Wrapped Up Like A Douche

This Entry Practically Writes Itself
Amid all the exciting developments in current events (such as mad scientists trying to scare the good industrialists with talk of killer greenhouses, monkeys taking up arms and joining the cola wars, and colleges ruling that students may not film figure skaters having sex in the classroom) the WULAD news team, with the participation of C-baby, has been following the German “Gentleman Cannibal” story with particular interest. (I especially like the close-up photos of his teeth, and look forward to seeing him host his own late-night variety show in Berlin.) While contemplating the incontemplatability of it all I’m reminded, however, of that wise Cassandra of nerd literature, Douglas Adams, who saw it all coming:

'I just don't want to eat an animal that's standing there inviting me to,' said Arthur, 'It's heartless.'

'Better than eating an animal that doesn't want to be eaten,' said Zaphod.

On that note, I’d like to commence the official Wrapped Up Like A German Cannibal Joke Contest. Readers shall submit to the comments link below one or more jokes, puns, limericks, haiku and yada yada concerning, but not limited to, the topic of the German gentleman cannibal. The joke(s) may be any length but must make witty use of the possible multiple meanings of the word “kraut.” At least one winner will be selected by the WULAD Word Wranglers’ adjudication committee, and that winner will receive a stunning prize of some sort, which is guaranteed to be at least as cool as the prize I got from C Monks’ novel-titling contest. Participation in this contest is mandatory.

The San Francisco Treat
In keeping with this week’s theme of showcasing the best and brightest of San Francisco’s intrepid street personnel, I wanted to give well-deserved props to the man who was alternately frightening and entertaining the crowd waiting for the bus this morning; he was standing on the corner of 4th and Market Streets, with a long scarf and those giant sunglasses which seem to be favored by a certain breed of eccentrics, holding his suitcase tight to his body and shouting, at the top of his lungs, “I am New York! I... love... human... beings!”

“Shadd-ap!” yelled the construction workers.

“New York!” shouted the suitcase-hugger as he crossed the street, possibly in search of more human beings to love.

Speaking of which, why not show your love for those who have recently had the crap bombed out of them (I mean literally, not figuratively) by our fearless—and soon to be pensionless, if the Action Figure in Chief gets his way—military by pledging to the Paris Hilton Crotch Shot Foundation? There are only six days left to convert that plethora of Parisian porn-hunting into real dollars for the Afghanistan Relief Organization. Otherwise all those fruitless Crotch Shot searches will truly have been for naught.