National Nitwit

Special to the National Nitwit by Sparky News Network

(Jamaica, NY) (SNN) At a hastily called news conference this morning, the MTA and the NTSB announced that their initial investigation has determined the cause of Thursday's derailment at Jamaica station. NTSB spokesman K. C. Jones said there was a catastrophic failure of the wheels to maintain stability and remain on the tracks.

The derailment was due to some 100,000 marbles that were thrown on the tracks. Jones stated that several boys were seen running from the end of the platform shortly before the accident. Witnesses said the boys were jumping up and down on the station platform gleefully screaming, “they’re gonna hit, they’re gonna hit!"

The juvenile suspects were wearing black sweatshirts with a bell shaped symbol on the back and the letters "LLDD." on the front. Investigators quickly determined that the perpetrators were from the Lama Lama Ding Dongs fraternity at nearby Strayber College.

When interviewed by SNN, Dean Otto Vonschlamer stated that he wasn't surprised the fraternity was involved and that the Ding Dongs were already on "double secret" probation. It seems the students were returning back to Strayber from an all-night strippers party when the incident happened.

When investigators gave Vonschlamer the boy’s descriptions, he immediately said, "Pluto, Scrounger, Mustang, Beaver and Toon" were the culprits. Pounder admitted that he bought the marbles at a local Selmart and threw them onto the tracks.

The derailment shut down service on the mainline and stranded ten thousand commuters. Three M-6 commuter cars and 300 feet of track were destroyed and the LIRR estimated the damage to be $4 million. 19 people were removed from the last two cars of the Huntington train which derailed in a slow speed collision with the last car of the Hempstead train. No one was injured and service was returned to normal Friday morning.

Labels: LIRR, MTA, TRAINS

Guest Editorial by Paul Oglivie,
expectant recipient

For over three decades I've been working like a pock-marked Hebrew slave in a series of really lousy jobs. I used to buy into the line of crap they feed you about saving for retirement and investing in home equity and letting professionals handle your money and all that jazz.

But here I am, 49 years old, with an upside-down mortgage and $112 in my checking account. I've got a dozen bill collectors calling every number they can link to me, and my credit score is lower than my blood pressure.

So what I'm really waiting for is what I call the Great Insurance Payout Lottery.

Now, I'm not talking some kind of faked slip-and-fall in the grocery to collect a measly $20 grand from an insurance company that wants to settle a bullshit claim. Besides, I hear they're pretty good about sniffing out insurance fraud, and I'm too old to be worrying about getting shanked or raped in a state prison, you dig?

No, what I mean is this: I'm waiting for the day some drunk rich fucker in a Lexus runs a red light and smashes into me and my 1989 Toyota. KER-fucking-BLAM! I'm talking full body cast kind of accident, where I'm signing papers with a green marker that I have to hold with my teeth because my arms and hands are broken, and I'm drooling all over the lawsuit papers, and some 21-year-old nurse has to change my bedpan and wash my bunghole every eight hours.

THAT kind of deal.

Sure, I'd be in traction for six months, and it would be a slow road back to normalcy, and my wife would probably leave me for my ex-boss since I'd be whacked out on Oxycontin and would be calling her all sorts of mean names, since my broken pelvis made sex impossible for the year I was in recovery and I turned bitter and broken, and in the meantime I'd have to file bankruptcy for the hospital bills and home health aides and shit.

But after all that bullshit, I would win my lawsuit, net a cool six million dollars, and I'd be on fucking Easy Street, you know what I mean? And I could by all the fucking Oxycontin I wanted, and if I got tired of the addiction, I could buy the whole fucking inpatient detox joint.

So hurry up, Mr. Maximum Liability Coverage: my clock is ticking here.

Labels: insurance coverage, lottery

By Billy Pilgrim, National Nitwit Rogue Editor

Wythe: Dripping With CFCs and Pretense

(Los Angeles, CA)—For over forty years, Americans have spent April 22—Earth Day—doing their part to reduce pollution and promote eco-awareness.

That is, of course, with exception of Roland Wythe, an L.A. nihilist who celebrates his own version of Earth Day by wasting a plethora of natural and man-made resources to hasten the demise of life on our fragile planet.

“First thing I did this morning—even before downing a can of Full Throttle—was start my Geo Tracker and let that bitch idle in my driveway with its cracked catalytic converter just pumping exhaust fucking everywhere,” Wythe bragged while painting his fingernails a menacing charcoal. “Then I let the water run for half an hour before showering up and heading to Kinko’s. You’d be amazed how many photocopies of BELIEVE IN NOTHING you can get for sixteen bucks.”

Wythe continued to highlight his afternoon of amoral revelry.

“After lunch, of course, is when things got really interesting,” Wythe explained. “I bought a carton of Camels for some middle school kids, raided the recycle bin behind 7-11, and then for my grand finale, stole 37 bottles of Lysol from Wal-Mart. Lined ‘em up in the parking lot and shot each one with my pellet gun like they were a bunch of fucking terrorists. Yeah, I know I could’ve gone to jail and stuff, but I’m like, totally committed to my belief in not believing in stuff.”

Labels: Earth Day, nihilism

Special to National Nitwit via Sparky News Network

(Albany, NY) (SNN) Submissives will finally gain some relief from Doms who can’t properly finish a scene or who end a scene "early" because of a pain or injury they develop. At a press conference early this afternoon, the state legislature announced that it passed controversial bill HD-1269 by an overwhelming majority.

The bill originally, promoted by former governor Eliot Spitzer and known as the Doms with Disabilities Act (DWDA), provides relief for Doms or Dommes who tire easily (due to age or fatigue) or become injured during a sexual performance.

The bill would allow a licensed Dom who becomes disabled some relief during a scene. For example, under the DWDA any Doms complaining of some physical pain in their arms, shoulders, legs or hands. The law would make it legal for another Dom or an “unlicensed” Dom to “Pinch Hit” or take over the task of the injured Dom during the scene. The injured Dom would still have to remain there to oversee the unlicensed Dom.

New York dominatrix Miss Fisty praised legislators for their efforts.

"The natural position of a Dom is one of straddling, not taking it up the ass like a girly-wimp," she told reporters, polishing a 17-inch black dildo as she spoke. "And I am confident that this legislation... hey, you little bitch: did I say you could look at me? Huh? Get on the floor and lick the toejam out between my foot digits, you disgusting piece of shit! And while you're at it, bend over: I want to ram you with this piece of broken glass, maggot."

Under the DWDA, the Dom could also be seated and flog away at the submissive. However, it would be a violation under the Act for a Dom with LDS (Lazy Dom Syndrome) to weedle his way out of his responsibilities by using a chair to sit in during the scene.

The DWDA also does not consider working up a ‘sweat” or becoming “out of breath” as a legal copout simply because the Dom is “out of shape.” The bill also provides for discounts on items such as Aleve, Advil, Icy-Hot, Geritol or Viagra for the whiney Dom.

The legislature also announced that it is working on a “submissive’s bill of rights.” under the new “Let’s Play Tonight” reform Acts. The new law is scheduled to take effect May 1, 2008.

Labels: dominatrix

By Billy Pilgrim, National Nitwit Rogue Editor

The Dembrowsky Ford: Queerer Than a Theater Major at Berkeley

(Wichita, KS)—A 1962 Ford pickup owned by Rick Dembrowsky of Wichita, Kansas, recently came out of the closet and expressed its frustration over his owner’s newly added ‘John McCain for President’ bumper sticker.

“Do you know how many engines I’ve gone through? Three. And exhaust manifolds? Seven. But in four long decades, I’ve never had a single sticker on my rear window or bumper,” the truck opined. “Nights I sat curbside beneath the stars, wishing I had a rainbow pride emblem, or maybe just one of those little glittery ovals that said ‘princess.’ And now that fucker Rick puts—
of all things—a McCain sticker on my ass? I’ve got half a mind to stall out while he’s merging on the interstate and let a semi smash us both into smithereens.”

The truck explained its vehement opposition to this seemingly minute gesture of political endorsement.

“Lord, where do I begin with all that’s wrong about McCain,” the Ford huffed. “From his hundred-year stance on the Iraq war to his half-hearted healthcare reforms, he’s far too conservative for an old queen like me. Unless, of course, he had one of them young Dodge Dakotas. I’m sure a night in the garage with one of those hunks could convince me just about anything. Mercy, I’m a randy one!”

Labels: John McCain, pickup trucks

Special to National Nitwit via syndicate contributor Sparky News Network

(Lancaster, PA) Amish inventor Zeke Ackerman has come up the ultimate "green" automobile and truck fuel. Pat Simpson's garage up the road from the Amish farm recently started modifying existing engines to run on the new fuel.

When SNN asked Ackerman what this new energy source was, the squinty-eyed farmer spat and uttered a one-word reply: "Milk."

Neighbor Harold Hansen has been running his tractor with Simpson's modified engine on milk for the last six months.

"It runs pretty well," observed Hansen, "but homogenized seems to let it run smoother. No more curd in the carburetor, but you still have that fresh-baby-puke stench to deal with. Udderly nauseating, I say. Heh - get it? Udderly? I kill me."

Zeke and his farming neighbors are now cashing in on the new fuel, as well as buying up all the Holsteins at the local auction.

"It's just more economical, since the cost of a gallon of gasoline is now surpassing the cost of a gallon of milk," noted Hansen. "Plus, I don't have to run to the Circle-K anymore when the wife is squawking about needing a gallon of milk. I just give her a quick smack upside the head and point her to the truck's fuel tank. She shuts the hell up, I get to finish my tankard of ale - it's win-win-win, if you ask me."

Ackerman described the pre- and post-production processes associated with "bovine green" fuel.

"We've just taken it one step further. Instead of trying to produce ethanol with the hay and corn we just feed it directly to the cows and produce milk," added Ackerman. "And, what comes out of the "tailpipe" of the cow we now recycle as fertilizer, which grows more corn and hay. Nothing gets wasted in the process, since the kids also use the heifer's methane for a quick round of huffing out behind the shed. Little fucker's get all blue in the face and pass out - now THAT's some funny shit, brother."

Energy production also remains a local industry, proponents noted.

"The milk is being produced right here in Lancaster and we're not going to be dependent on foreign oil anymore," Hansen noted. "We're also hoping to harness post-partum women into the mammary grid. Some of the brethren's wives keep them teats a-squirting non-stop 20 years in a row or more."

The Amish historically eschew technology, but it is no surprise that the innovative Mennoite sect invented such a potentially world-changing fuel. Ackerman himself still drives a horse-and-buggy and, when asked if he was going to upgrade to a modified car, Zeke demured.

"I'm never giving up Old Betsy here," he said, pausing to fondly caress the horse's ample flank. "Besides, winters can get mighty cold, if you know what I mean. A feller can get mighty lonesome in a January chill, is all I'm saying."

Labels: Amish, green fuel

By Billy Pilgrim, National Nitwit Rogue Editor

Abbott: Ready to Slaughter Some Darkies

(Washington, D.C.)—Reginald Abbott, 13-year veteran of the friendly skies, made a casual announcement earlier this afternoon to friends and colleagues that he is anxiously awaiting his international flight to the Darfur region of Sudan—which is still the site of dire conflict and social unrest—so he can “get in on some old-fashioned people butchering.”

“Well Billy, the idea came to me some years ago when I was in counseling again for my road rage and penchant for blacking out on Quaaludes,” Abbott explained while loading a thirty-round clip for his assault rifle. “There I was, talking to another mindless shrink, and it hit me like a bolt of lightning: why not wait until the airline sends me to some shit-ass African nation where I could just go berserk on the natives, then whore and booze myself into oblivion?”

Abbott outlined his plan for post-colonial colonialism.

“You know, in the 18th and 19th centuries, European powers really decimated the third world, what with the pillaging and raping and depletion of natural resources,” Abbott opined. “But seeing as I’m a white American who makes over a hundred grand a year and looks good in uniform, you could say I’m the 21st century equivalent of a colonial opportunist. So if I can just get this gun past customs by citing the Patriot Act, I’m in business. By the way, do you have any quinine or condoms? I’m trying to stock up before the trip.”

A National Nitwit Guest Editorial
By Stan Holden, Bear Stearns Vice President

The Holden Divorce: Like the Winter at Valley Forge

I knew the day would come when my succubus cunt of a wife would divorce me if I ever lost my job at Bear Stearns in some corporate shenanigans, and damn if that day didn’t come. And among America’s national bantering about recession and government bailouts, the real story—that of a lowly V.P. from Boston who makes a meager $5.7 million a year and gets taken to the cleaners by his trophy wife—is lost along the way.

That’s why I want smooth-voiced Hollywood legend Peter Coyote to narrate my divorce for a PBS special.

You probably know Peter Coyote from his many films—E.T., Patch Adams, and Erin Brockovich are among his best. But if you’ve ever caught yourself on your fifth Captain and Coke say, around 2 a.m., utterly enraptured by a History Channel documentary on Greek arrowheads or Abraham Lincoln’s constipation, the reason was probably due to ol’ Peter’s grizzled yet responsive timbre.

Peter Coyote: The Voice of PBS & Basic Cable

In fact, I can hear him even now, talking about my humble go-getter years, slaving away as a paralegal in college and struggling for corporate acceptance because I went to Emerson instead of Cambridge. And then meeting Linda, but there would be that eerie foreshadowing when Peter described our picture-perfect wedding, as if, like, after the commercial break everyone would know that she was going to break my heart with her pill popping and shoe addiction and then she leaves for her mother’s cabin in Rochester right when I need her most because my company is in the crapper.

Goodness. I’m getting teary-eyed just thinking how Peter Coyote would narrate my life, my survival, just like that Panamanian tree frog I saw him talk about last week on the Discovery Channel. Yes sir, Mr. Coyote, Stan Holden is your next project—only your voice could do this divorce justice.

Labels: Bear Sterns, Peter Coyote