Dear commune:

Well, she’s all you’d ever want, she’s the kind I’d like to flaunt and take to dinner. She always knows her place, she’s got style, she’s got grace, she’s a winner. She’s a lady. Talking about Ivana Folger-Balzac here. I’ve heard all I need to, so when are you guys going to hook me up with her phone number? No fair keeping the gems all to yourselves, men of the commune. Don’t make me scale the walls of your fortress of isolation with my footstool of love, dudes. Time to share the wealth.

Sincerely,

Ronald Berkwitz
Shady Grove, CT

Dear Ronald:

Well, she’s a frigid ball-breaking bitch, an iron hook to scratch your itch, she’s a harpie. She’s a plague you’ll never shake, a turd baked in your birthday cake, she smells carpy. In addition we’d like to add that she’s a maneater. Still, we’re going to grant your wish and pass on that number Ronald, since we don’t like you and we’ll pull just about any low kind of shit to get rid of her by now. However we’re going to need you to sign a legal release of some sort, since we don’t want to be charged with manslaughter again. Talk about a way to ruin a perfectly good summer, jeez. So Ronald, in closing, we’d like to say good luck to you and start running now, you poor fucker.

the commune

Editor’s Note: the commune is not responsible for oh, I don’t know. Porcupines. Yeah, just try to pin that porcupine bullshit on us. We dare you. Volume 41
If you think living under the oppressive yolk of a braindead cowboy regime with little regard for public opinion or world unity is tough, try getting a paid vacation day approved by Red Bagel or his stooge of a lapdog, Ramrod Hurley.

Volume 40
Though we appreciate your mail, we must stress the fact that the commune is a news organization made up of numerous individuals, office equipment, free-roaming egos and a Ford Fiesta we use for beer runs and other official business.