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Friday, 26 August
Saturday Morning's All Right For Fighting


In a media conference today, noted outdoorsman Elmer Fudd called for the assassination of noted trickster icon and longtime rival Bugs Bunny.

"We've got the wesouwces," explained Mr. Fudd. "I think we should do it. Mr. Bunny has been a continual thweat to many of the things we hold deaw. He is a weading cause of decawwotization. He is a poisonous pwesence in the opera world. And his twack record with the env--env--env--enviwo-env--it's terrible. He has wuniously distuwbed gopher habitats between here and Albuquerque."

Mr. Fudd responded to questions about the utility of the plan, with some reporters voicing the opinion that Mr. Fudd was simply wanting others to do his dirty work for him. "It's twue, I've been tewwible at my job. More often than not, I end up shooting Daffy [Duck]." Ironically, Mr. Duck was at the conference, and called out in response to the remark, "I'll thay!" Mr. Fudd appeared startled by the comment, which caused him to accidentally discharge his shotgun into the audience, catching Mr. Duck full in the face, causing him to become blackened with soot, and his beak to spin about his head comically.

After Mr. Duck had restored his face somewhat, he screamed maniacally at Mr. Fudd, calling him a "stuttering Progeria case." After a heated back-and-forth between the two, with Fudd responding, "Fu-fu-fu-fu-fu -- scwew you!" In time, Mr. Duck angrily transported himself away from the proceedings to the 24th 1/2 century, and order was restored.

Yosemite Sam was also in attendance as a show of support for Mr. Fudd's controversial suggestion. "That carrot-chompin' varmint needs a slug in his goddam brain!" Mr. Sam exhorted. "That there rodent is a thief, is a liar, is a gol-durned menace! We oughta take him out with ex-ta-reeeeme prejudice!" When questioned by the crowd about his ties to the allegedly race-based militia group White Redheads In Sun Trouble (WRIST), Sam commented, "Now that ain't got a dad-banged thing to do with nothin'. Look, all I'm saying is, I got me a fair complection, and I'm out prospectin' in the sun all fuckin' day. I got melanoma three fuckin' times! But does anyone look out for the red-headed white man? No! Least of all that lapine lunatic. That sumbitch just last year got hold of a bag o' my gold. Woulda gotten it back too, if it weren't for that crazy fuckin' duck."

Cosmological menace Marvin the Martian was unable to attend the conference, but did contribute a statement transmitted via a video feed. "While I remain committed to the destruction of your worthless planet, I wholly affirm the need to first and foremost rid ourself of this lapine meddler. I endorse any and all measures that end the creature's life, preferably accompanied by an earth-shattering kaboom."

Mr. Bunny declined to comment on the conference, and his media handler Roadrunner also brushed off questions with a terse "Meep!" followed by the rapid consumption of a bowl of birdseed before somehow speeding off on a false freeway that was only painted onto a cliff face. Wile E. Coyote was also spotted in attendance, looking aggrieved as Roadrunner made his exit.

"Jesus fucking Christ," said Mr. Coyote. "I don't even care any more. I wish everyone would die. I wish you'd die. I haven't eaten in, like, thirty years. What am I, Solzhenitsyn?"

Additional reporting for this story was provided by Chuck Jones.

Friday, 09 July
Bitter Pill

INTERIOR. A WOMAN is reclining on a couch. Her attitude is vaguely post-orgasmic. She runs a hand through her tousled hair and addresses the viewer.

WOMAN: Let me tell you about my husband. He's a good man, and I love him. But a few years ago . . . we had . . . problems.

CUT TO: A bedroom. The HUSBAND, naked, is standing by a fully-made bed, staring disconsolately at his apparently uncooperative, wrinkly, flaccid penis. He taps at it curiously, and then waves his arms in a gesture of helplessness, causing his member to wobble ineffectually.

CUT TO: A bathroom. The WOMAN is bitterly sobbing and tossing handfuls of water on her face, which is in a rictus of sexual frustration. She opens a cabinet and hesitatingly brings forth a mighty dildo and stares at it contemplatively. Minor key piano chords underscore the poignant scene as she absently strokes the shockingly pink apparatus.

VOICEOVER (WOMAN): I mean, I won't piss on your shoes and tell you it's raining. It was bad.

CUT TO: Back on the couch. The WOMAN'S face slowly breaks into a gently lascivious smile.

Woman: That's when we found Turgidin.

MUSIC: The raucous opening chords from Aerosmith's "Back in the Saddle" are heard, culminating in the scream, "I'm BACK!"

CUT TO: The bedroom, which looks like it barely withstood a Panzer attack. The HUSBAND is doing an awkward and clumsy dance about the room, clutching his genitals gingerly but happily with one hand, while giving the camera a delighted thumbs-up with the other. The WOMAN lies on the bed, dazed and clearly incapacitated with post-coital pleasure. She drools slightly onto her pillow while the HUSBAND continues to hop around and coo at his revitalized penis.

ANNOUNCER VO: Turgidin. Why not make your poor wife come for a change, limpy?

CUT TO: Virile, confident HUSBAND, cuffs open-buttoned, neck open, twirling about with his wife. The couple exchange meaningful looks.

ANNOUNCER VO: After all . . . shouldn't it be . . . about her?

WOMAN: Thanks, Turgidin! (She smiles coyly while clawing at her man's zipper.)

ANNOUNCER VO: Take Turgidin. If not for your wife . . . then for your mistresses.

CUT TO: Slutty blonde in hotel room. She grins as HUSBAND, naked and startlingly erect, emerges from bathroom. Both grin and laugh.

ANNOUNCER VO: Turgidin. You need boners. We need money. (Hushed, confidential voice) Discontinue use in case of liver spasms, bleeding eyes, or exploding knees. In some cases, Turgidin can cause menses changes, particularly in men. Consult a physician for gender reassignment.

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