Volume 47

Dear commune:

Who pooped on the commune’s parade lately? Talk about a bunch of sad sacks and down-about-the-facers! What this gang needs is some crisp, refreshing lemonade! What could be better than liquid refreshment on a hot summer day? Nothing! So why not buy some lemonade today? Only five cents a glass, while supplies last!

Sincerely,

Bobby Turner
The sidewalk outside the commune offices



Dear Bobby:

Listen kid, if we wanted any of your fucking lemonade we would have bought some already instead of sending Ivana Folger-Balzac downstairs to kick your pitcher over and break your sign in half. Can’t you take a goddamned hint? It was bad enough you had to ruin our mornings for weeks straight, sitting outside the commune offices with your puppy dog eyes and pathetically large quantities of unsold lemonade, riddling our already-riddled hearts with guilt. Can’t you understand that the commune staff members work hard for their money, and five cents (though it may not seem like a lot to you with your freewheeling, ass-deep-in-lemons lifestyle) is actually a week’s pay for some of these people? Apparently not. So you’ve seen fit to torture our hearts further with your sorrowful refrains of "Doesn’t anybody want any lemonade?" sung to the tune of "Bohemian Rhapsody" all day and night. And now, with the letters and voice mails!

Knock it off kid, our answering service is on the lite plan and only counts up to five: you’ve already maxed us out for the month. You’re milking a dry tit, kid, and you won’t have any better luck with our downstairs neighbors at Crochet! magazine either, they’ve been drinking nothing but sealed bottled water ever since Omar Bricks spiked the building’s water supply with mescaline last Halloween.

You just don’t get it, do you kid? Apparently all the potted plants (thanks, Crochet!) Ted Ted has been dropping at you from our windows like some third-rate Atari game have failed to crack your thick skull in more ways than one. All right kid, we get the message. You want to play with the big boys? This means war.

the commune

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Editor’s Note: the commune is not responsible for any unintended casualties in our ongoing holy war with lemonade vendor Bobby Turner. If you don’t want a metal plate holding your skull together, stay off the sidewalk.

Volume 46
Dear commune: If "God Don’t Make No Junk," then how do you explain the Oak Ridge Boys? They suck. Sincerely, Norman Turner Falling River, VT Dear Norman: The paradox you’ve hit upon is one of many caused by a shoddy translation... (7/7/03)

Volume 45
Dear commune: What’s the deal with my boyfriend? We’ve been together for three months now and he still hasn’t popped the question. I’ve been dropping hints left and right, but he just doesn’t seem to get it. I tore a page out of a wedding... (6/23/03)

Volume 44
Dear commune: Aren’t you just tired of all this bullshit? Reggie Shaw Dove Plains, GA Dear Reggie: We know exactly what you’re talking about. Those fussy pricks downstairs at Crochet! magazine need to be put in their... (6/1/03)