Carson Greene prepares to glue his anus shut

By Eric Terman

Marion, Illinois, United States Penitentiary- When Carson Greene regretfully agreed to a plea deal of two and a half years for tax evasion, his first thought was not of the freedoms he would be stripped of or the wife and children whose constant reassuring and calming presence he would be denied. Carson Greene’s first concern was of his physical well-being; specifically the sodomy he would soon endure.

“I would explain to Carson that the evidence was stacked against him and that incarceration would be unavoidable. The conversation would always turn towards prison sodomy; how much it would hurt, how frequent it could be, and if there was anything that could be done to prevent it,” Explained attorney Alexander Felt. “His singular focus was always on preventing sodomy. He asked me if he could work it into the plea deal to agree to do additional time in prison in exchange for not having to be sodomized. I told him [the state] couldn’t make that guarantee.”

After weeks of lost sleep and indecisiveness over whether to proceed to trial, revelation came to Greene in the form of a dream. “I dreamt that I was soaring through the clouds, waving at airplanes as they passed by, petting the birds and eagles, when suddenly I became stuck to a cloud. And I couldn’t fly anymore. And I realized the cloud was made of glue. And I awoke instantly and realized, I just needed to superglue my asshole shut!

There is a God, and this is his sign. I knew then what I had to do” rationalized Greene. “So I called my lawyer instantly and told him I’d be taking a deal.”

Those close to him were surprised by Greene’s sudden reversal, and expressed bafflement over what appeared to be an acceptance of inevitable forced anal penetration. “Carson would talk about virtually nothing, for weeks, but how much he sympathized for the victims of involuntary sodomy, and how he prayed that somehow God could spare him of such a punishment, and then all of a sudden he wanted a plea-deal and to get his sentencing as quickly as possible. It took forever before he told me what changed his mind,” said wife Christy Greene. Our son was surprised too when Carson said he’d accept jail time.”

“Daddy said he didn’t want his butt to hurt”, stated son Will Greene. “But then he said it wouldn’t have to.”

One day before reporting to the Marion Penitentiary to begin serving his 30 month sentence, Carson Green purchased one cyanoacrylate The Original Super Glue tube from a local hard-ware store. He then carefully applied the glue to his anus, one drop at a time.

“I musta used half that tube!” said Greene. “I wanted to make sure nothing was getting in there. My first night in the joint I took a shower, and this guy who goes by Skull says ‘hey, check out the new guy’. You should have seen the looks on their faces! It was exhilarating. He was shouting like, ‘hey, what the fuck? I can’t get it in!’ It was incredible.”

“I’ve been feeling a bit sick though lately. I don’t know what it is. My stomach has just been killing me. The food here obviously ain’t gourmet, but I guess I just really haven’t adjusted to it. I mean I guess that’s what’s making me feel so sick. Either that or the fact that I haven’t taken a shit in more than a week.”

“He died the way he lived — underneath a big, beautiful woman.”

Yesterday afternoon a young man and self-proclaimed large women fetishist was accidentally crushed by a falling fat woman while waiting in line at Chipotle.  The unfortunate accident occurred in the middle of a large fraternity-sorority bar crawl in which the young woman was participating and the young man was not.  Witnesses speculate that the woman was “really wasted,” and many told reporters that she had been having trouble standing still for several minutes before the fatal fall, and had been struggling against the drunks’ breeze for quite some time before finally succumbing and toppling over onto the young man.

The young man’s female friend — who was of healthy weight and thus not romantically involved with the victim — recalled that she noticed that his face looked “serene” following the EMTs’ pronouncement of DOA when she caught a glimpse of him as the rolled the young woman off of him.  “He always used to love how little pressure larger woman would place on him in romantic situations, and, considering this, I think he would have enjoyed the irony of his fate had he had a chance to appreciate it. … I don’t think he would have chosen to go any other way.”

"Time to change time"

I want to be forever young. Those words, they radiate from my car stereo, and cut me like a knife. 1992, the year when Alphaville came out with that famous hit single, it is also the year that I decided to live.
They never believed, they always doubted. Their criticisms echo through my skull and destroy the fabric of my sanity. I was driven to the edge of oblivion, but I lived. Whoever told me you can’t turn a Chevrolet Citation into a Time Machine was wrong. Dead Wrong.

To be continued.

"Why can't Lucy be President?"

Dakota Fanning announced today through her manager that she will be seeking the 2048 presidential nomination as a Democrat. Manager JJ Harris stated unequivocally that Ms. Fanning has every intention of winning. “Make no mistake, Dakota Fanning will in the future have what it takes to be this nation’s 54th or 55th, or perhaps 56th or 57th president, depending on how many presidents die in office” he said.
Within hours of the announcement, dozens of “Fanning in 48” websites sprung up on the web. “We don’t know if anyone will still be using the internet in 39 years,” said Fanning4TheWhiteHouse.com founder Ellen Shockley, “but we do know that Dakota Fanning will be the most qualified person to lead this country once 2048 rolls around.”
Fanning supporters have been quick to point out their candidate’s unique experiences with success in the face of monumental pressure. Others have cited her background in a wide range of contexts that a presidential hopeful will need to tackle in 2048 such as the lessons she learned helping the mentally challenged in I am Sam and the Space Alien attacks she encountered in War of the Worlds.
But some have expressed doubts about Fanning’s future qualifications for the most powerful office in the nation. “She’s not cute anymore people! She’s like 15 now!” said California Senator Barbara Boxer. “That stuck-up bitch was a menace to work with!” declared actress Brittany Murphy. One thing is certain, Fanning is expected to face a ferocious primary challenge from Triumph the Insult Comic Dog.

Stan's fictional lost love has yet to post her own "Missed Connection" of the occurance, Stan is hopeful.

Stan Willem of North Chicago was recently feeling the onset of ennui after yet another day of tech support at the large ISP help center where he works, and decided to indulge in an old pastime from his college days: personal monographic literature recounting minute poignant instances in his recent past.  He recalled his past writings fondly, such as his sophomore year entry, “Monitors Reflecting on Your Glasses,” a piece describing a slight crush on his CS 125 partner whose true name he always withheld but referred to as “Laura.”  Though single in his late 30s, a far-cry from a college-aged bachelor, Willem decided to try his hand at recapturing some of that creative fire, this time with a medium more public.  A quick appraisal of his options led him to Craigslist’s Missed Connections section, in which users are encouraged to write on events spanning from passing crushes based on a seemingly meaningful smile, brief moments of eye contact on the train or missed opportuntites to “Shit on my face.” Willem cracked his knuckles and sat down, ready to write about such an encounter in his recent life.

Twenty minutes later, the screen still glaring a featureless white abyss into his eyes, Willem came to the stunning realization that at no point in the past five years had he ever even once considered himself to be on the same playing field as a woman in his general vicinity.  He rode the L to and from work every day, giving him regular exposure to the type of environment that seemed to incubate such passing fancies, yet he could not remember a single instance of making eye contact with or catching a smile from a woman that he did not immediately rule out as too good or not good enough for him.  Amazed, he vaguely recalled having attempted to catch the eye of a young woman he found attractive soon after he had moved into his current apartment, but that had been seven years and four months in the past.  He remembered her glancing at him and immediately looking away when—he assumed—she noticed he was paying attention to her, and briefly considered writing on this occurrence, but soon abandoned the idea when he could not remember what she had been wearing, not to mention her hair color, approximate height, dress style, body build, facial features, or ethnic group, so it seemed more trouble than it was worth, especially considering how long ago the sighting had occurred.

It was while trying to recall what this pseudo-lost love was like that the idea of fictionalizing an event crossed Willem’s mind.  Sure, it is pretty pathetic to imagine a dream girl, not to mention write about her as if she’s real, you’ve met her, and didn’t even ask her out, not to mention posting that writing to the internet.  But Willem had set his mind to recapturing some of the magic that came from these kinds of writings from college, though admittedly those had all actually occurred.  Not to be deterred, Willem created “Rebecca” and set about drawing a word picture describing her mistakenly entering the ISP help center where he worked before leaving, embarrassed at her own charming confusion, only to wind up on the very same L train as Willem that very evening.  As Willem planned it, the two shared a meaningful silence thick with eye contact and shy smiles, as if each shared in on a private, intimate joke unknown to the rest of the unwashed passengers on the Red Line.  Though he was tempted to skip ahead to this presupposed intensely intimate moment, Willem resolved to write chronologically, as he had in college, and set to work describing her entrance.

It was at about the four page mark, when Willem had finally finished detailing the charming way the tips of her breasts seemed to hover exactly twenty inches above and seven inches extended out from her belt-line, after cataloging the various endearing facial expressions she cycled rapidly through behind her stylish glasses as she walked into the ISP office, confused that the address she thought would lead her to her new job as executive sales manager of AnimeKingdom—one of Willem’s favorite publishers—would instead lead into what appeared to be an IT center, and just before zooming in on and describing for nearly a page the gorgeous way that her left ankle pivoted as she unsettlingly turned to leave, mortified at her ignorance in front of so dashing an ISP call center employee, momentarily pausing to pan up to the exceedingly meaningful glance she cast back as she left the office, that Willem felt what he had so far written rang a bit hollow.  Not only was this woman a little too perfect, his descriptions relied heavily on total omniscience, an excellent example being his tangent describing her low-carb diet after no larger a clue as her perfectly proportioned waist line.  He briefly considered toning it down slightly, perhaps limiting his description to the planned meaningful ride home on the L together, but soon decided it was not worth the effort of editing, and that no one—not even those on the internet—would believe it, and anonymity be damned, his delicate disposition could not take the prospect of his magnum opus making the Penthouse Forum seem plausible by comparison.  Willem closed OpenOffice.org, not bothering to save his work, and placed his favorite Vivid Video DVD into the player, dripping a melancholy that made him feel even more vulgar than he already felt.

By Eliot Rahal

A-Rod, seen here struggling with peer pressure

by Eric Terman

New York Yankees 3^rd baseman Alex Rodriguez, in a second interview in as many months with MLB expert Peter Gammons, has recanted and says he has never used steroids. Rodriguez’s reversal has stunned the baseball community, and is raising more questions than it answers. Rodriguez says he felt under pressure to admit using performance enhancing drugs and wilted under the pressure.

“I’ve just always wanted people to like me, and so I said what I thought everyone wanted to hear…and I thought it would just go away” said Rodriguez. When asked by Gammons to explain his two positive steroid tests he responded, “Does it really matter now? What’s important is that I’m finally telling the truth…I’m coming clean and admitting to having never used steroids.”

The interview became heated when Gammons asked about Rodriguez’s previous explanation of having begun the use of performance enhancing drugs because of pressure he felt upon signing an 8 figure contract with the Texas Rangers. “I lied because of pressure; you put me under pressure and so I said I did something that I didn’t do. But, Selena Roberts really did stalk me” he added.

Rodriguez’s agent Scott Boras issued a prepared statement shortly after the interview congratulating his client for doing the “brave” thing. When asked by a reporter if he anticipated that the controversy would become a distraction and drag into the season, Boras laughed and said “Absolutely not. Why would it, it never even happened.”

Obama appointed Hyperbole Czar Ramon Clarkson. Source: Myspace.com Note: We at the Gaslight cannot in good conscience condone following ANY link to Myspace.com

by Eric Terman

Washington, D.C.- The White House announced today plans to accelerate it’s “War on Hyperbole”. Newly appointed Hyperbole Czar Ramon Clarkson said, “We can no longer afford to stand idle as these deadly hyperboles tear apart the fabric of our society. We must seek them out and utterly annihilate them where-ever they are. No less than the future of the human race is at stake.”

Supporters of the War on Hyperbole cite other failed “War on” policies such as the War on Drugs, the War on Crime, and the disasterous War on Internet Porn as evidence of an over-abundance of hyperbole in American society. Criticisms however cover a wide range of doubts. Some fear inadequate funding, while many more ask “What is a hyperbole?” Clarkson however dismisses his critics, and insists that casualties will not exceed 25,000 lives.

Eliot Rahal highlights some of his favorite excerpts from the new Great Gonzo memoir, due out this summer.

By Eliot Rahal

March, 1979. I remember. Although my memories are brief, few and far between, I remember. It was happier then. America was still a place where you could buy a burger and soda for a buck, and get a good fuck for even less. Love was still free, although hard to come by. With those fascists Nixon and Ford out of office, the future looked bright. We thought, just maybe, innocence was being reborn; a second chance, the rebaptism of America, the great spiritual reawakening (with less hellfire and more Fire Island). Roller blades were in and suits were out. It was the seventies, and we thought that it could never end. It was back in those days that I had found God, his name being Kermit the Frog, and I believed in him. All of us did. He had the love of Christ in him and the know-how of Rockefeller. We followed him to New York. We thought we would change the world, rattle some cages, shake a fence or two, blow a few minds, get back to being what we thought life should be….real. Human connection and spirituality combined in those days; love, fraternity, feminism. We had the spirit of the 70’s. It was like Godspell, but without the fags.

December, 1981. Those first few years were not what we expected, though optimisms prevailed despite minor setbacks. We thought we would be famous right away; we figured New York was waiting for our revival. Fat chance. Apparently, there were about half a million people with the same idea. We all got day jobs at this diner. It was nice being together, like we always had been. Maybe we didn’t change the world right away, but we were still trying. No compromises would be made. Kermit was in love with Miss Piggy, and I was alone as usual with my chickens. Kermit spoke of the future like everything would happen tomorrow; we just needed that one chance. I remember thinking to myself, “Jesus, I hope it comes, for his sake.”

January, 1982. It happened. We got that chasing dream to come true. Conversations of childhood hopes while chasing fire flies became reality. The swamp was only a memory now for Kermit, though the memory of the side show was still painful for me, assuaged only by an assortment of colorful friends mixed with something called Liquore. Kermit had made his word true. I remember thinking, “I can’t believe I can call him a friend.” Sometimes I feared he felt the same way, just with a different cadence and enunciation. I was still alone. Chickens only gave you so much. We killed on Opening Night. It was amazing; I never felt so alive! Kermit, though…there was a madness in that frog’s eyes.

October, 1985. Ralph was dead. I remember his body, laying there lifeless on the bedroom floor. Heroin was a terrible drug. Everyone took it hard, but it was a long time coming. Eventually, one of us would fall. Fame had changed us. Beaker refused to share his room with Bunsen; Fozzy started hanging out with George Carlin and lifting material from Lenny Bruce; Sam the Eagle hopped on board Reaganomics; Rizzo, he just stopped talking. But the worst…the worst was Kermit. I don’t know whether it was the delusions of grandeur or the methamphetamines, but he would only speak to people one on one and with appointment only. He hardly spoke to me anymore. His relationship with Piggy was over, and he had moved on to a harem to secure his line. He thought he was a God. Maybe he was, but back then, I couldn’t help but think, “Do Gods forget their friends?” Kermit had certainly forgotten me. I was so alone.

October, 1987. I have a memory of waking up to find Fozzy shouting “Gutterslut!” as he, Swedish Chef, and Bunsen gangbanged Miss Piggy. She wasn’t saying anything. She released no pleasure, no moans of ecstasy. She just had a look of removed apathy. She had given up. I cried for her that night. I remember missing the sideshow.

September, 1990. I checked into rehab, forgotten by my friends. Miss Piggy shot herself. I will always remember her as beautiful. I wish I could have told her that I loved her. I had read in the newspaper that Kermit was arrested for having sex with underage girls, some sort of cult conspiracy. I thought it was finally over.

November, 1999. My life is better now. I have hobbies. I am clean. I live in Manhattan and spend my time writing books and playing jazz with a band on weekends. I still think about the sideshow, and how I used to be called the “Great.” I miss my friends; I miss her. Sometimes, Fozzy and I get together. He’s washed up, and he knows it. We talk, but never about old times. Never about anything, really. Those early years will always stay with me. The hope, our love, our friendships, the memories: they will live forever in my mind. A particular memory stands out among all the rest: Kermit, Piggy and I went to Central Park. It was a crisp autumn day. We took a picnic by the lake after a long bike ride. Kermit went to go get some ice cream and left me with Piggy. Her golden hair swayed in the wind as she took long, slow, deep breaths. We just sat there, admiring the scenery. When she finally spoke, with long, breathy, syllables, she said, “Do you think we’ll be friends forever?” I said to her, “I hope so.” I have always been haunted by those waters.

White House Press Secretary Robert Gibbs announced today that President Obama would reverse, by way of executive order, a controversial Bush administration policy that includes all endangered species on the White House menu. According to friends, former president Bush had been fond of making the remark, “Bald eagles taste like freedom.”