Al Gore Is A Rapist and A Pyromaniac!

By Matt Drudge, Bryan Bishop's Adventure Island News Correspondent




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Matt Drudge saw the last ten minutes of "All The President's Men" and thought it looked cool.

There's Raisins In My Toast

By Marlowe, Official Old Coot of and Envoy to Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island

There’s raisins in my toast.

What the hell you want? My story? My story’s ain’t none of your goddamn business. Here’s my name:

Me and Pete Rose were borne in a nest and raised by a pair of Bald Eagles, named Sassy and Dexter. Of course, those were the days before Sassy and Dexter morphed into Edward and Cassy Havens. They can change back whenever they want. They’re witches, you see. Witches! Witches of Eastwick!

Wicks.

You don’t see a lot of candles anymore. Now it’s all about the goldarn light bulbs. Light bulbs! Anybody else notice how much light bulbs look like swastikas? That’s because the Japs and the Krauts want us to rest easy. I knew me a Jap back in the war, and I know he’d never bow over with two atomic bombs. Have you seen Japanese pornography? Them peoples are fearless!

What about the war? Yeah, I fought. I was a Confederate. No, I ain’t racist! I love all races and creeds, ‘cept the Catholics. They always talk about the slavery and the state’s rights. They forget the third issue. Age of consent! Why do you think the Confederates got so many people backing them? 470,000 at Gettysburg! It was because they didn’t look down on you if you buggered a fourteen year old. And brother, you haven’t lived until you’ve buggered a thirteen year old.

Anyway, back to mah story.

Me, the Lindberg Baby, and Heddy Lamar all joined in the 20th Ontario and marched on Berlin in 1932. Of course, back in those days, it was called Constantinople. We laid siege to the city, and ended up putting the Kaiser in his place. Afterward, we went home, where we all got rimmed out by Betty Davis. Of course, in those days, rimmed out meant… well, that ain’t really changed.

You know, mud ain’t nothin’ but wet dirt.

Anywho, after I came home from the war I became a world-famous singer. I was the guy who wrote "Papa Don’t Preach" by Madonna. You’re welcome.

But I ain’t this mainland Marlowe! Never could be! Because I decided writin’ makes you a wussy. A big, fat wussy. Big and fat like the picture on the first picture you see at his newsblog!

I think that’s wrong. Misrepresenting somebody with a dig like that. It ain’t like an elaborate satire, it’s a cruel joke that is just going to hurt somebody’s feelings, rather than make other folks laugh. I mean, how can you do that to poor Ralphie May? Bryan Bishop is much fatter than that. He’s a big, fat guy. A big, fat, sweaty guy who’s pants bunch up and cut off the circulation to his legs! The kind of guy who can’t get an erection unless he eats him a big bag of pasta!

For shame, other Marlowe. You should have the class to find somebody as fat as Bryan Bishop as his stand in. Like Taft or Yokozuna or…

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Robert E. Marlowe was executed on the morning of March 6, 2007.

Being Playful Is Quite An Undertaking

By Bryan Bishop, Imperial Overlord of Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island

So I’m busy raping and mur… er, playing in the surf with my dog one day and my Imperial Messenger runs up, and gives me this note:

Dear who it may concern.

I noticed in your latest edition, you featured a senior citizen by the name of "Marlowe." It has come to our attention that this may, in fact, not be the Marlowe we are familiar with on the mainland. Nonetheless, we assume you simply named this poor, senile man after a rival producer for your own sick pleasure.

May I say, Mr. Bishop, that you and your ilk disgust me. Your wanton actions are the kinds that curdle the breast milk of new mothers and cause little girls to go blind in the flower of life. How dare you steal the identity of a poor old man for your own sick desires!

We ask that you find the true name of this poor old man, and let him go by that from now on at the very least… though anybody with a soul would send him home to be with his family. Also, revise your old records to reflect the changes, or face more glaring disapproval.

Signed,

The Garofalo Commission.


Needless to say, the rest of my day was spent sputtering in frustration. Then I wandered out and found our old friend hiding behind a tree to keep the grass from eating his feet.

"Hey, old timer!" I said.

"Bicycles cause the gay!"

"That’s great. Listen… um… I’ve gotten a pretty angry letter, and they want me to find out your real name. So… got it?"

"Name’s Marlowe."

Shit.

"Martin Lowe? Like, are you just saying it fast?"

"My name is Robert E. Marlowe, you goddamn Quaker! Go weave me a basket!"

"Look, they want us to rename you."

"They can kiss my sister’s black cat’s ass! This is my name! It was my name in aught 14 and it’ll be my name when I die and Jesus drinks me out a hat!"

He then screamed as his legs became entangled in a spool of yarn he was gumming. I would have to think fast. Quickly, I called for my imperial scribe, Shawn "Chocolate Thunder" Wenger.

"Take a letter," I said.

"Sure," Shawn said, readying his Bic.

"I regret the error that has befallen us. It seems my third-in-command, Shawn "Chocolate Thunder" Wenger, is fully at fault in this controversy. I am very displeased with his foolish and petty action, and…"

"Hey!"

"…will see to it that the little worm is justly…"

"You godforsaken coward!"

"Shut up and write, monkey!"

We then proceeded to slap each other with our eyes closed and heads turned to the side. After roughly twenty-five minutes, we paused to rest, and decided that selling out a subordinate would not end this controversy… we would have to ask "Marlowe" who he really was, not because we wanted to, or felt it was at all necessary, but to get the Garofalo Commission off our back.

"Marlowe," tell us your story!

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Seriously, this was all Wenger’s idea.

Prepare The Death Ray

By Idi Amin, Vice Imperial Overlord of Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island

Man the catapults! Prepare the battering ram! This is it, my children!

Soon, we shall invade the mainland, pillaging and plundering at will, butchering the foolish people of HTG town by the thousands. We shall skin them and smoke their bones in the hot fires of our camps. We will wave our flag from the top of the theater, as we bask in the heat of the inferno that is all that remains of UFI and the Flip’s Studio. We will drink the sweet nectar of life from the skulls of their children.

Hear me now! Our blades will drink the life’s blood of Krisgreet and Emerald, we shall coat our bullets in the tender kiss of the flesh of Newman and Mattricks. And in the end, when the earth has drunken its fill of the blood if the innocent, we shall unleash our death ray upon the cowering survivors, smoking their flesh and cracking their skin, killing them in horrible agony where they stand…

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Idi Amin is also Head Chairman of the Death Ray Sub-Committee in the BBAI Senate.

That Is So Not A Death Ray

By Tony Snow, Minister of Truth

That is so not a death ray. That is complete hooey. Look at it. Does it look like a death ray to you?

No it doesn’t, stop saying that. And stop pointing at it and screaming. It’s a sculpture. Who sculpted it? Um… some French guy. It’s a gift from France. What’s that you say?

Why does a sculpture need a plug? Uh… oh damn. Um, okay, it’s actually like our antennae for our television. It’s how we watch TV here. What? We’re not landlocked. We’re just floating out here. We’ve got to have a big satellite.

What? Why doesn’t it look like a dish, but instead, like a gigantic death ray? Well… it’s new. We got it from the Sharper Image. You get a catalogue, right? Everybody gets one. Just look in there.

What page? Um… you know, we ordered it a few months ago. So it’s probably not in this one. It was probably a limited deal.

Seriously, that is not a death ray.

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Tony Snow kind of looks like the kid from "A Christmas Story."

Al Gore Is A Rapist!

By Matt Drudge, Bryan Bishop's Adventure Island News Correspondent




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Matt Drudge is in charge of washing Bryan's fleet of enviornmentally-unfriendly automobiles. He pretends to be a reporter in his spare time.

The Old Gray Mare, She Ain't What She Used To Be

By Marlowe, Official Old Coot of and Envoy to Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island

In my day, they didn’t have these fancy little countries. We had three countries! Russia, Prussia, and Mexico. That was it. And we didn’t have a problem with it. And we went to war all the time without the belly-achin’. It wasn’t ‘cause Taft could persuade us or nothin’. We just liked fightin! Unlike these kids today. Bunch of goddamn pussies!

Chuck Norris is on the TV again. She’s a handsome woman. If I was thirty years younger, I tell you what.

In my day, penny candy only cost a nickel. Cletus Walker and the Hang the Blacks Band was the hottest jazz ensemble in America. And every night, we would gather around the phonograph to hear the delightful sounds of Ma Rainey, who might have been a niggress. I ain’t certain. It was a simpler time, you see.

Little Billy Shatner. I remember him.

They named their currency after me. Know why? ‘Cause I invented the Monkees, that’s why. That was me. Don’t you pick up no newfangled history books and try to prove it wrong, ‘cause it ain’t. I saved Davey Jones from a wolf-man. We had wolf-men in those days. Mainly from Prussia. That’s how we had our monsters! Wolf-men in Prussia, and Frankensteins in Mexico. Russia was full of the Blob. I remember my first sight of it; it was just before Rudyard Kipling molested me.

Where’s my applesauce?

Johnny Appleseed was a commie. You could tell because he wanted to give every apples, even the blacks and the stupid, unwashed Slovakians. I killed me a Slovakian back in aught ‘25. I ain’t ashamed of it. He cried like a woman and begged for his life.

Confounded bushes won’t stay away from my driveway. Now they’re outside my house. The birds that come to my birdfeeder are too small to kill with a shotgun. All of my socks are too itchy. I blame Woodrow Wilson. He was a bull-dyke and a pinko.

Mussolini was innocent. It was a frame-job from Johnny Kennedy’s pappy.

My favorite song was “She’ll be Coming ‘Round the Mountain.” Few people know it was a campaign song used to make fun of Eleanor Roosevelt. There’s lots of mountains in Prussia, and we knew it was a matter of time until Eleanor just let all of those pointy-helmeted bastards in our front door, where they would sodomize our livestock and feed our children unpleasant meals.

I think Gladys shat in my wheelchair again. No, wait, that was me. Maybe someday, though. Well, least it’s warm for a little bit.

In my day, monkeys didn’t throw feces. They behaved. It was that goddamn Elvis Presley, riling all of them up, makin’ ‘em horny and whatnot. Him gyratin’, takin’ his tallywacker out on stage and wavin’ it around, it ain’t no good for nobody!

My family’s comin’ to pick me up any day now, and we’re all gonna eat pancakes and go hang some Indians. Goddamn Indians, stealin’ my cookware!

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Marlowe is a victim of the very rare “stage eight” of Alzheimer’s.