Former CIA Director Doesn't Know Sports

Washington, D.C.

Snapper McGee

Former CIA Director George Tenet admits he doesn’t know dick about sports in his new book. In an old White House photo, Tenet tries to bluff his way through a description of a “goal and two assists” he saw in a televised game of checkers.

h, baby, there’s being a girl and then there’s being a girl—know what I’m saying? Take as an example former CIA Director George Tenet, the man who complains in his new book At the Center of the Storm that he became a poster boy for the fuck-up in Iraq and that his comment “It’s a Slam Dunk, Mr. President,” was used as grounds for the Iraqi invasion and taken out of context. Now it turns out that, according to Tenet’s new book, the problem is trying to use sports terminology in the workplace without knowing shit about sports.

Like a lot of women out there, this reporter only watches sports for the unspoken erotic tension between the players and the frequent male touching. But honey, at least I watch. Which leaves straight boys like George Tenet trying to fumble (another sports term) around the office to describe international situations in a language the president can understand. If he don’t know sports and the president don’t know international politics, they might as well be speaking Swahili and German to each other, sweetie.

In Tenet’s new book, the freshest alibi that testifies he’s someone else who didn’t do shit to cause the unpopular war in Iraq, the former CIA Director tells how he responded to the president’s question about the intelligence that Iraq had weapons of mass destruction (WMD is so 2003 now), to which Tenet replied with the damned expression “Slam Dunk.” But Tenet says the case against him is not so clear.

“The president likes to receive all of his briefings in language that the public can understand,” Tenet wrote of his former boss and frequent sly critic. “This makes it easier for the razor-sharp mind of President Bush to prepare information for his press conferences—with so many things on his plate like writing a balanced budget, researching the privatization of health care, and his late-night situation meetings, sports terminology can get the point home to the American people without the president complicating the matter with the convoluted jargon familiar to President Bush, but strange to our ears.

“In this matter, I incorrectly clarified the intelligence case for Iraq’s possession of weapons of mass destruction as a ‘Slam Dunk.’ I have very rarely ever seen a football game, so using this terminology was my mistake. I should have gone with ‘home run,’ which is at least familiar to me because of dating slang. I did not mean that the ball was knocked out of the park. I meant that that thing happens where—what’s the term for when a player pretends to throw the ball, but you’re not sure he did, and any player could have or not have the ball? A ‘clusterfuck,’ maybe? Whatever that thing is, that’s what I meant to say. Boy, I must have really messed up my sports lingo, though.”

Tenet’s book further criticizes politicians out there, including the White House, for making him the scapegoat for the war because of the “Slam Dunk” comment. When the intelligence for Iraq was revealed as faulty, detractors pointed to Tenet as the face for the flawed intelligence system and put the burden on him and his people for a war that many accusers say was initiated only by the president’s interests. Tenet goes on to describe the process as “just plain mean.”

Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice was uncharacteristically frank in her response to Tenet’s charges in her response with Wolf Blitzer on CNN Sunday.

“George screwed the pooch and he knows it,” said Rice. “That’s not a sports term, so maybe I won’t have to translate it for him. We should send him to the penalty box for his knocking us over it all, but he wouldn’t know where the fuck it is anyway.”

the commune news is way familiar with sports terminology, and frequently likes to invent our own to liven things up. By the way, did you see the Cubs totally pontoon that short-sheet into the baker’s dozen last week? Total bullshit. Correspondent Stigmata Spent is also total bullshit, if you’re looking for a genuine lady to go out clubbing with, but she knows her football, and she’s more fun to talk to.

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Some People Call Me the Space Cowboy

Good people, the most wondrous of wonderful, funderful, magical things has happened to me! I was hit in the side by a dirty van while crossing the street and gravely injured. That’s not the good part, but I’m getting to that—let’s take the long way, shall we?

Of course, you may know that we at the commune traded our insurance benefits options for Red Bagel’s home-built soap box derby cars, so the shattered bones in my pelvis, my broken arm, multiple lacerations, bruised face, and bent pinky toe couldn’t seek professional care. It turns out the man who hit me with his filthy van had no insurance either, but he’s making it up to me in another way—again, more later. I did the only thing I could do, seek out an Indian friend to nurse me back to health, ala the legend of the Lone Ranger. So I asked Batu, a guy who works in the commune building on a different floor, to help me, and he agreed, even though he said he’s an East Indian not a Native American, which I could give two cents about. Batu loaned me his Canadian Prescriptions card for all the free Vicodin I could ever want and his home body cast kit. Needless to say, I’m doing much better now, still some internal bleeding, but that may have been there before. Let’s get on to the van-smashing wonderful thing.

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The man with the van is Dan Lopez, or “Space Dan” to his friends, a legion amongst which I now count myself. And they call him Space Dan for a very sound reason, not simply because he’s frequently stoned out of his gourd, although that’s why some of his lesser friends think they call him that. No, the fact is, my friends, Space Dan is building himself an actual rocketship. You didn’t read me wrong—an actual rocketship. Space Dan has circumvented the bloated government beast and the bureaucratic red-tape nonsense and created his own private company for space exploration.

I profess I was a little skeptical myself when I heard, but when I drove to his home in Littleton, a neighboring community of freaks and weirdoes to Flatbush, New Jersey, I saw quite the impressive sign hanging over his garage. He dissuaded me from seeing his state-of-the-art rocketship within, not because he didn’t trust me, but the main stockholders in Space Dan’s Rocket Travel Ltd.—Mom and Dad Lopez—refused to let him show anyone due to the possibility of industrial espionage. I can understand that completely, ever since I got blitzed on Southern Comfort that one night last February and offered to sell Crotchet! Magazine all of the commune’s trade secrets. Lucky for us they weren’t interested in buying.

Oh, in my excitement, I haven’t even told you the best part—I myself am going into space, and I’m going there for a price that’s practically nothing! $350, a price which my wife describes as practically insane, but she’s got a mouth on her that, that one. I have been given that special price because of my great injuries sustained when he hit me—and he wasn’t drunk, he was just trying to grab some candy bars from the back of the van when I was struck, so he technically wasn’t even at the wheel. Space Dan waived the greater fees of space gas, gantry-fixin’, reupholstering the space vehicle, and the comeback fee. All that was left was the $350 local space license, which of course he couldn’t do anything about. It’s a price I’ll gladly pay, as soon as my wife goes to sleep later this evening and leaves her purse unguarded.

Just think—as soon as I’m fully recovered from my crippling injuries, I, Rok Finger, will be blasted into the cosmos by a professional private sector space-faring company. It’s a dream I’ve had since I was a small child, but hopefully everyone at Mission Control won’t be talking chipmunks. Come to think of it, what was that dream about? Maybe I’ll be hit by an analyst next week and can get that worked out for free, too.

º Last Column: Rain, Rain, Go Straight to Hell
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Big Bee is Dead

Hello, communes. Boris is this. Coming on you with big news of year: Big bee is dead. Yes, is so!

Every person remember big bee, is bee thing from Boris child’s hood what always give Boris time so hard. Whenever Boris is does go outsides to play with made-up friends, there is big bee waiting to chase Boris away, like Benny’s Hill show except without music. Boris has to hum music for himself when does run away from big bee. Sometimes Boris does think maybe bee does hate this music and that why chase Boris, but probably bee is just asshole.

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All through life big bee does follow Boris. At home, on way to school, even on inside of classroom where Boris does is in trouble for bringing pet bee to school. Boris is kick out of schools so many time because big bee will not leave alone. Teacher say is so because mother does to wash Boris hair with honey, but this teacher’s excuse for all things, like why all neighbor’s hood dogs does follow Boris to lick head, and why come all flies does stick to Boris in summer’s time.

Even when adult person, Boris can’t not get job thing because no persons does want to hire Boris who is always running from bee and waving of arms. So, Boris does come to Americas. Does big bee follow? Yes. Stick with shit.

Big bee does have hard time to keep up with Boris on roading adventure with Angels from Hell and big fast bust, but eventually does find Potato Boris even though is secret identity. Bee is not fooled. Big bee even does follow Boris to New Olean. Coming back home to Louis apartment, Boris is thinking big bee get lost or maybe decide on follow person who does smell more like honey than Boris. But other day come huge surprise for Boris who does believe this idea.

Boris is sleeping sounds on Louis couch as outside is raining cats and water. Yes, yes, Boris is suppose to sleep in closet room, but after Louis is sleep, Boris does like to sneak out to couch so not to suffocate with sleeping Boris farts. And is all good and fun, but then Boris wake up to drip on head, like pee from God. Window is leak on Boris! Boris is mad, because before this Boris does like window. So, Boris have to pull out couch thing aways from window to sleep not in rain. This hard work, until Boris think to get off couch before moving. Then? Like lifting huge feather. No problemo, like say Louis friend speaking Spanishs.

But when Boris pull out couch, what is underbeneath? You can’t not know this, so Boris will tell: big bee! Yes! First Boris is very scare and does poop so hard, but then Boris see big bee is sleeping. Boris does get napking blanket for big bee, but when putting on, does see big bee very dusty like rust bunny under couch. “Holy Moley!” Boris does think in Spanishs. Big bee is dead!

Is true, so dead like Jiminey Crickets. Boris does make special coffin thing from box for matches and sings special funeral song (“Fly Like Eagles into Furniture”) before does flush bee down toilets to go to afterworld. And like that, Boris is free.

Is lonely to be free. Boris hoping to find moth or ladybug wants to follow Boris at all times. Is so too much work to tie with strings.

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Quote of the Day

“What joyous spring, what sylvan glade, alive with growth and life anew, springing forth in buds of nature’s splendor, what miracle of- what, it’s snowing? Again? FUUUUUCK. I’ll be at the pub.”
—Roderick Youngfellow

Fortune 500 Cookie

You are so ugly, the mere sight of you makes small children give up on life. No twist to that, it just needed to be said. Instead of Band-Aids this week, use bacon. Everybody loves bacon. The only cure for breath like yours is the Hemmingway solution. This week’s lucky haiku: Luke Luck licks dykes, Luke’s dick sticks Mikes, Mike’s wife knifes like OJ.

Try again later.

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“Captain’s blog, Stardate eleven point six point forty-three point twelve point three-thousand,” the captain typed out loud for the benefit of anyone who might be listening. “We have drifted far off course due to our Conn, walking GoBot Mister Matrix, forgetting to turn on the autopilot when he got off shift last night, so excited was he to hit the ship’s bar, The Watering Hall, before the end of Happy Hour. And so, we find ourselves deep in Romann space, desperate to find our way back to Planet Club territory without drawing the attention of our sworn enemies.”