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 February 9, 2004 |
President Bush (inset) makes eerie noises to underscore the pressing danger of the rogue M64 galaxy
“Look! Up in the sky!” shouted Bush, pointing upward in mock terror. “We’re all going to die!”
According to White House press secretary Scott McClellan, the airborne terror President Bush cringed beneath before darting out of the room was the “Evil Eye” galaxy, a distant cluster of stars recently photographed by the Hubble space telescope, which according to Bush staffers will soon spell our mortal demise.
“The President cannot stress enough the importance of putting aside divisive squabbling involving lost jobs or unnecessary invasions,” ...
aced with tough questions about the economy and pre-war intelligence failures this week, President Bush interrupted a press conference Thursday with an unusual display of astronomical panic.
“Look! Up in the sky!” shouted Bush, pointing upward in mock terror. “We’re all going to die!”
According to White House press secretary Scott McClellan, the airborne terror President Bush cringed beneath before darting out of the room was the “Evil Eye” galaxy, a distant cluster of stars recently photographed by the Hubble space telescope, which according to Bush staffers will soon spell our mortal demise.
“The President cannot stress enough the importance of putting aside divisive squabbling involving lost jobs or unnecessary invasions,” explained McClellan. “Our very lives may be in his hands this day, and it’s time for the American people to band together with the president, now and through this coming November to repel this terrible threat to the American way of life.”
All available scientists and high-school educated adults have dismissed the president’s claims that the Messier 64 galaxy, known as the “Evil Eye” for an unusual appearance caused by stars and interstellar gas rotating in opposite directions, will within the next ten months attempt to suck the United States of America off the globe like a small child sucking the sticker off an orange. While no scientific evidence exists to suggest this is even the remotest of possibilities, President Bush remains steadfast in his message.
“Holy shit, run for your lives!” Bush screamed before ducking out of the room during a press conference on Saturday, shortly after being asked to reconcile conflicting statements he’d made about rolling back last year’s tax cuts.
Political pundits have observed that Bush’s obsession with the M64 galaxy began shortly after the results of a recent AP poll were released, showing the president had taken a sharp nosedive in public opinion after a month of Democratic presidential candidates pointing out his ample flaws. For the first time during Bush’s term, polls showed more Americans likely to vote against the president than for him, and similar polls showed Bush losing to Democratic presidential hopeful and dead man walking John Kerry in head-to-head voting. Bush staffers refute these claims, however, pointing out that Poles are unreliable and often the butt of stereotypical humor.
Other results of the AP polls show Bush’s numbers across the board as down sharply from one month ago, signaling that the president’s attempts to distract voters with fantastical tales of moon bases and Mars adventures were largely unsuccessful and kind of silly.
“Obviously putting a man on Mars didn’t turn people’s cranks as much as the president had hoped,” commented political strategist Vaughn Casey. “So Bush has wisely returned to his ‘Greatest Hits’ playbook in an effort to parlay national paranoia into a second term. It’s a longshot, sure, but if the president could convince average Americans that Al Qaeda actually posed a serious threat in their everyday lives, then I suppose some kind of sucking space monster isn’t really a giant leap of faith from there.”
Further requests to question the president as to the scientific basis of his fears were turned down on the grounds that Messier 64 might be listening. the commune news must admit, we’ve been terrified of galaxies ever since owning a 1961 Ford Galaxie with a bum transmission in the late 80’s. Lil Duncan is the commune’s Washington correspondent and resident joie di vie, which we think is French for hose hound.
 | German Man Denies Teaching Dog Nazi SaluteFebruary 9, 2004 |
Adolf, seen here defiantly mugging for his kennel booking photo
“It’s not my fault the pound sold me a Nazi dog,” claimed Roland through an interpreter. “You never know what you’re going to get, a carpet pee-er or a radical skinhead or whatever.”
“Sieg Heil!” screamed Roland at the sheepdog, Adolf, after it began to lower its paw.
When this reporter pointed out that Roland’s denials were implausible, given that he was wearing a t-shirt with a picture of A...
54-year-old Berlin man was arrested on charges of contributing to the delinquency of a house pet last week for allegedly teaching his dog the “Heil Hitler” salute, according to German authorities. Though he admits his sheepdog can do the salute, Hans Roland insists he must have learned the gesture from other dogs in the neighborhood.
“It’s not my fault the pound sold me a Nazi dog,” claimed Roland through an interpreter. “You never know what you’re going to get, a carpet pee-er or a radical skinhead or whatever.”
“Sieg Heil!” screamed Roland at the sheepdog, Adolf, after it began to lower its paw.
When this reporter pointed out that Roland’s denials were implausible, given that he was wearing a t-shirt with a picture of Adolf Hitler on it at that very moment, Roland called such allegations “absurd” and pointed out that the dog doesn’t know it’s Hitler.
“The dog’s not very smart,” explained Roland. “He thinks is Charlie Chaplin.”
Under German law, Roland can be prosecuted for displaying symbols of an unconstitutional organization and faces up to three years in prison. The laws against public display of Nazi symbols are meant to prevent a recurrence of Nazism in Germany and date back to the end of WWII. They likely wouldn’t pass constitutional muster but for the lucky fact they’re in Germany, which through a convenient loophole is exempt from American laws. Roland also faces lesser charges of contributing to the delinquency of a canine, a charge usually reserved for pet owners who give their dogs beer.
“I don’t know where these rumors get started,” Roland lamented. “Someone says you buy cheap coffee, you’re roaming around the neighborhood in the nude at nighttime, your dog’s a Nazi…”
If Roland is convicted, the dog likely will be housed in the war criminals wing of a local animal shelter.
“It’s just a rotten shame that people are going to judge this dog based on what his owner taught him,” fretted Cindy Farmou of the local animal protection agency. “It makes me sick. This dog probably isn’t even a Nazi, but because his owner was deranged he’ll have to wear that title and a swastika neckerchief for the rest of his doggie life. It’s important to remember the dog is the victim here. He probably thinks ‘Heil Hitler’ means ‘I love bacon snacks’ or something.”
“Fuck that Nazi dog!” disagreed teenager Hammel Stoiber, owner of a Jewish cocker spaniel. “They may say he’s not like the rest, but they’re all the same. Have you seen the look in that dog’s eyes? I bet he’d just love to put my Maxie in a concentration kennel.”
Roland is currently free on bail, preparing for trial by shouting at passers-by and coaching his dog on witness stand etiquette. According to court documents, police also confiscated a ferret named Manson and a parrot named Osama bin Laden from the man’s apartment. the commune news has been arrested for teaching dogs its fair share of illegal tricks over the years, but none more impressive than the iron cross. commune foreign correspondent Ivan Nacutchacokov is not a Nazi himself, but he did once play one in an ice cream commercial.
| Americans experience bizarre 'lost-time' phenomenon Saturday night Country named Myanmar apparently not some kind of joke Guy at next table eating salt right out of shaker Yale bombed, Harvard too drunk to walk home |
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 December 6, 2004 I Promised to Stop Smoking CrackIt's just like you to twist my words around. I think I'd remember, in the midst of all that automobile wreckage, whilst the paramedics were sweeping the windshield glass out of your eyes and the neighborhood was awash in a sea of swirling lights and sirens, if I had promised to stop using crack entirely. Please, that doesn't even sound like me.
Perhaps in the heat of the moment, when we weren't sure if you were going to walk again, or if there was anybody home inside that house the Rolls ended up cart-wheeling into, in the passion of that lucid moment I may very well have breathlessly gushed something romantic about not smoking crack any more. And though I do, in the privacy of my own thoughts, think it to be a bit tacky that you'd hold me to a vow uttered under such e...
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It's just like you to twist my words around. I think I'd remember, in the midst of all that automobile wreckage, whilst the paramedics were sweeping the windshield glass out of your eyes and the neighborhood was awash in a sea of swirling lights and sirens, if I had promised to stop using crack entirely. Please, that doesn't even sound like me. Perhaps in the heat of the moment, when we weren't sure if you were going to walk again, or if there was anybody home inside that house the Rolls ended up cart-wheeling into, in the passion of that lucid moment I may very well have breathlessly gushed something romantic about not smoking crack any more. And though I do, in the privacy of my own thoughts, think it to be a bit tacky that you'd hold me to a vow uttered under such extreme circumstances, I am nevertheless honor-bound to fulfill that promise, and I verily intend to. No matter how much willpower it takes, and no matter how inconvenient it may be, now and forevermore I shall find other ways to enjoy my crack, other than smoking it. For you, my dear. And frankly, after I've made such a heady promise, and laid such a monumental burden willingly across my own shoulders, I find it a little insulting to have to explain myself to you. Not after all I've done to appease your sensitive palette and allay your bourgeois concerns about the health effects of second-hand cracksmoke. Some uncouth individuals might go so far as to suggest that you're being a bitch. Not that I'd hear a word of it, but rest assured that it has been said. Surely you didn't expect me to give up crack entirely. If so, it's clear that your gains in physical therapy have made you greedy. My crack habit hurts no-one, and if they made car windshields out of candy glass like I've been suggesting for years, we wouldn't have to keep making these inconvenient trips to the hospital every time you forget to wear a seatbelt or are slow climbing into the car. It would also help if you weren't too impatient to wait for the airbag to inflate. But women will be women. Or perhaps I'm merely misreading your response, and you're actually just curious as to how I plan on going about my whimsical crack habit without the aid of my good friend Prometheus, the God of Fire. Perhaps this logistical difficulty has left you dubious as to my sincerity in this endeavor. If this is the case, then we shall have a good laugh over this whole affair, after I fire all the servants that have been calling you a bitch. My dear, you should know enough to trust my resourcefulness by now! Remember when that police officer wanted to haul me off to jail after that "crack-up" at the courthouse, when I rolled the Benz into city hall? Remember how I bought up all his gambling debts and blackmailed him into gathering his family and leaving town in the dead of night? A man capable of that kind of quick-thinking under fire should be laudably capable of getting by without the same, I say. No, my dear wife, it's actually quite simple to powder a crack rock with a razor blade and snort it like common nose candy. Granted, it's grossly wasteful and expensive to partake of crack in this form, but a promise is a promise. Try to remember that the next time you're lecturing me about the cost of having one of our Bentleys fished out of the lagoon, would you dear? º Last Column: º more columns | 
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Quote of the Day“Don't stop eating out tomorrow. Don't stop, the fries will soon be here. The food'll be better than before. Breakfast is gone, breakfast is gone.”
-Fleetwood MacDonaldsFortune 500 CookieDon't give up on your search for unconditional love this week: it's keeping the rest of us amused. Try finding a breakfast cereal that doesn't contain quite so much garlic. You will be arrested for taking off your pants this week, and assaulted by the stranger you take them off of. This week's lucky way- underground dance moves: The Drunken Swordfish, The Statue, Degenerative Disc Failure, The Herpe, Clap Your Thighs Say Ouch, The Go Home Alone, The I'm Getting My Ass Kicked This Ain't a Dance Move Please For the Love of God Help Me.
Try again later.Least-Watched Holiday Specials| 1. | A Bush Family Christmas | | 2. | I'm Dreaming of a White Krishna | | 3. | VH1 Behind the Music: That Guy Who Sang Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer | | 4. | Christopher Walken in a Winter Wonderland | | 5. | Gerald Ford Reads "Twas the Night Before…" Oh Shit | |
|   the commune Focus: Teen Mind-Control BY roland mcshyster 11/1/2004 Yoho, America. It hasn't exactly been a pirate's life for Roland McS lately, though I did get seasick the other day after taking a nap on a friend's waterbed. Okay, you caught me in a lie there; I didn't actually know the guy. But this isn't a column about my recent Goldilocks antics, though I'm sure many a pirate wandered into the wrong apartment (or boat) and slept in some stranger's bed until they were awoken by an insane Chicano woman waving a pool cue. No, I seem to remember this column having something to do with movie reviews, and taking the best and brightest Hollywood has to offer and exposing it to the harsh, shit-flinging light of day. That's what pays the bills, anyhow. Let's take another stab at that flabby Hollywood ass, shall we?
In Theaters Now:
Yoho, America. It hasn't exactly been a pirate's life for Roland McS lately, though I did get seasick the other day after taking a nap on a friend's waterbed. Okay, you caught me in a lie there; I didn't actually know the guy. But this isn't a column about my recent Goldilocks antics, though I'm sure many a pirate wandered into the wrong apartment (or boat) and slept in some stranger's bed until they were awoken by an insane Chicano woman waving a pool cue. No, I seem to remember this column having something to do with movie reviews, and taking the best and brightest Hollywood has to offer and exposing it to the harsh, shit-flinging light of day. That's what pays the bills, anyhow. Let's take another stab at that flabby Hollywood ass, shall we?
In Theaters Now:
The Grunge
According to urban legend, when an Alterna-rocker dies in a fit of angst, his or her soul carries on to haunt the living in suspenseful and self-pityingly gothic ways. That's what I heard from the guy down at Kinko's, anyway, and apparently the suits down at Columbia Pictures talked to the same guy and decided to make a movie out of it. So leave it to Generation Y to clean up the lazy, ironic messes their older Generation X siblings left behind, as forever teen Sarah Michelle Gellar takes on The Grunge using nothing but her innate spunk and a spray bottle of spunk remover.
The film's mood and suspense were first-rate, since I didn't believe that Gellar would ever be able to get Layne Staley out of those drapes. Though I did have to question the film's inclusion of Blind Melon frontman Shannon Hoon, since that guy had about as much angst as the frothy head on a cappuccino. But I admit it did give them a decent excuse to bring that terrifying bee girl back from the grave. I don't know about you, but this is one film reviewer who won't be putting honey on his corn flakes for months.
Ralphie
Jude Law stars in this unlikely sequel to the much beloved 80's classic A Christmas Story, the harrowing tale of a school shooter's childhood years in a dysfunctional Midwestern family. Loved though the original film was, few were demanding a sequel, unless they were demanding it in a private, secret shame kind of way. I sure as hell never heard them. Jesus, you think you know people.
Regardless, they did make a sequel, this one taking place twenty years after the original, which follows an adult poon-hound Ralphie on his rounds through high society. Law's tender narration is a little grating this time around, since he's mostly talking about how much he wants to scrooge some dilettante, and frankly it's a little confusing at times since Law is all grown up now, so he and his mental narrator use the same voice. It might have been best to find a really old Jude Law sound-alike to do the voice-over narration, to reduce the confusion and possibly to add a touch of poetic perspective to the young Law's desperate ass fancy.
Teen America Womb Police
Those screwballs behind the R-rated antics of the Peanuts gang are at it again, only this time they're at something totally unrelated to what they did before, so it's not really "again." Sorry for the confusion. This time they're taking on the world of puppetry like a bee sting in the penis. Cashing in their two cents on America's hysterical reaction to the teen pregnancy epidemic, Teen America Womb Police finally gives Sly Stone and Peter Parker a chance to show the world what they think crappy marionettes say about the current state of our union.
If you're not a fan of the Morning After pill (or its generic equivalents, the Lost Weekend pill and the What the Fuck Happened? pill), let me warn you that you may come away offended. Also, if you happen to have a problem with violent gay sex with polar bears, you might want to leave shortly after the opening credits. And a note to my friends over at the Parent Alert movie ratings site: this is not the film to see with your fragile Catholic mother. As for me, Roland McShyster tends to fall into the Keep Your Laws Off My Body camp (unless we're talking about Jude Law, then I say Bring It On), so I wasn't nearly as offended as the little girl sitting to my right who threw up during the polar bear rape scene.
That's it, America. Fuck off, you've overstayed your welcome.   |
