the commune, 11/24/25: You'll learn to love it or die trying

The genius machine has no off-switch

February 17, 2003

Attack of the Crazy Violence Women

the commune's Homer VanSlyke on wine, women, and other things that will mess you up good

º Last Column:
º more columns

Looks like we're about ready to find out if Iraq has the chemical cojones or what, using the only reliable means at our disposal: bombing the shit out of them. If we start dropping the bombs and there's chemical shit flying everywhere, then the jig is up, Iraq! Nice try, but it's tough to fool the country that's got the bomb button. You saw what happened in Waco the last time some assholes tried to wait out the US of A. That's right, fried assholes.

Europe may want to pussyfoot around the issue, sending in school marms to peek under mattresses and all that, looking for chemical warheads and contraband magazines in all the dark corners of Iraq. But they need to wake up and smell the napalm. WE HAVE BOMBS. What the hell's wrong with you guys? I suppose if you catch a murderer you wait for him to confess before you start shooting out kneecaps? No wonder World War II took so long.

I may be in the minority on this one, but I don't see the problem with North Korea having nukes. So those weird little fuckers want to cook a pot pie in under three minutes and have it come out all rubbery? Let 'em have it! I say we've kept that popcorn popping technology to ourselves for too long.

A recent episode of The Twilight Zone has suggested that the Columbia disaster might have been caused by a fuzzy moon man on the wing of the shuttle. I have only one thing to say about that.

Moon men? Jesus fucking MOON MEN creeping into our bedrooms at night? Talk about a sheet-shitting surprise! I won't have it! I lock the door to you, moon men. Twist that knob with all your might, unless you possess special moon strength it's just going to turn a little bit and then stop. Foiled again, aha! Go cry it off in your sad little moon caves, you bastards.

I read recently that Dolly Parton died. And I say it's about time. Call me cruel if you fancy insulting folks you've never met, but according to me cloning just goes against God's plan. If God wanted there to be cloning, then everybody would be the same. Like Germans! I know, they said she was just a sheep, but she didn't look like no sheep I'd ever met. Though if she was I guess that explains why some people fuck sheep.

Speaking of such, looks like they're gonna put that lady to death who was beatin' up on her little kid in the surveillance footage. I for one think this is a bit harsh, since she is pretty hot after all. With any luck she'll do one of those nude pictorials before they give her the chair, some kind of bondage thing in a giant novelty car seat. That's all America really wants. As for the punishment, I think they should let the kids decide. They'll probably vote for some kind of Double Dare slime-based punishment, which is a good deal more humane than our system.

And speaking on the topic of crazy violent women, looks like that husband-runner-over woman from Texas was guilty too. Which just further underscores the point I've been making for years, that women shouldn't be allowed to drive. It's the simple matter of learning the proper use of an automobile, ladies. Cars are for driving to the store to buy rat poison to put in your adulterating husband's bran muffins, not for running him over in front of a motel. You can seriously screw up a car's alignment that way.

º Last Column:
º more columns

Quote of the Day

“Christ on a bike! Did anybody else see that guy that looked just like Jesus Christ riding by on a bicycle a minute ago?”

-LeVonn Marthers

Fortune 500 Cookie

Last week was your best week; sorry we're late getting to you about that. From here on out, your life's gonna be shit on chips. Your dreams of becoming a major baseball star will be derailed this week by the fact that you couldn't hit a cow in the ass with a shovel. Stop using the term "Gay Bash," at once: it does not mean a fun party for homosexuals. This week's lucky Bings: Crosby, Chandler, Bada, cherries, the sound of a superball being shot out of an air cannon into an old woman's neck flap.

Try again later.

Top 5 Worst Zen Koans

1.	What is the sound of two dogs fucking?
2.	If a tree falls in the woods, doesn't it kill a shitload of ants?
3.	Say, what's the meaning of life?
4.	Worms have no eyebrowsâ€”think about that for a minute
5.	(tie) Where's the beef?/Shut the fuck up

BY john boy swick

9/2/2002

Gullible Travels
Chapter One:
A Prince Among Pansies

I set out on the fifth of May, in a sturdy craft packed with provisions. The Metro she was christened, and her maker assured me of many safe returns from far-flung voyages, and chicks like Chamberlain. I was held aloft by her chariot wheels, crafted by the master B.F. Goodrich himself, and I carried forth under the thundering power of nearly seventy horses.

The voyage was itself long and hard, like a Kennedy at a dorm shower window, and carried on for some days. Weather patterns were unfavorable for navigation, and a map confiscated from a fast-food eatery proved unreliable at best. Yet still I traveled on, through the thatch of roadways and bypasses which bore me forward across this great land.

B...

Chapter One:
A Prince Among Pansies

I set out on the fifth of May, in a sturdy craft packed with provisions. The Metro she was christened, and her maker assured me of many safe returns from far-flung voyages, and chicks like Chamberlain. I was held aloft by her chariot wheels, crafted by the master B.F. Goodrich himself, and I carried forth under the thundering power of nearly seventy horses.

The voyage was itself long and hard, like a Kennedy at a dorm shower window, and carried on for some days. Weather patterns were unfavorable for navigation, and a map confiscated from a fast-food eatery proved unreliable at best. Yet still I traveled on, through the thatch of roadways and bypasses which bore me forward across this great land.

Brave like an Indian, I sallied forth to lay claim to an uncharted land, one which I could then chart, so as not to be lost all of the time. And though this heretofore-uncharted land would then cease to be as such, it would be my own charted land, as indicated by the flag tied around that tree over there. Yes, the one that looks like an old ripped up work shirt. It is but a humble flag and knows it, your comments are not necessary.

Along my journeys in search of uncharted, or at least unattended, land, I've come across many a fantastic and unbelievable place. Many scoff at my tales of Friscopolis, but I assure you that there is such a location; I have seen it with mine own eyes and have carried the memory of that place in the seat of my pants for many years.

I was headed for the north of Wales when an easterly wind and a sale on box wine blew me off course, and I awoke in a roadside motel in a strange city by a beautiful bay. The people of this place looked to be normal but spoke in a strange, lisping dialect as if their tongues had been clipped in some unspoken primitive ritual. Their customs were also strange to me, and at first inflamed my anus. But with time I became acclimated to their culture and the strange physiology of the people, where many of the men had breasts and the women penises.

Stranger still was the general absence of children, as the women instead spent their time dancing, cooking and donning fantastic wigs for public exhibition. Their means of procreation were unknown to me, as the only children I saw while there were apparently shipped from another land and bore no resemblance to either parent.

I lived with the people of Friscopolis for several weeks in a latex-scented reverie, drinking in the culture and customs, having my hair done several dozen times, and being assaulted by the local police department several times in a string of unrelated misunderstandings. But before the month was out I contracted a strange itching rash around my genitals, which the natives told me was an allergic reaction to the high saline content in the Friscopolis air. Sadly, I had to depart this magical land, as I also owed a lot of money to a local element that could charitably be described as disagreeable.

I left Friscopolis with mine eyes opened to a wider world, and with several piercings and Cher tattoos that would later ensure a hostile reception in the next fantastic land I visited accidentally: Kentuckiana.