The Sunday Paper

Luckily for you, now you can get your news from the Shack.  Allow me to tell you what to think about everything in our new segment, The Sunday Paper.

Extrey! Extrey! We're all gonna die!

There are political ad junkies?  Those people must really hate themselves.  Not as much as I’m going to hate myself come October, though.  I’ll see you all on the Tobin Bridge.

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“According to neighbors,” this article reads, “Kingsley and her boyfriend got into an argument that turned ugly.”  A fire, multiple stab wounds, and some lunatic woman getting shot to death?  That’s just some shit that I saw on the way from The Burren to Orleans last weekend.  Let me know if a bomb explodes next time, or if Jimmy Tingle becomes involved.

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I’m so sick of this guy Rim Job Il.  The official state textbooks of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea claim that this guy was born in a log cabin on the top of a sacred mountain, and at the moment of his birth, winter changed immediately into spring, a bright star lit up the sky, and rainbows appeared.  Either we’re about to get nuked by Jesus or this guy has a serious case of Obama penis envy.

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… and Ben Affleck is sued for Smokin’ Aces.

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… and also calls Brian Urlacher a Neo-Nazi.  If you haven’t been following this Sherrod thing, basically she got fired from the USDA because of a sound bite – taken out of context by interstate toolbag Andrew Breitbart – that seemed to suggest that she was a little bit Black Panther-y.  In particular, she allegedly failed to help out a couple of white farmers because of their race.  Of course, that didn’t really happen.  Despite that, it’s now this whole big calamity because nobody can agree on whether black racism is a thing.

  1. Why can’t these poor, oppressed white farmers finally get their 40 acres and a mule?  What is wrong with this country?
  2. Glenn Beck talks about Nazis more times in one show than the Bears score touchdowns in a year.  If I were Brian Urlacher, I’d focus on getting some sacks.

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This baby is the long-awaited link between our world and the world of the Mole People.  When he was born, did three homeless dudes wearing Burger King crowns show up and present him with gifts?  Maybe a half-full bottle of cheap vodka or generic brand mouthwash, a garbage bag of recyclables, and some hand-rolled paper-bag cigarettes?  When he grows up, will he derive his strength from the odor of dried pee like Birdman does from the sun?  Will he have armies of subway rats under his command?  We have to find this kid.

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The story goes like this: two kids, one from Roxbury and one from JP, get redshirt jobs with DCR for the summer.  Then, they sell weed on Revere Beach.  This might have been news if they had been selling plutonium, or face-value Red Sox tickets.

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Yawn, tell me when he decides to kill himself.