 | 
New TummyPort Surgery to Revolutionize Not DietingJuly 12, 2004 |
Houston, Texas Kilpatrick Industrie Kilpatrick’s eerie promotional pamphlet, inset with an uncooperative Raoul Dunkin undergoing the procedure 
dvocates from both sides of the “Yo mama so fat/My mama just fine” debate are in up in arms this week with the announcement of Dr. Irving Kilpatrick’s controversial new TummyPort surgery, the latest medical advance to tout weight loss without the lifestyle-altering albatrosses of proper diet or self control. The revolutionary surgery, honed by Dr. Kilpatrick through years of secret testing on desperate fatties and abdominal injury victims, involves the installation of a small circular port in the patient’s abdomen, giving convenient external access to the weight watcher’s stomach for purposes of food extraction prior to digestion. Marketed as “bulimia without the barfy aftertaste,” the TummyPort technique already has a waiting list several hundred people deep at each of Dr. Kilpatrick’s seven clinics in the Houston metro area.
Decried by some medical professionals as “quackers,” others defend Kilpatrick’s procedure as a natural outgrowth of the popular stomach-stapling surgery, which was performed on a record number of Americans last year despite serious risks to the patient’s health, including hair loss, malnutrition, and instant death after blowing a staple at the all-you-can-eat buffet. Though the TummyPort does carry an increased risk of infection in the weeks immediately following the installation, it is unlikely to be life-threatening and can provide hours of Laundromat-like entertainment for family members mesmerized by the sloshing stomach contents visible behind the tempered glass of the TummyPort’s front hatch.
Speaking with the commune while performing a TummyPort installation on commune lab rat Raoul Dunkin, Dr. Kilpatrick downplayed the controversy following the announcement of his technique’s successful clinical trials.
“Any time science makes a bold leap forward, over the steaming bundle of dogshit that is popular convention, there’s bound to be either a hoopla or a to do, dependant upon the fashions of the day,” Kilpatrick mused, holding one of Dunkin’s unidentified internal organs ponderously in his left hand.
Asked what he thought of charges that the TummyPort was just the latest expensive medical gimmick to prey on consumers more willing to risk their health than to make positive lifestyle changes, Dr. Kilpatrick farted into a jar, sealed the lid and then handed it to this reporter without comment.
While many medical professionals have decried the surgery because of its increased risk of infection or the possibility that the TummyPort’s hatch could be accidentally left open at night, allowing a mouse or something to crawl in there, some doctors have objected to the technique solely on the grounds that it’s really fucking gross. Dr. Holman Dykstra of the Mayo clinic holds just such a view.
“Have you ever been over to someone’s house for dinner, and you’ve just finished enjoying a fine meal, only to have your host excuse themselves to go piss out their pork chops through a rubber attachment hose in the bathroom? It’s unsettling to say the least,” Dykstra intoned, the color suddenly draining from his face.
During a recent promotional tour to raise awareness of his procedure, Kilpatrick battled back at his detractors from the perspective of world hunger, raising the possibility that half-digested foodstuffs removed via the TummyPort could be captured in small jars and marketed as baby food.
“At the very least you could probably use it in your garden or something,” Kilpatrick suggested. “Some kind of fertilizer. I don’t know, I’m not a plant guy, but it seems like it would be good for something.”
As of this writing, commune reporter and resident douchebag Raoul Dunkin is enjoying the versatility provided by his TummyPort, but reports that fellow staffers flipping his hatch open right after lunch has become a minor problem, since he then has to go change his pants and eat lunch again. The commune news is generally against medical tomfoolery, but must admit we’ve been having a blast playing “keep away” with Raoul Dunkin’s liver, which was leftover after the operation like the handful of random screws and bolts you’re left with after putting together a new entertainment center. Ivana Folger-Balzac took this story only upon the condition that she could borrow control of Dunkin’s indentured-servitude contract for the week, a cruel yet hilarious payback for the multitude of times Dunkin has mocked her pronunciation of “refrigerator.”
 |  July 12, 2004 |
Washington, D.C. Whit Pistol Edwards tries not to crush miniature man John Kerry with his display of affection.
"No longer will America be divided under the current administration," Edwards declared, towering over a small podium as his bellows carried across a crowd of supporters. "We will stand united, and the people will have their way when we win back the White House!"
Edwards, the ten-foot tall former trial lawyer, had Kerry announce...
ovember's presidential election officially became a four-man race when Sen. John Edwards, of North Carolina, announced Wednesday he had picked Sen. John Kerry to be his presidential running mate, throwing in his own hat for the vice-presidency. Edwards, the dynamic Kennedyesque Congressman who gave Kerry a real challenge in the race for the Democratic nomination, could provide enough boost to take the party into the White House this fall.
"No longer will America be divided under the current administration," Edwards declared, towering over a small podium as his bellows carried across a crowd of supporters. "We will stand united, and the people will have their way when we win back the White House!"
Edwards, the ten-foot tall former trial lawyer, had Kerry announce his decision in an email Tuesday, followed by a longer press conference on Wednesday. Rumors the two had disagreed on many key issues were dispelled when the behemoth senator hoisted Kerry up in his palm and carried him through the crowd on his shoulders.
"Edwards-Kerry in 2004!" they both shouted to the crowd.
Party insiders have speculated Kerry might decline Edwards ticket invitation, opting for a less stunning candidate, like Florida Sen. Bob Graham, Missouri Sen. What's-His-Name, or Joe Piscopo. Rumors had put Kerry at seeking Republican senator John McCain of Arizona for bipartisan ticket, but insiders say Kerry feared an assassination at the hands of Fox News and Clear Channel radio executives.
In the end, the Massachusetts senator accepted the offer to join the Edwards vice presidential ticket, putting to rest fears the junior North Carolina political superstar would overshadow… uhm… oh, shit, I just said it… you know, rhymes with Larry. Kerry! In his acceptance speech Wednesday, Edwards defied Kerry critics who accused the senator of leading an uninspired race and being an undead zombie.
"I've known this man for at least a few weeks. I think we've met before that, but I'm not that sure," said Edwards, gesturing to a man sitting two seats down from Kerry, before being corrected by an assistant. "This one, this one's John Kerry, and he's going to be our next president. He's got years of experience in Congress, and an outstanding record of service for our country. And I'm sure he's done other stuff. And I'll be happy to make him my partner as I pursue the vice-presidency!"
Concluded the Herculean young senator: "Change is coming, Washington, and that change will be called… aw, shit. I just said it! I just said it…"
The Bush campaign shook off any worries about the threat of an Edwards-Kerry ticket.
"People respond to the vice-president," said campaign spokesperson Wanda Waywitten. "Some people say he's a mean son of a bitch, a cruel, cruel little man, but I don't believe it. People only call him Dick because it's his name, despite what all those rumors suggest. He's not scared of death, his tiny heart has stopped so many times, so he's certainly not scared of a ten-foot Democrat. Is it really true he carved Mount Rushmore?"
Edwards has inspired many hopes Democrats in search of fiery, presidential leaders. Though his political career has lasted only a short duration, Edwards previously spent years as a trial lawyer, and his life inspired the John Grisham novel The Rainmaker. Before passing the bar, some say Edwards stomped through North America and created the Great Lakes, once brewed the world's best beer, and invented the first radio. Legend also has it he designed all the album covers for Yes and lassoed the moon, all before his 25th birthday. The commune news would like to invite the editors of Crochet! Magazine to join our ticket, and this trip is to Baghdad—if you don't see us on the plane, just get on anyway, we probably boarded without you. Ramon Nootles is our Democratic Campaign correspondent, meaning he snuck on the campaign bus and has yet to be caught.
| Bush outlines second-term 'Kill Arafat' agenda Lindsey Lohan a media superstar with everyone under 22 God retiring Rehnquist from Supreme Court early Arafat sharing room with whining methadone patient |
|
|
| 
 February 21, 2005 Prophecy is the Son of a Bitch of InventionsLong has the world grown fat like a diabetic tick off the fruits of my invention. Strike that, "fruit" sounds a pinch too gay. The meats of my invention. And make that plural, as "inventions," because they have been legion.
In retrospect, part of my problem was likely never patenting any of my skylarks, under the mistaken assumption that nobody would buy anything that I myself wouldn't pay for. Cell phones, gossip magazines, and underarm deodorant have all proven me wrong on that count. Let this be my Achilles heel no more, however. My next vacation is going to be enjoyed from a pup tent right outside the doors of the U.S. patent office.
"What the hell," you're likely cursing to yourself, unless reading this column from the holy confines of a sacred church or dayc...
º Last Column: Homer VanSlyke's Twelve Days of Christmas
º more columns
Long has the world grown fat like a diabetic tick off the fruits of my invention. Strike that, "fruit" sounds a pinch too gay. The meats of my invention. And make that plural, as "inventions," because they have been legion.
In retrospect, part of my problem was likely never patenting any of my skylarks, under the mistaken assumption that nobody would buy anything that I myself wouldn't pay for. Cell phones, gossip magazines, and underarm deodorant have all proven me wrong on that count. Let this be my Achilles heel no more, however. My next vacation is going to be enjoyed from a pup tent right outside the doors of the U.S. patent office.
"What the hell," you're likely cursing to yourself, unless reading this column from the holy confines of a sacred church or daycare center, "are you talking about, VanSlyke?" A fair question, rudely put. So I'll cut, slowly mind you, like wet cardboard was my tool rather than a razor blade, to the chase. If you've enjoyed anything in the last thirty years, chances are I invented it. There. Put that in your pipe and blow bubbles.
The original Game Boy? VanSlykeBoy is more like it, though that sounds a bit like a mascot for pickles. But when the original Nintendo was so popular back in the 1980's, I was the one who spoke up at the barber shop and said they should make a portable one of those, with a screen on the front and a hatch on back to slip the game inside, so that children could play their electrified games while working in the salt mines, rather than wasting valuable labor resources at home in front of the TV. To which my fellow barbershop patrons enthusiastically replied: "What's Nintendo?"
Nevermind, they made one without me. Even if my mental version was better, with a color screen and a hatch for snacks. Shame on me for not developing a massive Japanese consumer electronics company to market my product back when I had the idea.
Tablet PCs? Those, too, should bear the mark of the "V." This one I admit I invented by mistake, after taking home a flat-screen monitor from my doctor's office and realizing to my keen disappointment that it didn't do anything when not connected to a computer box of some sort. Bah to that. A truly useful screen would recognize my handwriting, connect wirelessly to the Internet, and show me the results of the Florida State beauty pageant. Like a pad of paper. Only without me having to draw the beauty pageant contestants or guess what might be on the Internet. Again, industry beat me to the punch on this one, but I did still earn the distinction of selling the world's first "tablet PC," to a half-retarded kid down the street. Thankfully he never asked what the cable trailing off the back was for. Grounding, son. Grounding.
These are just two examples among the thousands I could site, if this column were a thousand times longer and instantly downloadable by neural cortex. So, I'm sure you're wondering, what can we expect next from Sony and JVC, after they steal the idea from Homer VanSlyke? Glad you asked: it's Movie theater goggles. That's right Baxter, an opportunity to enjoy the movies and cop a cool futuristic look without leaving the money-saving safety of your own home. You simply strap on the goggles and the attached ear-implants, set the virtual screen size, toggle on or off the know-it-all loudmouth sitting behind you, set the cell phone ringer volume and frequency, and kick back to enjoy the latest Hollywood DVD. Or, if movies are distributed in crystal-gel modules like they should be by then, just pop a mod and prepare to have your eyes blown off.
Thankfully I don't think any consumer electronics giants read the commune, because I've got my prototype almost finished. It's just a beta model, mind you, in real-world application the big-screen TV welded to the goggles would likely cause serious neck trauma to the wearer. But once I get rid of all these stupid tubes and wires, the whole thing should really come together beautifully. º Last Column: Homer VanSlyke's Twelve Days of Christmasº more columns | 
|
| |
Milestones1978: Griswald Dreck's landmark third grade report "George Washington: Star of the Negro Leagues" creates a fervor in the classroom, leading to the firing of third grade teacher Anais Brockmiller and a thorough review of the state's history textbooks.Now HiringEunuch. No job really, just sit around and answer questions about what it's like to be a eunuch. Maybe take a blow to the groin to no effect every once in a while to impress office visitors and guests. Talking in a Mickey Mouse voice might be kinda funny too.Top Mike Tyson Hotel Brawl Excuses| 1. | Men insulted Tyson's little yappy dog. | | 2. | "Dude reminded me that I raped his sister." | | 3. | Tyson heard bell ring in lobby. | | 4. | Victim reminded Mike of "Little Mac." | | 5. | Men taunted Tyson with their delicious-looking ears. | |
|   Saddam Hussein Sued for Mental Anguish BY roland mcshyster 2/7/2005 Buenos Aires, America. Hope you're all doing as well today as I was yesterday. Today? Not so much. But I wouldn't kick yesterday out of bed for eating crackers. While in it. Bed, that is. Because you can get a lot of crumbs on the sheets and then you're sleeping all night with cracker crumbs poking you in the ass, unless you sleep in pajamas. But still, even this would not sour me on yesterday. Good day.
Today, however, I've got to review the latest ugly orphans Hollywood has dropped off on our Entertainment Policing doorstep in the black of night. You notice they keep the cute ones for themselves. Cute babies referring to good movies, in this in-depth analogy of my creation. Nope, we get the uglies, and the thrill of giving them a quick once-over before selling them to the Ch...
Buenos Aires, America. Hope you're all doing as well today as I was yesterday. Today? Not so much. But I wouldn't kick yesterday out of bed for eating crackers. While in it. Bed, that is. Because you can get a lot of crumbs on the sheets and then you're sleeping all night with cracker crumbs poking you in the ass, unless you sleep in pajamas. But still, even this would not sour me on yesterday. Good day.
Today, however, I've got to review the latest ugly orphans Hollywood has dropped off on our Entertainment Policing doorstep in the black of night. You notice they keep the cute ones for themselves. Cute babies referring to good movies, in this in-depth analogy of my creation. Nope, we get the uglies, and the thrill of giving them a quick once-over before selling them to the Chinese. So on to the movies!
In Theaters Now:
The Boogeyman
You ever have a friend who always wants to go dancing? Isn't that terrifying? I'm actually surprised that nobody thought to make a horror flick out of that concept before now, I guess Hollywood's horror elite have been too enamored with the horrors of Japanese consumer electronics lately to notice when a good idea crawls up their ass and opens a lemonade stand. But somebody finally got around to it this year, probably after a harrowing night out hitting the clubs with some self-described "dancing-machinery" or "funk-robot," as they tend to prefer to be known. Unlike most of us who save dancing for extremely inebriated wedding receptions or the funerals of particularly delicious enemies, there is a small subset of the population that will latch onto any excuse to dance: 80's night, PTA meetings, bar fights, spring, or even the opening of a new Blockbuster. I for one find these "boogeymen" to be at least twelve times as scary as Freddy Krueger or Martha Stewart.
So they definitely started with a good idea, but then they funked it up by casting the guy from that TV show about those sneaker-wearing comet cult boneheads in the main role. Sure, I believe that guy could be a dancing asshole, but I'd never buy that anybody would see enough redeeming value to keep him around as a friend regardless of the dancing thing. He would have boogied his way right out of my address book with the first few convulsions of his mashed potato.
Itch
Will Smith is back, and not a moment too soon. Audiences have been clamoring for his "just black enough" attitude for months, and don't think that animated Card Sharks movie came anywhere near yanging their yin. I've heard tell that some have even resorted to watching reruns of Smith's 1980's sitcom The French Prince of Belfast, which I can only hope was a wild exaggeration. Either way, Smith is black (that's a combination of "back" and "black," FYI) as the world's greatest lothario, who nevertheless can never get a date because he's scratching his balls all the time. Can a new miracle cream change his crotch-handling ways, and his luck with the ladies? Can an orangutan play the trumpet using a hand-held vacuum cleaner? I don't know the answer to either of those questions, thanks to an extremely long men's room line at the theater and a recent infomercial with an unprecedented cliffhanger ending.
Pooh's Hemp Movie
Everybody's favorite pot smoking bear is back for another slow-witted adventure in what was probably the most poorly animated film I've seen since Pearl Harbor. But since the animators were probably stoned at the time as well, I can pretty easily forgive their lazy scribbles and the indiscriminately psychedelic watercolor work that pervades this film.
What I can't forgive is Pooh's latest turn as an incessant hemp advocate, spending the entire movie trying to get everyone in the hundred acre woods to buy his shitty homemade hemp rope, writing paper and ponchos. Their patience already stretched thin by Pooh's candle-making phase, the entire menagerie of Pooh's dope-head buddies spend the majority of this film sitting at home with the lights out, hoping to fool Pooh into thinking they're not home. Although the movie's politics are likely to offend some, kids will just be thrilled to see that the studio's contract negotiations with all the main stars were successful, and piglet, rabbit and Owl all came back to appear in this latest Pooh vehicle.
The Wedding Date
If you thought a blind date was a lot of pressure (unless you're dating a blind girl, which would probably be less pressure than normal, but that's rarely the lucky card you pull on a "blind" date), try the wedding date: a strange practice that apparently exists somewhere, where you get to know someone new through the process of marrying them. If you think about it, it makes sense. Unless you think about it too much, then it stops making sense again and wraps back around to stupid. But the movie doesn't last that long, so it only seems really stupid on the drive home, by which time it's probably too late for a refund. Nice trick, Hollyweird. They must've learnt that one from the guys who made that Illegal Alien Vs. Sexual Predator movie.
Anyway, this movie's got that girl from the show where the girl's got the gay guy living in her closet, which is something to say about it. I have to admit I liked the idea of a blind date where everybody's throwing you a party and you get dressed up all snazzy and there's a priest, sure beats the usual disappointing night at the Sizzler where you remember half-way through that the last time you wore those pants, you spilled a whole bottle of Ranch dressing right on the crotch, and that shit doesn't come all the way out, even if you had remembered to use the stain stick. So I give this movie three stars, out of forty.
And that's a wrap America, and the curiously large contingent of Swedes who read the commune. Don't start your bawling, you got your fair dose of Entertainment Policery, and barring a back-alley run-in with Smokey Robinson I'll be back in two weeks with more smoldering pap. Plus you'll have a dose of my unwilling protégé Orson "Sunshine" Welch next week to tide you over. Until then, don't fear the reaper, unless he wants to go dancing.   |
