New York Toxicology experts determined that collective damage from New York neighborhood farting was a far more serious threat than the possibility of airborne asbestos from last’s weeks steam pipe explosion.

"Yes, the explosion was frightening, and brought back memories of 911, but thankfully, there was no terrorism link. We are hoping for a complete recovery for the victims of this unfortunate event," said a spokesperson from the New York Mayor’s office.

"We are focusing our attention on conventional sources of pollution that are part of the city back ground ‘noise’ because our sensors are registering no new pollutants," he continued. "People get used to their neighborhood smell, then panic in a crises, and don’t realize that it is the same old armpit that they have been sleeping with for years"

British Fashion Police ask for Andrei Lugovoi’s immediate extradition from Russia.

"While it is bad enough that he dribbled radioactive Polonium-210 all across Europe and the UK before he got it into Letvinenko’s tea," said Britain’s MK5 ‘s fashionista department, " His suit and tie is a far worse offense, and should be shot on sight, without a trial. How unfortunate that Lugovoi may still be wearing the suit when it happens."

Russian authorities took immediate offense. "Extradition is not possible under our constitution, no matter how badly our citizens dress. Our billionaire oligarchs have no better taste in suits than Lugovoi."

"Admittedly," they added, "His look would have pulled together better if his tie had matched the striped orange and white traffic cone behind him in the photo".

Crackle, of the Famed Trio Snap, Crackle and Pop, Dies

Crackle, of the famed trio that graced Rice Krispie boxes for decades, has passed away, a company spokesman said today.

Crackle, born in 1932 as Willie "Crackle" Finsterbottom, was drawn to the field of cereal advertising and entertainment by his great uncle, the legendary "Poppin' Oats Otis".

It wasn't long before Crackle met the men he would spend the next several decades working with--Ernest "Snap" Williamson and Franklin "Pop" Zander--in a Brooklyn bread line.

Though Crackle's career was a brilliant and lengthy one, it was not without it's troubles. In 1949, a brief but torrid affair with Maxine Andrews of The Andrews Sisters, ended, causing Crackle to sink into a deep depression, followed by repeated attempts to take his own life by tying a lug nut to his foot and jumping into a bowl of milk.

Saved on several occasions by Snap and Pop, Crackle sought counselling and was soon back to his old self, spending many ensuing years honing his craft.

Following a tumultuous three-month marriage to actress Liz Taylor in the late 60's, Crackle sought meaning in several different religions. A brief stint in the Manson Family, along with dabbling in black magic and voodoo, nearly cost Crackle his job with Kellogg's, but company executives decided to give him a second chance.

Many also remember Snap, Crackle, and Pop's legendary appearance at Woodstock, an event marred after Snap ingested, against all advice, the "brown acid". He then climbed the scaffolding, removed his clothes, and went off on a profanity-laced diatribe against the Vietnam War and President Nixon.

Ever the seeker, in later years, Crackle embraced Scientology, which he admits he joined only to get to meet Tom Cruise, then later the Raelian Cult, and most recently the Reverend Moon's "Unity of Sciences" group.

Kellogg's has announced the team will continue on, with comedian Pauly Shore taking the place of the late breakfast legend.

"We're confident the team of 'Snap, Pop, and Shore' will be a big hit with the breakfast consumer", said Kellogg spokesman Bernie Rankmiddle.

Funeral arrangements are pending, but it is expected that pallbearers will include Snap, Pop, Sneezy from the Seven Dwarfs, a life-long friend of Crackle, and Gary Coleman, who just wants the publicity.

He is survived by a wife, and the undying love of his millions of fans.

George Will to Publish Book of Children's Stories

Conservative commentator and author George Will has announced that he is in the midst of publishing a book of classic children's stories.

The Book, "Fable Truncation," will feature Will's brief yet brilliant interpretation of many classic children's stories, including "The Three Little Pigs":

"In summation, two of three diminutive quadrupeds and their architecturally inadequate homes succumb to excessive Canis lupis exhalation, but escape ingurgitation after cohabitating with a contemporary possessive of a structurally sound dwelling."

And what child won't be lost in wonderment after reading Will's take on Alice in Wonderland:

"It is not an abject certainty, but the likelihood that Alice was delusional must be reconnoitered as a plausible assumption. Any other verisimilitude would represent an atypical discovery."

The book will include Will's take on 20 children's classics. According to Will, "Concerning the parturiency of my omnibus, I am sanguine that fledgling homosapiens will procure interest in my extrapolation of lore handed down by progenitors for the apocryphal beguilement of their lineage."

Will's publisher, Don Truscott, president of "Chapter Eleven" books, said, "You heard what George said...this book is going to sell itself!"

Lobster Shorts

The clothing on display in the store window on the small island appeared to be perfectly normal, no hint of anything amiss. What did I know about buying shorts in Greece? Nothing.

I had to play this one by ear. Stay cool. Waltz in. Pretend you know what you're doing. Upon examining the label, I learned the shorts were one-hundred percent cotton. Perfect start. I liked the price, too. Available in S, M, L and XL. That made sense to me, no confusing numbers to deal with.

So far, so good. I suspected I was on a roll, but before I could celebrate trouble set in. Unisex trouble.

From the metal display bin, I selected surfer shorts in red and khaki, size L, and headed in the direction of the fitting room the woman at the cash register pointed out to me. It was really nothing more than a cluttered-up closet with a tattered pull-curtain that had seen better days. Buying shorts couldn‘t be too complicated for a wise traveler such as myself.

I eyed my image through the dust in the cracked mirror. The elastic felt correct around my waist, but there appeared to be some extra baggage. Suddenly I looked seven months pregnant, although the front pouch was actually filled with nothing but air.

“Excuse me,“ I called out to the saleswoman. “Are you sure these red shorts are unisex? The sign in the window said unisex. So what‘s with this pouch-thing?“ I stepped out from behind the curtain.

The saleswoman was attentive and immediately came to my rescue. “Good fit, yes, yes,” she called out. “Nice color, misses. Pretty red, no?“

Did this woman not see the front panel flapping in the wind? I could have inflated a fair-sized beach ball and stuffed it in the shorts. “The colors are great,” I assured her. “No problem. Look, I understand about unisex men, but what do unisex women need with this extra front part?“ I asked her as I breezed over to her counter and modeled the offending shorts for her.

She didn't comprehend. She smiled her approval, oblivious to my unisex challenge.

I was starting to feel gender-challenged. I‘m the first to admit I‘ve worn some pretty dirty, mismatched, wrinkled, ripped or sandy clothing hopping around the Greek islands. I‘ve paraded around in broken sandals repaired with rubber bands and I‘ve worn my underpants inside-out on occasion. I‘ve gone four or five days wearing the same bra, unwashed. I wasn‘t looking to
enter any beauty contests on the island‘s beaches. But these shorts appeared likely to catch a gust of wind that would send me sailing above the trees like a kite. This was in the middle of Meltemi season, when the wind could easily top seven on the Beaufort scale. These shorts placed me in the danger zone.

Determined to win the battle of the bulge, I returned to the privacy of my dressing room and secured the curtain. Next I tried on the khaki shorts. Same result. The shorts were begging to be inflated with a bicycle pump.

Always inventive, I tried them on backwards, the rope-tie of the waist looking ridiculously out-of-place. My derriere was not the answer to this Greek fashion challenge.

I called out to the saleswoman to ask if the island had an alternations shop. I could have guessed her answer.

“No.”

Why would an island with no bank, no movie theater, no bus system and no international newsagent have a tailor shop? On my second day I‘d found out there was no optician either. I'd repaired my glasses myself when a screw fell out, using a paper clip.

Looking in the mirror again, I recalled how, on the ferry the previous week, several of my fellow passengers had looked incredulous and asked me, “You say you‘re going where?“

Unsure what to do, I put on the red shorts again. I could hear other tourists out there waiting for the dressing room. I stared at my unnaturally ballooned shape, trying to dream up a solution. Maybe I could stuff something in there to fill the empty cavity. What did I have with me that would fit? The space was too large for a bandana, too small for my backpack. I could think of nothing else, except maybe my lobster dinner from the previous night.

I‘d been in the stuffy closet for about 15 minutes and knew I had to rush out of there so someone else could have a chance to spend some vacation cash. In a last ditch attempt, I removed one of the rubber bands from my sandal, gathered a generous handful of excess red material from my front and affixed the rubber band, creating a faux penis. In female terms, I likened it to a pony tail growing from my front, pointing me in the right direction. Critically I examined my image in the mirror. Was this the way I wanted to spend the rest of my Greek vacation? Pony-tailed?

Why not? I'd triumphed over the battle of the flapping cotton bulge. Color me one intelligent, unisex-savvy traveler.

- by Roberta Beach Jacobson (laugh@otenet.gr)

China's Food Supply in a Pickle

Exploding pickles from China were turned back by United States custom officials on Wednesday, when the pickles shot out of the jar and then exploded into star shaped bursts of green pickle goo when the custom officials opened a jar for inspection. The pickles, packaged under a ‘Fourth of July" label, were traced to a fireworks factory in China.

"We were just trying to diversify", said the factory owner as he was being led away to be shot, "Chinese New Year only comes once a year, and fireworks sales have been slow".

Cameron Diaz Apologizes

Cameron Diaz has apologized for carrying bag in Peru which sported a slogan that evoked horrible memories of the Maoist Shining Path insurgency.

I obtained a portion of Diaz’s apology:

People of Peru. I just wanted to say that I am so, like, distraught over what has happened. This is more embarrassing than the time I carried my Slobodan Milosevic suitcase through Sarajevo International Airport.

Just so the people of Peru know, I bought that bag when I was in China — you know, that country that’s like really far away and is named after our dinner plates and makes that plastic joke poop you can get in novelty shops.

Anyways, I bought the bag because I saw it in the window of a trendy shop in Beijing called “It’s hip to be Tiananmen Square” — I liked the red star and Chinese writing on the khaki bag on it because it like totally went with my outfit! The reason I liked it had nothing to do with all the dead people in Peru. Seriously you guys!

As for Mao, I think they called him the chairman because he was kinda short and looked like he was sitting down even when he wasn’t. They say he was responsible for the deaths of tens of millions of his countrymen but I don’t believe that — nobody that mean would be the inspiration for a handbag this totally cool, would they?

Next time I visit Peru I promise to bring accessories that won’t offend the people. I have this adorable Francisco Pizarro tote that you’ll all just love!

Peru incident was “worse than the time I wore that Crystal Nacht shirt into a Jewish deli,” according to the actress.