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 May 2, 2005 |
Washington, D.C. Ansel Evans the commune apologizes on behalf of Ansel Evans for this extremely bizarre photo, which the photographer claims captures the “essence” of the story in a way we could never understand
“Gotcha, stoners!” celebrated Milkweed, sipping a virgin club soda triumphantly, giving a mocking thumbs-up to the camera and performing an awkward little dance obviously not benefited by any groove-enhancing drug use.
“This is a great day for Tootie,” slurred c...
aw enforcement officials are bursting with pride this week over the results of the first annual Bring Your Drugs to Work Day, an unqualified success that nabbed over 3 million drug users at their places of employment nationwide. The controversial sting operation, brainchild of DEA wunderkind Dickie Milkweed, snared millions of Americans who thought the “holiday” was a long-overdue relaxing of uptight social mores and restrictions about showing up to work as high as a beautiful kite.
“Gotcha, stoners!” celebrated Milkweed, sipping a virgin club soda triumphantly, giving a mocking thumbs-up to the camera and performing an awkward little dance obviously not benefited by any groove-enhancing drug use.
“This is a great day for Tootie,” slurred commune editor Red Bagel in agreement, drunk as an ox, upon hearing the news.
Wishing to capitalize on the success of this week’s traditional Bring Your Daughter to Work Day, federal officials granted the DEA’s wish by quietly passing the new holiday into law, clamped onto the ass of the innocuous “Puppies are Beautiful” bill passed by congress in February.
However, several women’s groups have already protested BYDWD, concerned that the bummer drug-bust holiday will taint the public’s associations with Bring Your Daughter to Work Day, most notable among them the feminist groups NORML Chicks and Women for Reggae. The original, non-Fugazi holiday was instituted in 1993 as a way for parents to expose their daughters to the dangers of the workplace and to drain office productivity for the month of April.
Since then, several painfully politically-correct groups have lobbied to change the name of Bring Your Daughter to Work Day to the less-offensive Bring Your Daughter or Son or Whatever You’ve Got to Work or Some Place Else if You’re Unemployed Day, with little success due to counter-lobbying efforts from calendar manufacturers, who claim that printing a holiday name that long would force them to retool their entire operations at incredible expense.
Others have argued the highly controversial point that there’s nothing wrong with drug use in the workplace, unless it adversely affects job-related performance.
“Man, this is total bullshit waaaaaaaaaa…” trailed off temp worker Justin Penrose from a holding cell outside Chicago.
Still others, however, have pointed out that anyone who was dumb enough to fall for Bring Your Drugs to Work Day has obviously had their mental faculties dimmed heavily by drug residue of some sort, and is likely costing their employer billions in lost productivity and time spent having to explain things six or seven times.
“God I feel stupid,” lamented 79-year old Eloise Hartford, who misunderstood the nature of the holiday and brought her extensive collection of prescription medications to work on Monday instead. Most of Eloise’s co-workers were arrested for marijuana possession, leaving the lion’s share of the 14-person office’s tasks on the frail shoulders of Hartford, who tires easily.
“I should have claimed some of that reefer was mine,” complained Hartford. “I hear they have some pretty soft cots in prison these days. No beds of nails or anything anymore.”
In related news, commune editor’s-brother Gay Bagel has recently spearheaded an aggressive initiative to increase Internet access to inmates in America’s prisons, a move some have called a ratings ploy since a large proportion of the commune readership is now behind bars. the commune news is proud to announce that we for one(s) did not fall for the Bring Your Drugs to Work Day ploy, though that point was largely moot since commune columnist Omar Bricks misunderstood the nature of the holiday and took it as an opportunity to spike the building water supply with LSD, leading to a unicorn-chasing incident the commune news would rather not recount in detail. Mordecai “Three Finger” Brown was the only commune staffer not affected by the dosing, and not coincidentally the only reporter who could be trusted to deliver this story without mention of faeries, moon cats or psychedelic caterpillars.
 |  April 25, 2005 |
Alexandria, Virginia Rusty Klein Resident commune artist prodigy Rusty Klein, age 9, renders the courtroom scene for us in largely accurate detail, except the suspect in custody, of course, didn't have a machine. We're not sure who the kid with the "butthole" T-shirt is, probably a friend of Rusty's who may or may not have been present at the hearing.  
Moussaoui's al Qaeda comrades were responsible for the 9/11 attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, and the attempted attack on the White House. The attacks resulted in the deaths of more than 3,000 people and spurred the War on Terror, as well as fueled the War in Iraq. In Friday's preliminary hearing, however, Moussaoui tried to distance himself from the national tragedies, and claimed he was part of another attempt to fly a plane into the White House that had nothing to do with the 9/11 attacks.
"I came to America to be part ...
ovable loser and one-time fanatical terrorist hopeful Zacarias Moussaoui vowed to fight the death penalty and instant martyrdom for Islam in a Virginia courtroom Friday, as he entered a guilty plea on multiple terror charges.
Moussaoui's al Qaeda comrades were responsible for the 9/11 attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, and the attempted attack on the White House. The attacks resulted in the deaths of more than 3,000 people and spurred the War on Terror, as well as fueled the War in Iraq. In Friday's preliminary hearing, however, Moussaoui tried to distance himself from the national tragedies, and claimed he was part of another attempt to fly a plane into the White House that had nothing to do with the 9/11 attacks.
"I came to America to be part of attack on White House and use plane as weapon of mass destruction," said Moussaoui in funny broken English. "As you can tell, attack not go so well for me. Moussaoui get picked up at Minnesota flight school paying cash for lessons. Stupid Moussaoui!"
People in attendance laughed themselves silly, with comparisons to Tarzan and the Incredible Hulk going around the room. The terror suspect burst into rage, shaking his hands violently and yelling, "Quit it! Quit laughing at Moussaoui!" until he was tasered by bailiffs.
While medics attempted to revive the suspect, Moussaoui's defense team spoke to the press. They vowed, despite having pledged his life to al Qaeda's plan to martyr themselves destroying America, Moussaoui would fight the death penalty in the case after the prosecution announced they would seek capital punishment.
Moussaoui, a French fanatical Arab, was the first suspect arrested in the probe investigating the 9/11 attacks, arrested in 2001 a month before the attacks when he raised suspicion by paying $7,000 in cash for flight simulator training in Minnesota. Those who knew him in his private life described Moussaoui as a generally nice fellow, but said he did stand out from the other foreign visitors they knew.
"Well, I remember he referred to himself in the third person a lot," said neighbor Rachel Wincett. "He talked a lot about wanting to blow up George W. Bush. But it's Minnesota, you know, you can't swing a dead cat without finding someone who wants to kill the president."
Flight instructor Harold Farmer noticed peculiarities with Moussaoui as well.
"Mostly he asked a lot about parachutes," said Farmer. "He'd ask how the auto-pilot worked… if you could steer the plane for something like, say, the White House, put it on auto-pilot, and then parachute out to safety before the massive explosions ensued. I told him sure, we all dream about it, but auto-pilot technology hasn't come far enough to turn planes into self-guided missiles yet. Maybe one day."
Nathan Ledbetter, a sometime-friend of Moussaoui, recalled: "He did carry a boxcutter with him everywhere we went, and when people stepped too close to him he would whip it out in a pinch, jab it out at everyone, threaten to fly the whole plane into a government building. I'd tell him, 'Yo, Zack, we're not in a plane, man, we're at Brewski's, and it's dollar beer night.' Come to think of it, I guess you can call that 'odd' behavior. Not the oddest with my friends, but odd enough."
In a statement pledging to fight the death penalty, Moussaoui reminded the judge that technically, since he's still alive, it's proof he wasn't involved in the suicide attacks during 9/11. Moussaoui also said that thought he hopes to embrace eternal martyrdom and be blessed in the afterlife with a planeful of virgins and the kindness of Allah, he will be happy to wait a long time, like until he is 97 years old, before he martyrs himself. the commune says keep all the virgins for yourself in heaven if you want, and fork over the same number of loose women—what are you going to do with 117 virgins, play a long-ass game of Charades? Bludney Pludd would also like his name to live on for all eternity, but would be even happier if we remembered it just one day of his life here in the present.
| Vietnam marks fall of Saigon with Sly Stallone film festival Canadian "Cannabis spray" may be gateway drug to pepper spray AOL next-generation Instant Messenger will deliver high-speed girl-on-girl action Police seeking "anti-American Arabic radical" in Iraqi copter bombing |
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 May 2, 2005 The Good Name of Rok ???The good news: I've finally nailed down terms of my divorce from my soon-to-be ex-wife, Felchyana. The bad news: We elected a war-hungry idiot for president, not once, but twice.
But I suppose that bit of news is hardly news, and certainly doesn't have a place in this column about my own troubles. There is more bad news, that does concern me. Felchyana's only request in the divorce settlement is she gets custody of my last name. Not simply co-custody, as you see in many divorces, but sole custody. I have to give up the name Finger! Can you believe that? Why would anyone not divorcing a cold-blooded shrill Russian viper give up a good, solid name like Finger? I can't imagine any circumstance. Except my own.
I'm backed into a corner, and it's full of piranha. Pira...
º Last Column: Satellite Killed the Radio Stars
º more columns
The good news: I've finally nailed down terms of my divorce from my soon-to-be ex-wife, Felchyana. The bad news: We elected a war-hungry idiot for president, not once, but twice.
But I suppose that bit of news is hardly news, and certainly doesn't have a place in this column about my own troubles. There is more bad news, that does concern me. Felchyana's only request in the divorce settlement is she gets custody of my last name. Not simply co-custody, as you see in many divorces, but sole custody. I have to give up the name Finger! Can you believe that? Why would anyone not divorcing a cold-blooded shrill Russian viper give up a good, solid name like Finger? I can't imagine any circumstance. Except my own.
I'm backed into a corner, and it's full of piranha. Piranha that can fly through the air and still eat me, so don't think I'm talking floppy, panicked fish. I have no choice but to give up my name to Felchyana (or Felchyana Finger, as all the hot-to-trot bachelors will soon be calling her). I'm too much in love with my betrothed-slash-business consultant Ginger Baker to think of not divorcing Felchyana.
Sure, if I had time to spare, I could simply move back in with Felchyana and let nature do its work. She'd be signing over both her names to me then, just to be granted the sweet relief of divorce! But I don't have the time to let my personality do the dirty work for me. I have to get divorced by June, or Ginger is going to slip right through my fingers. Damn! Do I have to stop referring to those parts of my body, too? I never considered the extent of this wicked trap.
I can't even think of my digits now, though. I have to worry about losing the reputation I've attached to my name over the years. There are upsides, no doubt—I should be able to eat at a Shoney's once more. And likewise, that Best Western ban should lose all its power. But what about my checks? I designed all those checks on my pajamas to spell out "Rok Finger," is that all to go to waste? And I might have trouble getting paid as well. Let us not forget either that the very name of this column would be in jeopardy. "Giving You the Feinstein" doesn't have the effect I have with my current moniker.
Seems like sad prospects for yours truly, and myself. But I shouldn't forget what the Buddhists say. I can't understand it, since it's all in foreign-ese, but a friend once translated that all bad things are just positive things waiting for the sun to shine on a dog's ass, or something to that effect. I get my Buddhist bits of wisdom easily confused. But I think somewhere in there is the concept that a bad thing can be a doorway to a good thing. Meaning I might be able to make this name change thing work for me.
For instance, if I changed my name to Rok Bagel, I bet some doors would probably open for me around here. Half of those doors might lead to angry creditors, but I'm hardly losing anything in the bargain. If I changed my name to Rok Dreck I might well start receiving copies of The Anarchist's Encyclopedia. For that matter, I could change Lee's name to Lee Nacutchacokov and never have to worry about seeing him ever again. That's an interesting thought.
But focusing on the positive, Finger has always been a name that's served me well, but there's better out there. More macho. How's Rok Stonewall sound to you? No? Well, get used to it. You come back in 30 days, wimpy 48-pound weakling Rok Finger might be gone forever, replaced by the muscle-bound, fearless Rok Stonewall. In fact, I think I'm convinced. Come back next month for Giving You the Stonewall.
Now that I think about it, Rok Stonewall doesn't bow to penny-ante bigamy laws. I just might marry two women. º Last Column: Satellite Killed the Radio Starsº more columns | 
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Quote of the Day“Impartiality is a pompous name for indifference, which is an elegant name for Cletus, my inbred asscrack of a neighbor about whom I am far from indifferent.”
-CK FesterchildFortune 500 CookieYou wir find gleat rove in an ord flend. That's not an accented translation; you just have a really weird fortune this week. It's time to face the facts, or at least the facts of life: even if you manage to get that face you drew on your hand pregnant, it's just going to be one more mouth to feed. This week's lucky ringtones: Hangin' Tough, Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm, Two Princes, Kokomo.
Try again later.Top Frustrating Wi-Fi Dead Spots| 1. | Flower bed outside ex-wife's bedroom window | | 2. | Antarctica. Most of it. | | 3. | Men's room at the zoo | | 4. | Twilight Zone | | 5. | Raging Waters: the whole goddamned theme park | |
|   Dyslexic Man Talks to God BY roland mcshyster 5/2/2005 Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, America. What? I don't know, I assumed you had some kind of tobacco handy. Way to let us all down. I thought you might at least have some of that green plastic Easter-basket grass. Cancer? Yeah, that would probably give you cancer. Probably best to use a filter in than instance, or just don't inhale for too long. That's my position. Yeah, I know that's not how they smoke it in Chernobyl, but if I were you I wouldn't be taking any health-based advice from people who just don't give a shit any more. Now that we've got Roland McShyster's Pipe-Smoking Corner out of the way for this edition, let's take a swipe at this week's new releases, shall we?
In Theaters Now:
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
The most...
Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, America. What? I don't know, I assumed you had some kind of tobacco handy. Way to let us all down. I thought you might at least have some of that green plastic Easter-basket grass. Cancer? Yeah, that would probably give you cancer. Probably best to use a filter in than instance, or just don't inhale for too long. That's my position. Yeah, I know that's not how they smoke it in Chernobyl, but if I were you I wouldn't be taking any health-based advice from people who just don't give a shit any more. Now that we've got Roland McShyster's Pipe-Smoking Corner out of the way for this edition, let's take a swipe at this week's new releases, shall we?
In Theaters Now:
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
The most recent product of Sony's boutique Misguided Films division, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is a strangely detailed look at what prospective hitchhikers should know about the Ford Galaxy, an extremely ugly "classic" car that hasn't been in production since 1969. Some have wondered at the usefulness of such a film, given that any given hitchhiker is extremely unlikely to ever even ride in a Galaxy, but these are the critics that don't understand art. Art doesn't always have to have a "useful" purpose, guys, as long as it tells us something about ourselves. And this film most certainly does. With its painfully detailed accounting of every last detail about this mid-60's shitbox, including handy tips on how to bail out of a Galaxy at high speeds and where the door lock override is, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy stands in as a metaphor for life itself. Now I can only hope it does well enough to inspire the production of a sequel like The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Chevy Malibu, since that's what I drive and as a matter of principle I always like to keep one step ahead of hitchhikers.
Kingdom of Heathens
Boy oh boy am I tired of Muslim filmmakers producing these giant Hollywood blockbusters that perpetuate the stereotype of America as the white devil trying to enslave the entire world and yadda yadda yadda. Sure, the message seems convincing when the bullets and karate kicks are flying all around and some evil white motherfucker is dealing out the oppression like a croupier on amphetamines, and he'd totally crush the spines of righteous if it weren't for Orlando Bloom in tanface (why is it always Orlando Bloom?) stepping in and representing for Allah. Yawn. I've never been one for political correctness, or correctness of any persuasion, but this crap is boring and old, and it hurts. It's because of movies like this that the youth of the world is corrupted into thinking that all white people want to steal their resources and piss in their water, when in actuality it's only a very small percentage of the wealthiest Americans who even have the means to pull off those kinds of antics.
xXx: State of the Union
Ice Cube farts up the screen as an unlikely Civil War general dead set on defeating the South through the use of show-stopping, big budget stunts and explosions in this latest hunk of Hubba Bubba to flop out of Hollywood's chaw box. There are high points, sure, like the scene where Cube jumps his horse over a barbed-wire fence and the horse does an entire back flip in mid-air, or the one where he has to lay the horse down at a high rate of speed and ride it like a surf board, all the while firing and reloading two powder muskets at once, so I'm not saying there's no reason to see this movie. There's just no reason to pay to see this movie, when you can just download the trailer for those two scenes or hang out in Best Buy until it comes on one of their giant hydrogen-gas big screen TVs.
Whew, that was a workout. Not the column, I just ran downstairs to get some pickles out of the refrigerator. Nobody ever stocks the commune refrigerator with decent pickles, but those Crochet! guys, man. They know their dill from a hole in the ground. Of course, getting down there and back is a little like a mini version of the Crusades, but we're talking quality pickles here. Until next time.   |
