http://thedailysatire.com Funny Spoof News, Social Satire, And Political Cartoons Wed, 16 May 2012 08:45:33 CDT en http://thedailysatire.com/social/a-sneak-peek-at-the-facebook-stock-certificate-from-mad-magazine-1/ Wed, 16 May 2012 08:45:33 CDT TheDailyShadow Social Satire 2 http://thedailysatire.com/social/a-sneak-peek-at-the-facebook-stock-certificate-from-mad-magazine-1/ http://thedailysatire.com/social/ancestrymatch-com-from-pilot/ Wed, 09 May 2012 10:21:27 CDT TheDailyShadow Social Satire 3 http://thedailysatire.com/social/ancestrymatch-com-from-pilot/ http://thedailysatire.com/social/life-imitates-art/
In a related story, a trusted psychic has told The Daily Satire that the painting may now be even more valuable due to the increased emotional impact which will come from the fact that 'The Scream' is now being haunted by the ghosts of the 30 million or so Africans who's lives could have been saved if some tosser had actually done something good with his money instead of spending such a ridiculous amount of money on a painting. ]]> Thu, 03 May 2012 17:01:56 CDT TheDailyShadow Social Satire 3 http://thedailysatire.com/social/life-imitates-art/ http://thedailysatire.com/social/funny-american-history-memes-cartoons-and-more-%7C-funny-lists/
The 'Shit Founding Fathers Say' video and the complete American history in memes are two of my favorites from the list. ]]> Sun, 29 Apr 2012 08:59:49 CDT FunnyLists Social Satire 3 http://thedailysatire.com/social/funny-american-history-memes-cartoons-and-more-%7C-funny-lists/ http://thedailysatire.com/social/kiddy-fiddlers-celebrate-growth-in-market/
Contrary to previous assumption, new research published in the Lancet medical journal suggests that young adolescents do not fully become adults until the age of 24. Paedophiles around the world have reacted with joy to the news, which represents a substantial increase in the world's population of adolescents.

One kiddy fiddller, who has asked to remain anonymous, told the press:

"This is a big relief for me. I've never really been attracted to adults, but do you know how difficult it is to find youngsters who are up for it? I always thought that chidlren became adults at 18, but now I can just go on internet dating sites and get rejected by 22 year old hotties the same as every other lonely single man in the country."

In related news, tens of thousands of 18-24 years olds are expected to use child labour laws as an excuse not to get a job over coming months, and will instead sponge off their parents. ]]> Wed, 25 Apr 2012 04:20:18 CDT TheDailyShadow Social Satire 3 http://thedailysatire.com/social/kiddy-fiddlers-celebrate-growth-in-market/ http://thedailysatire.com/social/the-funniest-graffiti-ever-%7C-funny-lists-1/ Tue, 17 Apr 2012 14:20:37 CDT FunnyLists Social Satire 3 http://thedailysatire.com/social/the-funniest-graffiti-ever-%7C-funny-lists-1/ http://thedailysatire.com/social/trusted-sistine-chapel-janitor-convicted-of-sexually-abusing-last-4-popes-1/ Tue, 17 Apr 2012 03:08:54 CDT TheDailyShadow Social Satire 3 http://thedailysatire.com/social/trusted-sistine-chapel-janitor-convicted-of-sexually-abusing-last-4-popes-1/ http://thedailysatire.com/social/an-open-letter-to-cupcake-makers/
What’s going on here? You’re grown women with brains and jobs and opinions of your own. You can do anything and be anything you want thanks to lots of women in the 1960s and 1970s that probably spent time penning manifestos rather than stirring red velvet or ginger lemon mix deliberately and with affection. Sure, cupcakes are delicious and bright colored and they make people happy, but your cupcake mania really scares me. What would Gloria Steinem say? Or – dare I say it – Jane Fonda?

It’s not just the cupcakes. It’s the little bows you’re putting in your hair. Bows very similar in shape and color to the ones my three-year-old niece puts up with every day. She’s freaking three and she wants that damn bow out of her hair. You’re, what, twenty-six? Thirty-two? What’s next: Hello Kitty diapers?

The cupcakes and the bows are like gateway drugs for you guys – they then lead to sparkly unicorn fixations, severe Judy Blume nostalgia, and a tendency to get drunk off too many Capri Suns. You see where this is leading? To a generation of women – WOMEN – running around in frilly lace, bows, and unicorn tiaras with multi-hued cupcakes in their hands. It all leads back to the cupcakes.

Now, I’m not saying you can’t be a strong modern woman and also enjoy baking little treats. You don’t have to act “manly” to be a tough chick. But seriously, if you don’t watch out you may actually wake up one morning and realize you have reverted back to a five-year-old girlie girl. Maybe that’s what you really want though which is even scarier. Maybe you could switch it up and instead of making your zillionth batch of vegan cupcakes between bouts of knitting you could cook a mean steak on the grill or watch ten minutes of a political debate? And when you’re finished waxing poetic about how much you miss My Little Pony you could curl up with a good non-Judy Blume novel? Just a thought.

I dig flowers and the color pink and cooking in the kitchen sometimes, yet I just can’t relate to you rabid cupcake makers. I worry that all the work the smart dames before us did for women’s rights may disappear with a mere wave of your glittery, ironic magic wands. Let’s not let that happen. I have faith in you people. I’m an optimist. Let’s keep moving forward.

With Restraint,
Dina

BIO: Dina Gachman is a Texan adrift in Los Angeles. Her comedic blog about the economic divide has been featured by Chelsea Handler's Borderline Amazing Comedy, AOL News, and Marketplace on NPR. She just launched an online graphic novel and site called Fling Girl LA, and her first comic book - about the down-to-earth diva Elizabeth Taylor - comes out this fall from Bluewater Comics.

]]> Wed, 21 Mar 2012 10:35:08 CDT dinitagach Social Satire 2 http://thedailysatire.com/social/an-open-letter-to-cupcake-makers/ http://thedailysatire.com/social/socially-inept-the-facebook-friends-you-should-probably-ignore-/
Imagine how lost we would be without this unique social playground that most of us didn’t know existed just five short years ago. It’s a bizarre world populated by BFFs, creepy pokers and LOLcats. It’s a place where your status can be updated the moment you have a new thought and where you can easily make friends then unfriend them even easier.

But just who are the people in your Facebook neighborhood? No doubt you’ve come across some of the personalities you’re about to see profiled in this article. You know them, you hate them and you wish they’d go away. But your Facebook life wouldn’t be the same without them. The truth is, you’re probably one of them.

Here are the 18 Facebook friends you’d like to ignore, but for some reason can’t bring yourself to block.


THE HUMAN NEWSCAST

Great... you bought a cup of coffee at Starbucks. That shouldn't be the lead story of the day, but apparently in your life it is. Most of us would simply add cream and sugar and be on our way… but not you. Like a cub reporter, you're willing and eager to cut into our normal Facebook programming with this breaking news update!

Later in the day you'll tell us about the prescription you got filled at Walgreens, the guy on the bus who smelled like “wacky weed” and the funny thing your co-worker just said that wasn't really funny at all. When you get home, you'll tell us that you think "Two Broke Girls" is hilarious and that you're tired and should probably go to bed.

This just in: We don't care!!


THE VAGUE ATTENTION WHORE

"**sigh** Rough day."

That's the type of crap you post, hoping someone -- ANYONE -- will take the bait, and ask you about your day. Then, when some fool actually bites the hook and asks you what's wrong, this is what you follow it up with:

“Nothing I can talk about on Facebook. Text me."

Seriously?? If you can't talk about it on Facebook, please don't bring it up on Facebook. You think you're being coy and mysterious, when in reality you're merely being annoying.

**sigh**

THE SHARING ADDICT

Okay... let me put this as simply as possible. Just because you see a picture of a cat making a sarcastic quip or an a "Maxine" cartoon that sums up how you're feeling at this particular moment, doesn't mean you MUST share it with everybody. Be judicious. For every twenty pictures you share, maybe -- MAYBE!! -- only one of them is really worth passing along. I really don't need my newsfeed clogged up with crap I saw two months ago from another serial sharer. (For the record, this article is the one item that you should pass along.)

THE "NO DRAMA" DRAMA QUEEN

Have you ever noticed that people who complain about the drama in their lives are usually the ones creating it. You’re constantly calling out people – anonymously, of course – who deliver the drama, describing in detail exactly what they do, then IMPLORING us to “make it stop!” Problem is, when the drama dies, you’re right there to resurrect it. You’re like the person who claims to hate gossip, then rattles off the names of people who just can’t keep their mouths shut, plus a few other juicy tidbits.

If your life was a soap opera, you would have been married seven times, divorced eight times, killed twice by your evil twin and pushed out of a fourteenth story window only to survive following a month-long, ratings period coma. And you’d love to hate every minute of it!

THE OVERLY PROUD PARENT

Look, we get that you love your kids. Who doesn’t? And odds are, they’re as cute as the most adorable buttons in the sewing kit. But here’s the frank and unfortunate truth: Unless your last name is Cruise, Witherspoon or Jolie-Pitt, we don’t need daily summaries of what your offspring is up to. Honestly, we don’t really need frequent updates on those kids, either. But at least they sell magazines.

But if you insist on blessing us with shots of your bambinos, at least make sure they’re doing something interesting. Sitting at the kitchen table watching Phineas & Ferb does NOT meet that criteria and is not worthy of an upload. Now, if they start throwing oatmeal at the TV, that’s a different story. Post away! At the very least you need to add a creative or funny caption to go with the picture. Asking “ain’t they cute?” opens you up to the very real possibility that someone will fire back with “No, they aint!!”


THE OVERLY PROUD PET OWNER

In a similar vein to posting pictures of your kids, no one really needs daily updates of what your dog, your cat or your ferret is doing. Now if you have a pet giraffe… that picture might be worth posting. But odds are you don’t. More often than not, you show us pictures of Fido or Fluffy sleeping, which – news flash!! – is what animals do! How many times have you seen a picture of a dog or a cat lying on a bed, with the caption “He thinks he’s people?” No… he doesn’t think he’s people. If he did, he’d be snapping pictures of you and posting them on Facebook saying “Ain’t my human cute?”

Here’s a general rule: If you have nothing interesting going on in your life, posting pictures of your pet is not going to make it appear as if you do. Quite the opposite, actually.


THE POLITICAL ACTIVIST (Right Wing Edition)

We get it... you hate Obama. He's a Muslim socialist who's middle name is Hussein. You bombard us with links from Fox News and The Drudge Report to "prove" your point. You see absolutely nothing crazy about the Tea Party and you think carrying a gun to a Presidential rally is a perfectly acceptable thing to do. You pledge allegiance to Rush Limbaugh and you cried like Glenn Beck when a black man moved into the Oval Office. Of course, we'll never get you to admit that last part... but you know it's true.

Ronald Reagan would NOT be proud.

THE POLITICAL ACTIVIST (Left Wing Edition)

We get it... you hate Sarah Palin. She's a dumb hick from the Alaskan sticks who probably hasn't read a single newspaper or magazine, let alone "all of them." You would drive a Toyota Prius, if you could afford one, but your disdain for Corporate America has left you with a minimum wage job and a 17 year old Toyota Tercel. (That Tercel, by the way, has a muffler that's -- ironically enough -- killing the environment.) You're less aggressive with your posts than your right wing counterparts, and you seem limited to wacky pictures with clever quips as your only way of getting your point across. You hate that China is using sweatshops to create American electronics, and you're the first to complain about it using your iPad.

THE GUILTY GUILT-TRIPPER

Look, I know cancer’s bad. And yes, heart disease kills millions of people every year. And don’t even get me started on food allergies. But for some reason, you think it’s important that I repost some depressing message you just shared about those health issues or some other medical or emotional matter. And what’s worse? You try to make me feel guilty by saying “95% of you won’t repost this.”

Well no kidding!! You know why? Because 95% of us have better things to do. 95% of us know that we’re clogging up people’s newsfeed when we share those lame facts and figures. 95% of us aren’t stupid. Just because you feel guilty when you don’t repost doesn’t mean the rest of us should too. Nobody here is rooting for cancer. No one has placed a bet on diabetes to win. We’re all on the same team here, even if we don’t literally “share” your sentiment.

THE SELF HIGH-FIVER

How do you get away with this? You're the person who posts something, waits a few seconds... then "likes" your own post. Are you THAT proud of your work? Do you think we don't notice that? It’s as if you’re trying to start a "like" barrage the way a performer at one of those dueling piano bars sets the tone with his tip jar by planting a couple of twenties? You're like a comedian who laughs at his own jokes -- usually because no one else will.

THE ONE LINER

Speaking of comedians, they say there’s one in every crowd – and Facebook is no different. You, however, are not as funny as you think you are… at least not all the time. Sure, we all appreciate a good one-liner every now and then, but Facebook isn’t your own personal stage at Brew Ha Ha’s Comedy Emporium. Instead of the “poke,” button, what Facebook needs is a “giant cane” feature so we can yank you off your virtual stage.

So what’s the deal? Are you testing the one-liners you’re gonna use in the break room at work? Are you writing a joke book? You’re the online version of some weird Carrot Top/Gallagher/Kenny Bania hybrid. And that’s not GOLD, Jerry. Not GOLD at all.


THE PROMOTER

How come we never see you unless you want something? You're the Facebook friend we forgot about, only to be reminded that you exist when you've got an event you want us to attend. Here's an idea: If you want us to see your show or come to your party, try interacting with us more than once every six months. Think about it... if someone you hadn't see in like, half-a-year called you out of the blue and asked you to come see his one-man Spice Girls performance, would you actually go? Probably not. And not just because that sounds like a really bad idea for a one-man show.

THE MUSIC MAN

For some reason, you think Facebook is your own personal version of Pandora or I Heart Radio, and that we've appointed you our mix-master DJ for life. If there's a music video that you like -- and apparently there's TONS OF THEM -- you're more than happy to share them, one right after the other. We can always tell what kind of mood you're in because you're never posting KISS videos at the same time you're offering up Kenny G or the Carpenters.

THE PREACHER MAN

You think you’re saving my soul, but all you’re really doing is sending me straight to Hell for all the awful things I’m thinking about you. You flood my newsfeed with Bible verses – and generally not the ones that actually pertain to anything. For example:

Deuteronomy 25:11-12 -- “If two men, a man and his countryman, are struggling together, and the wife of one comes near to deliver her husband from the hand of the one who is striking him, and puts out her hand and seizes his genitals, then you shall cut off her hand; you shall not show pity.”

What the…??? So if I’m in a fight and the other guy’s wife comes over to help him and she ends up grabbing my ((ahem)) “manhood”… it’s okay for me to slice off her hand? Really?? AND not feel guilty about it??? Wow…who knew? With versus like that, maybe they should call it DUDEeronomy.

Look, I get what you’re doing, and I appreciate that you’re looking out for my soul. But God himself would defriend you for all the clutter you put on our newsfeeds -- that is, if he accepted your friend request in the first place. He’s a busy man and doesn’t have time to navigate through dozens of passages from his own book.

THE PLAY-BY-PLAY GUY

We can always tell when your favorite team is playing because when you're watching it on TV, we're following along with you on Facebook -- even if we don't want to. Your posts are generally short but passionate, and they come at a rapid fire rate. They’re also heavily back loaded with exclamation marks.

"Boggs is horrible!!!"

"Get Boggs outta there!!!!!"

"Seriously!!! Get Boggs outta there!!!

"Finally!!! We need to trade Boggs!!!"

"Crap!!! Another Home Run!!!"

"We should never have taken Boggs outta the game!!!!"

Disclaimer: I readily admit that I am one of these types of posters. In fact, during Game 6 of last year's World Series, I famously posted "Freese sucks!!!" when St. Louis Cardinal David Freese dropped a routine fly ball. A game tying triple and game winning home run later, I was eating a giant platter of crow with a side of humble pie. And it couldn’t have tasted any better.


THE MARK

You're a con artist's dream. You can't resist clicking on that link promising two free tickets to anywhere Southwest Airlines flies, even though such a ridiculous offer to everyone on Facebook would certainly send the airline crashing to the ground. But all you have to do is type "Southwest Rocks!" and they'll e-mail you the tickets -- what could possibly be the harm in that? You're also checking your inbox for Six Flags tickets and waiting patiently for the mailman to deliver your free iPad. Maybe THEN you'll actually be able to see that hidden bedroom camera video of Justin Bieber and Selena Gomez.

Meanwhile... you've just given these scammers full access to your personal Facebook data... and perhaps much more. Hope it was worth it to find out what your name and/or eye color says about you.


THE HOST OF "KIDS SAY THE DARNDEST THINGS"

Perhaps you were a game show host in a previous life, but now your daily routine isn’t filled with cash and fabulous prizes. No worries. You can channel your inner Art Linkletter (or your inner Bill Cosby for the younger folks) and host your own home version of “Kids say the Darndest Things.” All you need is a pen, a piece of paper and a small child. Naturally, you’re happy to share this innocent dialogue with your Facebook friends.

Me: Do you have to go potty?
Billy: No, I already went potty?
Me: On your big-boy stool?
Billy: No Dad… in your freakin’ sock drawer! Of course on my big-boy stool!

Now unfortunately, most of these kiddie conversations aren’t that interesting. They’re cute… but not I-should-post-this-on-Facebook-right-away cute. So unless your kid does indeed say the darndest things, maybe you should think twice about letting us read the transcript.

THE THREAD KILLER

You rarely post anything of your own, but when you chime in on someone else's thread, the party comes to a screeching halt. That dark cloud you drag with you is the signal that the fun we’ve been having is about to end. You’re like George Orwell, Eeyore and Bad Luck Schleprock all rolled into one seriously depressing person. We were having fun posting quotes from Scooby Doo. Did you REALLY need to point out to us that dogs can’t really talk? Take one trip to Disneyworld and the “Happiest Place on Earth” would be put on suicide watch.

This is not to say you don’t have talents. It’s just that you should display them where they’re best served. Like funeral Homes, country music songs or traveling back in time to the Great Depression. You would have been a hit during the Dust Bowl.

“Oh Wowsie wowsie woo woo. Miserable day, isn’t it?”

CONCLUSION

So that’s it. Those are the main offenders to what is an otherwise pleasant Facebook experience. There are other posting personalities that I haven’t addressed here, including the people who only post movie quotes, those who link every piece of celebrity gossip available and the folks who constantly need your help in Farmville, Café World and Gnome Town. I’m sure there are many more.

Sadly, 95% of you will not share this article.
]]> Mon, 19 Mar 2012 05:23:39 CDT RabidDawgClassic Social Satire 2 http://thedailysatire.com/social/socially-inept-the-facebook-friends-you-should-probably-ignore-/ http://thedailysatire.com/social/the-hardest-word-to-say-is-%E2%80%98stutter%E2%80%99/
Broadening out slightly from this observation, we ask ourselves should we need to rewrite history? And why? Revisit footage of Adolf Hitler delivering his haunting speeches and we see why. In Hitler, we recognise a stammering signer. We realise that the hand signals he makes, he repeats several times over (see clip). Revisionists will say that the hard-of-hearing attending his rallies would have been quite sympathetic towards the Nazi leader, commonly remarking: ‘I haven’t a clue what he’s saying, but that Fuhrer’s got himself a terrible stammer’.

That bloke who wrote the screenplay to the ‘King’s Speech’ must be thinking there’s a sequel in the offering. ‘The Fuhrer’s Speech’. The kaiser’s therapist trying all sorts to shape up his subject for public speaking. The verbal stammerer will be encouraged to speak with a potato in their mouth, downgrading to something like a crisp as their speech improves. And similarly – ‘Mein Fuhrer, you must try again zis times wiz a potato in your hand,’ the therapist urges, attempting to apply the potato thing to the stammering signer’s problem. That doesn’t work and Adolf is urged to lift increasingly heavier loads of potatoes, until that is, he is asked to curl a 56 pound bag… He cracks. ‘Do you realise vot message this sends out to our foe, psychologically, on a propaganda level? Do you even know who ve are fighting?’ he barks at the feckless therapist. ‘Nein, nein, nein… I refuse to elevate King Edwards!’ ]]> Sun, 18 Mar 2012 19:33:16 CDT paulangliss Social Satire 2 http://thedailysatire.com/social/the-hardest-word-to-say-is-%E2%80%98stutter%E2%80%99/ http://thedailysatire.com/social/uganda-has-oil-support-the-invasion-kony-2012%C2%A0%7C%C2%A0british-imperial-party-1/
The British Imperial Party support a more honest politics. We also like invading places. An pillaging. We really like pillaging. ]]> Sun, 18 Mar 2012 09:00:06 CDT TheDailyShadow Social Satire 2 http://thedailysatire.com/social/uganda-has-oil-support-the-invasion-kony-2012%C2%A0%7C%C2%A0british-imperial-party-1/ http://thedailysatire.com/social/this-is-not-just-cheese-1/ Mon, 12 Mar 2012 15:18:16 CDT TheDailyShadow Social Satire 2 http://thedailysatire.com/social/this-is-not-just-cheese-1/ http://thedailysatire.com/social/squealing-about-deliverance/
It could be suggested to the delivery man that he could feasibly make more than one delivery per day. Say, one at 8, one at 9, one at 10 and so on. A pattern emerges. But, that concept simply misses the point. ‘If I were to do that, only one person would receive their delivery between 5 to 1 and 1 o’clock’, what is expected, yay, demanded,’ the deliverer will reason. ‘And I can’t be in two places at once.’

In all of this we shouldn’t be so self-centred. We should try to understand the world of the delivery man. A useful insight can be gained if we record him reserving a restaurant table:

‘’Ello, mate. Can I book a table… for two, lunchtime?’ he asks on the phone.

‘Certainly. What time would sir prefer?’

‘Between 8 and 1 o’clock.’

‘Uh, sir, you want me to reserve a table from 8 in the morning…? That is for five hours.’

‘What planet do you live on mate?’ says the delivery man, slightly irate. ‘We’ll be there at 5 to bloody 1.’
]]> Sun, 11 Mar 2012 19:02:35 CDT paulangliss Social Satire 2 http://thedailysatire.com/social/squealing-about-deliverance/ http://thedailysatire.com/social/false-advertising-funny-fake-adverts/
BTW I know the image I included as an example of the stuff you can find there isn't great quality, so hit follow link to go over to their site and see it properly. ]]> Fri, 09 Mar 2012 10:50:52 CST TheDailyShadow Social Satire 2 http://thedailysatire.com/social/false-advertising-funny-fake-adverts/ http://thedailysatire.com/social/local-news-esclusive-area-man-comes-good/
After becoming unhappy with his work as a Jeweller in Maspeth Queens, Vinny began to look around for a more interesting and less fiddly kind of work. In order to find the perfect occupation Vinny sat down with a pen and paper to write down all of his many talents, so that he would be able to pick the perfect job that would be fun, challenging and well paid. After a great deal of soul searching a dejected Vinny eventually gave up trying to list his talents, having only managed to think of two things: ‘can urinate into the toilet bowl from the bathroom door’ and ‘can now wear the same underwear for up to 8 days without major skid marks’.

Instead he decided to just go out, get drunk, and try to get laid. And Vinny did indeed do half of that. He went out, got drunk, and then sat at the bar feeling even more dejected after he remembered that nobody ever wants to have sex with him. And that is when Vinny hit upon what he thought was his genius idea – he would kill two birds with one stone and get a job starring in porn movies.

The very next day Vinny was sitting in the casting office of a well-known porn director. “Of course I’ll give you a job!” said the director “as soon as I saw your face I knew you would be perfect as the co-star in our new gay porn movie “I’ll fuck anyone when I’m drunk”.

After a brief and unfulfilling career in gay porn Vinny decided that he would like to play a more ‘active’ role in the porn industry, if you know what I mean, rather than always being someone else’s bitch. But this is where he ran into a problem. Nobody would cast him for anything which didn’t involve bending over and squealing like a piglet being stuck with a stick. They just kept telling him that he didn’t ‘fit’ their requirements, and then laughing.

Once again feeling dejected Vinny went home to jerk the chicken over his favourite porn movie ‘Midget Mania’. And it was then, whilst pulling the piglet and squealing like a little girl at a Justin Beiber concert (a strange habit, I know) that Vinny came up with his true genius idea. He had finally found a career which would be fitting for a man of his ‘stature’.

Vinny is now known the world over as one of the most successful actors in the whole field of midget porn. They used to call him the ‘biggest star of midget porn’, but after a series of legal actions this was demonstrated to be untrue.

And that is the story of how a local man, who goes by the name of Vinny the Skinny Ginny, came to find a fitting niche in life. Both for himself, and for is very, very, very small penis.
]]> Thu, 01 Mar 2012 07:14:36 CST TheDailyShadow Social Satire 2 http://thedailysatire.com/social/local-news-esclusive-area-man-comes-good/ http://thedailysatire.com/social/all-dead-mormons-are-now-gay/ Fri, 24 Feb 2012 15:11:52 CST Apocalection Social Satire 2 http://thedailysatire.com/social/all-dead-mormons-are-now-gay/ http://thedailysatire.com/social/the-vile-underbelly-for-99-99-a-month/ By Wendy Parker


In the recent forced conversion from trusty (and free) rabbit ears to pay cable and digital programming, an entire world of extremely specific and possibly litigious television channels have become available for my viewing pleasure. I have discovered television channels about television channels. There are entire networks dedicated to the extremely important issues of undiagnosed medical conditions caused by the ingestion of phlegm and the heartbreak of head lice among baby warthogs. There are endless streams of commercials about drugs and their disabling side effects, and not one part of the human anatomy is left private or sacred.

I became trapped in a never-ending vortex of food-you-wouldn't-even-try-to-cook-but-like-to-watch-other-people-cook and the benefits of colon cleansing being broadcast on the same channel, back to back, hour after hour. I have it on good authority that it's in violation of the Geneva Convention to carry out such torture, and of course, the matter is being looked into as we speak.

Among the swirling abyss of pointlessness, there are several venues dedicated to what some people call comedy. I became transfixed by one of these portals straight from hell the other night and was enlightened to the fact that drunk people will laugh at absolutely anything.

Obtain a camera and someone willing to get slammed in the private parts with a Volkswagen while being filmed and presto! You’ve got a prime time comedy special. If you care to frankly discuss vile personal habits involving toe nails and having sexual relations with a chicken while intoxicated and driving a school bus full of mentally challenged children to church, then by God you’ve got a series and two movie deals.

I was more than a little annoyed and a somewhat concerned that so many people seem to think it’s the height of hilarity to live in a trailer. Everyone knows that living in a trailer affords you the privilege of not having to wear your tin foil hat while reclining in your LayZ Boy.

It is also widely rumored that people who live in trailers will be the only ones to survive the alien invasion planned for 2013. When asked for comment, organizers of said invasion claim this to be slanderous rumor and innuendo, but it's common knowledge that you can’t trust anything a filthy alien says.

As I continued to flip through the seven-hundred channels (all for just 99.99 a month) I realized the incredibly dangerous implications of these specialized forums.

One show encouraged me to rent and use a nail gun that has the ability to shoot a nail approximately the size of a steak knife with the deadly force of a .22 caliber handgun. The only safety rule involved was to ‘be sure to use protective eye wear'.

I’m assuming this is to protect your eyes from the shattered glass of your neighbors’ front picture window. You might also want to include ear plugs so that you won’t have to listen to the anguished cries of the mailman after you nail him in the skull while attempting a simple shingle repair on the roof, which is at least twenty feet from the ground.

Never any mention of the deadly force gravity may have upon your spleen should you fall off the roof while inadvertently murdering a federal employee with the rented nail gun. I did check with the Home Depot though, and you definitely do not get your deposit back if someone dies while using a contracted weapon of destruction from their establishment.

This all being said, I still cannot seem to tear myself away from the old channels, the ones that we could get for free in the good old days (2008).

I always meander back to whether or not Nick and Sharon will ever be a couple again and all of the fantastic douche and diaper commercials that come with them. I still get a thrill when I hear the opening music for the Johnny Carson Show (yes I know the name has changed – leave me to my fantasy) and I still wonder why any bodily fluid represented in advertisements is blue. I’ve contacted the authorities on bodily fluids, but they were all absorbed at the time and will get back to me at a later date when I, of course, will explain it to you. I know, and you're welcome. ]]> Sun, 12 Feb 2012 14:26:13 CST wbparker1 Social Satire 2 http://thedailysatire.com/social/the-vile-underbelly-for-99-99-a-month/ http://thedailysatire.com/social/big-bang-theory-redefines-comedy-comedy-no-longer-means-funny/
In a move that's sure to rock Hollywood’s creative community, the producers of the CBS sitcom The Big Bang Theory have successfully petitioned Webster's Dictionary to change the definition of the word "comedy." The move comes as networks are encouraging studios to be more accurate in the descriptions of their programming.

"For the longest time we've billed our show as a comedy," said Big Bang Executive Producer Chuck Lorre. "The problem is, under the old definition, comedies are supposed to be humorous, and that just wasn't the case. So we had two choices; either start writing scripts are neither unamusing nor predictable, or reinvent the meaning of the word. It was really a simple decision."

Previously, "comedy" was defined as "entertainment which invokes laughter." But under the new classification -- which is effective immediately -- "comedy" is listed as "bland and stereotypical entertainment which lacks creativity and is devoid of humor." The change allows Big Bang producers to retain the show's current comedic status without having to undergo a massive overhaul.

"For the longest time, I thought people who criticized the show didn't understand its humor," said Big Bang fan Fletcher Randolph. "But then one day I looked up the word 'humor' in the dictionary and I was like 'whoa! Humor means funny?' Then I felt kind of cheated because I don't remember ever actually laughing."

The program -- which revolves around a group of socially awkward scientists and their attractive female friend – has generated laughter in the past, despite its overall lack of funniness. Despite claims from producers that they don’t use a laugh track to “sweeten” the responses from the studio audience, the crowd seems to laugh at every line – even those that aren’t designed as jokes.

“I remember this one time,” recalled Big Bang fan Eugene Feldspar, “where Sheldon walked into the room and said his mom sent him his old Nintendo system and the crowd just went crazy, like it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. Then he said something about drinking Red Bull and ‘rocking Mario old school’ and the audience was just beside itself. Personally, I didn’t see what was so funny about that, but the crowd was in hysterics so I went ahead and laughed too. Oh man, talk about bustin’ a gut!”

The change in comedy’s definition is being hailed by others in the entertainment industry as well. Producers of such shows as Two and a Half Men, How I met Your Mother and Whitney, praised the decision, which allows their shows to still be considered comedic without having to make any major script or character changes. However, those in charge of shows that are truly funny, such as Community, 30 Rock and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia are now scrambling to figure out just what genre they now fit into.

“We can’t call ourselves a comedy anymore because we actually make people laugh” said Tina Fey, the creator and star of NBC’s 30 Rock. “I suppose we could dumb down our scripts, make them appeal to mass audiences and maybe even pick up a dozen or so ratings points in the process. Or maybe we could just shout at each other all at once, flip over a table or two and call ourselves a reality show. We could also make people feel that their life has meaning by allowing them text in and vote.”

“What’s Paula Abdul doing these days?” Fey added. “Maybe we could have her get drunk and judge us or something.”

Regardless, Big Bang fans are happy that they no longer have to fake their mirth.

“I told all my friends they had to watch that show because it’s hilarious.” Said Big Bang fan Johnny Fortz. “But did you know that ‘hilarious’ means ‘outrageously funny?’ Wow! Talk about egg on my face. I mean, that’s the opposite of what I thought it meant. This new ruling makes it easier to watch the show without having to worry about why it’s not making me laugh.”
]]> Tue, 07 Feb 2012 09:14:12 CST RabidDawgClassic Social Satire 2 http://thedailysatire.com/social/big-bang-theory-redefines-comedy-comedy-no-longer-means-funny/ http://thedailysatire.com/social/the-futon-phenomenon/
The first time a student felt dissatisfaction with his bedroom furniture was when he discovered, on getting lucky, that he was sleeping with another person on a single bed narrower than one single person and that a wet patch needed to be avoided. That situation remained the norm right up to the 1980s when one undergraduate suddenly decided that they wanted a lot more out of their bed. One of the conditions was that it should be a cheap bed by night, a sofa you can keep slipping off while you’re sitting on it during the day. The idea took off and the UK found itself the biggest importer of futons outside the Orient. And so it continues.

So perhaps now is a good time for the UK to export to Japan, in exchange, some of our culture that centres around our old futon-substitutes, our beds.

The ‘Futon and Breakfast’ could be adopted as a Japanese version of the cheaper end of the hotel market. And it would be a lot more flexible in its function than the English Bed and Breakfast. Guests wouldn’t necessarily have to stay overnight. They could just come for breakfast when the futon has been made up into a slippy off sofa (after the sleeping tenants have woken up, of course). In Japan, you would also be able to offer a special English custom treat: knock on the bedroom door and chime, ‘Happy Birthday, darling. No, don’t get up, I’ve brought you breakfast in futon…. before we make it up into a sofa, that is.’ And that’s the same partner we were attracted to in the first place because we fell for their ‘come-to-futon’ eyes. On the other hand, though, we could be first up in the morning, returning to our partner in the bedroom for a fierce rebuke: ‘You were last to come in last night. You left the door wide open. We could have been murdered in our futons!’

On the downside there is the problem of the odd cultural misunderstanding cropping up. Take that old chestnut where an elderly Japanese grandparent decides to go study in the UK. Alarm becomes terror when the family rings up his digs to discover from a fellow-student that he’s on his death futon. He was getting on, they fret. We should never have let him go. The family automatically buys tickets en bloc on the next outward flight to discover when they arrive that grandad’s mate was only stating the obvious after another student night out on the sake.

]]> Fri, 03 Feb 2012 21:18:11 CST paulangliss Social Satire 2 http://thedailysatire.com/social/the-futon-phenomenon/ http://thedailysatire.com/social/celebrity-cultured/ by Lee Bullen

A scruffy young mum, opens the gate to a modest council house on a Hounslow estate. She wheels a pram past a mock baroque fountain to the front of the house where a gold plaque boasts: 'CELEBRITY MANOR'. Alongside, a commemorative blue plate reads:
2009-
ORLANDO SANTA CRUZ
& LANCE OGDEN
Celebrities
Underneath, ‘twats’ has been scrawled in chalk. The ‘a’ and the ‘t’ tastefully weathered by Father Time. Chanelle rings the bell. Irene Cara - Fame booms out. Mounted above her head, a security camera fixes on her.

Failing to add a hint of intended showbiz sophistication, the eclectic living room houses an odd array of old and new materialistic statements. A large, wall-mounted TV resides beneath showy chandeliers. An ornate interior fountain sits opposite a cross-eyed polar bear rug.
Preened Orlando Santa Cruz, toned beneath a silk dressing gown, races down the stairs to see who’s outside, a leather belt tied around his blistered neck.
Mousey Lance Ogden jostles alongside, wearing headache-inducing pyjamas. Orlando edges in front and Lance yanks him back by the belt. Orlando skims down the last steps on his rear.
At the foot of the stairs they see the glum girl on the TV and both groan in disappointment. Lance turns to Orlando, massaging his throat.
'What’s with the belt?'
Orlando scans the room. 'Was just ‘avin a near-death wank' he replies. Lance shrugs quizzically. 'Auto-erotic asphyxiation' Orlando explains. Lance grimaces.
'I’m trying out this new wild-man image, right? Well, they’re all at it, the A-list bad boys' says Orlando. Lance ponders and nods.
'Any good?', he asks.
Orlando gestures to the TV. 'Dunno. Didn’t get to ‘see the light’ thanks to your stalker'.
Lance looks at the TV just as Chanelle glares into the camera. He nervously ducks down. 'Can she see me through that?'
Frumpy Lucy Mass, appears from under a sleeping-bag.
'Since when did you lot care about privacy?'
Wearing sweatpants and Greenpeace T-shirt, she sits up, yawning. A poster of Karl Marx high-fiving Che Guevara reigns over her corner of revolutionary regalia. Her pink sleeping-bag is emblazoned with Disney Princesses.
Orlando turns angrily, 'Hey! Sleep in your own room!'
Lucy gestures to the living room. 'That would mean crossing the sea of tasteless tat... This corner is my Tibet!'
A section of chandelier falls from the ceiling, narrowly missing her. 'The rest is very much ‘Made in China’!'
Orlando steps forward, 'Well, I still want my pillar back!'
Orlando points to the toppled-over polystyrene pillar which resides in Lucy’s self-declared corner of the room. Covered in cobwebs, with bullet-holes and blood stains, a carved inscription reads: ‘symbol of my struggle’
'Never!' Lucy hisses.
The doorbells plays The Stone Roses – I Wanna Be Adored. Orlando turns excitedly to Lance, 'Quick, flick the fountain on...'
'No, it leaks.' replies Lance.
Orlando eagerly leans across and starts the fountain. 'Your one and only fan deserves the same treatment as all of mine!'
Orlando turns him to face the door. Lance starts to prepare himself.
Orlando carefully unbuckles the belt around his neck. The leather sticks to his blistered skin and dangles. He toys at it as Lucy approaches. She swiftly rips the belt from his skin and yanks the door open, leaving Lance grooming in front of the deadpan young mum.
'Aaaarrrggghhhhh!' screams Orlando.
'Oh. Hi Chanelle!' stutters Lance.
Chanelle thrusts a CD single under Lance’s nose. The cover displays a pretentious photo of Lance, with the title ‘Parachuting Love-Aid To Your Heart’.
'Can I have my £2.99 back?' she asks.
'This again!
'But it’s pish.' she says.
'It was three years ago!'
The young mum looks stumped. She picks up a baby doll from the pram and thrusts it into Lance’s face. 'It’s yours!'
Lance calmly places it back in the pram. Orlando appears at the door sporting a ruff. He puts on a Mediterranean accent. 'Hi. Orlando Santa Cruz...'
Lucy shouts from inside the house, 'Your name’s Mass - Same as mine!'
Orlando smiles and offers his hand. Chanelle picks up the doll and thrusts it at Orlando. 'It’s yours!'
Orlando looks surprised. He cradles the doll, a tear wells.
Struggling agent, Des'ree O'hara, approaches the group carrying a set of newspapers. Jewellery-clad and overly made-up, Des’ree grabs the doll from Orlando and tosses it into the garden fountain. She
pulls Orlando close.
'For God’s sake, you’re supposed to be a ‘wild man’, remember? - and here you are in public, wearing a ruff and carrying on like an ole fanny... you...' she softens, '...beautiful man!'
Des’ree grabs Orlando’s face and kisses his lips. She releases him and swans past Lance, glaring at him disapprovingly.

Des’ree marches into the house, hits the wet spot by the leaking interior fountain, and flies through the air, landing face-down on the polar bear rug. She looks up, shaken. Lance casually gestures to the rug, 'Oh, yeh. S’why that’s there.'
Des’ree dusts herself down. She barks at Lance, 'Papers!'
Lance scrambles to collect the fallen newspapers.
'How’d I get on, Des’ree?' Lance asks.
She grabs the stack from his hands, 'Erm... best we start with Orlando... Page 7, angel cheeks! - You’re back!' She hands Orlando a red top and points to a photo of him drunkenly falling out of a nightclub with a young starlet.
The photo shows the girl on the pavement, knickers on show, as a white-suited Orlando vomits beside her. The headline and lead paragraph read:
LOVE SICK
Former Big Brother star,
Orlando Santa Cruz, and X-Factor
sensation, Rose Monroe, painted the
pavement red last night...
Orlando beams, 'Great photo! We only met and ran through that five minutes before. That’s Sunny Delight I’m spewing there.'
'And it worked a treat! - Great exposure for you and Super-Lungs Monroe.' says Des'ree.
Orlando suggestively nudges Lance, 'A name that applies to more than just her singing!'
Lucy jumps in, 'Like you’d know - You were pleasuring yourself with a belt first thing this morning!'
Lance laughs. Lucy turns to him, 'Her father drinks with ours. He had his hit single the same year that Dad won the snooker title. It was arranged between them last month during a 4-day drinking session.'
'I thought your dad was in rehab?' asks Des'ree.
'Yeh... well... he dug a tunnel...' Lucy nervously answers.
Des’ree looks stumped. She turns to Orlando, 'We’ve got to build on this with a more famous love interest. Really crank up th new wild-man profile.'
Lucy scoffs. Des’ree steps towards Orlando. 'Orlando, babe... for our next love-match, we’re going to need...'
'No Des’ree. No... Me and Lucy don’t speak to her.' barks Orlando.
'But in her showbiz heyday...'
'She was a page 3 girl!' Lucy interrupts.
Des’ree looks intently at Orlando. He scratches his head.
'I dunno...'
Des'ree butts in, 'Look! - She used to know the father of the holy grail we now seek...'
Orlando looks up. 'Holy Grail?'
Des’ree nods emphatically. 'An Emmerdale starlet!'
Orlando whoops and high-fives Des’ree. Lance looks gutted while Lucy walks off in disgust.
'Where are you going, Lucy? Don’t you want to know what I’ve got for you?' asks Des'ree.
Lucy replies curtly, 'No! You’re not my agent.'
'You’re my agent. What you got for me?' demands Lance.
Des’ree ignores him. She continues to press Lucy. 'So you’re not interested in a writing commission in Tibet?'
Lucy’s ears prick up. Des’ree hands her an envelope. 'A hypnotist on my books is married to the editor of a travel guide...'
Lucy sarcastically interjects, 'Suppose they met when he cured her fear of flying?'
'That’s right!' says Des'ree, 'Ironically he tried the same on the last writer, but she now thinks she’s a barnacle goose... so, they need a replacement to travel tomorrow.'
Lucy looks stunned. Des’ree coolly turns away and gathers the newspapers. She turns to Lance who looks at her expectantly. 'Door!' she shouts to him.
Des’ree makes for the front door. Lance scrambles to get there before her, slipping at the fountain.
'Anything about my story there?' he asks.
Des’ree swans out. Lance watches after her and notices broken shards of blue porcelain on the garden path. He takes out a new commemorative blue plate and proudly hangs it on the vacated hook on the outside wall.

Des’ree’s modest office contains a scruffy sofa and TV at one end, opposite a large desk, where rests a half-empty bottle of Martini, a half-eaten apple and a photo of an overweight cat.
Black & white photos of unknown clients dot the walls. A lifesize cardboard cutout of Simon Cowell stands at the side of her throne-like chair.
Lance paces in front of Des’ree, who is sat at her desk, staring intently at the remaining Martini.
'What about my celebrity hero story?'
Des’ree remains fixed on the bottle.
'Des’ree!'
She startles and tosses a folded newspaper towards Lance. 'Alright. Alright - You made page 29.'
Lance looks relieved. 'Well that’s not bad, I thought I hadn’t made the papers at all the way you’ve...'
'In the Hounslow Gazette.' Des'ree bluntly states.
Lance’s face drops. He despondently tries to sit on the desk.
'Don’t sit! I’m prolly gonna cock a leg up there.' says Des'ree. Lost in thought, he stands again. Unsure what to do, Des’ree hoists a leg on the table.
'But I dragged a cat out of the town canal in front of loads of people.' whines Lance.
Des’ree points to the newspaper. 'Says here that it mauled you to pieces. Nothing about a rescue.'
'Well, yes, it mauled me - it probably knew it was me that pushed it in - but everyone saw me go in the canal for it.'
Des'ree ponders a moment. 'And whose idea was this setup?' she asks.
'Yours!'
'Well, there y’are, see? People just aren’t interested anymore...'
Lance looks at Des'ree in disbelief as tall, shaven-headed Rusty Turner enters the office in trendy, casual clothing.
Des’ree gets to her feet with open arms. 'Fair-turn’ Turner!'
'He does a fair turn!', they both say together.
Des'ree grins. 'You never did go in for the grandiose prefixes of other magicians, did ya?'
'Hypnotist!' Rusty corrects. 'Besides, it’s just Rusty now. I’m a record producer these days.'
Des'ree confusedly stares at him. He shrugs.
'Well, it’s all got so easy now no one uses emotive musicians anymore.'
Des’ree nods.
'I’m here about some numpty on your books... Lance Ogden?'
Lance eagerly steps forward. 'I am said ‘numpty’!'
Rusty eyes him disdainfully. 'I wanna speak to you about a video appearance for my new track.'
Lance looks excited. Rusty continues, 'Me and the rap-artist, Bullethole, sampled your pish song from a few years back.'
Lance nods along, pretending to not be offended.
'We needed a parachute hook and, obviously - otherwise we would never have touched that trite - we couldn’t find anything better.'
Lance forces a smile.
'So we sampled the ‘Parachuting Love’ bit from ‘Parachuting Love-Aid To Your Heart’, and cleverly repeated it continuously over a drum sequencer.' explains Rusty.
Des’ree excitedly mimes a hand-clap.
Rusty continues, 'We’re marketing it with an ‘underground edge’ by getting my annoying nephew to rap and snarl a bit - Radio play and advance sales are brutal.'
'Fantastic!' says Des'ree.
'And do I get royalties for this?' asks Lance.
'No. We checked. Your former management team get the lot - and a kidney when required, apparently.'
Lance nods.
'You’ll get a fee for a day filming the video - I presume by your current state of affairs you’re available now?' asks Rusty bluntly.
Lance reluctantly concurs.
'You’ll also have a ‘featuring’ credit as well as a bit of exposure.' says Rusty.
Lance nods contentedly. He smooths an eyebrow. 'And am I the star in the video?'
'No.' Rusty says coldly.
Lance nobly nods. 'Ok. And will lunch be incl...'
'No.'
Silence falls. Des’ree shrugs at Rusty.
'Don’t worry... I’ll parachute-pack a lunch!' jokes Lance.
Rusty turns to leave, 'I’ll wait in the van.'

George and Gloria Mass, impeccably dressed in black waistcoats and trousers, sit in the light, tastefully decorated living room of their manor home. Exhibits of George’s illustrious snooker career occupy the space behind Orlando; sat opposite his parents, looking uncomfortable.
George is distractedly edgy. Gloria peers at Orlando disapprovingly.
'So you’re still a childless man-spinster?'
Orlando looks up, affronted.
'...and what about Lucy? asks Gloria.
'No man could take that level of mental abuse, mum...' He mutters under his breath, '...God knows where she gets it from!'
George dryly interjects, 'Your dopey friend Lance could.'
Orlando laughs. He suddenly stops to ponder this. George walks to a small bar area, where a row of vodka optics hang at head height. He sets up shot glasses on the bar-top.
Gloria leans forward and whispers to Orlando. 'He’s been a week off the booze. Docs scared the crap out of him this time.'
Gloria lowers her voice, 'Those bottles are filled with water – He thinks they still have a hint of flavour!'
She lovingly crinkles her nose at George as he knocks back the shots. Orlando changes the subject.
'So how are you both?'
Gloria excitedly claps her hands. 'We’re doing fantastically well - as is anyone with a few bob during this crisis!'
George and Gloria guffaw. He sits down next to Gloria. They take each others' hand.
'Well, as you can see, your dad and I are back together again... We’re thinking we might even get married this time.'
They kiss. Orlando rudely scoffs.
George takes a cube of blue cue-chalk from his waistcoat pocket and hurls it Orlando’s head.
Orlando scowls as he rubs his forehead.
Gloria slips on a headset-mic. 'Right, gotta go. I’m actually working right now.'
Orlando looks up. 'Yeh? What’re you up to?'
'Catty Consulting.'
Orlando looks confused. 'But you don’t know anything about cats...'
'No. ‘Catty’ - as in malevolent bitch.' George says dryly.
Gloria proudly smiles. 'And a rather gifted one! - People pay a fortune for my consort.'
'Really?' says Orlando surprisedly.
'Yeh. Take socialite, Plums & Cream O'Ryan. She wants to get at her dad for buying her an ugly yacht, so I suggest a fake, highprofile engagement to a pointless celebrity... that’s what I’m organising.'
Orlando's eyes widen. 'Plums & Cream is getting engaged here? Now?'
'Yes, but it’s just a ruse, dear. They’re gonna make a fortune from all the break-up scandals I’ve got organised! Says Gloria, rubbing her hands.
Orlando sits up. 'So who’s the celebrity gonna be? Coz, y’know...'
'Your Dad.' says Gloria.
Orlando chokes on air. 'What!'

Lance, dressed in a red jumpsuit, jumps excitedly beside a small aeroplane on an airfield. Alongside, Rusty and his rapper nephew stand with the cameraman. Rusty hands Lance a backpack.
'Right. So you’re going up with Brian here, the cameraman who’s gonna film your tandem jump. Your instructor’s on his way.'
Lance stops dead. 'Sorry. What’s going on?'
Rusty tuts. 'For the video. We’re filming you mime the line ‘Parachuting love’ as you free-fall
from 12,000 feet - Was that not clear?'
'No, it wasn’t! - Look, I’m like, really scared of heights. The highest I’ve ever been was getting in a car with George Michael.'
Rusty sighs impatiently. 'Well, the frickin’ song’s called ‘Parachuting Love’ and you’re standing on
an airstrip wearing a jumpsuit, I thought it was pretty obvious.'
Bullethole scoffs. Rusty composes himself. An idea comes. He grabs Lance's shoulders and looks at him assuredly.
'I’m a hypnotist... I can put you under.'
Lance shakes his head. 'Oh... I dunno...'
'Look, you’ll go up there, do the jump, mime the line, land safely and won’t know a thing.'
Lance looks skeptical. 'Does it hurt?'
'No... you’ll be in a trance and when you hear ‘un-dos-tres’ you’ll come round again.'
Lance looks confused. 'But I don’t speak Spanish.'
Rusty sighs.
'Ooh, did you just teach me it then?' asks Lance.

Orlando jumps to his feet. 'But why Dad? Why not me?'
Gloria sighs. 'Look, since retiring, your Dad’s done nothing but drink! Now he’s teetotal he needs
something to do.
George picks up a box of chocolate liqueurs and desperately shakes the contents into his mouth.
'A big story like this and he’ll be on the next series of ‘Dancing on Ice’. After that, the path opens up.' says Gloria.
'Yeh... MY path!' Orlando says incredulously.
'Anyway, the media will be here soon... Must get on...' says Gloria, turning to leave.
'Wait! I need to speak to you abo...' Orlando stops short. Gloria glares and walks out.
Orlando grins to himself. 'Media!'
A devilish look crosses his face. He spies several crates of champagne sitting in the hall.
He peers over at his father, now licking a bowl clean.
George shouts out to Gloria, 'Did you put any sherry in this trifle, dear?'

Lucy, smiling and resplendent in Tibetan robes, sits at her workstation at home and calls Lance’s number from her mobile phone.
Lance, expressionless, sits calmly as wind noisily rushes in from the open door of the plane in flight. Robot-like, he removes his phone. 'Lance Ogden.'
'Hey, you. Wot ‘cha doin?' asks Lucy breezily.
'Being a confident individual, unafraid of heights and completely open to the practice of skydiving.'
'Riiight' says Lucy, confused. 'Anyway... guess where I’m flying to tomorrow?'
'Concluding from your jaunty demeanour I confidently surmise Tibet. And that the travel editor has offered you the writing commission. I offer my Congratulations.'
'Are you okay?' Lucy asks suspiciously.
'No. I am promptly melancholic that the woman I’ve admired since secondary education is to discover a far-off destiny void of my loving participation,' says Lance without emotion.
The instructor taps Lance on the shoulder. 'I must now terminate the call. It appears my instructor is ready to mount me.'
The dark, moustached Spanish instructor places his hands on Lance’s shoulders and shouts above the wind din.
'Buenos días... Estás preparado?'
'Lance replies, 'Si, colega. Completamente.'

An overly-photogenic Plums & Cream O'Ryan is seated at the head table in a small dining hall in George and Gloria's manor. An empty chair beside her.
Gloria, standing behind, addresses the small group of guests and media. Talking through her headset-mic, her voice booms. 'Ladies and gentlemen. Members of the press. In just a moment, we’ll proudly present Plums & Cream’s fiancée...'

From within the dimly lit living room, Gloria's muffled announcement echos around the walls. '...but first, allow me to give you a clue! - He’s a highly accomplished, much-admired genius in his field, and someone who I personally know and love dearly...'
Antsy, Orlando hastily fastens the buttons on a black waistcoat. His phone rings. He clumsily handles it.
'What?' he barks.
'Where are you?' asks Lucy.
'Mum & Dads’.'
'Turncoat!'
Orlando tuts. 'Not now.' He starts to groom himself, shouldering the phone.
'Guess what? - I’m going to Tibet!' Lucy announces excitedly. Orlando murmurs along, pretending to listen.
'Why is no one excited about this?' Lucy asks herself. She puts the phone back to her ear. 'Listen, I’m leaving first thing and need to pack. Go find Lance, it sounds like he’s in some trouble.'
Orlando snaps back to the conversation.
'What? - No... I can’t...' His face turns white, 'I think I’m about to get engaged!'
He hangs up. At his feet, amidst several empty champagne bottles, lies George in his underwear, drunkenly moaning!
Wearing George’s fineries, Orlando takes a deep breath and walks towards the dining hall. Gloria voice beckons the mystery man. '...so allow me to now welcome to the head table, Plum & Cream’s best-kept secret.'
The guests’ applause rings through the walls. A cunning smile crosses Orlando’s face.

Lance, strapped to the front of the Spanish instructor and seated by the open door, stares serenely ahead. The instructor gives Brian the cameraman the thumbs up and he exits. He then taps Lance on the shoulder.
'Okay? - Vamos.' Cradling Lance, the instructor rocks back and forth. He counts aloud, 'Un... dos... tres!'
The pair roll out of the plane.
Lance jolts to consciousness in free-fall. The scene in front of him sinks in.
'Aaaaarrrrrggggghhhhhhh!'

Orlando confidently struts into the hall. The applause dies down and disappointed groans fill the air.
Cameras sporadically flash.
'Genius in his field?' a reporter sarcastically shouts.
Orlando sits next to Plums & Cream, who turns quizzically to Gloria, looking stunned. She speaks into her mic.
'Er... Ladies and gentlemen. Chris Ma...'
Orlando springs up and speaks into Gloria’s mic. '...Orlando Santa Cruz!'
Light hand-clapping ensues. Orlando looks round at Plums & Cream who seductively eyes him. He returns the look.
Under the table, she places a hand on his thigh.
'Play this right and I may take you away this weekend!'

Des’ree, sat at her desk watching TV, an apple core on the table, drinks the last of the Martini from the bottle. 'Lunch over!'
On the news channel, she sees a live feed with the banner:
PLUMS & CREAM AND ORLANDO SANTA CRUZ TO MARRY
Live from their engagement at Bluechalk Manor.
She stares open-eyed. 'Oh, this is big!' She grabs her jacket and scrambles out of the office.
'You beautiful man!'

The dining hall is in good spirits with Orlando, next to Plums & Cream, impressively batting questions from the press.
'Are you two ‘soul-mates’?' asks one smiling reporter.
'I don’t know about soul-mates... but we definitely mate with all our soul!'
The room erupts. Photos flash. Plums & Cream spontaneously kisses Orlando. Gloria jumps in.
'Okay. That’s all for now, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you very much for coming.'
Guests start to pack-up. Des’ree rushes in, greeting anyone ‘important-looking’ as she makes her way to the head table.
'Hi. Des’ree O’Hara. Orlando’s Fame Guru... Hi. Des’ree. Fame Guru...'
At the head table, Gloria angrily barks into Orlando’s ear, 'What happened to your father?'
'Oh, think he may ‘ave fallen-off the wagon,' says Orlando with innocent eyes. 'I had to step in, mother.'
Gloria glares at him before hurrying off to find George.
Des’ree greets Orlando with open arms. He gets up, grinning.
'Emmerdale starlets? - Pah! - You’ve hit the jackpot, son!'
Plums & Cream jokingly interrupts. 'This one’s mine!'
She looks Orlando deep in the eye. She leans in seductively.
'Pack a bag. You’re coming away with me tonight!' She gyrates against him. Two members of her security entourage tap her on the shoulder to leave. She looks longingly at Orlando, grabs his groin and departs.
Des'ree turns excitedly to Orlando. 'The phone is gonna ring off the hook!'
Orlando distractedly watches Plums & Cream leave. Aroused, he shifts his groin and turns to Des’ree. 'Sorry, Des’ree... but I... need the loo...'
Orlando rushes off. Des’ree turns to the nearest ‘suit’. 'Hi. Des’ree O’Hara. Fame Guru...'

Aroused, Orlando stands in front of a large mirror in the downstairs bathroom, and excitedly whips off his clothes. Standing semi-naked, making sex faces at his reflexion, he carries away.
After a moment he notices a belt hanging on the door. He pauses. A devilish look creases his face. He takes the belt off the hook...

Des’ree stands next to a TV Reporter as he hangs up a call.
'They tell me there’s nothing bigger to lead with, so the engagement will be the main showbiz story tonight.' he tells Des'ree, who grins excitedly.
'Barring some humiliating catastrophe!' he jokes.
Des’ree playfully wags a finger. She kisses his cheek. 'Fantastic! - Orlando’s gonna be huge...' She pauses for effect. '...barring some humiliating catastrophe!'
The pair laugh.

Outside on George and Gloria's driveway, an ambulance speeds off, sirens blaring. Des’ree stands in utter disbelief, shaking her head.
George wobbles alongside Gloria, looking weary and still halfnaked. They smirk smugly as the ambulance disappears.
The reporter finishes a phone call and looks over at Des’ree. He sympathetically shrugs, rubs his hands and hurries off.

Lucy, in Tibetan attire, stands by her cleared corner of the living room. A Disney Princesses bag sits by her feet. She looks around. 'Guess I’m packed then.'
Her phone rings. 'Oh. Hi, Liz! - Yeh, all set to go...' She scoffs loudly, 'Lance? He’s fine. Tell Rusty it’s a small fracture - Although he thinks he’s dying!' She laughs, 'Yeh! - I know he is...'
Lucy looks serious. 'No, no, no. I’m not gonna be his wet nurse! - He’s got Orlando to look after
him... nothing can stop me going to...'
Lucy stops dead, eyes transfixed on the plasma screen showing a photo of Orlando with the headline graphic:
ORLANDO SANTA CRUZ IN “NEAR-DEATH W*NK” CATASTROPHE
“All the A-list bad boys are up to it” says gruff-voiced star.
The story cuts to the TV reporter beaming smugly at a hospital.
'Sources now tell us that following the scenes at Bluechalk Manor, Orlando’s father - snooker idol, George Mass – has ran off with Plums & Cream to a ‘secret, spicy, sex-haven’. His long-term glamour girlfriend, Gloria, is said to be ‘mildly peeved’...'
Stunned, Lucy drops the phone. A section of chandelier narrowly misses her. She doesn’t notice.

Lance, with his ankle in plaster, and Orlando, wearing a neck brace, sit together on the sofa watching TV.
Lucy, wearing a saucy nurse outfit and red lipstick, seductively puts her finger in Lance’s mouth. She whispers breathlessly, 'Let me take your temperature, big boy...'
Lance snaps out of his daydream. Lucy, standing grumpily in front of Lance, wearing T-shirt and sweatpants, holds a tray of medication and water. She drops it on Orlando’s lap, who dramatically yelps. She marches back to her corner.
Des’ree enters the house and casts Orlando a dirty look. Lucy immediately leaves. Des’ree calls after her.
'Don’t be like that - I couldn’t look after them - I’m cleaning up all the mess...'
Lucy points to the pair and accumulated clutter. 'Yes, you are!'
She slams the door. Des’ree walks right past Orlando and sits next to Lance. She shuffles close and ruffles his hair.
'How’s my favourite client today?' Des'ree hands him a lollypop. Surprised, Lance gleefully accepts.
'Guess who has a fresh-of-the-press copy of the ‘Parachuting Love’ video?' teases Des'ree.
Lance sits up. 'Yeh? - Wicked! Whack it on...'
Des’ree tosses it at Orlando, who begrudgingly puts it in the player.
'At last a client who’s not a total arsehole!' she aims at him.
Orlando sits down. The title graphic to the video reads:
RUSTY with BULLETHOLE feat LANCE OGDEN
Orlando and Lance look at each in shock. They read aloud, 'Rusty bullethole - Lance Ogden?'
As the naff song and video plays, the trio stare with mouths agape. They shrink in their seats.
Des’ree jumps up, unbuckles her belt and makes a noose with it. She menacingly gestures at both of them. Terrified, the pair lean close and protect their throats.
'Oh, this isn’t going round your necks...'
]]> Thu, 26 Jan 2012 10:52:46 CST leebullen Social Satire 2 http://thedailysatire.com/social/celebrity-cultured/