My Visit With Jesus In Heaven

Major news anchors and producers have been humping their desks and caressing their meaty testicles in anticipation for a story like this to drop in their warm, slighty moistened laps. And now that it's here, it's shocked the free world--most notably the scientific community--to it's very foundation.

It's been reported today that a young boy by the name of Jib Tupp has traveled to what christians refer to as "the misty lair" or "Jesus' mountiantop." In other words, the highest level of heaven. But the most amazing part is--Jib's has returned to tell the tale!

Jib's father, a member of "'R Grayce 'N Chryst" Church and avid science disbeliever, paraphrased his son's experience for us. "My son Jib fell off his high chair after a family prayer and conked his noggin on a crate full of bibles. My wife and I don't believe in science so we didn't take him to the hospital. We got some mason jars and started to catch the blood that was coming out of his head and bottle it up so we could put it back in his body later. After a couple of hours of being passed out in the Lord's Netherworld and bleeding from a broken skull, Jib woke up but he didn't say nothing. He just looked at us, smiling like he'd just seen the Holy Light. Then I asked him if he'd had a Christian experience in the "Tunnels of Ecstasy" and he shook his head yes. Than I asked him if he met the Lord and walked with him in the Vally of Good Times he shook his head yes."

When social workers got word of the boy being denied medical treatment by reason of religious dogma, they were required to make a house call to examine the boy's condition--as stated in Futter County Law. Medical examiner Plute Guffer noted the boy's unsavory condition. "After being unconscious for two hours, the brain becomes completely devoid of oxygen--leaving the victim in a state of complete and utter ragdoll-hood."

Despite the medical expert's analysis, Jib's father insists that Jib chooses not to speak as a result of getting "his getting touched on the nose by the finger of the lord." Jib's father rationalizes that after going through such a "dazzler of a Holy Touchdown" one thinks banal acts such as oral communication to be of little importance.

Reporting from Futter County, Aarkhinsaw. Cat's Crotch News Team.

Hacker Profile: Shadowlord 5000

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In a deliberate act of retribution, revered computer hacker "Shadowlord 500" fired a "wizard orb" virus into his ex-girlfriend Pat's Unicorn website, littering the homepage with lude images. The news of the incident has traveled to every corner of the hacker community. While many consider the vengeful act amusing, some consider it to be disgraceful to the hacker code of ethics.

As it turns out, Shadowlord's motives for revenge are fueled by anger and jealousy. To shed more light on the topic, we spoke to a source close with Shadowlord 5000, who explained to us that "Shadowlord is a Level 6 Giga-Prophet but an emotionally sensitive keyboard warrior, who's only Achilles heel was losing his true love to the fleshy embrace of another." We can only glean from that statement that Shadowlord is upset because his girlfriend cheated on him.

We were lucky enough to secure an interview with Shadowlord's ex-girlfriend Pat on her way to work at Tubby's Burger Shed. She explained to us that she was never untrue to Shadowlord, who she addressed as Derek. She said she went out to get a cup of ice cream at Blork's Cold Den with her study partner, Bod Funkus. But when Shadowlord rode by on his mountain bike, presumably after following her to the store to spy on her, he become emotionally crushed when he saw the two together. Shadowlord lost his bearings in the heat of the moment and crashed his bike into the curb right in front of the ice cream store window and tore the front of his jeans open. She explains the incident as extremely embarrassing for her, Bod and especially Shadowlord. She said after Shadowlord crashed, he picked himself up off the ground exposing a massive riff in the fabric of his "Old Tenor" denim jeans. Through the riff, everyone at the ice cream store had a full frontal view of his exposed privates, which were horribly scratched from the collision with the concrete. Everyone at the store broke into wild and furious laughter leading Shadowlord to hop back on his bent and broken bicycle and make the agonizing ten mile journey home in bitter tears of rage and confusion.

She said ever since then Shadowlord has failed to return her phonecalls and refuses to walk down the halls at school. Instead, she says he spends all day in the computer lab doing independent study with a moist towelette wrapped around his dasher. She hopes that they can one day be friends again and she has no hard feelings about the virus he infected her website with. "For the record," she says, "I haven't updated that unicorn website since Jr. High when I made it. All I care about now is spending time with my new boyfriend, Bod Funkus, the sweatiest most bulging man on the legball hustlers."

Science Crotch

A scientific emergency has gripped our nation in a blinding fervor this month, as American specialists have confirmed that there is a massive shortage of laser technology in several countries with the minimal requirement of MicDunalds food chains. As many subscribers probably don't know, lasers are not only used in skin treatments and listening to music, but they are also used in hair removal procedures, movie viewing, data reading, eye treatment, light measurements and visual entertainment. Some lasers are even applicable on the battlefield of war and fighting.

Without modern laser technology, people in Africa have had to resort to using Ancient Magic Laser Eyes, and while this sounds impressive, these lasers can only be used to send signals to other tribes. Laser color is also incredibly limited (red only, and sometimes orange if it's a shaman). In the meantime, military officials and charity groups have been fixating on providing the locals with trivial things, such as medical aid, food, educational books and protection against terrorists and warmongering dictators. Unfortunately, no matter how much they read, they can't play a CD or get rid of their back hair.

"Our efforts have been diverted and we've been distracted," says Attorney General Rick Godwizard, "we've promised these people democracy and a place at our side as we take that laser bridge into the future, and instead they're eating frozen honey and getting addicted to methadone."

Coverage for this story was brought to you by our sponsor and a special interest group, CLIT (Cultural Laser Initiative Tribune)

Yon-Yon Fantasia: The 6th Dimension

Brave adventurer Yon-Yon Fantasia knows there's more to life than what we see on a day to day basis. That's why she's dedicated her time to uncovering and documenting life's most fascinating mysteries for the betterment of all mankind.

Most Recently, Ms. Fantasia's bold adventures lead her to the syrupy, vile-smelling floor of the restroom in the Burning Cockbird Nightclub. As with most of Ms. Fantasia's scientific expeditions, her journey began with seven shots of straight rum and a few Oxycotin painkillers, to put her mind in a state of supreme inquiry. Before she dedicated herself to the full pursuit of knowledge, she began to rub on the enlarged crotches of antonymous males on the Burning Cockbird dance floor. Security even threatened to forcibly remove her from the establishment when she attempted to remove the jeans from one particular man named Sagebrush Jones. But not before she gave the security guard a piece of her mind. She explained, in no uncertain terms, that her intentions were fueled purely by logic and altruism, to create a brighter future for men, women and children by unlocking the secrets of the universe for the tangible benefit of the "Astro Generation." But the plead landed on deaf ears, as the security guard clearly did not share her concern for such pursuits. But instead of simply surrendering herself to the authority figure, Ms. Fantasia decided to throw her planned expedition into high-gear and make a bee-line for the women's restroom. After entering the female John, Ms. Fantasia, by now totally smashed rotten on rum, began to search for the tile, which she believed to be the key to unlocking the forbidden 6th dimension. Her ever-present intuition lead her to crawl on her hands and knees to the back of a toilet stall, behind the toilet, where she decided to set up basecamp. And there she stayed for the next three hours. But unlike most scientists, Ms. Fantasia prefers to let her unconscious mind do the work, never her waking mind. Without the barrier of consciousness standing in the way of discovery--Ms. Fantasia believes anything is possible.

So in her benumbed slumber, Ms. Fantasia ruminated on her best theories (which came in the form of sexualized dreams). When she awoke, around 2:30am, to the sound of the janitor mopping the next stall over, she was quick to arrive to a conclusion: the 6th dimension must lie not here, but at another night club altogether.

For as everyone knows, finding answers to life's biggest questions is never easy. The search requires years of dedication and many late nights of deep concentration and study.

Horse Rage (uncontrollable)

KNEBRASKA, HORNSLIVER - It's probably not known that some of our staff members and their loved ones have mixed feelings about musclecries, but as professional journalists, we've set our opinions aside and have decided to cut straight to the sop.

In a friendly rolling hills county among the weeping willows and the howling church goers of WalMarg Amirka, you can't find a more animal-friendly region. There is no industrializing of meats or unafraid-of-god modifications of green no-tastes or peppered flesh sauce. Ecosystems are respected and so is the proven science of leaving shit how it is. I won't mince words here as I adjust my sun blocking fag stomp-er hat, no sir. However, since the conserving of Classic Car Juice has so starkly inhibited the refuel-ers of NASCAR, a new "breed" of entertainment has emerged, one that has left several spectators with mixed reactions. Omaha bred beef grind corn spit Jibkif Whitelight calls it unnatural.

"Horses used to jis' bite 'en kick 'in give tha people a good nature-d tussle romp. Ain't no sense in invoking the word ah gawd." says Jibkif.

Another man, Tennessee shitstacker Quiggers Kuck, said, "teachin' horses how tah ask the Almighty Lord to smite another horse is jus' as natural as votin' for what's true and right."

Regular horse wars used to include two furious beasts and a fresh hot dog inserted into each animal's anus, which would spur the creatures into attacking each other in a standard manner. Now, lordlovers have decided to train their combatants in the art of invoking the power of Christ, by way of modifying a gold spell called Pulsa diNura. The steeds can then perform harmful and sometimes fatal miracles, including but not limited to levitation, transformation, blinding speed, vengeful strength, telekinesis, summoning angels, massive erections and God Eyes.

Tryumphs in Food Eating: Hall of Legunds

Whenever I think about the Hall of Legunds, my eyes suddenly well up with wistful tears and a terrible groan begins to lumber fourth from my lower bowels. I wish so badly I could go back in time to when I competed in the MEAL FINISHERS CHAMPIONSHIP... before I lost everything I had to those god damn Courn Boys. But there's nothing I can do now. I am, at this moment, a shriveled and incontinent old man with no hope for redemption. But one thing I can do before I pass onto the holy rivers of yore, is tell my story to you, the Pepsi generation.

When I was a young man, I had the world at my fingertips. Not only was I handsome young man, but I was a good food deposit. In fact, my friends used to call me "Hoagie Todd" because I liked to eat Hoagies sometimes in my lunch sack. My mom was my biggest fan. She supported me in my food hunger. Sometimes, she would even sneak in my room in the middle of the night with a hot kettle full of beans and dump them under my sheets to get rid of bed demons that lusted after young boys like myself. (I would of course eat the beans in my sleep.)



A picture of me. "Hoagie Todd," as I was known.

Anyway, as I grew, I realized I had a natural talent for finishing my meals. That's when my mom recommended I compete with at that year's MEAL FINISHER'S CHAMPIONSHIP, so I could be forever emblazoned in the Hall of Legunds. But there was only one problem... the Courn Boys were the reigning local champions 5 years in a row.

The Courn Boys were three brothers who ate Hobs of Courn for breakfast lunch and dinner. Rumor has it they were born in the middle of a cournfield under a Harvest Moon while their pregnant mother was walking through the cournfield eating a hob of courn. Suddenly, after her last bite of courn, all three brothers fell out of her open birth passage onto the soft dirt and proceeded to grab fresh courn off the stalks and feast upon their moist innards.



"The Courn Boys" Circa 2002

Eveer since then, the Courn Boys have earned a wicked reputation for finishing nearly every meal they've ever been given--and destroying anyone who got in their way. Their leader, Fern Vucker, even claims to have a 100% clean meal deposit record for his life, a record current WURLD CHAMPION Chor Bloodheart won't even claim to himself.

Despite my fear of competing with the Courn Boys, I decided to sign up for the Meal Finisher's Championship anyway. On the day of the event, I was terribly assaulted by the Courn Boys. They all approached me in the men's bathroom and begin prodding me with hobs of courn. Soon, they removed all my clothing and begin poking me in the dark passage and under my toenails, leaving me with yellow nuggets dropping out of my body for weeks!

Now, as I think back on those terrible moments, I wish I would have had the courage to finish the Meal Finisher's Championship. But those god damn Courn Boys ruined everything for me and left me with a red, raw inner highway for weeks to come.

Smoke Force: Marijuana Jetfighter's Academy

It's a well known fact that the United States military recruits at high schools and junior colleges because they know they'll always be able to pick up a few slackers and green-nugget tokers. Whether it's crumbling under pressure from family, or succumbing guilt about their lack of accomplishments, over ten thousand students sign up per month.

Up until recently, the military would frown upon their troops "ripping a bullhorn," "sucking a babyfinger" or "puffing on a jammer," especially while on active duty. But now, things have changed...

The military has officially recognized the unanimous admiration for "green dope" among the long-haired, tribal-tattooed youth of the American mainstream. And the military has adjusted it's rigorous standards accordingly. As of today, the military is now offering special "enlistment bonuses" to young men and women with "toke mouths." What is the bonus, you ask? A special-edition US military fog-tube, so the young people can huff in style.



But the best part of the new enlistment program is that no matter your age, IQ or physical limitations, you WILL be issued a personal jet and YOU WILL be able to fly it on fun missions. According to General Zig Ironcollar, of the Military Airplane Guys, most normal "non-drug using" individuals are a bit "uneasy" about doing bombing runs on heavily populated areas. He expects that good tasting snacks like potato crunches and cheese dip will lure young "Marijuana Jetfigher Academy" students into bombers, and while distracted by using the controls and feasting upon snacks, will be able to successfully accomplish nearly any mission--and return home with only faint, hazy memories of what happened--or how many innocents were obliterated.

We've spoken to a few recent graduates of the Smoke Force: Marijuana Jetfighter's Academy to get their thoughts on the program:

"I thought it was pretty cool. My bro Lincoln got inside of a DC-138 and hit a huge fog tube while he was flying upside down. It was sooo rad. The plane ended up crashing into a neighborhood in Syria, but my bro Lincoln parachuted out before anything bad happened. And luckily, he remembered to grab his fog tube before he hopped out. Hahaha. The miliatary wasn't even mad. Those dudes were like 'WE HAVE SO MUCH MONEY.' It was hilarious. Rock on!"

-Ched Falconheart

"I singed up for the Smoke Force because the guy said I'd get a free rip-rod to inhale smoke with. Now that I'm graduated, they gave me an SR-71 blackbird to do stealth missions. Last night I flew over an all women's prison in Iraq and snapped some pictures of naked tits from 60,000 feet. The image is grainy but I still masturbated to it before I went to bed. Tomorrow I'm going to do the same thing."

-Sloan Meatbones

Cat's Crotch Ghoulf Presents: An Interview With Skin-Legend Yang Bogey

Cat's Crotch: I see you've touched a man.
Yang Bogey: Yes, I recently touched a man at the Smelfur Open.
CC: Did you intentionally touch that man, or was it a hand error?
YB: It was mostly a hand error. I am aware of the laws regarding polo shirt shoulder-to-hand contact.
CC: You touched [Prow Ghoulfer] Pause Hampton correct? How did he respond to the flesh to fabric swiff?
YB: He wailed like a dying Marmot and began to empty all of his bowels and bladder onto the shortgrass.
CC: That's a fine reaction I'd say.
YB: Considering the circumstances, I can't blame him for what he did.
CC: Yes, it was acceptable. Did you help him collect his body litter?
YB: Yes, out of sheer nervousness we began to collect his wetness and softspots from the roughage.
CC: Were you able to collect it all? We're aware that the value of a Ghoulfer's excrement is incredibly high.
YB: It truly is, yes. We were able to collect most of it. Wasting it would be a shame to the profession.
CC: And then you went directly to the hospital, correct?
YB: Yes, I rode with Pause Hampton all the way to Mother Mary Of Grace Schwartzburg Hosptial where the doctors were able to forcibly insert most of it back into his slimetubes.
CC: (Groaning) Excellent.
YB: I'm sorry but that noise you just made was inexcusable and rude.
CC: My apologies, I am a man of sensitivity.
YB: I accept your apology.

A Plead: Quit Enchanting Our Young Boys

By Ridge Oakwood,
American Columnist
Outraged American


Let this be a message to all you Popinjays, Coxcombs, Dandies and Woodpeckers: I know what you're doing to all of our young boys and I don't like it. As a large wage earner, I feel that I'm entitled to raise two young, hearty boys who like leather footballs and the soft feeling of a woman's breast at midnight. I don't want to lose them to the pleasures of masculine anal lust. And I feel that all you hairy pixies are trying to use your green-glowing enchantments on boys like mine to make them enjoy fast-paced music and tight-fitting jeans.

I was raised by my father, Cedar Oakwood to be a man of the dollar. A man who climbs the ladder to success and busts the rungs behind him as he climbs, so as not to let any Tootles follow me up and sniff my anal fur. But in these dark days, I feel that there are Slipperies around every corner, just waiting to wrap their dark mouths around the private parts of my teen-aged sons, and it drives me wild with confusion and anger.

Late on Sunday nights before bed time, my father, Cedar, used to set me on his lap and point off to the north star. He used to say "son, do you see that north star? That's the star that represents how much I hate fags." Then he used to go on to explain that Bum Crunchers weren't allowed around our family, because they use special enchantments to convert us to their side, like they did to my dad's brother, Nash.

He used to tell me that Nash was kidnapped out of his bed by an army of Nipple Pinchers and they used telepathic mind rays to convert him to loving pink stars instead of pink canyons. I haven't talked to my uncle Nash since I was a young boy, when he used to let me try on his leather hats.

The point I'm trying to make is, I've seen the damage that has been done to young American stone horses like my boys. My boys are so strong and muscular. They sweat so hard in PE class. The last thing I want for them is to be turned into a bunch of Tootsie Rolls.

If you can, please join me at the Peach Mountian Lodge for a Town Hall Meeting about how we can clean up this great Capitalist Nation by removing the Hoobers and Nonnernots.

In the meantime, please enjoy this photo image of my young boys, taken in my garage late at night:

911! Alert! Stolen Chevy Chugger 1986.

1986 Chevy "CHUGGER" van stolen from my shed in Springfield on Sunday.
DESCRIPTION: dark grey color, side and back rear windows covered in silver duck tape, and sprayed over with black spray paint.
**I was planning on turning it into bus for my church, that's why the windows look like that. people know me would back me up on that so I'm not worried about it.

VERY PERSONAL private, personal items inside
1- two sets of police-style handcuffs... very valuable. steel locks. I have the key ,so you can't use them anyway, I would really love to have these back for sentimentel reasons.
2- There might also be some old magazines too maybe, but they aren't mine.
My neighbor asked me to store them inside of my van so his wife wouldn'tcatch him looking at them, they are not mine, but I would like them back so he doesn't get in any kind of trouble for looking at that sort of thing. We all sin, but god knows our heart! (corinthians 5-17)

**There is some home-made like VCR tapes too that aren't mine. believe me, I go to church all the time, and people who know me will tell you that I would NEVER look at stuff like that,
but it would be real nice if I could just return them to their rightful owner so people don't think I look
at crap like that. God knows that I don't and that's what's important.
Please let me know if you have seen this vehicle!! This really hurt my plans for the weekend
any information would be appreciated! God Bless!