If there were a biography about you, what would the title be?

If there were a biography of The Vidalia News Recorder it would be epic, in every aspect, except in words. No one reads bigly words anymore! Fuck those words! Also, it would have so many pages! Like… way more than forty but probably less than a million. We’re special but we’re not divas, ya dig? Now where’s my bottle of 1860, Chateau de Rebel Yell??? Margaret?!?! I need my champers!!!!

But we would also like to be known for our sensitive sides. Many people don’t know that if you prick us, we bleed. And you’ll be happy to know that we’ve just skated by a really good chance to joke about pricks, as in schlong-a-long-a-ding-dongs. I mean, damn. That setup was so obvious. But we took the high road. No dick jokes here.

Penis.

There’s not much in this world we can’t do, aside from weights, measures, farming, tractoring, helming a spaceship. But under the right conditions we are excellent brain surgeons for mannequins, and remotely adequate legal representatives for New England aquatic life in the Canis Major Dwarf Galaxy Mercantile Federation. Dolphins are masters negotiators against the House of the Space Lords because of their magic with actuarial tables, and are totally DTF when the deal is done. The VNR puts a nice layer of legal protections across all signed agreements, and are usually forced to pick up after the dolphins and their used condoms. Ewww gross!!

Additionally, and this WILL shock you, we are also REALLY good at receiving hand jobs. No, really! You have NO IDEA. We could literally sit in a recliner, like ALL DAY, watching cartoons in our Bart Simpson t-shirt and socks (and nothing else) and eating peanut butter Funyuns, while getting a handy. It would blow your mind…

…and ours!

So, hey girl… What’s a quasi-feminine person like you doing in a place like this? Come here often?

Our story should tell of our humble beginnings on Planet Bleepblorp M-3 in the BlingBlong Solar System of the Canis Major Dwarf Galaxy…

Years ago, on a rocky, unforgiving planet, a lone group of babies scaled mountain and rock having been abandoned by our half-crab, half-ravioli parents. We drank sippy-cups of slug mead by night, and babbled any rock hydra monsters to death that tried to eat us. It was here we learned the true value of satire. We would host open mic nights, trying new material on piles of fire-puppies, rock-kittens. Where once we cried at the warm, squish of poopy-doody in our diapers, we soon began to laugh. Where once we despaired at faces disappearing behind peekaboo hands, we now relished in the impermanence of existence. Satire became our sword and shield. We skewered the skeleton-unicorns with a sarcasm so well-honed their own funny bones turned deadly and nicked their boopbleeps until they bled out. At that point we became adults, tiny, pudgy, cooing, burping, 3 year old men and women who wielded satire like your politicians wielded the truth: recklessly, dangerously, and with the intent to get laid.

That’s when our planet was destroyed while transecting the nebular nexus, you know the one.

So, we landed in Temecula, found foster parents as any true alien would, and started working in the grape fields for, The Man, your planet’s most dangerously incompetent oppressor. As we grew in strength those years, we smoked weed, and ate munchies, in our basement to fight the Man. Then as we neared pre-adulthood rebellion, we were arrested for disturbing the peace while skateboarding and shredding some tasty rails to fight the power structures that oppress us all, but after our arrest we accidentally admitted guilt for a gnarly quadruple clown homicide. Noodge!!!

Good thing our uncle space-lawyer from Jersey was able to save us! If his girlfriend didn’t know so much about drivetrains, we’d all be going to the big-top big-house for a long time. Clowns are no laughing matter.

That’s why the title of our biography should be…

Also… You should buy our stickers now.