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Blake Prosecutor to Jury: Fuck YouMarch 28, 2005
Los Angeles, CA
Junior Bacon
District Attorney Steve Cooley, who keeps calling Ramon Nootles to “hang out” but ends up spending the whole time bitching about juries. It’s always about you, isn’t it, Steve?
C
alling the jurors who acquitted Robert Blake last week “low-grade retards,” District Attorney Steve Cooley’s post-trial sour grapes rose to a level rarely seen in our modern, politically correct era Thursday during a 40-minute interview with reporters. Cooley delivering a rambling, profanity-laden tirade punctuated by “Fuck Yous” personalized for each member of the twelve-person jury, each one more cutting than the last.

“This was an open and shut case,” fumed Cooley. “What did they think, that Blake really forgot his gun in that restaurant exactly at the exact same time somebody decided to shoot his batshit grifter wife in the back of the head? I’ve heard little autistic kids come up with better lies than that. I hope none of those jurors have children, s...Read more...


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January 10, 2005

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Burn, Blaming, Burn

T'was the night before Christmas, and all through Bricks Manor, not a creature was sleeping, because my neighbor's house was all the fuck on fire. I shit you not, communauts, this was one bizarre-smelling Christmas. I barely saved the fireworks I keep buried in my lawn, and Foghat took a big black Christmas shit after gorging himself on some kind of half-melted attic insulation. This Christmas wasn't lacking Santa, just sanity.

As the most plausible recorded version of that night's events goes, Omar Bricks had just settled down for a long winter's nap with his trusty basset hound Foghat at the foot of the bed, watching for gremlins, when from out by the lawn there arose such a clatter, I jumped up and screamed "What the fuck??" like a pissed-off ninja. Away to the window I flew like The Flash, not as fast but just as naked. Or was that The Streak? One of those guys. And anyway, yeah, the new house they'd just finished building on Dale's old lot was way the hell on fire.

For a second, brave thoughts of dashing in heroically and getting all my shit out of there whizzed through my brain, like a half-remembered action movie. Then I realized the flames were like forty feet high and that camping gear was borrowed anyway. Sure, I'd left some boxes of crackers and shit in there too, but they were probably all brown on one side due to the raging inferno that was lighting up the neighborhood like the Griswalds' Christmas decorations. And in all likelihood,...Read more...


º Last Column: The Giving House
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August 18, 2003

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The Honeymoon is Over

Let there be no mistake: I love my new wife, Felchyana, but she's starting to get on my nerves. Being a veteran of two marriages and three wars you'd think I might be familiar with this growing feeling of spite I'm experiencing, but it's not the case. She must be one of these "modern women" I keep seeing represented on sitcoms and the like. I can't say I approve, good people.

I finally got the chance to take us away on a honeymoon. You may recall the expense of the wedding and bail for bachelor party attendees left me a little strapped for cash. Tied down screaming to a medieval wooden rack, actually. But fate intervened, and after correctly guessing the number of jellybeans in the jar at Red Bagel's annual commune picnic I achieved a great windfall. It was apparently the loudest windfall ever since I won some sort of contest three states away, and the prize money was enough to take my blushing new bride off on an extravagant honeymoon.

You would think that enough for any woman, right? Wrong! Not for Felchyana. We had a quarrel over where to go on our honeymoon, the first argument we've ever had. If you discount all her attempts to get out of the wedding. I wanted us to see beautiful Niagra Falls, even though I don't approve of the racial epithet in their name. Felchyana wanted us to visit Leavenworth Penitentiary, judging by her frantic pointing to the picture in the paper. Well, you can see this is an almost insurmountable difference of opinion,...Read more...


º Last Column: Kids, Meet Your New Mom
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View Past Columns
BY Violet Tiara
2/28/2005
Quadrophonia
Love is a many-splendored thing
with tentacles.

"Ding-dong, the witch has snacks,
that Rax hires blacks
and Jack hates jacks.
Which old witch?
Fool, how many witches you know?
Shiiiit."

Felt manacles felt fantastical
when I was bound
to the brownie hound
(a giant cartoon dog
with a love for fudge,
not my dirty neighbor who mooned the judge).

To judge the moon is to prune your doom,
its mood is construed as rude
by those who've measured its glows.

The hose grows a nose when I close
my eyes to a slit but peek a bit
and the world lies in blurs the size
of the space on my face
where the air escapes.

Seeping sleep...Read more...

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