North Pole – Shocking developments today at the North Pole rocked legal and judicial communities all around the world.
Santa Claus, under arrest for a variety of charges since early this year, has escaped custody. The warden for the North Pole District Detention Facility declined comment.
Unnamed sources cited mafia connections in this classic jailbreak, which ultimately caused an entire wing of the Detention Facility to be shut down for repair. “Total overkill,” one guard said, “One minute, I was rousting this sex offen… uh, checking on the prisoners, and the next I woke up in the middle of the deflated Bouncy Castle down on the floor. The inmates were devastated.” Other sources confirmed that riotous prisoners were transferred to separate them after a near riot over the Bouncy Castle.
The usually taciturn District Attorney maintained that, “We will of course seek justice for the people in this case. This is in no way over.” An unnamed source close to the DA hinted that the unofficial verdict here in the Pole region is ‘good riddance’ after the ongoing circus of civil disturbances resulting from Santa Claus’ arrest and incarceration.
At the height of the Santa Crisis, the NAACP provided Claus an attorney to replace Jose Baez, who quit the case citing personal reasons. Santa Claus’ pro bono lawyer declined comment, but later Al Sharpton issued a statement saying, “Justice is served for Brother Claus. Whether he’s free now or was set free later by an activist jury doing the right thing, justice has prevailed.” NAACP and Sharpton spokesbrothers were available for further comment.
The legal circuit media here in town were not put off breaking news for long, however. Only hours after Claus’ mysterious and violent escape, North Pole Police responded to a 9-1-1 call allegedly made by staffers working for Gloria Allred, the lawyer representing Mrs. Claus in her divorce proceedings. One jelly-donut-filling-smeared officer stated, “We have no suspects at this time, but the connection with the jail break cannot be overlooked.” A source within NPP said off the record that one key item logged into evidence were salad tongs that were found at the scene.
Other sources close to the presiding judicial figures in these cases hinted at a unilateral backroom deal that would settle both cases without further court drama. Just this morning beat reporters went to the blogs to announce that Mrs. Claus boarded a commercial flight out of the Pole, possibly confirming rumors of this alleged backroom deal. No official representatives of any North Pole offices were available for comment after this.
FOLLOW THE DEBACLE:
All across America families are gathered around their tables in celebration of Thanksgiving; a holiday that commemorates the first harvest of 1621 for the Pilgrims of Plymouth, Massachusetts. Here in New England, the birthplace of Thanksgiving, we honor our forebears by keeping with the tradition of serving turkey, an indigenous bird to this part of the country.
While many of us view turkey as festive holiday fare, there are some who consider our gesture of patronage murder. There is one who goes so far as to call it genocide. Today’s holiday interview is like no other that’s come before, because today we are conducting our interview in a secret hide-out free from the tyranny of New England’s native carnivores. Today we interview Pro-foul resistance leader, Tom Turkey.
Hello, Tom. Forgive me for sounding trite, but how are you doing?
Eat me – that’s how I’m doing. Oh, I’m doing really well. Gobble gobble and shit. I’ve been soaking in this hot tub all day – it smells great, sort of spicy or something. It’s making me hungry! GAH! Wait a minute…
Without revealing too much information, can you explain what is involved in engineering and maintaining an underground system of foul relocation?
Ah yes, the Undergrain Railroad. Well first, some wild turkeys are helping out with that by disguising some of us with camouflage and leaves. Those guys are poultry in motion. Secondly, we eat nothing but donuts and burgers and Cheetos to ensure that even if we’re caught, we’re too fatty to be palatable.
From what your lieutenants tell me you’ve been able to successfully move over one thousand turkeys out of New England to a Vegan commune somewhere in rural California. What are the logistics involved in such a massive migration, and were there any bumps along the way?
Besides these red things, you mean? HA HA! GOL! (Ed. note: gobble out loud) One word: trains. This country hates trains, so it’s easy to sneak on like a bunch of hobos and ride them all across the country. And when we can’t do trains, we ride bears. That’s right, bears! Grizzlies! In return for eating bugs. They hate bugs.
Have there ever been any close calls?
Yes there have – hunters. Those damned turkey calling things are like a siren song to some of us. Some of us are really fucking stupid, and when they hear one of those things go off, they go running out, and BLAM! Though this one time, one of our boys was able to get someone shot in the face. Hilarious!
And there was that one time when someone got a little smart for her own good, and read a map, and saw this country called… you know. She put the wrong two with the wrong two and got… well, eaten.
What would you like to see the Obama administration do in the form of policies that would make hiding out unnecessary?
Useless, Hellis. Useless. It’s already been tried. Over 200 years ago, we started a grassroots whisper campaign to get Benjamin Franklin to make the turkey the national bird. We would have been set FOREVER! But that idiot ran out in a rain storm and got shocked, and he was never the same. We couldn’t even get him on the ballot. Eventually, he went to France. Yeah, France. I know, right! Gobbledammed eagles swooped up and took the bird prize. They’re endangered, of course, but no one is eating them, are they.
More than just winning sovereignty for the Turkey population, you’ve been quoted as stating you’d like to see the Thanksgiving holiday abolished altogether. What in particular about Thanksgiving (other than turkey consumption) do you find distasteful?
Cranberry sauce. Terrible stuff. Oh, and those hand thingies, where human children trace their hands and pretend they’re turkeys? What the hell – those look nothing like us.
What’s your opinion on Turduken?
Well, I’ve stuffed a duck AND a chicken before, if you know what I’m saying, and I’ve seen ducks and chickens having some fun, but… yeah… this is just sick.
Finally, where do you see yourself in the future?
President of Mars, which will be renamed Turkopolis. It will also be renicknamed The Red Thingie Planet.
North Pole – The North Pole District Attorney announced today that his office would continue to pursue the prosecution of Santa Claus in spite of a new setback to Claus as his attorney, Jose Baez, removed himself from the growing Claus case after a successful appeal in the Pole Court.
Santa Claus, arraigned on a host of charges ranging from workplace safety violations and fraud, to prostitution and drug possession, now faces an uncertain future with a court-appointed advocate.
“I know this appears to be an abandonment of a major and beloved public figure, but I cannot in good conscience continue to represent Mr. Claus,” Baez said in a prepared press release yesterday.
When asked for a response, the DA merely said to reporters, “Mr. Baez’ statement says it all.”
Recent developments, however, have also added to the workload of the NPDA and his staff. In a heated court exchange last week, the DA was arguing for an injunction against Gloria Allred, the surprise attorney for Mrs. Claus in the concurrent and bitter divorce proceedings associated with this case. The DA requested the injunction due to the administrative burden Ms. Allred is apparently creating for the entire staff.
An unnamed source close to the DA, on the condition of anonymity, provided voice recordings, allegedly of the DA, stating, “If that bitch cries on the courthouse steps one more time, I’m going to personally rip out her uterus with salad tongs.”
In response, a representative for Ms. Allred stated that she would not stoop to the levels implied by that leak, but was very hurt by the implication that she even had reproductive organs.
Sources in the local legal community speculated that the DA is in fact overwhelmed with media requests and related issues.
“We just don’t get this kind of circus up here,” said one lawyer when asked about the issue, who went on to point out that the prior week was the break point for the DA’s Staff, which featured daily press conferences by Allred, as well as an appearance by Reverend Al Sharpton, who stood with Santa Claus after a prayer for justice.
“This is yet another example of the Establishment using its power in racist ways,” Sharpton said. “Santa Claus is a victim of racism, and we stand with him in his time of need. He is a brother, no matter white he is.”
The Sharpton rally soon turned violent, elevating this sleepy town to global attention, and the North Pole is now the growing focus of an Occupy rally, adding to the confusion here.
In light of all this publicity, one judge on the North Pole Circuit did say for the record, “The sooner this mess is over with, the better.”
FOLLOW THE DEBACLE:
F*CKED UP FAIRY TALES is a compilation project for bloggers who wish to take up the challenge of writing their own spin on a classic fairy tale. Bloggers are invited to choose one of the tales below and leave their choice in the comments. Only one tale per blogger, please. I will update the list as soon as the choices roll in. Tales are assigned on a first come, first choose basis.
Each tale is to be no more than 5000 words in length, and can be as funny, sick, twisted, erotic or vanilla as you wish. Once your tale is finished feel free to email it back to me where I will run it in a feature post as well add it to the page above. When all the tales are complete, I will work with a publishing company who is volunteering to publish the compilation of works in both ebook and paperback formats. All proceeds from the compiled works will be donated to a participating charity, with sales records made available to contributors annually.
UPDATE – ALL TALES ARE ASSIGNED. IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO PARTICIPATE AND HAVE NOT RECEIVED A TALE, LEAVE AN IDEA IN THE COMMENTS AND I’LL ADD IT TO THE LIST.
TODAY IS THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY OF MY BLOG! TO COMMEMORATE THIS AUSPICIOUS OCCASION I HAVE DECIDED TO RERUN MY VERY FIRST BLOG POST.
PLEASE TO ENJOY…
So yeah, I wrote a book.
I must have been high when I wrote it because there’s no other explanation I can give for my 120,000 word upper YA novel where the only noun I used more than “boner” was “blood.” It goes without saying that I’m self-published. I didn’t even try to submit it traditionally. Can you just imagine the poor agent who gets my query letter?
“My novel, THE GODS OF ASPHALT is complete at 120,000 words and is the first in a series of five books that for some reason I’ve decided to write out-of-order. Each one is told from the point of view of a teenage male protagonist who has exactly zero supernatural powers (unless you consider perpetual erections a superpower). Oh, and it also has Spanish subtitles.”
On the good side, if you’re like me and are just a little too into music, motorcycles and all around badassery this is the book for you. If you’re not, I’m sure Jodi Picoult’s got a blog somewhere. You can find the opening to chapter one at the top of the page under the tab GOA REVIEWS and you can find my book on line at:
- DON’T FEAR THE REAPER
- CREEPING DEATH
- WAR PIGS
- DEVIL’S SWING
- JESUS IS JUST ALRIGHT
- FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS
- SWEET LEAF
- GENGHIS KHAN
Anyone who wants to take a shot at what this book is about can leave their guess in the comments. The blogger who guesses closest wins a free ebook copy, whether they want it or not. The book will be unveiled in a blog post on August 25th, and released September 1st.
I promise you, this is an actual clue!
No, this is not what I was doing when I wrote this book. It is an actual clue.
Now on a personal note: Jeb, buddy, this one’s for you.
Even if you don’t get the clue, you can still enjoy this kickass song.
Have you figured it out yet? This might help:
A bit of a stretch for a clue, but I am such a Kip Winger fan that I’ll write anything just so I can look at him. Yes, I am a child of the eighties. EH, you can’t say anything until the next clue. You’ve already got this one.
Although I’ve never met Kip Winger personally, I have some very musically connected friends who tell me this man is one class act.
So far you’ve got DON’T FEAR THE REAPER and CREEPING DEATH. Now here’s clue #3:
This is the only bit of information I’m able to part with at the moment….
I’ve been taking a break from blogging to work on a super secret writing project that is set to release September 1st (no, it’s not GOA2. That’s due out January 1st. Sorry, Megan).
Lately I’ve been struggling not to spill the beans because I can’t keep a secret to save my life. So instead of ruining the surprise I am going to periodically give out hints over the next few weeks, sort of like letting out steam so I don’t blow the whole thing at once. I will officially let the cat out of the bag August 25th in the form of an opening excerpt and companion blog.
Until then, your first clue is….
I’ve enjoyed reading your love letters/emails to me, especially the one involving some alone time in a Chuck E. Cheese ball pit. In fact, I find myself oddly interested in many of the activities you’ve out lined for us, although I had to look up what a “Hot Carl” is, and all I can say to that is, “let me get back to you.”
I am dreaming of the day when we can finally meet, and I can tell you and SHOW you in person how your sweet words have brought out the woman in me. Please meet me at the street corner in West Hollywood you speak so eloquently about. I’ll be the blushing girl in the pink dress.
Love and kisses,
You’re a CHICK?!
Have I got a treat for you all just in time for the holidays. It’s a hot, bubbling cauldron of awesome in the form of a mystery writer who has hijacked my blog for the day. Prepare to have your socks blown the f*ck off. I give you:
The house was exactly as she had described it to him. Standing in the entry, he controlled himself, his nervousness, his racing heart, his moist, shaking hands. Turning from hanging his coat, she smiled, hands demurely folded before her, hair just so, and completely at odds with her excitement as well. Only an imperceptible throb of a vein in her neck outwardly spoke of her tension. They had waited so very long.
“I like your place,” he said, his voice skipping.
“Oh, that is kind of you to say,” she replied, eyes lowering, lips curling so slightly at the corners.
They hugged awkwardly, an entirely shoulders and arms test of the waters. A brief silence turned awkward, and then stretched on some more. Brown eyes glanced up from under conservative eyeshadow. She watched him, clearly at odds with himself. His mind racing, all it seemed he could think of was how huge and how ungraceful his feet felt.
“I hope you like pork roast,” she said, taking the initiative, “I know we said dinner at the Terrace, but this felt a lot better when I had the idea.”
“I… well, uhm… but,” he stammered, now in mental ruin, all well-planned events for naught, yet somehow recovered, “Well, ok, and pork roast is one of my favorites.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize you had put so much effort into this. I feel bad, but you know,” she paused, making an equivocating hand movement, “The situation.”
The months of careful exchanges over their shared social network site buttressed her caution to him. The shy caution she showed initially blossoming into more exciting, revealing exchanges. Then came the whispered phone conversations from basements, the tearful ones detailing the deceptions, the disappointments, the betrayals. There was implied violence thinly veiled in conversations of another related in explanations. Then, finally, a business trip, a plan, and a hope.
“Yes! Right,” he breathed, “You should have – I mean, I should have thought of that. Really.”
“Relax, it’s okay,” she soothed, and he actually did.
She pointed in a reserved way at a large bag near his feet on the floor. It was the folded, flat-bottomed kind, with two semicircular paper-covered wire handles for carrying.
“Did you bring it?” She asked.
“Oh! Yes I did,” he said, and laughed, now completely relieved.
Picking up the bag, he held each handle in one hand, an offering. With an enigmatic cat’s smile, she glanced at him and reached into the bag. She took the contents in hand and maneuvered it out, flipping it around to finally view it.
Another awkward silence stretched into infinity. For him, he waited in tortured hope for an expression. For her, she racked her brain to comprehend this work. It was the work of months, arduous and perfectionist brushstrokes based on nervously-sent photos. It was her without question, rendered with the talent of a real artist, surrounded by death, glorious in her victory.
“No,” she gasped as tears erupted down her cheeks and she shoved the painting barely-caught into his hands. She vanished into the kitchen, her muffled sobs following her. His world spun, nearly tipping off the edge. He felt actual dizziness, and fought it, somehow willing his feet forward to shuffle uneasily after her.
She stood at the counter, shoulders racking in silent tears. She stirred a crock pot with a wooden spoon. He paused, just beyond arms’ reach of her. Something metal clinked. She froze when he spoke.
“I am so sorry. I… I thought after all we talked about, your amazing strength through this… this… shit,” he managed to choke out of a tight throat. Oddly, he fixed on a coppery and fleeting smell, possibly the roast. Only a few seconds passed this time, and she slammed the lid on the pot nearly hard enough to shatter it. The potholder clung tenaciously to the handle. She spun, bracing against the counter, her fist perched on her cocked hip. From under heavy brows, her eyes now shone with a different intensity through the remnants of the tears.
“No,” she said forcefully, “I meant that you’re not going to disappoint me, and I’m so very excited by that.”
“But, you just… so,” he struggled, somewhat dizzy again yet hopeful, “So you like it?”
“I think it captures the fire I feel inside me right now,” she answered, stalking toward him.
Laughter rushed from his lips as he coughed out, “Oh wow,” and caught her feminine form. This embrace, unlike the first, was heated, close, and natural. Hands wandered, and the only sound for some moments was the nasal exhalations over a deep kiss. Fingernails dug almost painfully into his chest.
“Oh yes,” she breathed, “This will be so liberating. Love me.”
“God, yes,” he replied, “Are you sure –“
“Yes, dammit, he’s gone I swear it,” she said more loudly, “Now, love me!”
He did, and with all his energy and longing. In his arms, she smiled a wicked and pleased smile. Behind them, the potholder slid silently off of the lid, while inside the wedding band fell from the boiling flesh, making a gentle clinking noise.