 | 
 November 18, 2011 |
Shanesly, VT Courtesy App-Lesauce.com A bunch of apps and shit 
Apps," or software programs designed for handheld devices, are all the rage these days, as more and more internet-capable phones and state-of-the-art tablet computers utilize them to make apps one of the more enjoyable aspects of mobile technology. There are current apps out there for reading books and documents, doing your taxes, watching movies and television while on the go, and getting directions as you drive. But apps don't stop there, as independent designers and big-name companies work to bring new abilities to your tablet computer like the iPad, the Galaxy Tab, and Motorola's incorrectly spelled Xoom device. In the wake of the recent removal from the Apple Store in France of an app called "Jew or Not Jew?," designed to give insight into the background of entertainers and icons of Jewish descent, the commune, mostly me, Raoul Dunkin, decided to investigate some of the surprising apps out there for various devices. But yeah, all of these are Apple, because nobody left an HP TouchPad discarded at the bus stop last week. Although they probably should have.
Encore! For iPhone (Guncho Ltd.): This fresh app saves the user breath and energy by automatically shouting for "one more" from your favorite band who has left the stage. An update reportedly automatically requests "Free Bird" if it has not already been played, and mimics your drunken slur. Encore! costs $4.99 on iTunes and is also available for the same price for iPad. For $8.99 an Apple customer can buy Encore! Pro, which boos the opening act during the first ballad.
U.R. Gay For iPad (OutThere Apps): Ever wanted to know what your best friends or romantic partners would look like if they chose the homosexual lifestyle? U.R. Gay can take any picture of the manliest dudes or girliest girlfriends and gay them up big time. Adjust the gayness to your liking with a touch-friendly slider. Deck out that obnoxious brah in your office in a tight-fitting long-sleeve shirt and pencil-thin mustache, or a loud Hawaiian shirt and biker shorts, or go full gay with a bushy 'stache, leather vest, blue jean cut-offs and—is that eyeliner? Advisory: Can only go gay, will not work on already-gay pictures, and they highly recommend you don't try it.
iBlack (Cheap Bastards): If you're thinking this app traces the purity of your blood back several generations, you're wrong (that app's called Kiss My Black(?) Ass for iPhone). iBlack can, at the press of a button, turn your iPad, iPhone, or iPod Touch to a completely black screen so you can see your reflection, see what it looks like if your device was turned off, or simply give people the impression that your handheld computer is not being used. It functions much like if you held the button down and turned off the device, except it costs $12.99.
OverLaid For iPad (Knocks Industries): You won't find a better app than this one for your fantasy lotharios. If you've ever told your buddies about sexual liaisons that never happened, so many and so frequently that it's hard to keep track of, you need OverLaid. A spreadsheet in this app counts of all the women you've slept with, honestly, while another spreadsheet keeps track of all the women you claim you've slept with. Personalized data entry fields allow you to keep names, locations, and hotness levels (on a 1-10 scale) of all your imaginary affairs, so that you never give erroneous or contradictory information regarding all your fictional erotic encounters. For the $5.99 full version, you can also compare your actual sexual conquests, their attractiveness and numbers, with all those you've bragged about to friends, either to set goals for your bedroom romps or just feel bad about yourself. For you high schoolers, the app also includes a helpful "girlfriends in other states" section.
No Rape! (Danger Dude Enterprises): For iPad and iPhone, this clever app claims that the mere push of a button will send rapists and molesters running the other way. Works on all ages, genders, and sexual orientations, although it never details how it does this and explicitly states it offers no refunds. It's the exclamation point that sells it.
Punch Your Balls (Danger Dude Enterprises): From the people who brought you No Rape! For the iPad and iPhone, at the mere push of a button, a representative of Danger Dude Enterprises (perhaps Danger Dude himself) will come to your house when called and punch you squarely in your testicular area. This app comes with a guarantee, void outside the continental U.S. It seems like Danger Dude Enterprises are the app developers to beat.
Awkward Silence For iPhone (Krustinators, Ltd.): Have you ever told a joke and felt the burn of absolutely no one laughing, not even laughing at the fact they didn't laugh? Now you can enjoy that painful humiliation even without anyone else around. Awkward Silence bathes users in the gut-wrenching shame of stark quiet after every bombed joke or embarrassing admission. Or, if you prefer, you can come by Emil's house and just record it with your iPhone recording app. We're overflowing with riches here. the commune news is appy and we know it, so we'll clap our hands. Get it? It's like the… song with the… aw, fuck you. Raoul Dunkin is nappy, and he knows it, we snatched his comb. *clap clap*
 |  October 24, 2011 |
Sirte, Libya Courtesy FeelDoll A less road-worn copy of the Gaddafi doll made famous in last week’s videos, this one featuring the "Urban Chic" outfit and this model’s trademark "sensuous blowjob lips"
"We resent being called a knock-off. If anything, our models are superior to RealDolls, with suppler orifices, stretchier lips, and more voluminous skeet reservoirs," explained an incensed Roman Starsky, head doll fucker for FeelDoll.
"If anything, we’re a knock-up," Starksy added. "If you’re going to jizz into a big polyurethane corpse, we hope it’s ours."
The sex doll in question, an expensive high-end model a far cry from the inflatable emergency dates most commune readers would be fami...
n autopsy of the internet-famous body of former Libyan dictator Muammar Gadhafi early Monday uncovered one shocking detail: the so-called corpse is in fact a sex doll likeness of Gaddafi, manufactured by the Middle Eastern RealDoll knock-off company, FeelDoll.
"We resent being called a knock-off. If anything, our models are superior to RealDolls, with suppler orifices, stretchier lips, and more voluminous skeet reservoirs," explained an incensed Roman Starsky, head doll fucker for FeelDoll.
"If anything, we’re a knock-up," Starksy added. "If you’re going to jizz into a big polyurethane corpse, we hope it’s ours."
The sex doll in question, an expensive high-end model a far cry from the inflatable emergency dates most commune readers would be familiar with, features a posable internal skeleton, lifelike silicone skin, interchangeable hairpieces for alternating between "stern sexy dictator Kadafi" and "fun on the beach Qaddafi," and numerous cute outfits in all the latest styles. There has been no word as to who ditched this particular love doll in the drainage ditch where it was found by revolutionaries on Friday, but judging from its condition, they were apparently finished with it.
"Ga-ddammit," mused National Transitional Council Executive Chairman Mahmoud Jibril, upon being told the news.
When asked how the entire world could be fooled by footage of a rubber sex doll flopping around and being shoved into a truck, psychologist Ben Wahbals explained the powerful role suggestion plays in the way our brains interpret the outside world.
"For example, all I had to do was tell you I was a psychologist, and because of that you never even noticed that I’m wearing an Arby’s uniform and we are, right now, inside an Arby’s," explained Dr. Wahbals.
The day went from bad to double-bad for Libya’s new government later Monday afternoon, when a closer inspection of the corpse of Qadhafi’s son Mo’tassim (Ed. Note: Seriously? Fact check that name), thought killed in fighting last week, revealed it to actually be a goat wearing a dress.
Monday’s shocking developments raise several disturbing questions, not the least of which is where the actual Qadhaffi might be if he’s not really having his anus measured in a morgue in Libya. The leading theory as of news time was that Gathafi has been hiding out for months as a member of the cast of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, though journalistic ethics require us to point out that this almost-certainly-true theory has not yet been backed up by hard facts or cursory examination.
Upon the first breaking of this story on news breaker site Zapshit.com, several posters in that article’s comments section admitted this news made them feel less guilty about having masturbated to the YouTube footage of Godhafi’s capture last week.
Possibly even more pressing, however, is the question of why in the holy Allah someone would make a sex doll to look like Malomar Kurdhafi.
"Male sex dolls are relatively rare compared to the female models, yes, and are mostly purchased by conservative politicians and for the rec rooms of women’s prisons," explained Starsky. "But there is a demand, and a demanding demand at that."
Sure, but why Gutthafih?
"Likenesses are entirely based on popular demand. And who is to say the sexual appetites of the public are wrong? Is being sexually attracted to Dick Butkus wrong? Just because I want to dip my wick in a life-sized plastic Ernest Borgnine, does that make me a freak? On a side note, our Ernest Bornine FeelDolls are all on sale this week, those things haven’t been selling worth a goddamn." The commune news vows to stick with this story until the real Gudhafi is found, no matter how long this may- Oooh! I think this is an Alabama quarter! Ivan Nacutchacokov sadly arrived in Sirte too late to dodge any revolutionary gunfire, but he was videotaped being dragged naked through the city’s streets, which Ivan insists is a common local greeting. Sure it is, Ivan.
|  Liam Neeson Totally Fucks Up Some Wolves For Your Entertainment  Giant Sausages Can Finally Stop Running as Fielder Leaves Milwaukee  Hilarious GOP Train Wreck Will Destroy Nation, Admit Thrilled Onlookers  Megaupload's Kim Dotcom Tapped to Run North Korea |
|
|
| 
 January 27, 2012 Ventriloquism For DummiesEmil's Note: I know what you're thinking, loyal commune-ist: "Oh great, more recycled Finger columns from bargain bin porn mags." Frankly, I'm shocked you would think so cynically. You're wrong on that point as well, as this is BRAND NEW FINGER! It only seems recycled because that's part of his charm. Yes, I found Rok Finger once more, working in the most unexpected of places, as part of a nightclub act in Savannah, Georgia. Yes, now that I think about it, I suppose it was kind of expected. After much cajoling, and tender massage, I convinced our staid old tell-it-like-it-should-be columnist to volunteer a few more pages to remind us of better commune times. He isn't likely to move out of the Peach State yet, but this is almost as good as having him right here in the office! I'll...
º Last Column: A Day That Will Live in Famy
º more columns
Emil's Note: I know what you're thinking, loyal commune-ist: "Oh great, more recycled Finger columns from bargain bin porn mags." Frankly, I'm shocked you would think so cynically. You're wrong on that point as well, as this is BRAND NEW FINGER! It only seems recycled because that's part of his charm. Yes, I found Rok Finger once more, working in the most unexpected of places, as part of a nightclub act in Savannah, Georgia. Yes, now that I think about it, I suppose it was kind of expected. After much cajoling, and tender massage, I convinced our staid old tell-it-like-it-should-be columnist to volunteer a few more pages to remind us of better commune times. He isn't likely to move out of the Peach State yet, but this is almost as good as having him right here in the office! I'll just imagine that old creepy collectible Linda Hunt doll mom keeps down here is him until the real thing is in attendance. So enjoy fresh finger, good people…
My faithful readers, please be kind to me, as I'm a bit out of practice on ranting in typeface. But the Arab who owns the commune now assures me thousands of my fans are camped out in front of the building and will give no one any peace until they receive more of my motivational thoughts and harrowing true stories.
The god's honest truth is that I don't have much to write about. I have not been opining in a very long while, except on stage, and my life has become considerably boring since I earned my living at the commune. Times were tough, I borrowed a sizable high-interest loan from a hyper-intelligent 10-year-old, the enema bar failed, I couldn't pay it back, so I had to go into hiding working in show business. It's the world's oldest cliché, I'm boring myself talking about it.
Still, it's fair to say there's enough of interest to me to keep me breathing. My wife is working the upscale Hoboken real estate market while I'm living the high life on the Savannah entertainment scene, which is perhaps a little depressing, but we're both living our dreams. Her dream involves lots of land and garish sport coats, mine involves thing people really care about, but that doesn't mean they're not equally important. The fact people pay to see me perform each night is what means they're not equally important. Yes, I have broken into the lucrative world of voice-catching action figure performance.
Some people still use the term "ventriloquist dummy," not realizing how offensive it is to those of us who perform. For instance, the little pissant camel-jockey who asked me to write this column still says "dummy, but did he ever think how dummies feel to be called dummies? True, most of them are inanimate wooden dolls that display no emotion, but that doesn't mean they don't feel. And what about the rest of them that do, namely me? So get politically correct already, you stupid Polacks.
I've always had an eye for the voice-catching-inclined, as we tend to shop in the same stores, so it was a lateral move from wearing their clothes to performing in the business. True, I had originally gone to the Yak Yak Club to work as a gruff but lovable bartender, but they took issue with the fact I could not be seen behind the bar. It was the Great Raymondo who noticed I had a touch of talent, particularly looking "creepy as fuck," and while I don't know much about voice-throwing talents like Raymondo, I can say he does a dynamite impression of my voice. Except my Johnny Carson impression, he can't do that. Isn't that odd?
Raymondo, like most convicted sex offenders looking to break into show business, was down and out, and could not afford his own voice-catching action figure, so he asked that I join his stage team—I even get first billing—and simply enhance his jokes by making funny faces and spinning my head around 360 degrees. I'm still working on that part, although I have managed a firm 180, which is no small feat.
Speaking of which, my small feet help. All my life I have been subject to ridicule for being undersized, as well as especially unattractive, but now at long last, when people see me kicking my tiny shoes back and forth while Raymondo mimics my voice, they don't make fun of me, they just laugh and laugh and laugh.
Admittedly, in a perfect world, I would have a lot more to do with the material we perform. It's kind of Raymondo's baby at this point, I'm just shaking it violently. I respect his humor is mostly wood-based and, yes, I get some of the best zings at his expense, but I don't see why we couldn't work in some of my stinging observations on how unnecessary queens are and why should we have to pay taxes. Not to mention a little soft shoe, properly amplified so the audience can hear the tap sounds. But everybody stops somewhere, and once I get to that level of fame where I can squeeze Raymondo out, it will be "Rok & Nobody" instead of "Rok & Raymondo." You know, I've never considered it until now, but I might even cut the "& Nobody" out of the title, why should I have to share my marquee with Nobody?
This has been a reminder of the good old pre-voice-catching days. Almost enough to make me miss the common. Still, big fame awaits me, and I must run. I'm auditioning for Jeff Dunham later today, and I'd do anything to get on that guy's meal ticket. I'm even considering a surgery that allows the voice-thrower to move my mouth by sticking his hand into my back. I'm not saying yes to it, just considering it. Surgical augmentation is all the rage in show business, the showgirls tell me. º Last Column: A Day That Will Live in Famyº more columns
| 
|  October 24, 2011 Eighth Theistthe commune is back, people, and better than ever. But then again, who am I to decide your tastes? I shouldn't just declare matters of opinion as if they're fact. Maybe the commune is back, slightly inferior compared to what it used to be, but still tolerable. Or maybe it was never tolerable. Don't let me make the call.
Why do grapes come in so many different colors? Pick one and go with it. You don't see bananas pulling that shit on you. Bananas—there's a food that's secure with itself. Never care much for the shape, though.
I hear Ted Danson is replacing Laurence Fishburne on the long-running crime drama C.S.I.: Crime Scene Investigations. Both are very talented actors and seem like fine people. Yet I could not give less than a shit.
Have ...
º Last Column: Eighth is Enough
º more columns
the commune is back, people, and better than ever. But then again, who am I to decide your tastes? I shouldn't just declare matters of opinion as if they're fact. Maybe the commune is back, slightly inferior compared to what it used to be, but still tolerable. Or maybe it was never tolerable. Don't let me make the call.
Why do grapes come in so many different colors? Pick one and go with it. You don't see bananas pulling that shit on you. Bananas—there's a food that's secure with itself. Never care much for the shape, though.
I hear Ted Danson is replacing Laurence Fishburne on the long-running crime drama C.S.I.: Crime Scene Investigations. Both are very talented actors and seem like fine people. Yet I could not give less than a shit.
Have you ever found that Russian novelists, classic Russian novelists especially, are obsessed with depictions of death? Americans, on the other hand, maybe all western novelists, seem more concerned with depictions of life; however, it may be argued that it is the Russian novelist who has the courage to face reality, while what we write about indicates our need to escape that grim reality. This might be changed considerably if more Russian novelists wrote in English. Russian is a hard language to write in. Trying to figure it out makes you suicidal. That's my guess.
Has there ever been a cereal called Nutsack Crunch? I'm thinking maybe a cluster-type cereal, sold in a canvas bag. If there hasn't, good. Cereal manufacturers be warned: What were you thinking? The mere sound of it puts most people off their appetites. Nutsack Crunch… Jesus.
Now a cereal named Jesus, on the other hand, that's bankable. No better way to start your day. In my opinion.
Oasis is now banned from performing in this country. They know why.
It should have been obvious General Custer would meet his end at Little Big Horn. Little Horn? Big Horn? The place was clearly named to confuse the white man. That's why I never stage any battles there.
What would you do for a Klondike Bar? Wait, don't agree to anything too fast. I found one today in the frozen foods section of my local grocery store. All the humiliation I've endured, they were just sitting there for sale the whole time. The whole time. Not even that expensive.
Remember when they used to say "Mike Connors is Mannix"? I kept waiting for that to come up in the show, but no matter how frequently they reminded us of the fact, I never saw it amount to anything. I expected a big "I am Spartacus" moment that never happened. What a waste.
I had a job selling car stereos once, and the manager used to tell us to go "balls out" during any big sales push. Let me save you some trouble and warn you right now, it doesn't sell any more car stereos. Boxer shorts, perhaps, but not car stereos. Then the manager had the nerve to get mad at me.
Do you know the Muffin Man? The Muffin Man? The Muffin Man. Don't trust that son of a bitch. The first one was free, then he jacked up the price. Now I've got a muffin problem.
I'm telling everyone now: If I'm ever hooked up to a machine to keep me alive, promise me you'll tell me in detail exactly how that machine works. It sounds unbelievable. A machine?!? That keeps people alive?!? Wow. Just… wow. So tell me all about it, assuming I'm not a catatonic pile of flesh and bones.
That's all I can stands, I can't stands no more. º Last Column: Eighth is Enoughº more columns
|
|
| |
Quote of the Day“Get out of my way, you're crapping up my genius, dumbnuts.”
—Ayn RandyFortune 500 CookieAll of those great things we said were going to happen to you last week? Yeah, sorry, we had you mixed up with your brother. You're fucked. Try parking your car at the far end of the lot and walking this week: everyone finds the way you jiggle when you walk highly amusing. Your friends and the packaging aren't lying: that's not toothpaste. Did you really think you were going to get away with naming your son Pringles? This week's lucky ass creams: Vaseline Intensive Hair, Ditch the Itch Ultra, Smooth Movers Hibiscus Scent, Baby's Ass in a Bottle, Johnson & Johnson No More Flaming Mass of Ground Hamburger Hemorrhoid Salve.
Try again later.Top 5 Movies with Top in the Title| 1. | America's Next Top Hovel: The Movie | | 2. | Top Dog 2: More Chuck Norris and a Talking… What Do You Mean the Dog Can't Talk? | | 3. | Top Nun | | 4. | Pop on Top: A Dirty Cartoon with Rhyming | | 5. | Spinning Yarns: Robin Williams Tells Stories About Tops For Two Fucking Hours | |
|   NetFlix Raises Subscription Rate For Non-Subscribers BY stefan myer-wiener 1/27/2012 TweenightIt had been the world's most boring flight to Big, Oregon and I hated every minute of it. The old lady sitting next to me wouldn't even listen to me telling her about my stamp collection, all she wanted to do was watch gay porn on her laptop. It would be another super-dull summer in Sporks. I've been coming to Sporks ever since I was the world's most naïve five-year-old. My dad and my mom split up when I was just a baby, and unlike most kids, I have a lot of sadness over it.
Dad picked me up at the airport, after bringing back the hot chick he thought was me and apologizing several times. Lawsuits are the worst. We talked about stupid stuff on the way to drive out to Sporks, the weather, how I liked school, how he lost both arms and his nose when a bomb went off in his face....
It had been the world's most boring flight to Big, Oregon and I hated every minute of it. The old lady sitting next to me wouldn't even listen to me telling her about my stamp collection, all she wanted to do was watch gay porn on her laptop. It would be another super-dull summer in Sporks. I've been coming to Sporks ever since I was the world's most naïve five-year-old. My dad and my mom split up when I was just a baby, and unlike most kids, I have a lot of sadness over it.
Dad picked me up at the airport, after bringing back the hot chick he thought was me and apologizing several times. Lawsuits are the worst. We talked about stupid stuff on the way to drive out to Sporks, the weather, how I liked school, how he lost both arms and his nose when a bomb went off in his face. I kept trying to tell him about the things that were bothering me, like the tag on inside of my shirt that keeps scratching that soft skin around my neck. Same old dad. He just didn't show any interest in anything I said.
When school started, it was even worse. All of the girls didn't want anything to do with me. I guess they all have money, all of them carry designer Trapper Keepers and wear the newest clogs. Mine are from last year. Mom makes a lot of money but she makes me wear second-hand clothes and get my hair done at the Dollar Salon because she says girls without money are much easier to relate to. Dad told me I can't go to the Dollar Salon anymore, unless my rich mother wants to pay for it, I'll have to cut my own hair in the car mirror.
So I was all alone, without a friend in the world, a virtual outcast in a brand new high school. I tried to tell mom I didn't like it here in Sporks, that I wanted to come home, and she just kept asking why school was in session during the summer. I can't talk to her. I'm all alone.
Or I was alone—until I met the new boy, Tedwin.
From the first time we saw each other in the cafeteria I was drawn to him. None of the other kids want anything to do with him. It's like he's an outcast, just like me. Everyone is turned off by the fact that he's so quiet, and that he looks like a male supermodel. Between that strange pale color and the fact all the girls and a lot of the guys want to have sex with him, he's got to be the most enigmatic outsider in all of this school, and this school is about 95% outsiders, you know. Oh, I forgot about Bleedin' Tits Pete. That guys like a super-outsider, but no one is drawn to him.
My dad forgot to pick me up at school one afternoon, sometimes I slip his mind when he finished having sex with my art teacher. So I was stuck walking home. I was heading down Puberty Road and most of the cars were passing me, but to my surprise, Tedwin pulled up on a sleek motorcycle, the kind all the cool mysterious outsiders drive.
"You're Bona… aren't you?" he said enigmatically. I nodded shyly, because I really got nothing else in my arsenal. He looked into the sky, in the distance, where they keep it, and noticed the sun was going down. It seemed to kind of worry him. "Are you… going home?"
I told him about my dad's forgetting to pick me up, and how my fish sometimes eats the whole leaf of lettuce but yesterday she didn't, and he gave me a smile. He asked where I lived, and I told him, and then I told him most people like Miracle Whip, but I think mayonnaise is actually better. He agreed—I've never had someone who listened to me before. And he was oddly beautiful, for a male supermodel outsider.
"I'll give you a ride, Bona." I got on the back of his motorcycle, hugging extra close to him for sexiness. It felt good to have another heart beating so close to mine. Other hearts feel best when they're inside finely carved pecs.
When we got to my house, we stayed up for hours, sitting on the porch. His family seemed just as screwed up as mind, all they ever did was nitpick and bite on each other. Both of his parents were dead, he told me, but he said they still tried to make time to see him now and then. I told him about my talent for counting words in sentences that are spoken to me (we used six-hundred and forty-two!) and my entire set of Suddenly Susan on DVD. He eventually looked outside and saw it was night, then got up to leave in a hurry. I noticed he was kind of… glowing.
"Bona… you're the most fascinating person I've ever met," he said, and I noticed he was nibbling at something in his hand. "I want to see you again… but I can't."
"You can't leave me without telling me why, Tedwin," I told him. "Even though we've only known each other for two hours, I've fallen in love with you. I think you love me, too. Tedwin— listen to me! Stop eating while I'm talking to you…!"
I smacked his hand and his food fell to the floor. It looked like… but I wasn't completely sure… brains?
"Tedwin," I said with a little gasp. "Are you… a zombie?"   |
