labor Day: I’ve got some good news and some bad news for ya, Carl. The good news is that Labor Day is a Federal Holiday, and that the hulking barbarian motherfuckers I would normally employ to go ape-shit on your ass with a pair of garden shears and a couple of tube socks stuffed with spent D-Cell batteries are currently enjoying the long weekend with their families. The bad news, Carl, is that I’m gonna have to do this myself… and I hate working on my day off.
Columbus Day: Look at me again with that miserable piss-ant face of yours and you will discover a new world of pain.
Halloween: Some clown: “Hey asshole, you’re not in costume” You: “Yes I am” Some clown: “What are you then?” You: “Well, normally I dress like an axe-murderer, but tonight I’m dressed as a guy who doesn’t spend his weekends hacking apart clowns like you, and their clown-shoes-wearing families, and piling their bodies up into a mass grave out in the woods… but, then, it’s only a costume.”
Election Day: It looks like you’ve got two options: Vote, or Die. And I used up our last ballots mopping up the remains of the last fool who walked in here without proof of valid registration in this district.
Veterans Day: The next time you see me, Charlie, you will be tied to a chair in the basement of our local VFW and you’re gonna meet some friends of mine… and my friends don’t take too kindly to guys named Charlie, Charlie.
Thanksgiving: Every year, the President of the United States officially pardons a turkey. But I ain’t no President of the United States, and you don’t look like no god-damned turkey to me.
Christmas time: If you keep talking to me like you’re some sort of bad-ass then people are going to wake up tomorrow and wonder why there’s a fucking corpse sprayed all over the nativity scene outside city hall.
Christmas time: Away in a manger, no crib for a bed, they found you sprawled out ass naked and dead.
Christmas time (if Santa): If your sorry ass neglects to leave milk and cookies by the fireplace again, I’m going to take you back to my “workshop” and the reindeer are gonna finish what the dogs don’t do.
Chanukkah time: Dreidel, dreidel, dreidel, I made it out of clay. I’ve sharpened up my dreidel, and with dreidel I will slay.
Kwanza time: When I’m through with you, people around the world will finally know what this fucking holiday commemorates, because they’ll change it to remember the day that your dumb-ass got beat to death, brought back from the dead, only to get beat to death again.
New Year’s Eve: Do you hear those people counting down right now? They’re not counting to the New Years, they’re just counting off how many seconds you have left to live if you don’t get the fuck off my property.
Today the Social Security Administration released a list of disturbing statistics that bode ill for the future of our country: our precious children. No, I am not referring to the fact that our children will never receive any sort of benefit whatsoever from the Social Security Administration (though I’m sure that won’t help). Nay, I refer to the top baby names for 2011, which tells of the terrible truth that while our children work until they are 75 to pay down our multi-trillion dollar debt they will go through life with the monikers of dipshits.
Here is the list in full:
Boys: Jacob, Mason, William, Jayden, Noah, Michael, Ethan, Alexander, Aiden and Daniel.
Girls: Sophia, Isabella, Emma, Olivia, Ava, Emily, Abigail, Madison, Mia and Chloe.
Let’s do a play-by-play here, shall we?
Jacob: Congratulations jerk, your mother named you after a fucking werewolf from teen book series no one will remember by the time you’re old enough to read. On the bright side, being only 15 years younger than your parents will mean you can hold this over them for a long, long time.
Sophia: Named after the Greek Goddess of wisdom. Either that or your parents are still obsessed with “Lost In Translation” in which case you’ve got no hope.
Mason: Hey kid, you’re name implies that you work with brick, but what it actually means is that your mom and dad are as dumb as bricks.
Isabella: Enjoy your career as a burlesque dancer Isabella, because I assure you, no one else will. At least burlesque relates to your darker, brooding side, no doubt inspired by your Twilight namesake. Maybe you and Jacob can get together for a drink before attending the “My Mom only ever read one book and my dad can’t read” support group.
William: Keep it real Bill, keep it real. Just don’t go by William, because then people might think you’re named after the prince of… of fuck, wait a second… Ah shit, you are named after Prince fucking William aren’t you, you little shit? I thought you had such potential there Bill, I really did. Next!
Emma: Well la-d-fucking-da, little Miss Perfect! Look who’s Mom got an idea for her kid’s name while she was standing next to the Jane Austen section of the Barnes & Noble while she waited for a sales rep to get back to her as to why Angry Birds wasn’t working on her Nook.
Jayden: I almost feel bad for you kid, because with a name this awful, you really don’t have any choice but to become a total fucking dumbass for the rest of your life. I can’t wait to see what you choose for your vanity plate on your F-150 you hopeless twerp.
Olivia: Newton John. I thought she was dead?
Noah: I can’t wait to have to tell my children “don’t believe what Noah says at recess, because his parents are lunatics who think the Earth is 5,000 years old.” When the animals boarded the ark two by two, whatever creeping things your people are descended from were housed between the sea-cucumbers and the lemmings.
Ava: You’re probably named after a spa, kid.
Michael: You rock, little dude. Kick Jayden’s ass for me, will ya?
Emily: Not a bad name if you don’t mind never leaving your house in New England for any reason and writing a bunch of poems about never leaving your house in New England.
Ethan: If I were a nurse working at the hospital in which you were born, before taking your birth certificate from your parents to the records office, I would have crossed out “Ethan” and written “Dipshit” instead and save the world a lot of guess work.
Abigail: Are your parents Civil War re-enactors or something?
Alexander: Keep up the good work, Alex.
Madison: The following conversation has never happened in the history of mankind: Gee, I’m sure struggling with this Trigonometry homework!—Me too! – I know, why don’t we ask Madison for help, she knows everything!—Of course, why didn’t we think of that before?
Aiden: Congratulations fuck face, you’re tied with Jayden for the worst, piece of shit name in the English language, and it’s all because your parents decided to name you after one of Carrie’s boyfriends from Sex and the City. You know, God doesn’t think it’s a sin if you kill yourself because your name is Aiden. Just sayin’…
Mia: Say hi to your brother “POW” for me.
Daniel: Dan, you are the leader of the vanguard in the crusade against rubbish names. Keep the flame burning my son, and tell Alex and Mike to do the same. Now go, save the world from the Aidens and Jaydens before it is too late.
Chloe: Though I don’t want to end this on a positive note, I must. Chloe, find Daniel, Michael or Alex and populate the world with decent, well-named children.
Some time ago I registered for some email list called “United to End Genocide” which sent bi-weekly emails trying to convince people that genocide is a pretty rough way to go around treating people, and that we should probably put a stop to it.
A noble sentiment, no doubt, but not one that I needed repeated to me twice a week to remain in agreement with. I’ve never found myself on the verge of committing mass murder against a particular group of people only to open one of these emails and realize “ah yes, I should really call this whole operation off shouldn’t I?”. Nor has opening one of these emails ever helped to end genocide across the globe, in any way shape or form. In fact, by opening these emails I’m actually actually promoting genocide, because instead of being out on the front line fighting it, i’m in an elevator opening the thing on my iPhone before promptly discarding it.
Also, every time I get an alert for these emails I always hope it’s the publishers’ clearing house telling me that i’ve won something, or some buxom wealthy woman asking if i’m free for the next twenty years, but it never is… it’s always just some guy trying to guilt me into donating three dollars a year to help cut genocide fatalities in half, and I just can’t deal with the disappointment that brings.
I found this picture while running a search for “guys who look like they’re probably rapists”, and uncovered a crime far worse: E-cigaretting.
I have been a pretty heavy smoker now for about 6 years, and though it does get on my nerves when people complain about my second hand smoke killing their children, I do not mind laws that forbid smoking inside public buildings. I do not say this for the benefit of the “anti-smoker” crowd, because fuck those people quite frankly, but because without anti-indoor smoking statutes I would have already cremated myself from the inside out.
That being said, I think that we can all agree that the clowns who flop around all over town with their e-cigarettes hanging out of their mouths like so many carcinogenic lizard penises should be beaten to death with the cosmetic hubcaps they doubtlessly installed on their overpriced but yet still worst in its class Mercedes.
Men (because it invariably is fucking men) who smoke e-cigarettes are the worst type of asshole on planet earth. The only conflict I have with my hatred of them is which of their characteristics anger me the most: their shit eating grins as they say “what? It’s just water vapor! It’s not really smoke”, or the fact that the earth hasn’t already opened up beneath these people to rid its surface of this terrible nuisance.
The next time a person wearing a glittery Dolphin sweatshirt (the day-ware predecessor to the “Wolves on the Prowl” sweatshirts) tries to tell me that dolphins are smarter than human beings I am going to ask them to read the following:
Scientists in the US produced a clutch of antihelium particles, the antimatter equivalents of the helium nucleus, after smashing gold ions together nearly 1bn times at close to the speed of light.
The discovery of antihelium at the Relativistic Heavy Ion Collider at Brookhaven national laboratory in New York will aid the search for exotic phenomena in the distant universe, including antimatter versions of stars and even galaxies.
I would very much like to know where the dolphins are hiding all of their “Relativistic Heavy Ion Colliders”? How many times a week do your beloved and oh-so-intelligent future Fillet-O-Fish sandwiches accelerate gold ions to close to the speed of light? Not that many.
Marine Biologists and Sea World Fan-boys may well be entitled to argue that dolphins are smarter than all other aquatic creatures based on the “fascinating” feeding habits of dolphin kind. This accolade of smartest swimming thing is all well and good, but considering their competition include Hammer-Head Sharks and Krill it’s not all that great of an achievement.
I will admit that dolphins are as smart as humans when they have tanks in which they hold humans in captivity force them to give rides to dolphin children in exchange for a herring. Oh, and they’ll have to make Relativistic Heavy Ion Collider as well.