ISSUE NO.149
SEPTEMBER 11, 2003
 
 
theBeat

Die, Porcupine, Die!
A True Contrived Account of an Actual Event That Sort Of Took Place
   
By Craig Froehlich
 

 

(All names have been changed to protect us, the innocent, from lawsuits. )

n Sept. 5 at 9:22 a.m., University Police dispatcher Ben Quackwartz received a call reporting a male caucasian porcupine, approximately three years of age, stuck in a fence south of University Hospital. Having just finished his morning cup of gravy, Quackwartz sprang into action.

 
  Erethizon dorsatum, commonly known as Big-Ass Porcupine.

9:53 a.m. UUPD Officers Gurgle and Newgie finish a field briefing just outside Area Four (7-Eleven).

Newgie: “… and I learned the truth at 17, that love was meant for beauty queens.”

Radio: “Officer 66, 10-25 for 10-76. 10-20 is in Lot 66 near UMC. Requests a 10-36 on a 10-45, current 10-85 stands at charlie.”

Gurgle: “What the hell are you talking about, dispatch?”

Radio: “We’ve got a porcupine down, repeat, we’ve got a porcupine down and don’t call me dispatch. My radio name is Jaguar.”

Newgie (to Gurgle): “Ha! More like ‘Jabba the Dispatcher.’ I’m kind of glad I dissolved some unlabeled stuff from the evidence drawer in his hot cocoa.”

Gurgle: “Dude, you’ve got to let go of the button. Everyone can hear you.”

10:09 a.m. The two officers arrive at the scene of an upset porcupine stuck in a fence.

Newgie: “…I don’t care how much I needed the money, I should never have eaten two gallons of mayonnaise.”

Radio: “Officer 66 from Jaguar central, hospital security suggests you tie the porcupine to a bed using pillow cases and first-aid gauze.”

Newgie (to Gurgle): “I think we should shoot it.”

Gurgle: “I should call in and make sure we got the right porcupine. How tall would you say he is?”

Newgie: “Don’t you think we should shoot it?”

Gurgle: “I ain’t touching him, he’s got them pokey things and probably gots the rabies, which makes him worse than a meth addict.”

Newgie: “Yeah, maybe it’s best if we shoot it.”

Gurgle: “I once had a raccoon in my living room. I still don’t know how it got in there. My cat has never been the same since.”

Newgie: “Can I shoot it?”

Radio: “All units prepare for an announcement from Jaguar central…[three seconds]…I demand you give me the attention I deserve. I am a trained professional and I could be a cop anytime I wanted to, if it wasn’t for my, uh, thyroid problem.”

Newgie (to Gurgle): “What do you think we shoot it with?”

Radio: “Hello?”

Newgie: “What a pain in the ass. He’s distracting us from important shooting stuff. I know he’s the one who took the Pop-Tarts out of my mail slot. We should probably shoot him, I think.”

Gurgle: “Dude, the button on the radio. C’mon, you’re gonna get us fired.”

We interrupt this RED Herring to bring you a speech by President George W. Bush. He’s stunning, wearing a black, low-cut flight suit and standing atop a red, white and blue fire truck with a reproduction of the megaphone he used in a post-Sept. 11 speech. We join the speech in progress:

“…My fellow Americans, as I stand here tritely commemorating the tragidadiddy of Sept. 11, I’m reminded of the things I am now so very thankful for. I’m thankful for my loving family— my wife Laura and my pain-in-the-ass daughters. I wish I had the Olsen twins instead—man, they’re hot.

“Unfortunately, our Republican legislators are hard at work discouraging people from finding their daughters sexually attractive. I’m also thankful for terror and the war against that terror, on which I can now blame everything. I even blame terror for the rash on my feet. I’m actually wearing flip-flops to keep them from itching, but I’m standing behind a podium so you can’t see them. [Chuckles and shows the audience his feet.] Best of all, you can justify all actions using the War on Terror as an excuse. I am going to make it so nurses can’t earn overtime…all for the War on Terror, of course.

“I could launch an amphibious invasion on the French Riviera and cite the War on Terror. Best of all, you numb-nuts would buy it faster than a bottle of Tums at a hot sauce-drinking contest. I’m thankful that many of you are dumber than a bucket of dirt. You trust me and consider me someone you could sit down and drink a beer with…even though I’m a recovering alcoholic. You are actually that stupid.

“The War on Terror will continue until we have hunted down the last terrorist. That is, until I get bored and decide to invade another nation with no real ties to al-Qaida. Well, when it comes to terrorism—if you’re brown, you’re down. Hey, I rhymed! Take that, Alf Sharptung!


“You know, it’s kind of weird. Some reporters have actually reported seeing bin Laden, but we’re busy trying to arrest the Iraqi Minister of Adult Board Games. I confess: We need bin Laden to stay alive to justify all the weapons-buying and civil liberties-trampling. That’s why we must keep fighting terror. That’s why, yesterday, federal agents in cool outfits with newly designed patches just walked into some guy’s house while he was away and started going through his teenage daughter’s underwear drawer, and one agent stole a bra. Another one took a bunch of forks from the kitchen and put them down his pants. Gross! The family is going to use it to eat that gross Mooslum food. They will, too. Thanks to the Patriot Act, we don’t even have to tell them that we searched the house.

“Thanks for bringing me something, federal agents. Yeah, I’m being sarcastic. Someone’s getting budget cuts. So, in closing, I would like to say, ‘Let’s Roll.’ Damn, I was hoping someone would yell, ‘A joint!’ That would be pretty funny. Good night and may God bless America. A joint!”
craig@red-mag.com

 
     
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