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Gilbert Gottfried Cloned in Stem Cell Mishap June 10, 2002 |
Dual Gottfrieds two too many?
The study proved that laboratory-engineered tissues created from heart, skeletal and renal cells cloned from cows, then transplanted back into the animals, could develop into both functional tissues and a live clone of the 45 year-old comedian turned actor who sometimes does voice w...
cow implanted with cells taken from a cloned bovine embryo didn’t reject the tissue, scientists report, though the cow did give birth to a full-grown clone of comedian Gilbert Gottfried seven hours later. While still far from human use, experts say the bovine advance demonstrates the potential for much-debated therapeutic cloning to correct many of the common ills that affect humans, while the unexpected side effect demonstrates the terrifying danger of screwing with Mother Nature’s cookbook. The study proved that laboratory-engineered tissues created from heart, skeletal and renal cells cloned from cows, then transplanted back into the animals, could develop into both functional tissues and a live clone of the 45 year-old comedian turned actor who sometimes does voice work for cartoons. “While more work needs to be done, this demonstrates the potential use of this technology,” said Dr. Lorenzo Mead, director of tissue engineering at Children’s Hospital Boston. When asked about the unexpected Gottfried clone side effect, Dr. Mead bit his lower lip and stared at the floor in a non-committal fashion. Cloning technology is controversial and opposed by many, including President Bush and Pope John Paul II, because it involves creating and destroying embryos and requires more than a high-school level understanding of science to comprehend. “Thousands of Americans die every day from diseases that could be cured using stem cells,” Mead said while the clone of Gilbert Gottfried mimicked him in a high-pitched singsong voice. Stopping repeatedly to ask the Gottfried clone not to touch the equipment, Mead demonstrated how the nucleus from a cow egg was removed and replaced with a skin cell from another cow, which developed into a healthy embryo. Dr. Mead told the commune that the embryo did not, however, have “big, sexy udders” as was claimed by the Gottfried clone. Hours after the study’s results were reported to the media, the original Gilbert Gottfried arrived at the research labs brandishing a large rubber crucifix and demanded to meet his clone. Researchers felt obligated to comply, but soon regretted their decision as Gottfried and his clone began yelling loudly in stereo and eventually were kicked out of the building for playing ping-pong with a cow’s eye. Asked if he was shocked by the inadvertent creation of the Gottfried clone, fellow researcher Dr. Cameron Angelos disagreed. “Not really. We accidentally created a clone of Tom Sizemore last week. I think he’s still working back in the stock room somewhere… Yo, Tom-o! I think he went home. Anyway, we’re still not sure if we’re getting contaminated DNA samples or if this is a warning from God. Though after we had both of the Gottfrieds in here earlier I started leaning toward the ‘Warning from God’ theory.” “Cloning is a spectacular and beautiful thing,” said Dr. Mead, while thumbing through job listings in the paper. the commune news is strong enough for a man, but has not yet been approved for testing on the fairer sex. Truman Prudy was recently discovered under a couch in the commune offices, where he’d apparently been living in fear since witnessing Ted Ted’s vicious de-jamming of the old fax machine a year ago.
 | Cocky Shit-Heel Wins LotteryTotal dick walks away with $25 million Powerball prize May 27, 2002 |
Atlanta, Georgia Ansel Evans Lottery spokesperson Merle Fiber (left) verifies claim of McGurney, humongous wanker (right)
McGurney, a 27-year-old former assistant manager for a major video retailer, currently "between things," checked the paper Monday morning to find out he had matched all winning numbers and the elusive Powerball to claim the jackpot. With no sense of humility, McGurney admits it was his first (and now only) lottery ticket.
The winning prize of $25 million will be paid out over 25 years, approximately $1 million before taxes each year, to supplement McGurney's income. The high school graduate bragged that, after taxes, a friend figured out for ...
urther proof the world is just plain unfair occurred last Monday when Atlanta, Georgia-based asshole Brian McGurney matched all winning numbers and the Powerball in the Powerball lottery game to win the $25 million jackpot.
McGurney, a 27-year-old former assistant manager for a major video retailer, currently "between things," checked the paper Monday morning to find out he had matched all winning numbers and the elusive Powerball to claim the jackpot. With no sense of humility, McGurney admits it was his first (and now only) lottery ticket.
The winning prize of $25 million will be paid out over 25 years, approximately $1 million before taxes each year, to supplement McGurney's income. The high school graduate bragged that, after taxes, a friend figured out for him he'd be taking home about $750,000.
McGurney refreshingly admitted that the money would change him greatly.
"Yeah, sure, I'm not going to let the money change me—you think I'm going to tool around in a '92 Ford Tempo with a million bucks a year coming at me? Forget it. I'm going to get something expensive and obnoxious. Like a Rolls Royce or a monster truck."
The big win comes at a great time for McGurney, whose ten-year high school reunion is the first week of June in a couple weeks.
"At first I wasn't going to go," said McGurney, "but now, you bet your sweet ass I'm going to be there. I thought I might wear an expensive tuxedo, but now I'm leaning toward just wearing an expensive jogging suit. You know? It says, 'I have the money, but you're not important enough to wear a tux for.'"
The little toad is also not forgetting the most important people in his life, like his parents.
"Mom and dad have hit on hard times lately, with dad losing his job and all," McGurney said. "But I'm going to surprise them by buying back their house from the bank. That'll be a kick in the ass, me being their landlord! Ha! I'm sure my rent will be reasonable, based on their income and such, like they did for me when I lived with those pricks.
"I'm also going to pay off my girlfriend's car," continued McGurney. "That ought to settle up things between us for that money I borrowed for that big stock venture. Then I'll have a clear conscience when I kick her to the curb. I want to make a clean break before I start hooking up with all the supermodels and shit who'll be scoping me now."
McGurney had no immediate plans to start a savings account, though he did have an excellent idea to put five pounds of fish into a safe deposit box, remarking how "they've been asking for a major prank after bouncing six of my checks."
For all his faults, McGurney's friends still think he's a deserving winner.
"It's about time," said long-time friend Tim Blanch. "Brian's been through a few tough years since high school, and those jerks at the video store should have given him a break when he needed it. Now that he's finally hit his stride, you can count on him to remember his friends who are down like he once was."
Blanch added, "That's good stuff you can use, right? Make sure the pissant reads it, if he can even read. What a fucking knob." the commune news will self-destruct in 30 seconds. Ramon Nootles is a commune correspondent and international love ambassador.
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 June 10, 2002 What's With All This Shit on Our Money?the commune's Griswald Dreck holds a B.A. in folding a $20 to look like the World Trade Center Anyone who's ever not spent a dollar long enough to look at it has noticed that there's more to American money than meets the eye. Look closely and you'll see that it's not just a green rectangle of paper; it's a green rectangle of paper with little pictures and words and crap drawn all over it. Don't panic, nobody's been screwing with your benjamins. And believe it or not, it's not counterfeit! They're supposed to look like that, and that's the way they're printed inside the ATM machines all across the country.
No doubt you've come to understand the big numbers on the bills over the years, and have a vague understanding about the old fart who's picture is printed on the front. We all know what the king looks like and you don't need to be able to tell Nixon from Nebuchadnezzar...
º Last Column: Bush Knew All Too Well
º more columns
Anyone who's ever not spent a dollar long enough to look at it has noticed that there's more to American money than meets the eye. Look closely and you'll see that it's not just a green rectangle of paper; it's a green rectangle of paper with little pictures and words and crap drawn all over it. Don't panic, nobody's been screwing with your benjamins. And believe it or not, it's not counterfeit! They're supposed to look like that, and that's the way they're printed inside the ATM machines all across the country.
No doubt you've come to understand the big numbers on the bills over the years, and have a vague understanding about the old fart who's picture is printed on the front. We all know what the king looks like and you don't need to be able to tell Nixon from Nebuchadnezzar to be able to spend a ten spot. Flip it over and there's some big-ass official looking building on the back, Cher's house or whatever depending on which bill you're looking at. I hear Bill Gates' house is on the back of the $1,000 bill, and at the press of a button it transforms into a giant mechanical Wonder Woman. The house, not the bill. Or the Bill.
But American currency gets stranger the closer you look at it, kind of like Joe Pesci's face-lift. Sure, there's the king, a house and some numbers, but what about this bird doing the splits or the spooky bear with a key for a mouth? And who was the sick bastard who thought slapping on a pyramid with a giant floating eyeball on top was a good idea? That's about enough to make you go communist, or at least stop looking at money up close.
Of course, once your hysteria dies down and you come down out of the china hutch, you realize that there are logical explanations for all of this, and there are good reasons to have all of this shwag clogging up our bills.
The spread-eagled eagle is actually the Great Seal of the United States, but I'm with you if you think that dude needed a few more years in art school. I'm no mer-man or anything but that thing looks about as much like a seal as Sonny Bono. Many see this as evidence of the powerful acid available to our founding fathers, evidenced as well by the lyrics to our national anthem.
The Great Seal appears on all U.S. currency, so if you can't find it there's a good chance you're looking at Coney Island Bucks. The seal holds an olive branch in its left paw, a concession by the Continental Congress to the olive-growers' lobby. In its right paw it is clutching thirteen spears of asparagus, symbolic of the thirteen original colonies and yet another concession, this time to the asparagus-growers' lobby. From the seal's mouth trails a wide strand of dental floss, which reads "E Pluribus Unum," which is Latin for "Eat at Pizzeria Uno." Keep in mind that the Continental Congress was about as reputable as the American Gladiators, and most members were just looking to get laid or to see who could land the biggest bribe. Kind of like the NYPD.
Since everybody thought the seal was an eagle anyway, the Continental Congress chose the eagle as our national symbol in the 1782. Ben Franklin suggested that the turkey be made the national symbol, since eagles taste like microwaved ass. Regardless, the eagle was chosen and the rest of the Continental Congress suggested that Franklin waddle his fat ass into a weight-loss spa before they had to haze him with bars of soap rolled up in hand towels.
The crazy bear with the executioner's mask on is the symbol of the U.S. Treasury, and a viable warning not to screw with those badasses. The key in its mouth is like a dare, saying "You can screw around trying to print up fake money, and you can also have your intestines slurped out your ass like goddamned spaghetti, understand?" Call me gullible, but I took my scanner back to Best Buy after I saw that shit. Damn, Sam.
The pyramid on the back is a harder nut to crack altogether. Nobody really knows what it means or how it got there. The Continental Congress and the Treasury each blamed the other for slipping the pyramid in there, and nobody's ever taken credit for it, not even the Freemasons. The consensus is that the floating pyramid-eye rules us all from a bunker deep within Cheyenne Mountain in Colorado. Perhaps this amuses you. If so, chew on this: at the base of the pyramid, 1776 appears in roman numerals. Precisely the number of Americans currently in prison for asking too many questions about the floating pyramid-eye. Creepy, eh? Research editor or no research editor, I know just about all I want to know about Mr. Giant Floating Pyramid-Eye. Nose around more if you want, but don't send me any letters scribbled on toilet paper from prison later asking what a cornhole is, 'kay? º Last Column: Bush Knew All Too Wellº more columns | 
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Quote of the Day“If you're not a liberal when you're 25, you have no heart. If you're not a conservative by the time you're 35, you have no inheritance. Die already, Uncle Franco… just… die.”
-Winthrop ShurikenFortune 500 CookieWho's the man? More specifically, who's the man who shattered your kneecap with a club and took you out of the competition? Now would be a good time to switch to NetFlix from your previous practice of watching the movie on the video store display TVs. Keep your eye on the sparrow. Lucky jeans: Levi, Bugle Boy, Lee, and Auel.
Try again later.Women Other Than Christina Ricci We Want Chained to Our Radiator| 1. | Original Wednesday Addams, Lisa Loring | | 2. | Landlady—You spend the night there and tell me it's heating just fine | | 3. | Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen (still count as one) | | 4. | Diana Rigg, circa 1968; or now, what the hell | | 5. | Anybody but that hippie chick protesting for radiator rights I got now | |
|   U.S. Government Continues Strategy of Releasing Horrific Truth Bit by Bit BY roland mcshyster 5/27/2002 Hey there America, thanks for showing up for yet another dose of Entertainment Police magic. It looks like summer snuck up on us while we were passed out in the hammock, and that can only mean one thing: vaguely justified bikini features on Entertainment Tonight! Actually, that's a lie, summer probably means more than that to certain types of people, like the blind and sheepfuckers. And for the intents and purposes of this column it means summer blockbuster season! In case you've been out on the range a little bit too long, this is the time of year when Hollywood rolls out its big guns in an all-out war to gouge those greenbacks out of our tight little wallets. Who's got the biggest guns, besides that chick from The Skulls II? Roll your eyes over part one of our Summer Preview to fi...
Hey there America, thanks for showing up for yet another dose of Entertainment Police magic. It looks like summer snuck up on us while we were passed out in the hammock, and that can only mean one thing: vaguely justified bikini features on Entertainment Tonight! Actually, that's a lie, summer probably means more than that to certain types of people, like the blind and sheepfuckers. And for the intents and purposes of this column it means summer blockbuster season! In case you've been out on the range a little bit too long, this is the time of year when Hollywood rolls out its big guns in an all-out war to gouge those greenbacks out of our tight little wallets. Who's got the biggest guns, besides that chick from The Skulls II? Roll your eyes over part one of our Summer Preview to find out:
In Theaters
Bad Company
I suppose it was only a matter of time before we saw Steven Seagal ass-kicking his way through the hallways at Enron, but I was still surprised at how fast they turned this one out. They must have these scripts sitting around in Mad-lib form somewhere.
The Bourne Dentist
Matt Damon is Richard Bourne, a man who was born (get it?) to scrape plaque off of molars, but highly secretive government agents are out to stop him for reasons that only the screenwriter understands. Pretty good as far as dentist-thrillers go, and I liked Damon's Bond-like use of dental apparatus to get him out of tight jams. Kind of like Bond himself in It's Never Too Late to Die and Fancypants. The best thing about the movie, however, was the fact that they vetoed the original title at the last minute: Rinse, Spit or Die. Hallelujah. That would have been the worst title since James Bond in… Overkill.
Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood
Talk about some divine Ya-Yas. This would qualify as must-see TV if it were on television and television showed knockers. Yeah.
Enough
Those Hollywood big-shots were apparently as fed up with all of this Jennifer Lopez bullshit as you and me, so they finally decided to lay the franchise to rest with one gonzo exploding-building, axe-in-the-skull, flaming-motor-home "the bitch ain't comin' back" finale. Very satisfying for those of us who thought they should have killed her off after The Wedding Planter.
Harvard Man
Sarah Michelle Gellar, the curvy bass player for heavy-metal sloths Slayer, dons the press-on mustache for some cross-dressing Just One of the Guys mayhem at America's favorite party school. Probably the best metal band date movie since Ministry's Sorority Girls.
The Importance of Being Ernest
Hell yeah. It's about time Hollywood laugh machine Ernest P. Worrel returned to the big screen, I was beginning to think he'd died or something. Some might argue that all of Ernest's movies are the same, and on the surface that may appear to be true. Boy meets girl, boy drops girl into a vat of raw sewage, boy falls off ladder and boy saves a bunch of little kids from some kind of snot-covered goblin.
But it's in the subtle undertones that the differences are found, and this soul-searching epic about a septic-tank scrubber who is mistaken for the president is clearly Ernest's strongest work to date.
Insomnia
Can't sleep? Then maybe you should move to Alaska or Norweg or some place like that. I hear it never gets dark there, so you can stay up all night cleaning your gun or whatever they do up there all night. Maybe watching polar bears tear into the soda machines, something. I'm not sure, I fell asleep during the movie.
Scooby, Don't!
Everyone's favorite cartoon leg-humping machine is back in his big-screen debut. Unless you've ever watched the cartoon on one of those huge projection televisions, that's admittedly a pretty big screen right there. But for the rest of us with shitty 10" Sanyo TV/VCR combos, this is our first chance to see Scooby humping the president's leg all larger than lifelike.
Spirit: Stallion of the Cinnamon
I almost choked on a licorice whip when I saw the trailer for this one. Could this be for real? I thought horse pictures died with The Black Stallion and Return of the Bride of the Black Stallion 2. And not only was this a horse picture, but an ANIMATED horse picture to boot. And not only an animated horse picture, but an animated horse picture with a name that sounded like the title of a Jewel song. Holy shit! This could be worse than Glitter! Thankfully for everyone implicated in the credits, this turned out to be another great Mel Brooks spoof, with a clever red salmon of a trailer that should trick more than a few ten year-old girls into paying to see a movie about debutants having sex with horses.
The Sumbitch on All Fours
Ben Affleck takes a turn for the wolf in this poorly-timed "Werewolf in the South" picture. Believe me, I'm as excited as the next guy about the prospect of seeing some nutfuck werewolf with poofed-up hair taking a bite out of some saggy good-old-boy behind, but in the current national climate, are we really ready to laugh about bloodthirsty man-wolves again? As Teen Wolf, Too, Wolf, and Airwolf all proved, a novel spin isn't always enough to keep the public coming back for more man-dog mayhem. Having Ben Affleck being torn from ass to appetite by berzerk werewolves, now that's an idea that could have drawn a crowd. Or perhaps a movie about the same.
Undercover Brother
If you've ever told a younger sibling so many monster stories that they were afraid to come out from under the covers at night, then snuck under their covers while they were sleeping, farted, and then left, this is the movie for you. You know who you are.
Windtalkers
Though some may lament the trend, with more and more movies being packed with fart jokes these days it was all but inevitable that someone would eventually make a movie that was all fart jokes. And who better to do it than John Woo, director of such foreign fart classics as Con Air and Hard Boiled Eggs? The film starts out by showing the members of the Windtalker family coming to grips with their exceptional flatulent skills in a hilarious montage. Carl Windtalker's accidental ass-blasted recital of Sweet Child O' Mine at a baseball game will separate the snobs from the slobs in the audience, but if you make the cut you should have a good time. It's hard not to smile at the family's internal communication through a rudimentary language of intestinal blurts, and uncle Frank's scented Moose call will delight audiences, though it may scare children under the age of four. Coincidentally, some guy sitting in front of me added to the realism by cutting one loose during the film, making for a full sensory movie experience. I'll never eat Jujubees again, but I can't say that it didn't add to the film. I'm a little worried about Taco Bell's plans for a Windtaco tie-in, since I don't want to be caught in one of those places the first time somebody needs to make a run for the border after downing a sack full of those things.
That's it for now, folks. Tune your browsers this way in a month's time to take a gander at the other half of the skinny on what'll be crawling up your local theater's ass and dying this summer. Until then, this has been Entertainment Police, and you've been reading.   |
