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Amish Threaten to Vote RepublicanAugust 9, 2004 |
Harrisburg, Pennsylvania Whit Pistol An Amish voter attempts to rally support among his community for the president. No, forget that. How about… Kenny Chesney recreates his favorite scenes from Wagon Train? Yeah, that's funnier.  
Because of their religious mania, which is to say the particularity of their Christianity, the Amish vote on issues of morality and favor the Republican choice in most of those cases, such as the GOP stance on abortion and homosexual marriage. Wars built on false evidence and conducted for private financial gain of corporations apparently aren't as big a priority.
Can Republican...
acing a unified Democratic front and a race as tight as 2000 in November, Republicans have made some attempt to bring Amish voters to the polls in 2004. Desperate? Perhaps, but a strong turnout by the Amish could make a difference in critical states Ohio and Pennsylvania, and the Amish are a group whose votes would certainly swing Republican, making for a demographic worth cow-towing to.
Because of their religious mania, which is to say the particularity of their Christianity, the Amish vote on issues of morality and favor the Republican choice in most of those cases, such as the GOP stance on abortion and homosexual marriage. Wars built on false evidence and conducted for private financial gain of corporations apparently aren't as big a priority.
Can Republicans actually convince the Amish to brave the asphalt roads and scary power lines to bring their vote to town? Even as the GOP moves in to woo voters, some in the withdrawn collective are stirring up Bush support among the buttonless.
"We admire George W. Bush, and what his America stands for," said Pennsylvania Dutch man Wooster Kurth. "Of course, we don't have televisions and are forbidden to read the paper. But what we've heard, we like."
He's not alone either. The threat of a tight race against the Democrats, who have allowed women and the ethnic into their ranks, has stirred the Amish to action, creating many potential votes for Bush. And since their children aren't sent off to die in wars and they don't participate in our economy, why not?
"We feel America has followed an insane path," said Ohio Amish woman Mildred Hansard, churning butter in an erotic fashion. "The moral decay is present everywhere, in the reprehensible behavior of your Patty Dukes and Mamie Van Dorens, your micro-mini-skirt fashions, and jazz. We believe, based on the wooden pamphlets passed out to us, that your President Bush is a man of strong moral character. And besides, it would be exciting to go into town later on this year. Nothing happening around here, the Lord knows."
Because of their high intolerance for religious diversity and the free will of mankind, the Amish make an ideal voting group for Republicans. Also, they avoid the news at all costs and never seek out more information on any subject, making them very similar to Fox News viewers. In an age when election votes are counted and recounted in Florida, and considering both Pennsylvania and Ohio use Amish-approved paper voting systems, even a reasonable number of Amish voters could give the administration a chance for hard-to-win states.
The question remains: Can the GOP convince enough Amish voters to turn out to make that difference? The Republicans must consider it a possibility, based on recent additions to their platform:
1) A 30% tax break for families with an annual income of $0 and no electricity.
2) A federal amendment defining barn raisings as a wholesome, pro-family event.
3) Intercourse, Pennsylvania name to be changed to something less hell-inducing.
Insiders also report of memos circulating around the White House, suggesting Bush begin growing a beard without a mustache before the 2004 election. But due to complications in the past, the president refuses to follow the same memo's suggestion to wear suspenders. the commune news thinks the Amish have been cocky for way too long, and if the war ever breaks out, we want the Mennonites to know we got their back. Raoul Dunkin, still recovering from his TummyPort surgery, hoped that Amish cooking would be a little easier on the stomach, but believes their favorite food group is "roughage."
 | 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.”
| Economy shows improvement, for millionaires Today the 10-year anniversary of the death of alterna-rock Link between Iran, American ass-kicking being probed Poll: If election was held today, Bush would steal it |
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 July 12, 2004 Lost VegasAfter a voyage that took me to nearly every state in the union, and some I'm still not convinced are legally in, I found my Elvis medicine.
First a long trip to New Hampshire, only to realize the Elvis Graceland is in Memphis, so I headed down that way. I'm sure there was plenty of pharmaceuticals on hand in that huge facility, but the tour guides give you the most morbid look when you ask if you can go through the medicine cabinet. I'm sure the King looks down disapprovingly from his cloud, but he's powerless to help me now.
And that's when I thought of it—Elvis helpers! I've seen them everywhere. Like Santa Claus, they are plentiful and pose as the man himself while going around, doing his bidding, like non-denominational disciples. And like Elvis, of course...
º Last Column: I Too Need Elvis Medicine
º more columns
After a voyage that took me to nearly every state in the union, and some I'm still not convinced are legally in, I found my Elvis medicine.
First a long trip to New Hampshire, only to realize the Elvis Graceland is in Memphis, so I headed down that way. I'm sure there was plenty of pharmaceuticals on hand in that huge facility, but the tour guides give you the most morbid look when you ask if you can go through the medicine cabinet. I'm sure the King looks down disapprovingly from his cloud, but he's powerless to help me now.
And that's when I thought of it—Elvis helpers! I've seen them everywhere. Like Santa Claus, they are plentiful and pose as the man himself while going around, doing his bidding, like non-denominational disciples. And like Elvis, of course, Santa Claus also died in a mansion in the 1970s, but his work continues through those noble men. All I had to do was meet up with a faithful Elvis impersonator and I would receive the medicine I so needed! Though actually, the flu that inspired this long trek disappeared somewhere between Ohio and Kentucky, but I was already in motion, no fun to stop the journey.
All I can guess is it must be the off-season, since the Elvis helpers were nowhere in sight. I tried the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, the original Sun Studios, and every Hard Rock Café in the nation. I camped out for days in front of Nicolas Cage's house, knowing well his fetish for everything Elvis, but none ever showed up. The police officer who escorted me away had a pretty good sneer, but he was sneering for a different reason. That's when it occurred to me—Las Vegas! The Windy Apple! The City of Broken Lights! The Gamblingest Place on Earth!
I had a contact in Vegas, too, through a friend named MC Vic Daniels, whom I met through the commune. He once wrote a Rent for us, so I knew he was poor and had a poor interpretation of reality, and hopefully those factors would help me find a reliable Elvis who could help. I saw his show, and even though I'm not much on rap, I certainly enjoyed a lot of it, and indeed his shoes were worth remarking on. We shared a dinner afterwards, and it turns out he knows the best of the best Elvis impersonators. Which is good, since I wanted a sincere Elvis imitator, and not some loser just pretending to be Elvis.
I found the best indeed—Loretta "Elvis" Costello, a female Elvis impersonator who couldn't look more like Elvis if her mother had been the King. Not a female impersonator, but a female who impersonates—she has trouble with those adjectives all the time. She was kind, informative, and could belt out "In the Ghetto" so well as to bring a tear to your eye. Quick to help, too, as she carried her own duffel bag loaded from top to bottom with the finest prescription drugs you could ever find—Elvis' own, no doubt. She set me up for everything I need, and took no money in return. Why, you may ask? You cynical shit. Some people just carry the spirit of the good King with them, and exhibit it in everything they do. In fact, I want to live the same way from now on. I thanked Girl Elvis and invited her to drop in any time she was in the neighborhood, and I would be glad to repay the favor.
She said she was going to be coming to Atlantic City next week and needed a place to stay, so she would be happy to take me up on the offer. Didn't know what time she would arrive, whenever her friend Merle dropped her off, and didn't know how long she would be staying, since the show may get extended. Yes, I truly am a stupid man. º Last Column: I Too Need Elvis Medicineº more columns | 
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Quote of the Day“Upon being stopped by the Customs Officer during my trip to America, he asked: 'Have you anything to declare?' I burst forward, telling him, 'Only my genius!' I was promptly beaten to a piteous pulp and subjected to a humiliating search. Needless to say, they found my weed.”
-Wildman OscarFortune 500 CookieLove is a relative term, but even that nugget won't save your ass if you pork your cousin. Stay away from salty snacks this week, even if it means tunneling underground. Try wearing your watch on the other arm—maybe that's your problem. This week's lucky names: Alexia. Ephyn. Scatman. Toolio.
Try again later.Least Effective SARS Protective Efforts| 1. | Stop breathing | | 2. | Fire handgun blindly at coughs | | 3. | Smoking deceased SARS victims | | 4. | Wave hand, say "Don't go in Toronto! Whew!" | | 5. | Drinking imported Hong Kong bathwater | |
|   Edwards Selects Kerry as Running Mate BY roland mcshyster 8/9/2004 Hola, America! That's about all the Spanish I know, but I wanted to give the column a little International flair this week. Why? Shit if I know.
Anyway, thanks for stopping by once again for all the reviews you care to peruse. Like the way I rhymed that? It may have taken half the morning, but the good shit doesn't just come squirting out the tube, as my grandfather always used to say. You have to cut the tube open with a utility knife and scrape out the insides with a spoon, FYI.
It probably wouldn't have taken so long, actually, but it took me a while to realize that nothing rhymes with orange. Weird, huh? But you didn't come here for the free poetry advice, unless you're insane, and if you are then say hi to my uncle Benny for me. As for the rest of you, how ab...
Hola, America! That's about all the Spanish I know, but I wanted to give the column a little International flair this week. Why? Shit if I know.
Anyway, thanks for stopping by once again for all the reviews you care to peruse. Like the way I rhymed that? It may have taken half the morning, but the good shit doesn't just come squirting out the tube, as my grandfather always used to say. You have to cut the tube open with a utility knife and scrape out the insides with a spoon, FYI.
It probably wouldn't have taken so long, actually, but it took me a while to realize that nothing rhymes with orange. Weird, huh? But you didn't come here for the free poetry advice, unless you're insane, and if you are then say hi to my uncle Benny for me. As for the rest of you, how about a big ole movie review sandwich? Have at it!
In Theaters Now:
Open Water
Jesus, when I heard Disney was going to be making a film about a shark family, I thought it was going to be a whole lot more fun-loving than this! I almost shit in my popcorn the first time the great whites showed up, and by almost I mean I did. I don't know how the rest of this movie turned out, but take it from me, if you're ever looking for a hard time, try to return a turded-on bucket of popcorn with a story about how that's the way it was when you got it.
The Porn Supremacy
So say you're porn magnate Larry Flint, only you don't know it because some religious asshole shot you in the back and you can't remember anything except you like porn. But now some other scuzzbucket has horned in on your racket and is using your name: The Porn Identity! You could probably stop him with some kind of legal battle, but nobody wants to take your case because they're put off by the way you breathe audibly through your mouth all the time. So it looks like you're going to have to count on the last resort of the disenfranchised: karate! Sound implausible? You bet your double-D's it is, but Philip Seymour Hoffman mouth-breathes some serious life into the role, and it's a kick to watch him run over people's toes in his wheelchair and ride that thing down stairs in Berlin and shit. Finally there's a movie that makes Europe look worth visiting (did you know they have porn? And guns?) while filling a serious void in terms of action roles for the handicapped.
The Village People
After the copycats raised the ante on Signs, the terrifying Tesla biopic from horrormeister M. Night Shyamandala (pronounced "Smith"), with last year's release of the Grateful Dead scarefest House of the Dead, some wondered if Shyamalama would ever again be able to raise the stakes in the horrifyingly-bad rock band movie genre he had created. Well, doubters should eat another little piece of Janis Joplin's heart out this week, since Shyamalanda has come back swinging the biggest stick of them all, jumping straight past the double-dog-dare and into Village People territory. This was no small gamble, considering the danger that the film's target audience may be too young to remember just how scary the Village People really were, and that the young ones might get kind of excited and start to dance when the soundtrack plays "Y.M.C.A." instead of trying to crawl up their own assholes in terror like the older members of the viewing audience will do reflexively.
But even the tragically accidental pregnancies of the Y Generation are sure to scream up a lung once they realize they're surrounded by the cop, the Indian and the gay biker who lost his bike. The scariest part of all is that Shyanmalingi won't let you even see the Village People until half-way through the movie, leaving your imagination to fill in the blanks about how hideous their sexually-ambiguous costumes might be. Some might complain that the film's "twist" ending isn't surprising enough, but I for one had no idea that the Village People and the Oak Ridge Boys were the same guys.
And that's all he wrote, America. It's more traditional to say "she wrote," but that would just be wrong. Tradition's usually pretty sexist that way. Anyhow, hope you enjoyed our time together, but don't hurt yourself rushing to register for the fall semester, because, well because this isn't a college course, stupid.   |
