The corpse of Fidel Castro is enjoying a personal renaissance. He's discovered the haiku form. He admires yogis. He keeps going on about a miracle plant called moringa. He's ordering helicopter hijackings in California.
All of this activity is very worrying to the White House, according to Riptide's Deep Throat-style source, who we meet up with in parking lots to mumble through our trench coats (and who is not Todd from the Denny's on Biscayne Boulevard at 36th Street, so we kindly ask his assistant manager to stop giving him grief for slinking off during work hours).
Riptide is the news leader in figuring out how dead Fidel is. So we mobilized the medical, political, and statistical experts we keep on retainer with our journalism money.
They analyzed Fidel's recent lively behavior, and this morning they rushed into our office with their lab coats fluttering and documents flying, and after some witty banter and some chitchat about the weather and the MLB home-run derby, breathlessly announced: Fidel is only 84 percent dead, which means, to put it in words you can understand:
'Merica is fucked.
Let us explain.
How dead is Fidel?: 84 percent
How dead is that?: He's deader than you, me, and everybody we know, and is also deader than the entire cast of the movie of the same name. He is also deader than Tupac Shakur, who is currently dying of old age in Tahiti. Fidel is deader than that grandmother whose death you always make up to get out of work and who actually died in 1997. He's deader than MySpace.
That's the good news.
The bad news, as reported in Cuba's national newspaper, Granma, by a new intern writing under the byline Cad Trefoils, is that Fidel Castro remains supernaturally strong and virile. He recently performed brain surgery on a chimp, and when that chimp emerged from sedation, it was smarter than Ken Jennings, and Fidel didn't charge the ape anything because in Cuba, medical care is free and amazing, and Michael Moore was there with a film crew and everybody cried happy tears and then ate ten-cent ice cream in the Havana city center while Cuban Olympians roller-skated around them and flipped and somersaulted through the air.
"Speaking of the Olympics," Cad Trefoils continued, "Fidel has that shit. Usain Bolt, you slow-ass motherfucker, prepare to weep."
Really, that's a direct quote. We'd post the link to the article, but Granma has a paywall that directs you to feed pesos into your computer's CD player.
How fearful should the American oligarchy be?: If Fidel keeps getting less dead at this alarming rate, by November he could be only 56 percent dead, which would make him strong enough to float a Styrofoam-packed 1959 Buick Electra to Maryland, sprint to Washington, D.C., whilst hoisting a Cuban flag, and plant it on the White House roof, thus legally taking control of the United States. Then, he's still trying to figure out what he would do next, but he's thinking it would probably involve retroactively changing Stephen Strasburg's nationality to Cuban and maybe making Obama and Romney French-kiss on the White House lawn for shits and giggles, you know?
Either that, or he might stay in Cuba and have an aide help him eat an orange.
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