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Army Operating With Mannequin Troops, Says Soldier-ReporterDecember 13, 2004 |
Baghdad, Iraq Assad the Unseen Two pointmen in Falluja secure an area recently taken back from Iraqi extremists, while two very static soldiers cover their backs.
The allegation, if proven true, could be more bad news for an embarrassed U.S. government, who had to answer to Wilson's charges Thursday that American troops were being put in harm's way by being sent into battle without proper armor, due to military cutbacks. The question stunned Sec. Rumsfeld, who had only come to shmooze photos with the...
cting quick on the heels of Thursday's stunning blow to Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld, the journalism's newest reporting hero, Spc. Jerry Wilson, shook the civilian world again when he revealed at least 30% of the Coalition troops operating in Iraq are, in fact, mannequins. White House and Pentagon sources would not verify or refute the claims, as they fled running from the hard-biting overnight sensation rocking the national media.
The allegation, if proven true, could be more bad news for an embarrassed U.S. government, who had to answer to Wilson's charges Thursday that American troops were being put in harm's way by being sent into battle without proper armor, due to military cutbacks. The question stunned Sec. Rumsfeld, who had only come to shmooze photos with the troops and receive questions on how come the U.S. military was so awesome, dude. Spc. Wilson described instances when U.S. troops dug through dumpsters to find refuse they could use to layer the tanks for better safety.
Wilson followed that coup-de-grace on Saturday, at a ribbon-cutting ceremony for a newly unveiled Kuwaiti McDonald's, charging that at least 45,000 of the U.S. soldiers serving in Iraq and overseas are mannequins, realistic-looking plaster models of real troops. A startled, non-English speaking Ronald McDonald had no comment.
"It's a tragedy, nothing short of a tragedy," Spc. Wilson eloquently spoke, addressing the many burger-loving Kuwaiti citizens and throngs of media, "that the United States would send its troops into danger so under-prepared to meet the threat of real, living terrorists. In a live combat situation, a solider has to be able to depend on the man guarding his back. If that man is, in fact, a doll, it makes for high casualties and even higher numbers of men killed in action."
Such news, if verified, gives fuel to opponents of the war in Iraq who accuse the Bush administration and its invisible allies of initiating the "regime change" with poor planning and a military force not ready for a combat operation of such a scale.
Defense Secretary Rumsfeld has been under fire for his answer to Thursday's question, "You go to war with the Army you have, not the Army you might want or wish to have." Rumsfeld, hiding under his desk at the Pentagon, was found by reporters and offered a Woody Allen-esque stuttering reply. "That's a good, uh, good question. We, er, that is to say, the government… who we all are, the government, you know… we are looking into, um, the, er, charges of this, uh… what was the name of the guy you wanted again? Oh, Rumsfeld! He left for the day. I'm, uh… Fumsreld."
While no one would go on record to confirm or deny the allegations, some sources in the Pentagon agreed to speak on the condition of anonymity, and that we at the commune would buy lunch. Applebee's, of course.
"What do you think we meant by 'stop-gap' measures to deal with the military shortage?" said one four-star general, whom we'll call General Mills. "It means, 'Stop asking for more troops, 'cause we got none—here's some replacements from the Gap, though.' You got a problem with it? Enlist, wiseguy."
Soldiers in the field were less willing to talk with us, even off the record, and some could not even open their mouths, refusing to move entirely while in our presence. the commune news has been inspired by Spc. Wilson's crusading citizen's journalism, and are currently considering replacing our accounting staff with any mannequins unfit for military service. Ivan Nacutchacokov, unfit for virtually anything, was not injured in the coverage of this story, unless you include receiving a case of splinters from one charming female soldier who apparently couldn't stop staring at him.
 | "Taste of Home" Restaurant a Creepy HitDecember 13, 2004 |
Houston, Texas Truman Prudy Don’t pester robot father while he’s carving the turkey, if you want to keep your hidden camera footage
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ollowing the unexpected and largely unwelcome success of the country’s first cereal-only restaurant in Philadelphia, in which patrons can curl up in their pajamas and dine on a wide array of breakfast cereals while watching television and reading the paper, a troubling assortment of novelty theme restaurants have popped up across the country over the last year. From Albany’s “Nothing But Napkins” to Baton Rouge’s “Leftovers, Inc.”, theme restaurants are the current toast of the town, and not just Albuquerque’s “Toast Town.” Perhaps the most disturbing of these is Houston, Texas’ “Taste of Home,” an existential crisis of a theme restaurant that recreates the experience of sharing a meal with your apathetic, abusive parents using the magic of animatronics.
Inside the restaurant, patrons sit at a single huge, oversized table on giant chairs, recreating the experience of childhood dining, while a giant animatronic robot mother and father bicker bitterly over family finances. The food is, true to form, largely tasteless and occasionally burnt, depending on whether or not that night’s “show” includes one of the robot mother’s trademark boozy crying jags while food burns on the stove.
Though the restaurant’s menu is starkly limited—you’ll eat what you get and like it, according to the robot father’s genuinely menacing aside—patrons can plan their visits around their favorite entrees, since a strict meal rotation is in place due to the “family’s” tight finances and father’s inability to humble himself by asking for a raise at work. Sunday nights, diners can thrill to pork chops and apple sauce, while Monday nights are for Spam on toast and Tuesdays feature baked chicken. Wednesday is casserole night; Thursday is fish, and Friday night the restaurant orders in pizza from a local pizzeria. Saturday nights the animatronic parents are often absent, and diners have to fend for themselves among the half-empty cereal boxes and bags of flour left over in the kitchen. For that reason, the commune cannot recommend visiting “Taste of Home” on a Saturday, unless both you and your date are on a diet.
Though the experience might sound grim to some, it does serve as a strange sort of childhood therapy to others, not unlike a trip to Arby’s. And a strange sort of camaraderie does develop at the restaurant’s one large table, as patrons compare notes on what might be in the casserole and provide each other comfort when father flies into one of his dramatic, table-shaking rages. The restaurant also features the world’s only black and white big screen TV, though patrons are advised not to attempt changing the channel or questioning father’s viewing choices. But the warm, conversation-killing glow of television (usually tuned to auto racing or a boxing match) does serve to masterfully complete the restaurant’s ambiance.
Regardless of these positives, however, the commune must recommend skipping out before the meal’s dessert course, lest you find yourself stuck there half the night washing the restaurant’s giant, oversized dishes.
Readers interested in experiencing the restaurant for themselves while visiting the Houston area can call 1-555-EAT-HOME to let them know when you’ll be home for dinner, though we do strongly recommend against calling collect. the commune news treasures its own childhood memories of meal time, thanks only to a recent psychotic break that left us unable to differentiate between real life and The Wonder Years. Truman Prudy is the commune’s on-again, off-again reporter extraordinaire and occasional food critic, though he usually only criticizes food out loud and on the way back from the drive-thru.
| Ukraine's Yuschenko falls for Yanukovych's old poison apple trick Failing Saturn promises big change to "same kind of car company" Homeland Defense nominee withdraws name; no longer eligible for free ham Library being extremely uptight about returning Zen book |
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 December 13, 2004 The Search for Mrs. RightI am an old-fashioned guy, and by that, this time, I do not mean that is my drink of choice. I have traditional values, as anyone who knows me can tell. You know this, good people. And just as ice must melt back to its natural state, not-ice, I must find a woman to complete half of the Rok Finger/unknown woman couple. It is my natural state to be with someone else. As someone once said, "a man needs a maid," and boy, did it piss off feminists.
Unable to deal with the bar scene, or anything that would have "scene" added to its description, I sought the old reliable method of Internet dating. Of course, not at first. At first I attempted to write a classified ad. I consider myself something of a master of the classified ad. I unloaded over 65 free kittens, two old lawnmowers, a...
º Last Column: The Passion of Camembert
º more columns
I am an old-fashioned guy, and by that, this time, I do not mean that is my drink of choice. I have traditional values, as anyone who knows me can tell. You know this, good people. And just as ice must melt back to its natural state, not-ice, I must find a woman to complete half of the Rok Finger/unknown woman couple. It is my natural state to be with someone else. As someone once said, "a man needs a maid," and boy, did it piss off feminists.
Unable to deal with the bar scene, or anything that would have "scene" added to its description, I sought the old reliable method of Internet dating. Of course, not at first. At first I attempted to write a classified ad. I consider myself something of a master of the classified ad. I unloaded over 65 free kittens, two old lawnmowers, and a refrigerator that no longer kept things cool through mastery of the classified ad. And I composed my most charming classified ad when searching for the most valuable property of all—a wife.
"Wanted: Woman, female only. BGOCMWCMWAH [Backyard Grill-Owning Currently-Married Whitish-Colored Man Who Adores Hyphenating] seeks SHITHEAD
[Single Highly-Interested Total Hottie Eager for Action and Dancing] to marry without meeting. Must be able to tolerate the handicapped and enjoy being bossed around. Owning a motorcycle a plus. Send pictures (of you on motorcycle)."
Since I received no responses, except for a few teens only eager for hi-jinks, I can only assume women have stopped reading the newspaper altogether. Thank you very much, Lifetime.
However, I will not be discouraged. After all, I met my last wife over the Internet, didn't I? And we're still married. What a strange and charming thing it is. The Internet, I mean—the wife is a foul-mouthed harpy. So I immediately hooked up with a matchmaking site, called WebTouch. With a name like that, how could it not deliver everything I want?
It's all very warm and personal, as you sit at home in a dark room lit by a glowing computer screen and fill out the blank spaces on a form to find the woman of your dreams. Actually, the woman in my dreams is 9-foot tall and chases me while swinging a cat by its tail, trying to strike me down, so I'm seeking someone better than the woman of my dreams. There's quite a lot of choices, too, so don't go overboard. I found when I put made "doesn't go to the bathroom" one of my requirements, I got very few responses. I suppose we all have to be a little open-minded. So I changed it to "seldom goes to bathroom."
I also told them I didn't want any foreigners, no one of a different religion, must be very pretty, must be very trim and shapely, without opinions, or at least keeps all opinions to self, will worship me with every step I take and keep her head bowed as I walk ahead of her, and if possible, will let me name her.
I'm too demanding, you say? To hell with you, good people. I say there's no point in listing all your desires in a perfect woman if you're going to wimp out and "accept" flaws. I also say "Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?" Because I think that's quite funny, and my father once owned a cow.
And to those of you who say I'll never get any responses when asking for so much, I say shows what you know. I've already received a wonderful opening email from the elegant Lady Buttsfree, who lives in Somewhereland, England, or as I know her, the good lady writing from 2funnypricks@hotmail.com. She's a princess, and though it's early in our email exchange, she's already suggesting I move into her castle. I'm waiting for her to send a picture, of course, and she will, once they come in from the beauty contest she just won.
True love, you've found Rok Finger again! º Last Column: The Passion of Camembertº 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 Oscar DaviesFortune 500 CookieBy next week you will not believe what passes for a blowjob these days. Guess how many quarters I have in my left pocket and I will be quite surprised. I said don't cauliflower last week? I did? That doesn't sound like something I'd say. Remember, trust no one. Including me. If you believe that, you're a fool.
Try again later.Top Worst Opening Lines to Novels| 1. | It was the best of times, no question about it. | | 2. | Call me Crenshaw, Ishmael's brother. | | 3. | I had been up for three days doing coke, paranoid they were going to catch me after I sunk the company with my idiotic business practices; then, my fa | | 4. | I have only eaten three people in my life—this is that story. | | 5. | So I said to my friend Charlie, "Hey, I'm going to write a novel where nothing at all happens," so welcome to it. | |
|   Jim Carrey Admits to Kato Kaelin Hoax BY roland mcshyster 12/13/2004 Greetings, America! I hope you enjoyed the trip and didn't encounter any disturbing horse porn on your way over. We're here, as we always are, time without end, to lend a judging hand as Hollywood turns its head and coughs up another week's worth of ripe, ripe shwag. So let's waste no more time before scraping together Hollywood's best efforts with the side of a credit card and exposing them to the cold, cold light of day, shall we?
In Theaters Now:
House of Flying Buggers
The most depressing of the many downsides to the recent kung-fu swordfighting movie epidemic has been the new life breathed into the unfortunate "Redneck Karate" subgenre. Aimed at audiences who like powerful ass-kicking without all the mystical crap or Chinese people,...
Greetings, America! I hope you enjoyed the trip and didn't encounter any disturbing horse porn on your way over. We're here, as we always are, time without end, to lend a judging hand as Hollywood turns its head and coughs up another week's worth of ripe, ripe shwag. So let's waste no more time before scraping together Hollywood's best efforts with the side of a credit card and exposing them to the cold, cold light of day, shall we?
In Theaters Now:
House of Flying Buggers
The most depressing of the many downsides to the recent kung-fu swordfighting movie epidemic has been the new life breathed into the unfortunate "Redneck Karate" subgenre. Aimed at audiences who like powerful ass-kicking without all the mystical crap or Chinese people, Redneck Karate has been a stain on the Martial Arts movie landscape since Chuck Norris slithered off his cross-training machine long enough to White up the screen in 1972's Killninja. Long the unofficial Redneck American ambassador to the East, Norris' throne was usurped by the slightly less redneckish Steven Seagal in the 90's, thanks to Seagal's having worked in a Chinese restaurant for a while and having seen The Karate Kid twice, thus trumping Norris' highly-misinformed and offensive sense of "karate."
Now that the "Magic Flying Crap" genre of Martial Arts films has captured the public's imagination, the redneck nation has responded with the first "Magic Flying Redneck Karate Crap" hybrid, a monumental birth that should be celebrated by burning all remaining film negatives and promotional materials, immediately. If you thought it was painful to watch guys who don't know karate doing karate, try watching guys who don't know karate or flying, flying around and doing karate. I promise you'll kill someone soon.
The Life Aquatic with Vanilla Zissou
Who keeps giving this guy money to make movies? Vanilla Ice, I mean. He must have compromising photos of somebody important; which is likely since any photos with him in them at all would qualify. Thus the high price sometimes extracted for posing for a photo with a loser during his fifteen minutes of fame. Never before has such a one-hit wonder extorted so much from his momentary success, holding audiences hostage over the years through his various insane ego-boosting exercises like Vanilla Sky and Vanillas in the Mist.
Now he's back to claim his dubious fame once again, this time by snookering the easily-led into believing that Vanilla Ice spent most of his youth as a groundbreaking underwater adventurer. Flexing his impressive muscles for co-opting the hard work of others, Ice stretches it out this time to claim that he invented the submarine, and discovered the dolphin and the ocean, of all things. At least he didn't say he invented the ocean. I give this film two stars, and only offer that many in hopes that it will get Vanilla Ice's attention long enough for him to poke his head up, so I can sock it with my whack-a-mole mallet.
Ocean's Twelve
Everyone has a tendency to lie about their age as they get older, and aging pop stars are no different. Neither are aging one-hit wonders or largely forgotten hacks like Billy Ocean, who recently celebrated his 50th birthday by releasing a movie about how he's actually only twelve. Call it a "Caribbean Dream" or a pathetic fantasy, either way Billy Ocean's got you talking about him again. Suckers.
Ocean has always done everything to excess, including the time he wore a Velcro tuxedo to the Grammies in 1986 and got stuck to Tito Jackson's afro for the better part of a harrowing hour and a half, before a celebrity volunteer fire department could cut him free with an acetylene blowtorch. And Ocean's excessively bland cocktail parties are the stuff of Hollywood legend. But this time Ocean may have gone too far in his going too far. Even in a town whose inhabitants are routinely constructed mostly of age-defying Mylar polymers, nobody in their or anyone else's right mind is going to believe that Ocean's twelve. The movie itself is nothing but an expensive embarrassment, although it did land Ocean an invite to the Neverland Ranch.
And this is where the conga line stops, America. Hope you got yourself a good hip shake and a pat-down from someone vaguely attractive. And for those of you who kept banging the back of your heads on the floor, that's the limbo, stupids. We'll be back in this spot in another two weeks, so mark your calendars and put that baking potato in the oven now.   |
