Man with X-Ray Eyeglasses Can See Right Through "Things"
Cleef Lakker of Huffakers, NV has a skill highly prized by high school boys everywhere. He can see right through things -- like for instance clothing to name one thing. States Lakker: "Wow! I didn't believe the ad in Manly Crusader magazine but for 22 bucks what did I have to lose? Not only do the glasses look quite classy I can see everything if you know what I mean!"
Unfortunately for Lakker his retinas exploded after two weeks wear and he is spending most of his time in the Dolph Lundgren School for men who act like boys.

The Male Gaze

Laura Mulvey, film person, notices this guy looking at her, circa 1975, and postulates that in hollywood film audiences are forced to follow the characters and action through a heterosexual lens. "I went like, ooo la la. I could write a book about that!" said Mulvey. And she did and kicked some major male gazing ass. Things have changed overnight since then and the entire of hollywood has seen the error of their male gazing ways and produced three decades of enlightened cinema. It's been amazing really. Hasn't it?

Item: Retail Concept Announces Expansion Plans.

Graham County Wireless & Gifts ☼ Jewelry ● Cosmetics store head trip manager Donald “Dolph” Fish announced to Whirled HQ local news reporter, Lane Chamberlane, after mustering his manly gusto, “Hey, Graham County wireless customers and esteemed other county residents, we’re gonna add some really exciting stuff here at Graham County Wireless & Gifts ☼ Jewelry ● Cosmetics, stuff you gotta leave Graham County to get now, like dry goods, lingerie, switchblades, accounting aids, small bullets, big targets, time pieces, butterfly sutures, large Rolaids, axle grease, gift wrapping, spice, disposable seat covers, pre-paid legal, topo maps, renter’s insurance, fruit cake, drano, lard, petunias, ho-maid cider, gorgonzola, nose clippers, tire irons, daily calendars, tri-county regional airport duty-free vouchers, our own area restaurant reviews even though we still eat there, marbles, funnel cake whipping funnels, iron slinkys, air kites, and 19% wool-blend beanies, plus we’re gonna add a front door so it’ll be easier to get inside and buy some of this amazing stuff.”
Added "Dolph", " I mean what in the name of almighty hell have we got to lose, besides everything, which isn’t all that much, cuz we ain't got much anyway."

People Line Up Accordingly

People at Robinson Plaza in Atlanta, GA lined up accordingly according to Lane Chamberlane, Whirled HQ star reporter. Said Chamberlane, "People got in a straight line for about three blocks. This one guy tried to make the line zig or zag but everyone self corrected him and said 'no way we are zigging or zagging 'cause when god says line up accordingly what you gonna do but line up accordingly and most likely accordingly is a straight line'. " Apparently once a property is declared god's property you got to do what the "man" sez. If you know what I mean.

Item: Nursing Home Doesn’t Seek More Big-Breasted Staff To Nurture Elderly Men. Or does it?
“Our official name is Eureka County Happy Hunting Grounds Valley Villa,” states local area manager Babs Kunsey, “but around here they mainly call us You Reeka Mountains. We’re just doing what works. We know our clients (horny old men), and since our clients benefit from a highly cleaved environment, we are proud to display the aforementioned cleavage.”
Agrees longtime resident Fritz Fountains, “It’s really helped tons. I’ve been here since I was nineteen, and without all these giant hooters to hoist me over life’s valleys, I probably wouldna made it past twenty-two.”
Mr. Fountains, now a distracted yet focused fifty-six, continues to benefit from the feel-good environment, as do virtually all of the other nine residents at You Reeka who uniformly attest that the dry high plains air and the lofty contours of the nursing staff conspire to create an ideal, non-threatening environment for optimal male "maturation". (If you know what I mean)

Item: Elected Official Protests Charges.
State Senator Thackery “Thud” LeChupp, representing the Umpteenth District in the Georgia General Assembly, this morning while erect on the steps of his prebellum eleven-chimneyed manor villa domicile on the old family acreage in downtown Chuppston, a downtown that consists of little other than the major manor villa domicile and a pig sty, bellowed that he has not been a habitual user of philosophical escort services, as alleged by GBI informers who insist that he was propped up in General Assembly debates by the whispered wisdom of Pladonna Aristittle, who has ties to Dualism or Duh Hostess Concepts of Moultrie, Georgia.
“Perhaps Ms. Tittle, as she’s known in downtown Chuppston, did remind me, with a nipplistic nudge, of my modest debt to Alfred North Whitehead when arguing hard-boiled logical determinism on The Assembly Floor in favor of the Beef-to-Bones Cloture Proclamation, and seeing as I damnshore did my damndest to let the air out of the naturalistic phallacy that had infected the bill since its inception over in Jeremy Betham’s Consequentialism; yes, so maybe she did non-verbally remind me of my deep epistemological roots in Spinoza, who is obviously the great-grandaddy of the South Georgia School of Deep Thought, of which Ms. Tittle happens to be a major headlamp.”
When sought for comment to corroborate Senator LeChupp’s protestations, Ms. Aistittle explained with a bit of huffery and puffery that univerals do not have an independent existence apart from the collection of their instances, and therefore whatever the GBI was alleging was incontrovertibly bogus from any ontological, semiotic Weltanschauung.
Senator LeChupp emitted a quite overwrought, “Fuck Yeah!” at the delicately deconstructed conclusion of Ms. Aristittle’s breathy phenomenologicalism. Observors generally agreed that the senator’s impromptu explicative contributed perhaps a bit of welcome froth to both the lilt and the heft of her intriguing epistemological position.

Scary-ass Rottenwiler doesn't make any fucking sound whatsoever.
Whirled HQ reporter, Lane Chamberlane, came across this beautifully domesticated animal
while reporting on an insider investigative insinuater underground story involving politicians and prostitutes and money and even sex.
Anyhow, Lane is walking around Teenth St. where prostitutes and pimps and johns hang out and Lane is pretending that he wants sexual favors in exchange for cash when he comes across the gate that guards the reputed "King of Pimps", Edward "Heavy" Johnson and when Lane passes the gate this dog just walks up and looks at him with a cold regard and never barking or even panting and when Lane approached more closely the scary-ass thing just looked at him quietly and you could see his brain saying, "I'm not saying nothing right now but if you come over here I'll rip your collarbone off and then I'll sit next to you while you bleed to death." Damn.

Mafia Hit Man Caught in Traffic Dino DeDinatti, trigger man for the recently attenuated Concetto Crimo Familiariario, got stuck in a crapload of traffic on interstate 75 near Hahira, Georgia, while packing the body of the still warm yet extremely decapitated Tony "Hats" Clemente-Finzi (minus the hats) on the roof of his V-8 1991 Chevron Algonquin City Villanese Town Car Primo Connally SuedeLuxe Dreamboat Swallow Supreme. DeDonati, drinking steadily from the barrel of a whiskey flask disguised as a colt .45 since Florida, and flummoxed by the jam on the supposed "freeway", swerved impulsively into the HOV lane, reasoning that the trusty Algonquin was after all carrying more than one body on its way north, and anyhow did the Pope say both bodies had to be actively respirating or what?
Dino grabbed a bit of daylight, and floored the fifty-five hundred pound behemoth, plus the "dead weight" of Clemente-Finzi lashed to the roof rack with bungy cords and duct tape. Soon after, DeDinatti was clocked by a local highway patrolman at ninety-nine miles an hour, which piqued the lawman's dormant doughnut fed curiosity, not to mention the nifty suede wingtips protruding between the grommets of the blue vinyl tarp on the roof as it sped past the Exit 361 Cafe Erotica billboard they usually parked behind.
"SO? . . what's your hurry, need a shoe shine?" inquired Officer Ed "Hoss" Lumbah, Lieutenant Major First Class of Willowcoochee County, Georgia, sauntering up and leaning a hand against the open window of the Algonquin.
Responded a deadpan DeDinatti, "Officer, That is an excellent question and requires an honest and straightforward answer which I am more than glad to provide, that is, and I say this with all sincerity, so listen close -- we're traveling rapidly in the HOV Lane only because the my good friend and confidant, the late Mr. Finzi, requested to be laid to rest beneath the moss topped permafrost located in the deep northern and icy wastes of.... Chicken, Alaska."
To which Officer Lumbah responded with a derisive chuckle, "Chicken, Alaska, really? Well, mister Dee-do-knotty, I think you better get your bering strait, good buddy."
At which moment Mr. DeDinatti drifted off into a zone of rapt inattention pregnant with possibility. He pondered aggressively flooring his Chevron Algonquin Swallow Supreme, once again harnessing the explosive power of refined petroleum to propel him at brisk yet breakneck speeds across the county line and towards Clemente-Finzi's final resting places and then keep driving and leaving behind his life of crime and perhaps settling on a corner lot in Chicken, Alaska and living the thin life in the witness protection program but without the government stickin' a speculum up his ass.