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Iraq Being Rebuilt By Cast of Three’s CompanyCritics blast Bush administration’s lack of post-war planning May 26, 2003 |
Baghdad, Iraq Pentagon Press Kit Come and knock on our door, people of Iraq: DeWitt, Somers and Ritter
“Mr. Ritter, Ms. Some...
n a move that seems designed to stun the administration’s critics into silence, President Bush announced yesterday that in recent weeks the task of rebuilding Iraq has been turned over to the cast of the popular late-70’s ABC sitcom Three’s Company. This unprecedented move drew a total blank from the nation’s political commentators, many of whom were seen checking the calendar to see if it was April 1st. The announcement also served to quell the rising tide of allegations that Bush invaded Iraq without the slightest idea of how to build the country into a democracy or even a legitimate desire to do so, as many of the allegators (Ed. note: a larger cousin of the crocodile) were seen buying tickets for the midnight train to Canada. “Mr. Ritter, Ms. Somers and Ms. DeWitt were carefully hand-picked by the administration for their nation-building skills and their position as some of our country’s most expendable celebrities,” explained outgoing White House press secretary Ari Fleischer. “They have the skills, and more importantly, they had the time. Mr. Knotts was not chosen for this assignment, but hid in a sack of rice on the plane and has thus far refused to be sent back.” “We’re a nation of ass-kickers, not babysitters,” explained the president during yesterday’s press conference. “I have every confidence that Jack and Mr. Furley have this situation well under control, and are delighting the Iraqi people with hilarious sexual double-enchiladas as we speak.” When asked if by “enchiladas,” he meant “entendres,” President Bush explained that thanks, but he wasn’t in the mood for Mexican. “Ms. Somers has already quelled several attempted uprisings by the Shiites and Kurds, and her iron abs and hellcat personality have proved to be a more-than-adequate replacement for Saddam’s iron fist in keeping Iraq under control,” noted Fleischer. “Let’s just say Saddam wasn’t the only one who knew how to bury his problems out in the desert. In addition, thanks to Suzanne’s program of mandatory daily abdominal exercises, the people of Iraq have never looked Tripper. I mean trimmer!” The press secretary’s clever Three’s Company-themed pun elicited guffaws among the press corps and several non-English-speaking Iraqi bystanders who hate to feel left out on a joke. “It’s really too bad Norman Fell died back in 1998, because Mr. Roper really would have been the perfect post-Saddam leader for Iraq. I’m sure even the Iraqis would have loved him. That guy was the cat’s ass,” skylarked diehard Three’s Company fan and collectable tumbler collector Sidney Torres. The interim government was tested last week when a local villager, whose daughter had been shot in the neck with a harpoon gun during the lawlessness that followed the fall of Baghdad, came to Ritter and DeWitt for help. “John, this is just like the episode where you broke your tailbone teaching Chrissy the hula but you couldn’t ask Mr. Furley for a ride to the hospital because he’d think you got hurt being gay!” offered DeWitt with her trademark spunk. “Are you saying we wrap a scarf around the harpoon and tell people it’s a new fashion craze?” questioned Ritter. DeWitt responded with an affirmative wink and gun-cocking gesture that had the audience of Iraqi bystanders rolling with laughter, all except for the farmer and his harpooned daughter. Ms. Somers refused to be interviewed for this story, as she had retired to a secret underground bunker with her inner circle of advisors to discuss the “rebuilding” of neighboring Iran. At the commune news, three’s company but four’s a crowd in the unisex bathroom. Mordecai “Three Finger” Brown is the commune’s favorite long-dead reporter and Lifestyle Editor, a title in which he has yet to discover the irony.
 | Americans Boycott France, Coherent Thought May 26, 2003 |
Washington, D.C. SKEETER BARNES Democracy-loving housepets everywhere are glued to French products for comedic effect
“The French? A bunch of gay-asses,” opined truck stop chef Holman Weathers. “This is how they repay us for bailing them out in WWII, by having their own opinion? Maybe we should’ve just let the damned Germans win. See how they like that. No way the fuckin’ Germans would have wi...
triking a blow for bandwagoneers everywhere, Rep. Bob Ney (R-Ohio) recently directed the House of Representatives cafeteria to change the name of “french fries” to “freedom fries” on their menu, teaching the rogue nation of France a powerful lesson once and for all. Restaurants across the country have followed suit, and Americans everywhere are boycotting French and French-sounding products in a bold move that sends a message to the rest of the world: Americans are fucking retarded. “The French? A bunch of gay-asses,” opined truck stop chef Holman Weathers. “This is how they repay us for bailing them out in WWII, by having their own opinion? Maybe we should’ve just let the damned Germans win. See how they like that. No way the fuckin’ Germans would have wimped out on us on the whole Iraq thing.” “Wait. Really? The Germans?” Weathers questioned with a note of disappointment in his voice when this reporter pointed out that even the Germans had gone the gay-assed route on this one. “I’m glad they changed the name of Fren- these things, since I love fries but I always felt a little weird supporting such a bad country by buying food named after them,” confessed housewife Heidi Wartak as she sat munching a fresh batch of freedom fries in her mammoth Ford Excursion SUV, while the vehicle idled and sucked down enough gas to keep the Iraqi Republican Guard in munitions for a month. Asked if she thought supporting Middle East dictatorships through excessive fuel consumption might be a greater evil than uttering the name of a peace-loving ally, Wartak stood her ground. “I don’t buy french bread either. I mean freedom bread.” “All I know is I’ve drank my last bottle of Evian,” boasted NASCAR enthusiast Glen Riddle. “That’s French, right? Somebody told me they actually bottle that stuff out in L.A., but I don’t know if that’s true. Come to think of it, I don’t like L.A. either, so I guess it doesn’t matter.” Riddle later admitted that he’d never actually drank Evian, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to start now. Dissenting opinions are rare, as anyone caught exhibiting coherent thought in the current national climate is in grave danger of being branded unpatriotic and voted off the island, i.e., hit with a brick. “The French provided significant military help to the Americans in their campaign against the British in the Revolutionary War, and supplies of French gunpowder are widely believed to have secured the decisive American victory at Saratoga in 1777,” informed University of Wisconsin history professor and Denny’s patron Judd McClintock as he ducked under a flying brick. “If it weren’t for the French we’d be British right now, and for that even the biggest France-basher owes them continual blowjobs forever.” “If those blue, white and red pinkos want to mess with the U.S., all they need to do is listen to our country music to know we won’t stand for it,” warned part-time window washer Steve Lideen from across the restaurant, in response to a waitress offering French dressing as an option for his salad. Plans remain in the works for a series of public service announcements suggesting teens partake in “face-fucking” rather than French kissing and that anyone who is unable to boycott the upcoming Tour de France should refer to it as “That Big Gay Bicycle Ride” or else face sanctions, including having their Home Depot membership revoked. the commune news is indeed pouring bottles of wine down the drain, but only upon discovering that a 99 cent Merlot is a fool’s bargain. Ivana Folger-Balzac has no quarrel with the people of France, though they do seem to have heard about her.
| Study finds low I.Q. causes lead paint eating, not other way around |
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 May 26, 2003 Genuine Draft"I swear, it's just like Herpies Law. Anything can go wrong, you get herpies. Story of my life."
The big problem with going to war is it's all fun until they tell you to go. Kicking ass is easy when you're watching on TV, give me a remote and I'll kick everybody's ass. A whole lot of ass. Guns are heavier and harder to point.
I shot a gun once, at a gun show. Nobody told me that was the secret signal to start a dogpile. Dogpiles are fun only if you're the guy on top, or the one with the video camera.
Really they should call it a manpile, since usually there's no dogs. Then if you were walking down the street and you saw a pile of dogs, you would yell "Manpile!" and the dogs would look at you funny.
Some judge told me I needed a hob...
º Last Column: Grade-B SARS
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"I swear, it's just like Herpies Law. Anything can go wrong, you get herpies. Story of my life."
The big problem with going to war is it's all fun until they tell you to go. Kicking ass is easy when you're watching on TV, give me a remote and I'll kick everybody's ass. A whole lot of ass. Guns are heavier and harder to point.
I shot a gun once, at a gun show. Nobody told me that was the secret signal to start a dogpile. Dogpiles are fun only if you're the guy on top, or the one with the video camera.
Really they should call it a manpile, since usually there's no dogs. Then if you were walking down the street and you saw a pile of dogs, you would yell "Manpile!" and the dogs would look at you funny.
Some judge told me I needed a hobby, so I decided my hobby was not going in the army. Whatever you call not going to war and being shot up by the Chinese. That's my hobby.
It's fun to have a hobby and have something to say on the dating service video. I think that's what it was but it was weird because I didn't know the cops taped those. That must be what the only semi-crooked cops do for extra money.
But sometimes a hobby can cramp your style, which in my case is doggystyle. The other day at the gas station I overheard about a party where they were going to have a Miller Genuine Draft. I had to tell those guys thanks, but I couldn't risk going in the army. They were so mad they said I was never invited anyway, and who the hell are you? But I said hey, sometimes your hobby comes first. Sometimes the girl comes first, but only when she is really ugly and you are too drunk to think of somebody hotter. º Last Column: Grade-B SARSº more columns | 
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Quote of the Day“I cannot tell a lie—I like big butts. You other brothers can't deny. My anaconda don't want none, lest you have buns, hon.”
-George WizzleswishingtonFortune 500 CookieOur apologies, but the guy doing your fortune was a complete fraud—hmph. You'd think we'd have seen that coming. This week, reconsider investing in those flame-retardant pajamas for the little ones. Definitely Burger King—definitely. Lucky dusts this week: Gold, saw, angel, and the stuff on grampa's skin.
Try again later.Top 5 Issues for Next Supreme Court| 1. | Official legal definition of "fucked up" | | 2. | Arrange long-awaited challenge of man versus beast | | 3. | Discount a minimum of ten urban legends | | 4. | Settle this Lindsey Lohan-Hilary Duff feud once and for all | | 5. | Reverse hundreds of years of progress | |
|   Bush, Blair Punk'd in Nobel Peace Prize Sham BY pete durmondo 5/12/2003 My Life: A Pete Durmondo MemoirBefore. There's always a before. Before the breakthrough role in Crush of the Wheel. Before the 1976 Best Supporting Actor Oscar nomination for Daddy's Favorite. Before the attempted murder charge and consequent complete acquittal on the charges. There's always a before. Here's my before.
It may not be common knowledge, but it's not a secret either: I wasn't always Pete Durmondo. I was born Jimmy Durmondo, on the lower east side of New York City, and changed my name to Pete Durmondo on the advice of an agent because it "had more snap." That agent wasn't my agent, he was about to become my agent when he committed suicide, but he did help shape my career. He told me I had more talent in one finger than most people have in their whole bodies, and that if I could get that same lev...
Before. There's always a before. Before the breakthrough role in Crush of the Wheel. Before the 1976 Best Supporting Actor Oscar nomination for Daddy's Favorite. Before the attempted murder charge and consequent complete acquittal on the charges. There's always a before. Here's my before.
It may not be common knowledge, but it's not a secret either: I wasn't always Pete Durmondo. I was born Jimmy Durmondo, on the lower east side of New York City, and changed my name to Pete Durmondo on the advice of an agent because it "had more snap." That agent wasn't my agent, he was about to become my agent when he committed suicide, but he did help shape my career. He told me I had more talent in one finger than most people have in their whole bodies, and that if I could get that same level of talent through the rest of my body I'd be the most famous actor Hollywood had ever seen.
Before that, I was content to be an off-off-Broadway actor. My first play was a production of A Midsummer Night's Dream where we all wore giant prophylactics onstage, part of the director's vision of saying how the audience is separated from the actor by the distance, and in this case giant rubbers. I played Oberon.
Before that, there was acting class. I was the premiere student of Jovan Braile, the lower east side's renowned acting coach who later left "the biz" to pursue a successful career in butchering. Braile, of course, became disillusioned with the business like so many untalented teachers inevitably do; but when I knew him he was vibrant and full of life, and if I can say so modestly it probably was all my doing. Braile said he had never known an actor who could capture a moment so well. He was talking at the time of my ability to take pictures at the acting workshop's picnic lunch, but I'm sure much of that was his insight into my—whatever you might call it. Spirit. Aura. Innergy.
Before that, my mother was the first to recognize that same quality. My mother was the son of British immigrants, and had only a vague understanding of the language, but I remember specifically her sitting in her tree house one day when she refused to come down. She looked out the window, bright-eyed and bushy-haired, and pointed to me and said, "Kid… you have something." The psychiatrists took the statements out of context, believing my mother was saying she had given me a strain of CIA superflu she had been secretly infected with through public drinking water. I like to think it was mom spotting in me what so many later identified, and the Oscar voters were completely oblivious to.
Before that, my mother had to conceive me. It was a starry night, and the air was full of promise, and my parents full of Thunderbird. It was hard times in those days, my mother poor and constantly in need of attention and affection, my father always in need of inexpensive wine to get women to sleep with him. He was a charming man, very funny, very handsome, and I'm sure I would like him if I got the chance to meet him. Mom says she was completely swept off her feet by his smile and crane-style kung fu.
Before that… well, there had to be a God or something. If you believe things happen for a reason, then it was probably Him, that classy deity, that set the wheels all in motion so that some day he could drop so much talent in one human vessel. So you see, I have no hang-ups about celebrating my talent, proclaiming with pride everything I've accomplished, because I owe it all to one omnipotent, all-powerful being who created me to bask in his brilliance. And he did an incredible job of it all.   |
