ASTORIA, N.Y. — Local woman Jessica Hayfeather was recently discovered at the bottom of her gargantuan tote bag after a frantic seven-minute long search, confirmed sources who had been looking all over for her.
“There I was trapped down there like I was James Franco in ‘127 Hours’ rationalizing cutting off one of my appendages or that girl from ‘Silence of the Lambs’ in the basement hole who had to put lotion in a basket,” said Hayfeather. “It all started when I was rummaging through my organic bag for my chapstick while rifling through all of my belongings when all of a sudden I fell head first into my cavernous tote. It was a harrowing experience. I lived off of a half-eaten package of trail mix from Trader Joe’s and had to ration the coconut water I never leave home without. Luckily, someone noticed me four days later, right as I found my chapstick. I knew it was there somewhere.”
Hayfeather’s parents were worried sick about her disappearance.
“I just knew that tote was going to be trouble,” said Lauren Hayfeather. “That’s why I dedicate an entire cabinet to used plastic bags you get from the store. I have a good 300 in there that I can use every day. Sure, I get side-eyed when I carry around my wallet, keys, and phone in a plastic Target bag. But joke’s on them. I’ve never once got trapped in one. Good thing too. That’s how people suffocate.”
The rescue team seemed to know exactly what to do in this situation.
“We see these kinds of incidents day in and day out around here,” said EMT Jenn Havensworth. “We once found a junior soccer team stuck in one of those cumbersome IKEA bags. It took a team of experts to get them out. However, the most difficult rescue occurred after a young man was trapped at the bottom of his fanny pack that he was wearing across his chest. To be safe, always wear a fanny pack over your genitals, like they were intended. Safety first.”
At press time, Hayfeather vowed to only use New Yorker tote bags from here on out since those aren’t big enough to hold anything.
Hey you. Yeah, you. Do you remember me? I hope you do. I hope my face is burned into your memory, and every attempt at sleep is thwarted by the sounds of me obnoxiously screaming into a microphone on the streets of Times Square while you’re just trying to peacefully enjoy some music. Is it coming back to you now? I bet it is. I interrupted your favorite TRL music video with a fan request 25 years ago, and you know what? I’d fucking do it again if given the chance.
I revel in the thought of you eagerly rushing home from school to watch the video for “Ana’s Song (Open Fire)” by Silverchair (a rare gem in the stream of filth paraded by Carson Daly) only to have my countenance fill the bottom corner of your screen at the start of the first chorus. I told you my name was Julie, that I was from Michigan, and that I wanted to shout out my best friend Kristin back home. All of these things were true, but what I didn’t say was this: my sole mission with that fan request was to ruin your day. You had been waiting all afternoon to hear that song, and your spirits were crushed the second I appeared.
The fact that this occurred before high-speed internet and music streaming services made any given song readily available makes the despair I caused you even sweeter. That was certainly your one chance to hear that song that particular day, and maybe even that whole week. And to make the situation worse for you (and therefore better for me,) it was a school night, and the option to stay up all night when MTV played music videos without disruption simply wasn’t there. You were shit out of luck, buddy.
You fucking sicken me. How dare you even assume to be entitled to the luxury of watching that video undisturbed. You think you deserved the flicker of joy and satisfaction that song would have given you, you piece of shit? News flash: any happiness you think you’re entitled to belongs to me. And let me tell you something. I was fucking overjoyed in the knowledge that, not only was I occupying the television sets of millions of music fans, but I was the sole obstacle in the way of you getting what you wanted.
You may be asking yourself why I, Julie from Michigan, did this to you. After all, we’d never met, so there’s nothing you could’ve done to warrant such malice. Well, the reason for me is simple. I did it because I could. You were completely powerless against me. I had the opportunity to drink in your misery, and I fucking took it. And you’d better count your blessings that such an opportunity doesn’t exist today, because I would seize it without one fucking second of hesitation.
By Jeff Bender
AUSTIN, Texas — The new Traveling Wilburys documentary “End of the Line” sheds light on the fact that nobody understood why ’70s singer-songwriter Jeff Lynne was in the band, baffled sources reported.
“Imagine our surprise when we learned of a fifth Wilbury. Everyone knew about Roy Orbison, Tom Petty, Bob Dylan, and George Harrison,” said “End of the Line” director Gary Gage. “But then there he was, right on the cover of Vol. 1: bushy hair, goatee, sunglasses. Who was this guy? The drummer? One of the Heartbreakers? Somebody said it was the great Jeff Lynne. I had no idea who that was, or even what ELO was, for the matter. We were almost finished shooting when we realized he was alive and could be filmed for the project.”
When reached for comment, Jeff Lynne confirmed he was alive, had been in the band, and had been interviewed for the new documentary.
“They kept asking me the most asinine questions like, ‘who are you?’ and insinuating I was some sort of ‘Paul is dead’ style hoax,” said a visibly beleaguered Lynne. “I kept telling them that I wasn’t the sound guy, the janitor, or one of the Yardbirds. You know, maybe people on the film crew didn’t know me, but I’m actually very known by the general public. I was right in there with Tom, Bobby, Roy, and George. But I gotta say, after a while, I’ve even started to doubt my own past. I think this is what people refer to as ‘gaslighting.’”
Rock mogul Paul McCartney recalled a conversation with former bandmate George Harrison just as the supergroup was forming.
“He was very excited about the band, you know. And he couldn’t believe who they’d gotten. I said, ‘Tell me.’ He said, ‘Roy.’ Uh-huh. ‘Tom Petty.’ Okay. ‘Bob Dylan.’ Wow. I said, ‘Is that everyone?’ ‘Pretty much!’ He was very coy to tell me about Jeff,” said the former Beatle. “Of course, for a year or so, he’d thought he was playing with Jeff Beck. I have to admit, even now, I don’t know a single Jeff Lynne song. I later learned that Lynne played bass for the band. Well, that makes sense. That’s how I got into the Beatles.”
As of press time, McCartney claimed to know the Jeff Lynne song “Summertime,” but it turned out to be by DJ Jazzy Jeff.
REEDSPORT, Ore. — The nationally syndicated radio show “Delilah” has publicly banned Stardew Valley resident Clint for an unprecedented amount of song requests and inappropriate behavior.
“I really can’t believe this is happening,” said Clint in a now deleted X post. “It’s frankly a violation of my First Amendment rights. I would only call maybe a few dozen times a night to hear ‘Dreaming With a Broken Heart’ by John Mayer. A MASTERPIECE! Maybe one day she will hear it…”
While Clint says he is adamant about keeping the subject of his desires secret, he has reportedly said her full legal name on the air many times.
“Sometimes he would disguise his voice so I wouldn’t know it was him,” recounted the radio show’s longtime phone screener. “He got really good at some of the characters he would do, and it would slip by me. There was a blustery British man, a blue-collar Bostonian, and one time there was a really tasteless Chinese accent. But the longer he would talk on air, it would all fall apart. Especially when he revealed his crush’s full home address and place of work after requesting ‘Jar of Hearts’ by Christina Perri.”
The final straw came two nights ago when Clint slipped by the phone screener yet again, hoping to hear “Every Breath You Take” by The Police.
“He started to go off on another tangent about a farmer in his town that was ruining his life and stealing her away from him,” said Delilah, host of the eponymous program. “But I could hear these wet, slapping sounds in the background between his sobs. Luckily, my producer cut the live feed before he started moaning, ‘Emily, oh, Emily.’”
While Clint is banned for life on “Delilah”, this incident drew the attention of radio’s porta-potty “Loveline”, where Clint has been offered to appear as a paid, weekly guest.