bizarreville

The Institute of Study Studies (ISS) just published a new study this week revealing that, on an overall basis, all study conclusions…no matter if seemingly profound, no matter if done by the bluest of blue chip panels…cannot be considered valid.  They say that most studies are so full of bogus science, skewed and skewered data, illogical quasi-analysis, and statistical insignificance that no one can validate the true truth from ordinary bilge water.  Most conclusions have no real basis in fact.  More often than not they are manipulated and slanted to reflect what the payer of the study wanted to hear, with high hopes of getting re-funded to continue the work.

A spokesman for the ISS said that the studies stating that something is bad for you have a 33% chance of being correct, a 33% chance of having no impact one way or the other, and a 33% chance of it actually being good for you.  He pointed to the wave of lawsuits challenging nearly every prescription medicine ever sold, the ongoing debate about the health effects of eating eggs, the global warming debate, and the latest controversial study concluding that supplementing your dinner meal with a small side of dog chow helps digestion…as evidence of the range of uncertainty and confusion in the world of studies.

The ISS study has angered various think tank members, and egghead forums across the nation.  One outspoken multi-PhD member of the High IQ Bowling Society commented that if the ISS conclusion is true, then their own study of studies must also be considered invalid…so there.  The ISS responded that this guy needs to seriously get a life.

Others who spend their whole lives just thinking about stuff were similarly outraged when the ISS proposed that all study work be stopped, and that study wheel-spinners go find real jobs.  “The macroeconomic tightrope of such a broad reaching runway is arbitrary, mal-feasible, and potentially could channel benign resurgence,” one egghead complained.

“Case in point,” the ISS spokesman replied.

Disclaimer:  all stories in Bizarreville are fiction, at least for now.

Recently, a convicted kidnapper and rapist who had fully admitted guilt in trial was found hanged in his prison cell.  The story of his disgusting crimes and trial had made national news, so the hanging was deemed equally newsworthy by the Bizarreville national press.  Meanwhile, officials at the prison were under heavy pressure to do something about it, and not just sweep it under the rug…not realizing the fact that there were actually no rugs at the prison in question, and very few brooms, for that matter.

The prison warden, after fully assessing the situation with his staff, decided to do something about it.  They decided to issue ropes to every hard-core prison inmate, install load-tested hooks in every cell, and equip each cell with easily kick-out stools.  Doing this would alleviate the perplexing problem of the inmate having to fiddle with a darn bed sheet to somehow tie a noose, while looking for something/anything to latch onto in the sparsely-equipped jail cell.  One junior-level prison official suggested they provide ropes in an array of designer colors, so that the inmate could choose a rope that would look non-clashing with his prison garb in the aftermath photos.

The warden speculated that if the concept was adopted nationwide, it could save the taxpayers billions of dollars in costs of caretaking the scoundrels and dirtbags for the rest of their lives.  He viewed it as the most humane thing to do, particularly for the 100-year and up sentences, and a win/win for both sides.  He further speculated that the ropes used in the incidents might be able to be sold at high prices to collectors, depending on the notoriety of the deceased.  He said if they did it at his prison, it would free up his budget so he could feed the rest of the inmates upgraded beef cuts on Taco Night at the prison.

“The long-termers are looking for a quick way out of their hopeless situation,” said the prison warden, a veteran of 31 years at the prison.  “What’s the point in holding them in this dump for 30, 40, 60 years?  There’s a warm spot waiting for them on the other side.”

Some liberal groups have already started protesting the move, calling it barbaric…something they would have expected to see in the Middle Ages…thought up by some guy named Igor, the town’s resident hunchback.  The warden was offended by that comment, indicating that Igor was the name of his new grandson, and did not appreciate the jinx that he might develop a lumbar problem in the future.

The Head of the Bizarreville Bureau of Prisons Thug Division said they would take the proposal under advisement.  They have been concerned about the rising cost of inmate Health Care with the new government requirements, and this initiative could conceivably offset the increases.

Disclaimer:  all stories in Bizarreville are fiction, even the ones that sound so ridiculous that they could almost be true.

The Bizarreville War Council met 3 days and 3 nights on the wrenching issue of whether or not to go to war with Sycolia.  The Defense Secretary, reflecting the views of the heads of all the military branches, wanted to nuke the bloody a-holes.  He knew, through all his years of military experience, that the only way to send a message was to send the Miracle on 34th Street Santa Clause letter barrage version.  Timidity was for sandbox players…take that back, even sandboxers needed aggression when the sand starts flying.  Besides, their stockpile of nukes was nearing their expiration dates, and needed to be used or tossed.

The other side of the table spoke for diplomacy, negotiation, and light sanctions, at most…and “do nothing” preferably.  They argued that escalating the issue would inevitably lead to a full blown regional war, maybe world war, that no one wanted to see happen.  They understood the war mongers desire to pick a fight, since it had been decades since a full-boat war had been fought.  Human history had shown that wars were needed on some sort of regular basis, and now was probably past due.  But they still could not support a war on such a meaningless basis.

Sycolia was, in truth, a country that almost no one gave a crap about.  The country had no important resources, had no particular geographic value, had no wealth worth plundering.  It was a country that had gotten captured and recaptured over history, with the captors often saying “Remind me again…why did we bother?” just before packing it in and leaving.  The habitants of Sycolia were an unruly bunch of radical nimrods who could only be peacefully managed by a tough no-nonsense ruler who excelled at herding cats.  They had such a ruler now.

The world-caring problem bubbled up when the ruler began using weapons of mass-disgusting on his own people.  If he had shot the mobs of protestors with machine guns, frankly, no one would have cared.  But when he started using catapults loaded with piles of human excrement…well, that was beyond the pail.  Dozens and dozens of protestors began uncontrollably vomiting, choking to death in a scene of indescribable disgustingness.  It was no wonder it grabbed world attention.

But for the rest of the world, the attention was limited to firm scolding.  No other country was willing to escalate it into a s#!t war coalition.  No one else seemed to really care about what Sycolians did to each other, and would prefer to just change the channel rather than watch the play-by-play.  Bizarreville would have to go it alone if it wanted to confiscate these evil weapons.

The President claimed he wanted to review the options with congress, but they were still adjourned for their 2-month summer break.  He had petitioned them to reconvene for this vital national crisis, but most just laughed.  “Put me down for a No,” several emailed from their beach houses.

The President indicated he would go forward without the support of congress, the public, the allies, friends, family, colleagues, world opinion, or his barber.  He said that his pedicurist supported his position, but was not sure if it represented her understanding of geo-politics or just wanting a bigger tip.

Disclaimer:  all stories in Bizarreville are fiction.  Names have been changed to protect the incompetent.

The line had 100 people in front of him.  One hundred bodies fuming from having to wait for one of two highly unmotivated, thoroughly discharged clerks to finally get to his or her number.  “62,414” blared the loudspeaker.  Was this the number of people this week?  This month?  He looked at his ticket…62,513, now only a mere 99 shmucks to wait for.  This was just to get a damn drivers license renewal…not an unemployment compensation check, or a donated kidney, or anything that made more sense to be waiting for.  The photo camera must be on the fritz or something.  Why else would there be such a nonsensical queue?

He thought himself to be better than the shlubs and shlubettes that were supposed to be in long lines like this.  After all, he was a prestigious lawyer who became a congressman, with a law practice on the side, not some ordinary Joe.  Joes, yes, they should wait in lines.  They had much less important things to do today…hey, maybe this little exercise was the highlight of their drab day.

He thought back to the old days when his life was more drab…back to the days just after graduating college with no job offers in his field of study.  A friend of an uncle had convinced him that Entomology was the hot career of the next century.  Fact is: he truly did thoroughly enjoy his Masters thesis work researching/examining the Eating Habits of the Housefly.  But, sadly, no corporate recruiters seemed to make the seemingly obvious connection on how this unique skillset could help guide them on their roads to excellence.  Vinnie Shlango did, however, when he offered him the pizza delivery job, instructing him to get creative in devising clever diversions to keep those nasty flies from buzzing the pizzas in the back of the van.  Even that drab job had its interesting moments.  Never did quite figure out if it was the pizza itself or the diversion that caused so many customers to complain.  Could have been the box made of recycled paper…who knows what sleazy components could have gone into that mixing tub?  62, 415 squawked the speaker.

Maybe he would introduce a bill into congress to address this ridiculous bureaucratic nightmare of simple license renewal.  Could be a tough sell to his colleagues who tended to favor complex bureaucracy and dismiss simplicity.  This was the organization, after all, that figured out how to make the Postal Service less efficient, more customer un-friendly, and more costly…accomplishing what was known as the “Trifecta” in their little circles.  The Licensing function clearly already had 2 of the 3 legs, and probably just needed a fee redoubling to get the third.  62, 416.

He was gradually becoming a convert to the notion that people wanted rules and procedures, not so-called freedom.  Freedom meant unfairness to many people, giving free rein to exploiters to run amok and trample the exploitees.  Thinking back, hell, even Vinnie was a friggin’ exploiter, demanding a cut in all his delivery boys’ tips to “help pay for gas.”  All that Econ 101 Milton Friedman Free to Choose malarkey was just capitalist propaganda, assuming that people were smart enough to make their own wise choices.  Ha, wishful thinking!  These were people who struggled on whether to watch the NFC or AFC game of the week, let alone make decisions on whether to put in an extra hour on the job, or sign up for a course to advance their education.  62, 417.

A lady’s voice came across the loudspeaker saying that the office would close in 15 minutes, and that all those with numbers above 62,426 could come back tomorrow when the count would resume.  She apologized for the long wait, saying they were just shorthanded today, and maybe it would be better tomorrow.  She encouraged everyone to not lose their ticket, or else would have to get a new number at the back of the line.  One line-waiter got frustrated and belligerent, yelling out “This is bull$#!t.”  Within 3 seconds, a security officer confiscated his ticket and whisked him out the door.  A hummmm resonated through the crowd.

The congressman pulled out his Blackberry and sent a message cancelling all meetings for the next day, and putting meetings the following day on tentative hold.  Trifecta potential for sure, he thought.  62, 418.

Disclaimer:  all stories in Bizarreville are fiction.  Nothing in real life could be this crazy.