.S. Secretary of State Colin Powell answered an M-TV audience's question on the show Be Heard: An M-TV Global Discussion With Colin Powell that, despite contradictory claims by friends and gossipers, he is indeed an ass man.

"Sure enough," Powell said, addressing a room full of inquisitive teen-agers and fine ladies, "I am, always have been, and always will be a connoisseur of sweet asses."

"Don't get me wrong," Powell continued, "I love every part of a tasty young lady—and I do mean every part. But if you nailed me down, oh, I don't know, say held a gun to my hand and demanded to know… it's true, folks. I'm a rear admiral."

Previous statements from sources close to the Secretary of State have suggested he loves big and bouncy titties, the bigger the better. One close friend, female, assured the press Powell was a legman, and couldn't resist a sweet mama with a long pair of "sex handles."

"Again, nothing wrong with a nice pair up there or down there," Powell said with a sly grin, running his hands sensuously against the podium, "but you all have me wrong. I'm into hip fox with a loose caboose."

As if proving his statement, as he exited the press room, Powell stopped and craned his neck trying to catch a glimpse of a female M-TV intern with a fully-loaded trunk on the way up the press aisle. "Mmm-mmm-MMM!" Powell grunted under his breath, shaking his head to escape the vision and exiting quietly.

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My parents are having a trial separation right now. I think that's the word—what's it called when your dad wallops your mom in the head with a brick and they lock him up? That's what's going on anyhow.

It's nothing new for the Coleman clan, but I can understand the police getting all upset about it seeing as how a brick is real hard and stuff. It's not like dad meant to hurt her, they were just re-modeling the place and there's not a lot of soft stuff to grab when you get suddenly enraged, so a brick was handy. The irony is super, though, since they were in the police station to bail my uncle Luke out. At least dad didn't have to suffer that humiliating ride downtown in handcuffs.

If you ask me, and I know I'm asking me, Uncle Luke should have known better. I like him and all, but if the judge throws the book at him I'll understand perfectly. Uncle Luke made a bet that the cops can't bust you for possession if the weed is sitting in the passenger seat while you're driving, like it defies technical definitions of possession. I was educated by a poorly-paid on-set tutor and even I know anywhere in your car counts as possession, it's like a big pocket in the eyes of the law. Anyway, it was sour grapes for dad since all the money he won on the bet had to be used to bail Uncle Luke out. And now he's in the cooler and has no money still.

They've already arraigned dad and denied bail. Not for the assault, but since the judge said dad was pretending to be black. Yeah, I didn't even know judges could do that, it's new to me. The judge called it contempt, but dad called him a motherfucker so they're at a standstill—dad's in jail and will probably be there until the next hearing. At least until he apologizes to the judge or brings in some genealogical evidence there's an African-American in his family tree. I'm betting the last one will be the more likely thing to happen.

Now my mom doesn't want to live at home while he's "visiting orange jumpsuit camp," so she's pushing hard to live with me. I've actually already agreed to it, but she hasn't shown up yet—you pay $69 for a bus ticket and it takes forever before you get your mother. It's gonna be hellish living conditions, I know that up front, but she should do all the cooking and cleaning since it's her way of dominating everybody, just like the shrink said. Call me crazy (he did), but I don't mind being a little domination if it means French toast for breakfast and clean towels in the bathroom.

It's just temporary, I've laid down the law about that. Dad is bound to get a suspended sentence like last time and once he's out, she's out. I don't want this to be some kind of sneak plan to move in with me now that my new show is about to take off. I separated all my bank accounts from theirs when I was 18, and they were eager to do it, too—now that I'm riding high again it's just their tough luck if I've actually got money in it.

The show is still in post-production and negotiations, which means it's not on TV and may never be, but there's still a reasonable assumption it could be. This is the part of the business I hate. Actually, I'm not too fond of the auditioning, the rehearsing, the taping, reading the boring scripts, looking over contracts and seeking work, and the acting part is a little stupid, too. I suppose if they paid me money and just showed me on TV all the time that would be cool. But once again, I haven't figured out how to get on The Real World. It probably involves auditioning, too. But I've still got the mom situation to deal with in the meantime, and if she's not here by tomorrow I'll have to file a claim with Greyhound or something.

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Dear commune:

I read a preview copy of Kitty Kelley’s upcoming biography of Red Bagel, which I regularly do in the course of my job—read other people’s mail. I couldn’t believe some of the stories she tells. It’s a disgrace. However, I’m not naïve enough to believe she made up everything. The best biographies are 75% truth and 25% embellishment. Or something like that—for a more exact formula, I’d need my slide rule, and they don’t let me have one while I’m working since I’m not supposed to be doing math.
So is it true or what? Or how much of it is true? Because this is some seriously wicked shit to be true.

Jimmy Connors
Trumpet, New Mexico


Dear Jimmy:

Ah, Jimmy. It’s not often we get a chance to defend ourselves from outside allegations, since fearless leader Red Bagel won’t allow us to respond to questions until they’re asked. But he’s been dying to set the record straight ever since that biography-writing harlot (not in a bad way) started digging her rhinoplastied nose into his past. So let’s do that now.

The stories about drug experimentation are partially true, but misrepresented. All of Red Bagel’s forays into drugs were just searches for cures to his uncontrollable temper. No one here has actually seen Red transform into the giant blue beast, and we’re praying to God we never will. You can hardly blame him for messing around with psychedelic drugs and stool softeners in that case.

All this stuff about him knocking Newt Gingrich off a balcony in Venice is pure baloney. It’s funny how stories get all tangled up and the details are fouled up. The real story: Red was having sex with Ann Coulter and punched her in the back of her head while she was telling him a story about Newt Gingrich falling off a balcony in Venice. And the punch was only part of their foreplay.

The thing about Donahue was true, and nobody need apologize to anyone. They’re still close friends, and exchange baking tips over the phone once in a while.
Red Bagel did not vote for Reagan in the 1984 election. This kind of character-assassination is depraved and will not be tolerated. Red voted for Jimmy Carter four times in 1980, breaking his previous voting record of six times for George McGovern. In 1984, Red was distressed about the choice of Walter Mondale as the Democratic candidate, so he declined to vote. But he did burn his draft card in protest of the Vietnam war. It had been over for years, but still a worthy cause.

We hope this makes sense. Or if that’s asking too much, we hope you at least quit reading sleazy biographies. But we hear that one on Bush Jr. is going to be a real pot-boiler. We’re getting ours soon.

the commune

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Editor’s Note: the commune is not responsible for the rising gas prices. It can probably be attributed to the flaming reserves of oil in Iraq. If you want to know who started those fires, feel free to ask around, but unless you want a long diatribe, don’t ask Billy Joel.

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