Greeks Almost Protest

The Real Story http://beta.thehindu.com/news/international/article113032.ece

My Story

It was estimated that 50,000 Greeks would have participated in today's protests against the government, had there been bus and train service to take the protesters to the downtown Athens location that had been the planned site for the protest. Concerned authorities voiced their apprehensions saying there was not enough money in the budget to pay for police to meet the protestors, but they hoped a strongly worded statement might prevent any violence or bloodshed, if they could find a news outlet to print or broadcast their comments, but none did as they could not afford to send reporters to the news conference that did not take place.

Greeks planned to protest the austerity program that the government had announced late last week, though no one had read it as the government printing office had no more paper, and even electronic copies did not go out due to their Internet Service Provider for the national government turning off access due to non-payment of bills. Though no one knew the specifics of the budget plan, it was assumed that major non-existent government programs would be cut even more.

"This is ridiculous," said Alexander Dimitrious, a small business owner selling pirated DVD copies of the new Alice in Wonderland movie that had not yet been released. "The government complains they don't have enough revenue because no one pays their taxes, yet they don't complain when I pay them bribes to not bother me about my tax bills. Those bribes are tax free, and you don't see them paying taxes on those gratuities, do you?"

The mayor of Athens, who couldn't be contacted since his phone was out of service, is reported to have said that over 500,000 Greeks in the capital were idle and not working due to the general strikes hitting the city. "This is actually an improvement over when they are working, since most usually call in sick and go to the beach, so someone must be doing something though I'm not sure exactly what." The quote unfortunately could not be confirmed.

Other European countries are anxiously watching the events in Greece where debt has gone so high that Greeks pride themselves on how much they owe on credit card bills. One Greek man, who remained unidentified since we refused to give him ten dollars for his name, said, "Bah, the Americans think they have a multi-trillion dollar deficit? Hmph, my brother Mikolos owes the Third National Bank of Albania 3 gazillion lira." When told Italian Lira was no longer a valid currency, having been replaced by the Euro, he covered his mouth and grinned, saying, "Don't tell Mikolos that! He still owes me for that sheep of mine he bought on credit."

Greek authorities hope the general population will eventually calm down and come to recognize the need for the austerity measures. New plans to increase revenue include a $50,000 per person entrance fee to the Parthenon for foreign tourists, a new web site where for $5.00 the Delphi Oracle will tell you your fortune and next week's winning lottery number, and a new personal property tax on anything made of precious metals that sports the five Olympic Rings.

It has also been reported in the press that the American banking giant Goldman Sachs has been implicated in selling toxic assets to the Greek government and then short selling derivatives against the performance of the Greek economy, but economist Gregoi Mikapolous who was using a free trial version of American Online responded with an email saying, "Bah, the only toxic assets we own are the Turkish janitors who clean our bathrooms, because frankly, despite the high unemployment, there are simply some jobs Greeks will not do." When asked for his projections of how Greece will fare in this economic crisis, especially in light of the economic meltdown last year in Iceland, Mikapolous offered this assessment, "I am not worried. As long as we have our goats and our cheese, we go by a creed of three simple words, 'THIS IS SPARTA!'"

Killer Whale Kills Trainer

The Real story

http://www.foxnews.com/scitech/2010/02/25/killer-whales-dont-usually-kill-people/

My Story

Shamu was in a foul mood. Swimming alongside Shamu (that was the joke here, all the killer whales were called Shamu - stupid humans) he was angry enough he could jump the wall into one of the other pools and eat a walrus. He knew what his real name was, and had often clicked it to the two legged creatures, but they were too dense to understand the communication system killer whales used. The humans thought their guttural language was the superior one, but did they have over two hundred different words for water? Hell no. At least the Inuit used their language intelligently to describe snow in various ways. But the creatures that kept him here in captivity basically called it either water or H2O. Not much variety in that. The lifeblood, and they thought they were being creative when they put it in little plastic bottles and calling it Dasani, Deer Park, Aqua Springs, and hundreds of other silly little marketing names.

And if only it really was H2O. But they polluted these tanks he lived in with so much chlorine and dozens of other antifungal and anti algae chemicals, it was enough to make him retch having to swim in this stuff.

And Hello! Killer whales crap and pee too thank-you, and whereas in the ocean it dissipates into negligible traces or sinks to depths where the deep dwellers feast on it, in these tiny tanks they were kept in, they had to swim in their own pee. Fine, maybe there were fetish loving two leggers that thought this was dandy, but to a killer whale, hell, he wouldn't hesitate giving them a piece of his mind, if they would only listen.

These humans were particularly limited in their understanding of other species. He saw how they treated his smaller brothers, the dolphins. It was despicable. But, the humans did have their nets and tranquilizers, and his species had no defense against those, hence that was why he was here.

So here he was in a life of slavery, doing stupid pet tricks for a reward of dead fish. Stale, dead fish. Every day the same thing. Stale, smelly, dead fish. And what about the thrill of the hunt, chasing down those schools of scrod or tuna and having a really fresh dinner? No, not here in this place they called Sea World. Dead, smelly, rotting, fish. He could just puke. In fact, sometimes he did.

And then all the dumb tricks they wanted him to play. Jumping through burning hoops, leaping up and grabbing things out of the handler's hand. Walking on his tail. Sheesh, some days he was so mad.

He told his pal Shamu (ha ha) about his troubles, but his pal chided him for trying to change the unavoidable. "Listen," he friend clicked, "you know I've been thinking about the equations for the thermodynamic properties of aqueous solution high in sodium chloride, especially near its vapour pressure, and the equations I've been using used to estimate aqueous sodium chloride's solubility, density, specific enthalpy and entropy are hard to construct for temperatures reaching 300°C with suitable accuracy. It's not like I can test anything in here. I have to build all the models in my head. But it's so much fun, you should try it. It'll take your mind off of our dreary living conditions. Would you like me to sing the outline to you?"

"No, old pal, thanks, it does sound intriguing. I admire you for your theoretical pursuits. But then having to click long distance to someone out in the great ocean so the world can learn and add to the collective learning is so annoying. Why can't we go to the grand council meetings ourselves and be present in person? Instead I have to do a backward flip and then splash some humans with life blood to get a dead fish."

"Hey, those fish aren't so bad. We had mackerel last week. You should see the chum they feed the sharks."

"Don't say sharks to me, I hate sharks! Remember it was sharks that killed my mother. Why that one trainer, the one with the pony tail hair? She smells of chum. I think she feeds the sharks before she comes to order us around. I swear, if she ever pats my nose again with chum smelling hands, I'm just going to grab her by the pony tail and take her down to the lower levels of the pool and let her get a good whiff of the pee where it settles, and see how she likes it."

"Say, Shamu (giggle), did you know I can relate the procedure for pressure drop calculations in a thermodynamic equation-of-state backwards? Want to hear me sing that? Huh?"

"Nah, thanks, but not now. I'm just in too foul a mood."

***

Own the Podium

The Real Story

http://www.examiner.com/a-2489195~It_s_the_US_owning_the_podium_at_Vancouver_Games.html

My Story

The lights in the Olympic Games press briefing room were blazing. It may have been 2 degrees below Celsius outside, but in here it had to be breaking 20. Robert Lefleur, the Canadian Olympic Association chair person was about to make a big address to the press. He had his staff send out an email to both the international press and the more hostile Canadian press this morning, and now at 2 o'clock in the afternoon Pacific time they had gathered and camera and microphones were in place to capture his every word.

He had an important announcement to make. There were only a few days left in these Olympic games in Vancouver, Canada, and Canada's big push to win the most medals of any country were seriously in trouble. The Canadian Olympic Committee had spent an estimated $117 million dollars developing its athletic programs to produce more medal winning athletes than ever before. But the totals were falling short as the Olympics were winding down. So far Canada had only won 10 medals, tied for fourth, a distant total compared to the United States with its 24 medals and Germany with its 22.

One hundred seventeen million dollars for 9 medals was not a good ratio, almost $12 million dollars per medal, a horrendous payout. The Canadians had done so well at the last Olympics in Torino, Italy, winning 24. They were convinced that with a huge push they could double that number. But somewhere they had fallen short. Many reasons were given - too much pressure on the athletes, a warm winter in British Vancouver (meaning soft snow and soft ice). The athletes of other countries were having fun and Canadians who were a party hardy crew were not.

Robert was tired of all the finger pointing and accusations of mismanagement. All he knew was this would require some desperate measures to help salvage Canada's 'Own the Podium' program, as they had called this home soil Olympics medal push. He had even been told one of the faults might be the national character of Canadians. They were just too polite and hospitable and were allowing other countries to win. That was just plain wrong. Especially in ice hockey. Canadians should be beating the crap out of the other countries. Though in international play fighting in ice hockey was severely prohibited. Who the hell came up with that idea?

Well, Canadians were not a bunch of pussies or dumb Canucks like some people were intimating. Here in front of a press hungry for information, he would announce several last minute measures to increase Canada's medal totals in the final days. He had his staff spend all night locked in a conference room to come up with these last second measures that they guaranteed would work, whether they be rewards, incentives, curfews, whatever. He hadn't seen them yet, but they better be good, or heads would roll.

"Good afternoon. I have a short announcement." He looked down at the paper. "The Canadian Olympic Authority is proud to announce new measures to help Canada regain prominence and achieve its Own the Podium program. Number 1. Canada has negotiated with the vendor, Aaron Furniture & Construction, and the Olympic Medals Podium will no longer be leased but will be purchased outright for $$20,000. Canada now officially OWNS the podium."

He paused, staring at the paper. What the hell had he just read? In the laughter that ensued, he now knew how those baby seals felt.

Federal Deficit Falls

The Real Story

My Story

"Do you have the numbers yet?" Donald looked over Tracy's shoulder at her twin monitors. She was wearing a white, sleeveless sweater that accentuated certain points of interest.

"Well, the OMB numbers we've had since yesterday. The Congressional Budget Office ones are the ones that are late. I'm merging in what BLS gave us, and Tony is crunching the Fed Reserve projections and money supply stats. This is old hat, waiting for the CBO. They're always late." She felt his closeness, almost like he was breathing down her neck.

Donald took a deep whiff of her perfume. Nice. He really wanted to caress her soft, white shoulders. But that would... not be appropriate. "CBO is a bunch of jackasses. Since they're independent of the Executive Branch, they supply their numbers whenever they feel like it, even when we have deadlines to meet."

With him so close, he could probably breathe in all of her perfume, and at $200 an ounce, that was too much to waste on one person. "The Federal Reserve is independent, but they're always on time. Actually it's kind of scary how punctual they are. Seven am on the dot. The computer clock reads 7:00:00 and bingo, they're in."

Umm, he knew somewhere else he wanted to be in. God, why couldn't he just nuzzle her neck, roll his tongue then into the crevices of those shoulder blades. It would be so good.

"You okay Donald? You're... lurking, awfully close."

"Oh, sorry, I don't have my glasses, it's hard to read your screen. You use such a tiny resolution, such a tiny font. I like them big, don't you?"

She looked up at him quizzically. She was getting uncomfortable with his proximity. He did that sometimes. It creeped her out, though it was probably just her paranoid imagination. He was a dedicated guy, all he ever thought about were budget analyses and money supply forecasts. She shouldn't embarrass herself with her silly thoughts. Being pretty, she sometimes imagined every guy was after her. She needed to exercise some self-control.

Donald looked at the soft peach fuzz on the back of her neck. C'mon, would a little bite be that wrong? She would love it, she would moan, and then it could lead to... spontaneous things. Wasn't there a supply closet around here somewhere? "Let me know as soon as the CBO numbers are in and I can hand these to the Secretary. He's going to the White House this morning and he's not leaving until he has them in hand."

She looked up at him again. Was he just licking his lips? She shuddered. She had to stifle her imagination. No, he was not some perverted creep trying to get into her pants. Yes, the first time she met him he reminded her of some serial rapist she had seen on America's Most Wanted. She had thought, what if he raped me? What if he dragged me into some supply closet and ripped off my sweater, pulled up my skirt, thrust himself inside of me? God, what was she thinking? She had to get control of herself. These numbers were critical. If she made one mistake it could mean her job.

"I guess the President is going to be disappointed. The deficit looks like it's going up to, what is it now, 14.5 trillion? How can we sustain that?"

He leaned closer to the screen, ran his finger along one row of numbers in her spreadsheet. Hah, it was all a ruse so his right elbow could rub along her left arm. Contact! She felt so nice. "Not to worry. The deficit is all a farce. Did I ever tell you that?"

She realized his right elbow was brushing along her arm. Oh my god, he's touching me! He probably wants to grab my breasts, she thought. He probably wants to slam me against the wall and force himself on me, do unholy things to me. I know he's a rapist, a killer! He's looking for his chance to abuse me, to make me pay for my sins! God, this is what happens when you've been bad, and I have been so bad. "No, I don't remember you telling me."

Man he would love to get her in that supply room right now. He wondered what kind of a bra she was wearing. Not a problem, she wouldn't be wearing it for long. She probably needed some slapping around. You could tell she was impertinent. Little bitch, he would teach her a lesson. "Well, it's basic economics, but no one seems to notice. We have a money supply, right?" He pointed to the money supply figures on the spreadsheet. This time his elbow dug deeper into her arm, then slid above it. "Yet the economy is growing, right?"

"Yes?" Oh, he was touching her, much harder now. This was it. He would make her pay. She shuddered deep inside.

"Well, how does the Federal Reserve sustain that growth? By supplying more money. And how does it get that money?" He strategically moved his elbow in closer for the kill. He wanted to touch the big one.

"By selling Treasury Bonds?" She realized his arm was getting closer, closer. Was this really going to be accidental? Was it intentional? Would he attack her here right out in the open were everyone could see him ravage her?

"Right. But where do people get the money to buy Treasury Bonds with?" Closer, closer...

"I don't know." He was getting closer, closer...

"With the payments that the government makes servicing the debt. With the money the government gives out in foreign aid, to pay for major resources like oil and other import purchases. And where does it get all that money? Where does it get all those Treasury Bonds?" Contact. Elbow into side boob.

She was speechless.

"By printing it."

"What?" She was distracted from the more important things by what he was saying.

"Oh, they don't actually print $100 bills, though that is part of it. They simply make loans with money... they don't have. They simply supply Treasury Bonds by just listing them on a computer ledger. Money just appears out of nowhere." His elbow was digging into her boob and she didn't even seem to be paying attention. What gives?

She ignored that he was actively elbowing her breast, taking in the implication of what he was saying. "How can they do that? How can they just... make money out of nothing?"

He leaned into her, getting closer. It was odd feeling a woman's breast with an elbow. But she sure suddenly was getting brainy on him. "No one knows, or no one cares. The Brits have been doing it for years, and then after World War 2 we Americans started doing it. No one audits the Federal Reserve or the Central Bank of England. But somehow they always have the money they need. The rest of the Europeans live and die by the fluctuations of the Euro, but we Anglo Americans can always pay our bills."

"Well, if it's that simple," she moved his elbow out of the side of her bra. He was starting to get irritating with the circular motions, and the underwire bra wasn't exactly feeling pleasant. "Why doesn't anyone notice? Why doesn't anyone else say anything?"

He was stunned how she ended his cheap feel. This was strange. "Well, the Chinese know, the Saudi's know, but they don't care. They like our dollars, they use them to fuel their economies. They don't mind, as long as we don't get greedy and print too much. Money makes the world go round." God he wanted a second feel.

She was disappointed. He was a wimp. A real man would have grabbed her by the hair and dragged her off to the supply closet. Instead, he just stood there squinting his eyes trying to read her small, perky fonts. "That's fascinating. Then maybe I can sleep better at night and not worry so much about the economy."

He stood up. Damn, should he grab her and drag her off to the supply closet? But prudence prevailed, and he backed away. "Yes, I hope you sleep better. Well let me know as soon as you have the numbers." Damn, he was disappointed, and he drifted off to his office, rubbing his elbow.

***

Taliban’s #2 Man Nabbed

"ISLAMABAD, Pakistan - The Taliban's top military commander has been arrested in a joint CIA-Pakistani operation in Pakistan, officials said Tuesday.

Mullah Abdul Ghani Baradar, the No. 2 behind Afghan Taliban founder Mullah Mohammad Omar and a close associate of Osama bin Laden, was captured in the southern Pakistani port city of Karachi, two Pakistani intelligence officers and a senior U.S. official said. They spoke on condition of anonymity."

The Real Story

My Story

"Yousef, wake up, I have terrible news!" Yousef felt himself being violently shaken.

"Wha- why are you waking me up? It's not time for prayers yet, is it?" He shook his head to clear the cobwebs.

"No, it's 3 am."

"Then get the hell out of here. I was having the mother of all dreams, ninety virgins at once!."

"No, seriously, a horrible thing has happened. You must get up now."

"The Predators don't fly at night, so leave me alone. Besides, this cave is supposed to be able to withstand a 500 lb. bomb, and Predators don't carry anything that big." He turned his head back into the sheepskin cover that had been keeping him warm in this Afghan winter.

"It's Abdul."

"What, he's a prick. Why are you bothering me about him?" Yousef buried his head even deeper into the sheepskin.

"The Pakistani Intelligence forces captured him."

"Good for them," his muffled voice responded. "Nice high value target. He'll scream like a baby on the waterboarding table. Now they'll leave us alone and we can get back to unloading all those poppies that were harvested. I'm going back to sleep."

"No, listen! Abdul was the current #2 man."

Yousef couldn't take this interruption anymore. It was like someone walking in on him and his favorite sheep. He sat up and stared at his fellow Jihadist. "Fine, lucky him. Americans love catching the number 2 man. It makes them feel good, like they actually caught someone important. In a few months, they'll catch his replacement. Now stop bothering me already."

"Yousef, you don't understand. On the bulletin board-"

Yousef's eyes widened into saucers. "What!! Did the prick assign me to a truck suicide bombing before he got caught? That son-of-a-camel humper, I'll just demand they validate his signature. Since he's no longer around, it'll be declared null and void."

"No, it's worse than that. You've been promoted. To Number 2 in the Taliban!"

Yousef sat up with a jolt and hit his head on the rocky ledge above him. "What? Why? What did I do? That's not fair. I've been a faithful mujahadeen! I shoot girls trying to go to school! I recruit young boys at the Madras as suicide bombers. I beat men with my rifle butt in the face who dare to go beardless or trim their beards. Any woman not wearing a burqa I round up for raping since such whores deserve to be raped. Not my fault those damn robes keep getting snagged and pulled off by the bayonet of my AK-47. You know what I say, show your face and you deserve disgrace. Though I wish I could pick out the pretty ones better. That one the other day was uglier than a camel's behind, and I tell you, I've seem many a behind from up close. No, there must be a mistake. No way I could be #2."

"Inshallah."

"Inshallah my ass."

"Yousef! That's blasphemy!"

"Blasphemy, smashphemy. Someone in the front cave fucked up. I'm not taking this sitting down. I don't care how many fingers I have to chop off or fornicators I have to root out so I can behead them, I'll prove I do not deserve to be #2."

"But Yousef, they think it's a great honor to be #2."

"Great honor my jackal's ass. That's nothing but an a titular position which also means you're the next person the CIA operatives are going to sodomize. Where's Mullah Omar? I am going to talk to him right now."

"He's outside over by the water well."

"I'll give him a piece of my mind. I know the Koran forward and backward, and no one can dispute I have not been the most faithful disciple. I'm no Caliph Ali, that's for sure."

Yousef walked out into the bright early morning sun where he was temporarily blinded. "What the, it's not 3 am. What's going on-"

ZHHHHIISSSSSSSHHHHHHH BLAMMMMMMMMMMM!

Those back in the cave were beside themselves with laughter, rolling on the floor and slapping their thighs. "Did you see the look on his face when the Predator zoomed in?"

"That was precious. I've got to hand it to the heathens, they sure can fire those Hellfire's. I haven't laughed so hard in years."

"Well, that should get the Pakistanis and Americans off our backs for a while. Two #2's on Tuesday. What a deal."

***

Vibrators - Girl's Friend or Foe?

The Real Story


My Story

Deirdre was back in her corner office, with a gaggle of her female co-workers gathered around checking out her latest tech toy. Deirdre was famous for her technical wizardry, she owned the latest iPhone, Droid, tablet PC, voice recognition GPS, wireless ear buds that let her listen to her MP3 player without the telltale white wire hanging down her cleavage. Most women might have found that unattractive, being a little nerdy and technologically innovative. But not Deirdre. She was attractive, smart, intelligent, and to boot, blonde. Pulling out her gadgets on a date always got the guys to raise an eyebrow and give her second consideration.

Sure there was the occasional guy who felt threatened, and wanted to argue Mac OSX vs. Windows 7. But that's when her voice activated Droid would suddenly ring announcing her aunt had just had a heart attack, and she could easily exit out of that date.

But this was a girls only moment. Deirdre was showing off to her office mates her latest technological gizmo. A wireless remote control for a vibrator. The audience of twenty-somethings that had gathered to see the device were in a hysterical set of giggles. Knowing comments about how BOBs (battery operated boyfriends) were often more reliable than boyfriends were being shared. Some claimed their real boyfriends were so inept that they demanded the boyfriends use one in addition to their own biologically powered contraptions.

"So what's the advantage of a wireless control?" Megan asked.

"Well, sometimes while I'm using it and the vibration frequency is too slow or too intense, it can be difficult to adjust the dial on the thing when it's out of eye sight, and your fingers are all wet and slippery. You just leave this tiny little device in your free hand, and gently move the the dial in whatever direction you need at the moment."

"So, have you tried it yet?"

"well, want to hear a secret?"

All the other girls leaned in.

"I have the other half in there right now."

The room erupted in laughter and squeals. "No!" "You are so bad!" "I can't believe you wore it to work!"

Christie looked at Deirdre's monitor. "You have a meeting reminder on there."

"Oh my god, my eleven o'clock. I better turn this off. I don't want to start moaning during Schaeffer's budget presentation."

One of the girls laughed. "I would turn it on high, just to keep yourself from falling asleep. He's such a bore."

Everyone laughed but Deirdre who grabbed her netbook and headed off to the meeting. She checked her iPhone for any other messages, and frowned at all the tweets from her friends. She needed to put in a better filter. She was getting way too many messages. She switched it to silent mode so it wouldn't buzz during the meeting.

The conference room was crowded, and being slightly late, Deirdre only had one chair she could find available, right up front next to Schaeffer. She would have preferred sitting in the back, out of sight, but oh well. She definitely could not nod off today.

As she took her seat, Bob Schaeffer, the company CFO, stood up and cleared his throat. "Thank-you everyone, let us get started." He turned on the projector in front that displayed a large Powerpoint introductory screen behind him. "The FY 2011 budget for your divisions has been released, and I would like to go over the preliminary numbers with you." He took the wireless mouse next to his laptop and clicked to change to the next slide.

Suddenly Deirdre sat up straight. What the... a device that should have remained in the off position suddenly came alive with a hum that only she could feel. How could it have... she had left the control back on her desk. Had one of her office mates decided to get funny and turn it on? She would kill them! But no, there was no way the RF signal could travel that far. It could not have had a range of more than ten to fifteen feet. It only ran on a single AAA battery.

Bob Schaeffer flipped to the next slide, then brought up an Excel spreadsheet side by side. He slowly began to scroll down the spreadsheet, and simultaneously Dierdre's device increased in intensity. She stared frantically at his mouse. Could it? Might it be on the same frequency as her remote? Bob suddenly scrolled back up to the top of the spreadsheet in response to a question, and the intensity diminished. Deirdre was able to relax.

She had to escape. She looked to her right, but realized all of the latecomers that arrived after her had crowded along the wall. Excusing herself to leave would create a huge commotion as she tried to slip out. It was way too early. Bob scrolled back down again, and the vibrations tripled. Oh my god, Deirdre thought. She had never turned it up this high before. This was crazy. Nice, but just not here. She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate.

As Bob scrolled further down, it got even more intense. Deirdre's back went stiff, she pulled her elbows tight into her sides. Did a feint sound escape her lips? As she opened her eyes, Bob was looking at her.

"Are you okay Ms. Coomer?"

"Yes, yes. I'm fine. I was just- just trying to digest our departments projected increases. It's... stimulating."

"Oh, good, I'm glad. So to continue," he clicked on the next slide.

Wait, he had to turn it down! "Uh Mr. Schaeffer, can you go back to the spreadsheet?"

Bob Schaeffer was surprised. Deirdre almost never spoke during these meetings. Suddenly, she seemed very engaged. "Yes, yes I can."

"Now," and Deirdre gasped a little tyring to get some self control, her knees tight together and almost trembling. "Can you scroll back up to the top?"

He did. Oh, what a relief she thought as the vibrations practically disappeared on the lowest setting. Deirdre released a huge sigh of relief. "Yes, the Advanced Analytics Division. That's four hundred thousand. Ok, thanks, that's all. You can continue."

Bob looked at her. "If you're having trouble seeing I can zoom in," and he moved his index finger back to the scroll wheel.

"No, no!" and she leaned over and grabbed his hand. "It's fine, really, it is."

Bob looked down at her hand on his.

"Go to the next slide. Please!"

"Yes, of course."

As the presentation went on, it continued to be crazy. Bob scrolled up and down through charts Deirdre went into tiny spasms and tremors. She swore she was bleeding from her lips, biting them so hard not to make any sounds. When they got to the FY 2012 projections, Deirdre finally succumbed to the big O, but stifled it as best as she could by spinning her chair around.

Bob thanked everyone for coming and adjourned the meeting, keeping a leery eye on Deirdre. Everyone else got up to leave, but Deirdre remained sitting there for awhile.

She finally looked up at Bob Schaeffer, with a feint smile on her face. "Bob, may I call you Bob?"

"Why yes, yes you may Ms. Coomer."

"Bob, that was the best damn budget presentation you've ever given." And she slowly got up and staggered out of the conference room.

***

Man accused of having 23 wives

"Jerusalem (CNN) -- An Israeli man accused of having 23 wives and fathering 59 children was charged Sunday in a Tel Aviv court with multiple counts of sexual assault, rape, sodomy and enslavement."

The Real Story


My Story

He probably could have gotten away with it, but it was Hallmark in the end that ended his wayward ways. Many people swear that Valentines Day is nothing but a Hallmark holiday. The Hallmark people point the finger at the florist industry, saying they cooked the holiday up as a way to sell roses and flowers. And Hallmark was just tagging along. But in the end, it didn't matter. Goel Ratzon had married one wive too many.

Though he ran a cult where he married many wives, fathered many children, and had total control over his subjects, his latest wife, Rosa Schleiermacher, was, well, a little different.

"Goel, honey, tomorrow is Valentine's Day. What are you getting me?"

"Getting you? For Christ's sake Rosa, if I got you something, I'd have to get the other 22 something as well. That would bankrupt me in no time. The 23 of you combined don't bring in enough to barely make the car payments on my Mercedes Benz."

"But Goel darling, you swore I was different, I was the latest and best. Look, if you get me something, I swear I'll do something extra special tonight."

"Oh Rosa, please, I don't have enough energy to take care of you and the 22 others. Cialis or no Cialis, even the doctor says erections lasting more than 4 hours are bad for you. That last one lasted a week, and I had to get the whole family involved."

"Goel, you're going to make me cry. You said you were God, and I thought God could do anything."

"Ok, ok already, stop with the tears, I'll get you something."

"Oh Goel, you're the best!"

Later that day Goel Ratzon visited the local Hallmark store, where when he saw Valentines Day cards were retailing for 20 shekels (ed. note, 1 Israeli shekel = 0.265887 U.S. dollars). "What!" he declared, "that's highway robbery! And these poems aren't even very good. Look at this one,

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I only bought one card
but Valentines I have TWO!!!

Two? I have twenty-three! And this one...

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Open your legs
Im coming through....

Hmm, that's actually not half bad."

And that was when Goel got into trouble. The store security cameras caught him stuffing twenty-three of these cards into his pants, and when he was apprehended and questioned by police, the rest, as they say, is history.

***

Anything Beyond The Universe?

"We think our destiny is to journey to Mars and beyond. Yet as we build our spacecraft, we're about to be broadsided - from a different direction - by the most explosive event in history.

Sometime in the future science will be able to create realities that we can't even begin to imagine. As we evolve, we'll be able to construct other information systems that correspond to other realities, universes based on logic completely different from ours and not based on space and time."

The Real Story

My Story

Arnie woke up that morning, and that was the start to a bad day. It was snowing outside and he dreaded having to shovel even more snow. He went down to the kitchen and threw some bread into the toaster, then delved into the refrigerator for eggs, butter, and hopefully there was some bacon left.

He took the egg carton and placed it on the counter top, removed two eggs, one from each end of the carton to keep it balanced. He hesitated for a second - was he hungry enough for three eggs? Nah. Two would be fine. He then returned the egg carton while removing a stick of butter from the butter keeper. Grabbing a knife from the silverware tray, he cut off a piece of butter... and it would help to have a frying pan ready, he cursed himself. He wasn't thinking in an organized fashion. While reaching up to the pan shelves, he felt the butter plop off the knife onto the kitchen floor. Damn.

He brought down the frying pan and placed it on the stove top. Then he bent down and grabbed the butter... or he tried to. It kept slipping out of his fingers. Damn, damn. He straightened up to get a paper towell and promptly slammed his head on the oven door handle. Damn, damn, damn!

Tearing off a paper towell in disgust, he was finally able to scrape the butter off of the floor and tossed it in the waste can. Moving over to the stove top, he again cut off a piece of butter and tossed it into the frying pan, turning the heat to medium to melt the butter.

It suddenly occured to him that the toast hadn't popped out yet. Had he missed it? He turned to the toaster, but the bread was still cooking. He got closer and leaned over peering on. Oh crap, it was black! What the- and then he remembered - he had set it higher to toast a bagel yesterday. He manually popped out the blackened toast and decided to give his damns! a rest. That was it. He was tired of this. Time for a switch.

He looked at the transuniversal shifter on his wrist, and tapped on the glass to clear the little screensaver with wiggly lines. Turning the time back ten minutes... wait, the snow outside looked like it was coming down really hard. He also shifted the reality setting by two per cent. A small change would be nice. Of course, it could backfire, but... here goes. He hit engage.

Arnie woke up that morning, and that was the start to a good day. It was sunny outside and the last of the snow was melting away. He went down to the kitchen and threw some bread into the toaster, adjusting the level switch from bagel back to bread, then delved into the refrigerator for eggs, butter, and hopefully there was some bacon left.

He took the egg carton and placed it on the counter top, removed three eggs, taking them from each end of the carton to keep it balanced. He was a little hungrier now. Next he got the frying pan down, and then returned the eggs to the fridge and removed the butter. Grabbing a knife from the silverware tray, he cut off a piece from the butter stick and carefully dropped it into the frying pan which he then set on medium heat. The toaster popped out the toast, perfetly done. Yep, now it was turning out to be a great day.

***

Obese Children Twice as Likely to Die

"Obesity in children may pave the way to an early grave, a new study in the New England Journal of Medicine finds. The study, published Wednesday, followed nearly 5,000 American Indian children from childhood to middle age and found that those who were obese as children were more than twice as likely to die from disease before the age of 55."

The story

"And now for some Health news. A new study by the New England Journal of Medicine gives some sobering news about obese children. We have with us Dr. Charles Ricardo, a Pediatrician from Hoboken, New Jersey to give us an expert analysis on the report. Dr. Ricardo, welcome to the show."

"Glad to be here. Nice tie."

"Thank-you. Dr. Ricardo, the report states that obese children are twice as likely to die by age 55. Why is that?"

"Well, it doesn't take a rocket scientist. They're way bigger, so of course they are in trouble."

"Explain that further if you will."

"Well, look how huge they are. So in a driveby shooting say in Hoboken, a fat kid is more likely to get hit than a skinny kid. They present a bigger target."

"Really, is that what-"

"And say they go ice skating on the Hoboken river in winter. With all the chemical waste in the river, it doesn't really totally freeze. I'm guessing there's a lot of dumped anti-freeze in there. Fat kids are more likely to break through the ice than skinny kids, since they're heavier. And they're harder to pull out. End of story."

"I'm... surprised. I thought the report spoke more to-"

"And if a fat kid is in a car, and it's in a head on collision, you know the fatty is gonna get caught in the wreckage and die in the explosion of the fuel tank, while it's the skinny kid that's gonna wiggle out. Same thing happened in the Haiti earthquake, all the kids that were saved were skinny kids. The fat kids got crushed cause they couldn't run fast enough to get out of the way of the falling ceilings."

"Dr. Ricardo."

"Yes?"

"Did you read the report?"

"And if a fat kid is on a bike, he's probably not going to wear a safety helmet cause he can't find one to fit his fat head. Then when he gets hit by a truck, cause he's so wide, two problems there, he's way more likely to die than the skinny kid cause he's got an unprotected head. Plus, they can throw the skinny kid on the helicopter and get him to shock trauma right away. But the fat kid is too heavy, so they gotta take him by ambulance, if they can even fit him in the gurney, and then he gets caught in rush hour traffic on the Garden State Parkway."

"Dr. Ricardo, the report studied Pima Indians, not kids in Hoboken, New Jersey. I understand your desire to speak to anecdotal evidence, but we were hoping for your views on what the report identified, high BMI, blood cholesterol, and blood glucose levels as contributing factors."

"Yeah, they probably do need their parents to buy a high end BMI, cause they can't fit their big tushes into the back of a Ford Fusion, that's for sure. And now airlines are requiring them to buy two tickets for two seats. You don't think there may have been a fat kid too many on that plane that ditched into the Hudson? Betcha there was."

"Ok, I see. Well thank-you Dr. Ricardo for your opinion. And now turning to other news-"

"And they're more likely to die from choking like when they stuff an entire twinkie down their throats. You don't see a skinny kid trying that."

"Thank-you Dr. Ricardo. You may go now."

"No problem, any time. Say, I do nip and tucks too. If you want to get rid of that double chin, set up an appointment with my receptionist Rose. She's a doll."

"In other news, a woman with a fake left breast from reconstructive surgery was stopped by TSA at Newark International Airport which has started using the new Cylindrical Full Body Scanner, also known as the Millimeter Wave."

"Did she have more than 3 ounces of gel? That would do it."

"Would someone please get him out of here?"

***

Reagan Brothers Spar

"Washington (CNN) - Don't invite the late President Ronald Reagan's two sons over for a tea party, much less a beer.

Well, maybe a beer, kind of like President Obama's "beer summit" last summer at the White House. That might be needed.

The brothers Reagan, Ron and Michael, don't agree on how their dad – often described as the father of the modern day conservatism – would view the Tea Party movement."

The Story

It was the kind of an idea that comes up after having a beer, actually a few beers, well, after a few too many beers. Ron and Michael Reagan, sons of the late President and Conservative God figure, met to settle their differences. It wasn't voluntary. An angry, screeching phone call from someone simply known as "mommy" had made the meeting mandatory.

Well, after the second six pack had been polished off, Michael was willing to admit gay was okay, since Dick Cheney's daughter was a lezzie. And Ron was willing to admit tea bagging was okay, but Michael didn't get that one.

After several slurred, long winded speeches about how the other brother was actually a-ok, they got to the subject at hand - what would their dad have thought of the Tea Party movement?

But slowly they came to the conclusion that after three six packs of PBR, they still disagreed.

"Dad hated commies, and Obama is a socialist commie," Michael slurred, trying to open another can with his teeth.

"Oh c'mon Michael," Ron chided, licking the foam off his lips deliberately and slowly (for some reason this annoyed Michael, real men don't allow foam to form when pouring a beer, only blonds do that, something about loving to get a good head). "There ain't no such thing as a socialist commie. You're either a commie or a socialist. Ya can't be both." And he dumped the rest of his can into his glass, creating a huge foaming head.

"Are you kidding me?" Michael shot back. "Did you see that Change poster? Wasn't that right out of 1930's socialist pride rallies?"

"Dude, Obama didn't draw that poster. Some PR type did. Don't blame the messenger."

"Huh?" Michael scrunched up his face. Ron was clearly missing a few stem cells. "By the way, this is good beer. I wonder what beer dad drank?"

"I think it was Sierra Nevada, but I can't remember... Hey! It just hit me!"

"What? You remember his favorite beer?" Michael was pouring a can into a glass slowly, down the side of the glass to show how it's done so no head of foam results. "You watching this?"

"You know how Mom used to go see astrologers and stuff?"

"Yeah?" Michael was so proud of his beer pouring skills. Not a tiny bit of foam. He looked over at his brother and felt revulsion watching him lick the foam out of the inside of the glass. That just wasn't right.

"Well, to answer the question what would Dad think about the Tea Party, why don't we ask him!"

Michael shook his head as if clearing cob webs. "Huh? You over your limit already?" Michael was seriously disappointed in his brother, who really needed to man up.

"No, I'm dead serious. Down on Palomar there's a tatoo parlor, it's where I got my Prince Albert, and right next door is a medium and fortune teller shop. I read the sign she talks to the dearly departed. Let's go there and ask him directly."

Michael stared at his brother like he had totally lost it. Why would his brother get a tatoo of Prince Albert? But then, slowly, like the way his brother kept licking the rim of that beer stein, it dawned on him that it was a brilliant idea! Just like a Reagan! "You're right! Let's go for it!"

A half hour later the two inebriated brothers stumbled into the medium's shop.

"You think it's ok that I parked like that on the curb?" Michael asked.

"Don't worry about it," Ron patted his brother on the back, "I do it all the time."

A woman came out of a beaded curtain and said nothing, staring at the two obviously drunk men.

"We want to talk to our dad."

"He's not here," she answered.

"No, no, you don't understand. We're Ron and Michael Reagan, we're the sons of President Reagan, and he's dead, and we're not, and we want to talk to him."

The woman just stared at them.

"You're a medium, aren't you? You talk to dead people?"

"Oh!" suddenly realization surfaced. "Yes, yes, of course, I don't get many requests for that sort of thing anymore. Just fortune telling, winning lottery numbers, is my boyfriend cheating on me, am I pregnant, that sort of thing. And after those disposable pregnancy tests, there went 25% of my business." She lifted back the beaded curtain and showed them to the back of the store. "Right this way."

Fifteen minutes later after candle lightings, incense burning, cash payment in advance (which Michael had to fork over since Ron had forgotten his wallet, and then lots of incantations, the medium went into a trance, rolling her eyes into the back of her head. It was a hard trick to do, but for five hundred cash, she could maintain this for an hour.

"Dad! Dad! Are you there?" Ron called. He wasn't sure on the protocol.

"Who the hell is that?" a strange voice came out of the throat of the medium. Even the medium was startled. She usually just garbled lots of strange scratchy grunts and the customers deciphered it for whatever they wanted it to be. But this actually sounded like someone was talking.

"Dad, it's me, your son Ron."

"Oh, the pansy. If your mom had had the abortion like I told her too, I would have been spared a hell of a lot of embarassment."

Michael came to his senses hearing his father's voice. "Daddy! It's me! Michael!"

"Oh what the hell do you want? At least Ron was honest enough to come out of the closet."

Ron did a double take at his brother. Michael ignored him. "Dad, we need you to answer a question."

"Answer you a question? No, you answer my question first. Why the hell did Gorby win a Nobel Peace Prize, and I didn't? Huh? Can you answer that one? I fucking bankrupted the Russkies with the arms race, watched the Eastern bloc collapse and the Berlin wall fall, and all I got was an Alzheimers defense, and they give him the god damn prize. Besides everything else I have to suffer through now, I have that one over my head as well. Every day Nybras chides me about it. Damn little fucking low rank demon, thinks he's hot shit."

"Dad," Ron asked, concerned, "where are you?"

"Huh? Oh, uh, I don't remember."

Michael cut in. "Dad, we just have one question. Would you support the activities of the conservative Tea Party?"

"Party? Who's having a party? And why the hell would they have tea? Somebody making a remake of Alice in Wonderland?"

"Dad, don't you stay up on current events up there?"

"Up there? Maybe they do. But down here, we have more important things to worry about than how the hell all of you keep fucking yourselves over."

"So you don't follow politics at all in the afterlife? I thought it was your life's passion!"

"The only goddamn politics I have ever cared about was getting rid of taxes. And I think I did a damn good job of it. And you would have thought that would have bought me a ticket. But no, supply one damn little dictator with canisters of gas to use on some no name Kurds, and I get a failing grade. What bullshit."

"So you don't have any opinion about the Republican backlash against the socialist policies of President Obama?" Michael asked.

"Obama? Oh my god, bless his soul. What a great man, what a right choice a bunch of dimwits finally made. You don't know how happy I was the day he was elected."

"You were happy he was elected?" Michael was incredulous.

"Damn right. It was thirty-two degrees for two weeks down here after that election. Pure heaven."

Suddenly the medium fell backward on her chair and hit the floor, coughing and gasping, ruining the trance for all three of them. The seance was clearly over.

Ron stood up with face beaming. "Hah, bro, you owe me on that one. Say, want to go next door and get a Prince Albert?"

***

Iran Protester Sentenced to Death

"Tehran, Iran (CNN) -- An Iranian court has sentenced one person to death and eight others to prison for their parts in anti-government demonstrations in December, the semi-official Fars news agency reported Tuesday.

The nine defendants were tried last week over their roles in protests during the Shiite Muslim holy period of Ashura, Fars said, quoting the Tehran judiciary's public relations office.

There now are 10 people sentenced to death and awaiting appeal in connection with the protests.

Two men already have been executed for participating in anti-government demonstrations, but a lawyer for one of them said her client was already in jail when the protests began."

The story

"Arash Rahmanipour, under the powers granted to me by the supreme Ayatollah, you have been found guilty of conspiracy against the government and waging war against God. Your sentence, to be carried out immediately, is death by hanging." The judge took off his glasses and closed the file containing the judgement papers with a certain finality. He leaned over the front of the judge's podium and handed them with a sweeping, dramatic flourish to the clerk of the court.

"Your honor, with all due respect, I think a mistake has been made," Arash burst out, sweat glistening on his brow while his lawyer tried to restrain him.

The judge glared at the sudden, unexpected interruption. "Godless men should not speak and besmirch the sanctity of this holy courtroom! You sir are indeed guilty! You participated in these heinious American imperialist and Zionest inspired crimes. As God is Great and God is my witness, you shall pay for your transgressions with your life!"

Arash was beside himself as the Revolutionary guards seized him by both arms.

"But your honor, I was in a detention cell, I was nowhere near the demonstrations against the election! Not that I wouldn't have particpated in them, as I think Mahmoud Ahmadinejad is a fraud, but with all due respect and in the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful, how can you put me to death for a parking ticket? I came to the police station to pay the ticket and I was immediately arrested with no provocation. I am a devout muslim, I go to Friday prayers every week, I pray seven times a day towards Mecca, even during my lunch hour, though there was that one time when I was stuck in rush hour traffic in downtown Tehran, but I made up for it with double my alms to the poor beggar outside my apartment. What have I done wrong?"

The judge slammed his fist on the table. "What have you done wrong? I will tell you what you have done wrong. The five Pillars of Islam are the foundation of Muslim life. Faith or belief in the Oneness of God and the finality of the prophethood of Muhammad; Establishment of the daily prayers; Concern for and almsgiving to the needy; Self-purification through fasting; and the pilgrimage to Mecca for those who are able." The judge stopped and stared hard at the condemned. "There is none worthy of worship except God and Muhammad is the messenger of God!"

Arash paused, and then looked around, befuddled. "And, which of these rules have I broken?"

"You parked in my parking space. Take him away!"

***

Sarah Palin's Palm Pilot

Today's News Flash Fiction - Monday February 8, 2010

"We have all had occasion to write on our hand, either because no paper was available or because we knew we'd probably forget the bit of paper along with the thing we'd written on it (although if your memory's in that sort of shape, you probably won't be able to find a pen).

There is a big difference, however, between scrawling "bin liners" on the back of your hand before you go to the shops and reading off your palm on television, as Sarah Palin did during the Tea Party Convention at the weekend. Photographs of her speaking show one hand clearly decorated with crib notes."

The story


"Ok Guys, next speaker is Sarah Palin, she's gonna get a lot of national face time. So let's do a good job here."

"Roger that Larry. I love her. I think she's hot," Jeff's voice crackled over the headphone speakers.

Larry rolled his eyes. "Ok Jeff, keep your hands on the camera and nothing else. We need you centered on her face, and no shaking."

"Of course Larry, when have I ever given you a shaky shot?" Jeff replied indignantly.

Larry remembered the Grammy's when he zoomed in on Lady Gaga's cleavage and left it there. Thank-God Larry had Tom on the steady-cam to switch to.

The control room was ablaze with lights, monitors, teleprompters scrolling, digital clocks, and on the fly schedules. The tea party was winding down, most of the speakers had been as boring as politicians ever could be. But Sarah Palin had electric energy about her, and this would hit national news, so Larry was concerned the control room needed to do a good job.

"Larry, you want me to follow her out or stay here on the floor?" That was Tom with the steady cam.

"Stay on the floor, I want a low shot looking up. Let's make her look larger than life.

"Got that."

The speaker that was introducing Sarah Palin was winding down his introduction. Larry had the actual text on a teleprompter in front of him.

"Ok guys, he's got about five seconds to go. Tim, go stage right and get her coming out. Four, three, two, one... switching to Tim on 2. Good, follow her. Bob, turn up the background applause. Max it out. Good, good, Jeff, give me two inches of the lectern on the bottom and... what the hell is she doing... she's walking toward the front of the stage. Shit this isn't a rock concert. Tom, you got her? Switching to Tom on 4, now!"

Sarah walked to the front lip of the stage and leaned over to shake some hands. If Jeff wanted cleavage, he was probably soiling his pants right now.

"Ok, switching back upstairs to Tim on 2, follow her back to the lectern. Get ready Jeff. Bob, fade out the crowd noise, turn up her mike. Good, good... ready Jeff..."

"I'm ready, two inches of lectern on bottom."

"Ready, ready, ok, switching to Jeff on 1. Jeff, she's all yours for now. Wait, Artie, got some good crowd shots? Pan them. And three, two, one... Artie on 3, now! Good. Good. Yep, I like the lady with the tea bag on her head, good one. Ok, Jeff, back to you, on one, now!"

Sarah began her speech. Larry was skimming through it to check again any notable names in the audience she would mention, when suddenly it hit him... she's not using the speech! She's freestyling it. Damn. "Ok guys, bad news, she's off paper. We'll have to play it by ear."

"Larry, this is Tim."

"Yeah, whad'ya got?"

"On her left hand... in her palm... there appears to be... writing."

"What?" Larry switched to monitor 2 and Tim's shot. "Zoom in. Oh my god, you're right. What is that? Is that her speech?"

"Well if it is, it's the shortest speech in the world."

Larry looked at Jeff's monitor, the current active shot. Yeah, you could see it as she held palms out. Larry wondered, should he show this to the world? Zoom in? He looked at Tim's image again. The Sony cameras had amazing zoom features, but at this high level the shot became a little jittery. He did a snap shot and then digitally zoomed in 500x. It was out of focus.

He had sharpening software, so he loaded the photo and began to correct.

Bob walked over and leaned over his shoulder. "So what's it say?"

Though the software did a good job, it was tiny writing and at 90 degrees. Larry rotated the image of her hand. Larry could hear Sarah talking about Barack Obama. Well, he certainly wasn't here, so no use looking for him in the audience.

Finally Bob spoke up. "I think it says... milk, eggs, TP, and... and... Kotex maxi pads. It's a friggin shopping list!"

Larry sat back annoyed. "Well that's useless. Jeff, you got her the rest of the night. If she can't follow her written speech, I ain't going to get all jumpy."

"No problemo Larry. Did I tell you I love her? I think she's hot. I could look at her all night."

Larry turned off his headset.

***

Possible cancer cure found

Today's News Flash Fiction - Sunday, February 7, 2010

"CANCER patients are offering themselves as human guinea pigs as researchers investigate a possible cure for cancer found in north Queensland rainforests.

Scientists have identified a compound in the fruit of the native blushwood shrub that appears to "liquefy and destroy cancer with no side-effects", according to latest research.

Found deep in the remnants of a 130 million-year-old rainforest, the fruit extract may yet hold the secret antidote to Australia's No.1 killer disease."

The story

"Dr. Stringer, this is Elly McDaniel."

John Stringer put down his eye glasses and leaned back in his leather chair. It had been a long day - three bone marrow transplants alone! Before he would head home he had calls to return. Elly was one of his terminal patients. These were the toughest ones.

"Hi Elly, what can I do for you?" He had learned long ago that asking a terminally ill cancer patient how they are doing was the wrong response.

"I know you probably hear these kinds of things all the time, Dr. Stringer, but I read an article that in Australia they found that the fruit of the blushwood tree cures cancer. Is there any truth to this?"

Hmm, this would be a tough call. "Well Elly, yes, I read some of the news articles as well. We've had this discussion before. There are many promising strategies to cure cancer, but they take time to develop, to prove that really are effective, to go through safety testing."

"Yes, but they tested it on dogs and it dissolved tumors the size of coke cans! This stuff must really work!"

"Well Elly," and he rubbed his temples as he squeezed his eyes shut, "believe me, in the world of cancer research, I hear all of the promising leads. This does sound wonderful, but there are several caveats, and they are all the cruellest kind.

First, it's a bush that only grows in a rainforest in Australia. The supply is limited. They have only tested on animals so far. They are going to begin testing on humans, and believe me, they have more than enough volunteers in Australia for this. Cancer is the number one disease cause of death there.

Second, the trials will take about a year. Third, if they prove effective, they need to start mass producing the drug, which probably means growing a lot more of these fruit and refining them. It may take several years."

There was a long pause.

"I see. So I shouldn't bother booking a flight to Australia."

"No, in your condition it's probably not a good idea."

"So I'm going to die."

"We are all going to die eventually Elly. Unfortunately you have an advanced stage of cancer that has spread through your body. Even if the treatment was available today, I'm not sure it could be targetted to all parts of your body that it has spread. From what I've read, this seems a treatment that works on targeting specific tumors. But I think there is great hope for future generations. I think sadly it's just coming too late for you."

"I see."

"I'm really sorry Elly. What you're going through is very difficult, and-"

The phone clicked on the other end.

"Elly? Elly?"

Yep, this was the hardest part of his day.

***

Whale Wars

Today's News Flash Fiction - Saturday, February 6, 2010

"SYDNEY — The anti-whaling ship the Bob Barker and a Japanese harpoon boat collided in the icy waters off Antarctica on Saturday — the second major clash this year in the increasingly aggressive confrontations between the two sides. "

The story

Call me Ishi Ma. Some years ago, I join Japanese Company to research and study whales. For many years Japanese people hunt and catch whales, great source of food, blubber, and sushi. I just graduated from the University of Kobe Maritime School of Tuna Processing when a friend tell me of special program for hunting big fish. United Nations had banned whale hunting - stupid UN. But now we allowed to catch a few... hundred... thousand. So I apply for job, and my uncle Takahara Mishimi pull some strings and I get job. I so happy.

After week of training, we set sail for South Pacific. I real happy, bring Bermuda shorts and sun tan lotion. At first, very pleasant cruise. But we keep going south, WAY south. Antartica friggin cold south... it okay to say friggin in blog?

We sail for many weeks. Not find any big fish. I see tuna, but not allowed to catch them. Not bring any bait or line or hooks or sinkers either.

We see icebergs and penguins, but no big fish. Finally, after many weeks, I down in crew quarters watching anime videos for thirty-fourth time, when alarm goes off. Yippee I say, finally we hunt, I mean we get chance to research big fish.

We go on deck in parkas and I panty hose since I forget to bring long johns. Work very well. But when I get on deck, I no see big fish, but another boat. Captain say it is Greenpeace - Bob Barker. I say who what? Bob Barker game show host. He say yes, he give money to Greenpeace to buy boat to chase whaling ships. They name it Bob Barker. I say no way, I never watch Make A Deal ever again. He say it ok, Bob Barker no longer on show. I say good deal.

Captain say battle stations, prepare to ram intruder. I say is that legal? He say, big waves, we call it unavoidable heavy sea condition collision. Smart captain.

As Bob gets close to us, Captain suddenly turn steering wheel, and we sidescrape Bob Barker. Remove his sideburns. Or like a samurai shaving butt hairs with his katana blade. Nasty scrape. Leave red marks and make horrible noise.

Crew cheers as we veer away! Not sink Bob Barker, but leave nasty scratch in hull! Banzai! Banzai! Banzai! We turn further south into rough weather to get away from imperial dogs. Soon hit heavy fog and hide from Greenpeace boats. Anyone who put mayonaisse on tuna deserve to sink to bottom of Davy Jones locker.

But while in fog, ship begin to list heavily to right. Turn out we scratched a hole in our hull too, but below water line. We sink so fast, I not even get chance to stand on bridge like Titanic and say I king of the world.

I sit here with my laptop and satellite wifi on this small iceberg. It get smaller everyday as we drift north to south pacific. Circling my iceberg are big fish. I study them. There be big sharks too, but they glide by us as if with padlocks on their mouths. Not my words, I read that once in a whale book. Meanwhile, my life raft boat be nearby too, but upside down. The hull still filled with air and buoyant, but everyone else I think freeze to death, or maybe that why sharks no longer hungry. A little while ago I see some big whales go by, spraying through their tops and look like they making fun of me. It okay. Bob Barker get last laugh, cause I pick wrong door.

***

Powerful snowstorm hits East

Today's News Flash Fiction - Friday, February 5, 2010

"WASHINGTON, Feb 5 (Reuters) - A powerful storm slammed the U.S. mid-Atlantic on Friday, threatening record snowfall in a region heavily dependent on home heating oil and natural gas supplies.

Forecasts calling for 20 to 30 inches (50 to 76 cm) of snow and near-blizzard conditions from Virginia to southern New Jersey prompted U.S. government offices in the Washington area to close their doors four hours early."

The story


He stood in the line at Safeway, his shopping cart filled with two dozen eggs, two loafs of bread, two gallons of milk, and two twelve packs of toilet paper. The place was packed with people as they tried to sneak in their weekend shopping on a Friday afternoon with a blizzard forecast to arrive that night.

The other people in line stared at his cart and rolled their eyes. How typical. The weatherman calls for snow and people run out for tp, milk, eggs, and bread.

This being super bowl weekend, most people were also stocking up on snacks and finger foods to watch the big game from sunny Miami. But this guy would probably only be having eggs and toast, and then a good follow-up later.

As his turn came up at the checkout counter, the cashier offered her stale greeting and looked at his merchandise to scan. When it dawned on her what the contents were, she broke out into a smile.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"Oh no, just... just feeling happy."

"It's supposed to snow."

"Yes, it is. And you'll be well prepared for it."

"You sound condescending."

She looked up, startled. "Excuse me?"

"You look like you're making fun of my preparedness."

The cashier was momentarily speechless. Then finally, she stared him straight in the eye, and responded, "Actually, since they're calling for over two feet of snow, I think you're woefully short. You have no butter, nor any road salt. See those bags over there? They're on special and everyone is buying at least a bag. And what about fruits and vegetables? Clementines are in season, without Vitamin C you'll be prone to Rickets. You really need more fiber in your diet. The asparagus and snap peas are on sale. You don't want to be constipated, or this'll go unused," she said as she scanned the toilet paper.

"And with the high winds forecast, and if power lines go down, you have no matches, batteries for your flashlights, or magazines to read. If the power goes out, you won't be able to watch TV or surf the Internet. You know Brad and Angelina split up and we have over ten different magazines and tabloids that will keep you riveted through the whole weekend until the snowplows dig you out.

And you really need some juice or bottles of water. With no power, your refrigerated food will go bad, and all that milk and eggs will spoil, though you could put them outside, but then they might freeze."

She finished scanning the bread and threw them into the bag and hit the total button. "Oh no, I'm not condescending. I am totally concerned about your well being and hope you make it with the... thirty-three dollars and fourteen cents worth you've purchased.

He said nothing and handed her two twenties. She punched it in, handed him his change and receipt. He took the bags and placed them in his cart and moved toward the exit.

The next person in line moved up to her station. "I'm only buying toilet paper because I'm really out," the woman said, smiling.

The cashier just winked back.

***

6.0 Magnitude Earth Quake

Today's News Flash Fiction - Thursday, February 4, 2010

"HUMBOLDT COUNTY-- An earthquake with a preliminary magnitude of 6.0 rattled the coast of Northern California. The USGS says the quake was located 35-miles west-northwest of the small unincorporated community of Petrolia, California in the ocean."

The story

Russell decided to work from home this Friday, having spent a grueling four days in meetings, JAD sessions, focus groups, and other corporate life bullshit. He had a nice home way up north in Petrolia, California, just a half mile from the Pacific Coast Highway but remote enough that no one ever bothered them other than the excitement caused by a FedEx truck delivery or someone coming out to service their wind turbine or solar panels that kept the house powered.

Russell sat in the glass enclosed patio that looked out over the Pacific ocean, and though the view was breathtaking, he was immersed in fine tuning the specifications for a new web application that his corporation would be launching, the next big thing after Twitter.

Janeen, his live in girlfriend slithered out of the bed and wearing nothing but a sheer gown was surprised to find him still home.

"Not going in today, honey?" she asked, sitting down next to him and admiring all the pretty colors on the monitor of his Mac.

"Nah, I just have a few tweaks to this report, make it just right, hit send on my email, and I can take the rest of the day off. Spend it with you."

"Ooh," she purred. "That would be so nice. Taking long walks on the beach with a couple of dogs gets old after a while." She ignored the two Golden Retrievers who slept on the throw rug by the door and looked up momentarily but went back to sleep.

"Yep, just you and me today. Just let me finish this report, and I'm all yours."

Janeen made a pouty face. "I have to wait? I always have to wait for you."

"Just a couple of minutes,' and he intently typed away on the keyboard.

"But, what would you do if I did this to you?" and she leaned over and began to lick his ear."

"Umm, nice. Just a minute more."

"But, but, what if I did this to you?" and she ran her tongue down his neck, then down his bare, shirtless back.

He looked at her and smiled, then returned to the screen.

"But, but, but, what if I did this to you?" And she dropped the robe off of her shoulders, and lifted the nipple of her right breast toward him and began to rub his shoulder and arm with it.

He didn't even flinch but kept typing.

Miffed, she stood up and moved her pubic region up to his elbow, and began rubbing her little landing stirp over his forearm, making gasping noises while saying, "but, but, but, but..."

Finally Russell clicked send, and immediately sprang up and grabbed her by her waist and with his strong arms carried her to the love seat and threw her down, immediately burying his face into the softer portions of her supple body.

"Ohh," she moaned, "that's more like it."

Russell was no fool. Even though the report was unfinished, by the time anyone actually read it, he'd be able to send the finished product later. But some things just couldn't wait.

In one deft move he removed his boxers and climbed aboard her writhing body. The moans were definitely getting a rise out of him.

Suddenly the dogs sat up, and began to whine. Russel ignored them, and Janeen never noticed. Usually the dogs acted bored during their lovemaking. He wondered what was up. Russed gripped Janeens breasts in both hands and began to give them their due attention.

Janeen began to struggle violently, she loved when he did that. But Russell noticed... more movement than usual. He raised his head up.

"Did, did the earth just move for you?"

"Umm, not yet love. But put it in and I'm sure it will."

Russell sat up, letting go of the breasts. "No, really, does it feel like the house is shaking?" The dogs began running around in circles.

Janeen sat up, annoyed by this interruption. "Russell, you're good, but you're not that good. It takes a few strokes to... oh my God, the chandelier is swaying."

"Oh shit," and Russell jumped up.

Janeen sat up as well, "Russell, what's happening?" And then she noticed the dogs. "What's wrong with the dogs?"

"I think we're having an earthquake!"

Russell had only moved to California last month, and had never experienced an earthquake.

"What do we do?" Janeen shouted in terror.

"Um, I don't know, I think we need to get outside."

"Oh my god, this house isn't going to collapse like the ones in Haiti, is it? Russell, I don't want to die!"

The dogs began to bark and whine like they really needed to go for a walk, bad.

"I- I don't think so. The realtor said this house could withstand up to an 8. But I don't know what an 8 is. Let's go outside."

The two stood up off the love seat, Russell grabbing his boxers and Janeen her sheer robe. Naked, they both ran for the front door and ran outside, the dogs squeezing by. Just as they stepped outside, the trembling stopped, as a FedEx truck pulled up.

The driver jumped out of the step van.

"Wow, did you feel that? I bet that was a 6.0 on the Richter." Then he noticed they weren't wearing very much.

"Do I need to sign for that?" Russel asked, taking the package from the driver's hand.

The driver looked at Janeen and Russel and thought, nice. He looked at Russel's erection and then looked away. "Nah, not necessary. Well, hope you have a nice day." And he got back in the van and drove away.

Janeen wrapped the robe over her shoulder. "Tell me that doesn't happen here all of the time."

"Nah, just when I'm on top." And he led her back into the house, followed by the dogs.

***