listening to songs alphabetically is far superior

There are something like 5000 songs on my iPod. Maybe 5000 hours. I can't remember. Whichever is more. It's a lot of music. And it's all good. Probably better than yours. Anyway, the point is, I have a far more superior way of listening to my music than you do. Alphabetical order by song. That's right. It's clear you've never thought of this yourself. It's not entirely worth me explaining why it's totally so much better than your "shuffle" or "playlist", because by now you should know to trust superimportant news. Honestly...how would shuffle ever put "America" from West Side Story right before "America" by Weezer & Soul Coughing. Why do I have West Side Story on my iPod? That's seriously none of your business. Before "America" was "Ambush" by Sepultura. Come on! My music listening is far more rewarding than yours.

Starve a fever, feed a whole box of girl scout cookies to a cold

That's the way the old saying goes, right? If so, why do I still feel so goddamn shitty? I'm just trying to adhere to the only wisdom i know. It's a collective history that teaches us how to take care of ourselves, and I'm honoring that history by eating that entire box of Samoas. Why is my nose still running? I'm even more than half way through the box of Lemonades. Why are my sinuses freaking killing me? What does our American mythology have to say for itself when it's folklore - clearly more accurate than its science - still cannot help me cure my common cold. I am furious.

I love the consistency of my snot rockets

On days like today, when a light breeze can bring tears to your eyes, the chill climbs up your nose and does some kind of scientific stuff to make you create more boogers. Probably something to do with the body's self-defense system. Inexorably, this accumulation of boogers must be evacuated. Preferably not when I'm riding behind you. That's happened, and let me tell you, I didn't appreciate the consistency of that guy's snot rocket. Loose and unpredictable, like buckshot or a pack of Rutgers sorority girls. Today, however, at least in my case, the rockets were well formed and condensed. A precisely aimed nose bullet to the maw of the Williamsburg bridge. Satisfying.

Here's some crutches, feel better

Science & medicine have not progressed quite as far and quite as dramatically as I might have hoped. I was under the impression that X-rays didn't just show you spooky looking pictures of your bones, but went all *CLUNK* *CLUNK* *CLUNK* and microwaved your ankle sprain back to normal. Apparently, that's not the case. Apparently, the emergency room can't even really give me some high powered pain killers for that time yesterday that Ch0mb0, my teammate, tried to disable me. I can only hope that I took out a few spokes when I threw my mallet at his wheel.

But man, seriously. Where's that box that you stick your arm, or leg, or back into, and it fixes you? You know what? I'll even push back the plans for the slingshot so that Science can make this box. I mean, you've got microwaves that you can push "potato" or "pasta" on, and poof! you've got a plate of pasta. Where's the microwave that says "Irritable Bowel Syndrome" or "Hives"? The future is dissapointing. My cellphone didn't even work in the ER. I had all sorts of hilarious text messages to send out. Like "Thanks for the mallet, Jarrett. It's a good crutch". HAHAHAah HAh. Hah. h. ...

If the fixitall box really existed, I would've been able to avoid the inconvenience of fumbling through the Rite Aid for a box of Advil. Not surprisingly, walking in on crutches doesn't make anyone else in the store less retarded. I'm pretty sure "Excuse me" is well understood by just about anyone, even if English is not your first language. Not in Drug Stores.

I would've missed out on the next hilarious interchange at the coffee shop down the street though. The young barista couldn't help but ask me what happened, as he sees me hobble in with a weird looking mallet sticking out of my bag. "I was playing bike polo, and I had a little spill."

"What? Bike Polo?"

"Oh. Yeah, it's like polo on bikes. Can someone bring me this coffee?"

"Yeah, of course"

A few minutes later, I hear murmurs from the end of the bar.... "Bike Polo? Yeah, Bike Polo. I've never heard of that. Sounds dangerous. Murmur murmur murmur. Well there you go..."

If only I had a giant slingshot

Fuck matter transporters, fuck moving sidewalks and the monorail, fuck short range jets landing in central park. Matter transporters only turn you into flies, and the monorail has all these dudes dressed up in Mouse suits on it, posing for pictures with you & your kids. A few years ago, that line would've read "pictures with you and your mom" but superimportant is getting old, and has to face reality. And the reality is that short range jets won't work either. What we need is a giant slingshot, so we can just launch ourselves to Greenpoint after we're done having dinner in Hell's Kitchen.

This slingshot would either come with complimentary parachutes or complimentary fat suits to pad the landing. To be honest, we haven't really thought out the landing part yet. But how magical would it be to be suddenly flying through the air with your date, watching the sparkling city pass below you. These are precision slingshots, of course. There won't be collisions. It'd use Google maps. Those dudes can pretty much do everything. I mean for god's sake, look: It's the polo court Unbelievable, right? I'm sure google could figure out how to sling you anywhere from anywhere. It's simple math anyway. We figured this out in 11th grade calculus. Totally.

Holy Crap

Jesus, everything Superimportant has published since AUGUST has been lost! Deleted! Trashed! Hopefully recycled, if you like the metaphor of a green-friendly file removal method. How could something like this happen? No, seriously. That's the memo that was sent out to the employees this morning. How could something like this happen? Do you know what kind of hard-hitting, award-winning superimportant reporting we've been working on over here? Lots of it, that's what kind. Lots. And someone - One of these little refugees we've got working over here - is seriously going to pay. No nickel today for that boy. In fact, no nickel for anyone until we figure out how nothing in the past five months made it to our subscribers' screens.

Ugh. We apologize, readers. Seriously. You missed out on some awesome shit. If we weren't so drunk most of the time, we'd recall all of it right now. But there was definitely something about zombies. And there was something about how goddamn freaky it is when you wake up and your entire right arm is numb. Yeah. You wake up, and go to roll over, but there's this fleshy, bony lump under you, and you think it's a dead animal for some reason - like a rat, maybe - because you just woke up, you know, and you're definitely irrational at that point, and it's dark, so you see this dark appendage that doesn't move when you shriek like a little girl and try to push yourself away, BUT YOU CAN'T PUSH YOURSELF AWAY because your arm is completely COMPLETELY numb, so you sorta just fall back over. Then you try to lift yourself back up again, and it's like "wtf my arm is dead. That's weird". It's totally weird. Trust me.

You missed the indepth report on illegal backyard latent homo wrestling with strange cowboys with branding irons. Fortunately, some of the photos survived the fire or flood or whatever the fuck it was that happened here at the superimportant headquarters:




One of the saddest losses of the past near-half-year is undoubtedly the postmortem tribute to "Pff", the superhero who's only power was the ability to see people's farts. After years of inadequacy, nobody, least of all this news outlet, had the foresight to see that not only was the invisible man such a bad guy, but that he was lactose intolerant as well. We owe our lives to the heroic bravery of "Pff". May he rest in peace.