Jewel Confesses Life-Long Battle with Pretension

oung musician and published author Jewel surprised few Friday when she revealed she's battled with pretension all her life.

"It's not something you want to admit, even to yourself," Jewel said in her calm, waterfall-like voice at a press conference Friday. "Your soul is kind, gentle, and without acclaim, and then tiny threads of a black spider wrap you up in pretension. It is a disease of the fiercest… uh… pony."Friends and confidants knew for years, yet kept her secret because they thought Jewel could handle it.

"The next thing I knew," said Bill Barber, a session player and friend, "she was on VH-1 against a white background reading snippets of poetry like she's a supermodel Maya Angelou. That's when I knew she had no control of the problem."

Even then, all were reluctant to speak up for fear of damaging her career or their own. An attempt at an intervention in March of 2000 disintegrated into a hootenanny and Native American bonfire ritual, and several members walked out nearly as pretentious as the one they came to help.

"Pretension is sometimes hereditary, but more often results from years of unearned attention festering, cultivating itself into the bacteria egous extremis," stated Dr. Simone Callow, Professor of Pretentious Studies at Columbia University. "Often through no fault of their own a victim can start out a perfectly healthy human being, and then before you know it they're taking themselves so seriously they're publishing their own autobiography, or accepting awards for ridiculously minimal accomplishments."

Pretension, though often confined to those with higher-income households without geographic boundary, is unfairly distributed throughout Hollywood and the New York art scene.

"There's no telling how many have it in Hollywood," Dr. Callow said. "When you pay people millions of dollars for doing virtually nothing, it makes for a breeding ground for pretension."

Jewel herself, recently releasing the new album This Way, has halted tour plans to check into the Martha Stewart Clinic For Pretension in Connecticut in hopes of treating her condition.

"A dark spot has begun to wander across my heart," she said with stilted, distant voice. "Until I corner this blemish, collect it in my cupped hands and whistle it away to the wind, I cannot share my gift with the world."

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Dear commune:

My name is Kent and I am 8 years old. I am doing a biography on President George W. Bush and I would like to know all about him. Please tell me everything about him, like where was he born, how did he become president, and what does the president do?

I think the commune is a great news website.

Kent Birkell
Ohgett, Utah


Dear "Kent":

Nice try, Al Qaeda! Sounds like a good plan right off the bat, doesn't it? Write to some unsuspecting, poorly-run news organization, like the commune, and pretend to be a grade-schooler so you can get all the elusive secret information about the leader of the free world. Well, suck on it instead, dickless!

You aren't getting free information from us, Al-Shabib. You made two mistakes in your otherwise-brilliant plan. For one, you referred to George W. Bush as the president without quotation marks—you're either a Republican or a terrorist, and either way we don't trust you. And second, the commune—a great news website? You must not be from this country.

We hope your little dirty bomb or whatever goes off during construction and leaves you a dirty smear, terrorist asshole.

In the off chance you are a real 8-year-old who just doesn't know enough about the "president" or the commune's "news" department, we offer sincere apologies. Terrorist asshole.

the commune

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Editor's Note: the commune news is not responsible for the wind beneath your wings, so quit blaming us for it, maybe it was the dog.

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"If I had a dollar for every time I got a blow-job, I'd probably have the best job in the world."

Everybody remember to get out and vote on Tuesday. If you don't vote, you can't complain. At least not to the president himself. If fact, if you do vote, they still won't let you complain to him. They just escort you out and taser you in the alley out back. And don't try telling them you pay the president's taxes, that shit don't work more than once or twice.

I vote early. Really early. I fill out my absentee ballot as soon as I receive it in the mail. I'm a native of Mescalo, Puerto Rico, which is a Puerto Rican territory of the U.S. territory. But we still get a vote, so there, Dominican Republic. Since I don't live in Mescalo anymore, except on Thursdays, I make sure to get my vote sent off early. I check the ballot, but I know there's a lot of trouble with reading the ballot, so I write the name of the candidate I want to win several times, on the inside and outside of the envelope. No way I'm voting for Buchanan again, even by accident.

The worst part about voting by absentee ballot is, you don't get one of those stickers. How the hell are people supposed to know you're a good citizen and you voted and you can make them feel like shit for not voting if you mail in your ballot? I deserve to be patronizing, too. So I made my own sticker, from the Chiquita banana sticker I snagged, but it was too small and hard to read. So I had it tattooed on my back. It's not perfect either, since I have to walk around with my shirt off, and the local cops keep telling me they warned me about doing that. Plus, it's only right once every few years.

Another thing I like about tattoos is, they're conversation starters. Instead of getting the name of a girl tattooed on you, which no one ever believes, I just put a strange word somewhere. I tattooed the word "dog" on my forehead one time, 'cause I have this really funny story about a dog biting my fellas while I was trying to test him for rabies once. No one ever asked me about the story, so I had the tattoo removed in a really expensive surgery. I'm thinking maybe next time I might try "dog bites balls" or something, that might make them curious enough to ask.

So what I'm saying is, it's important to vote. Our grandfathers and grandmothers fought and died on battlefields all over this country just so white men could have the right to vote. And then they gave in and let everyone else have it. Never forget their sacrifice, 'cause they're all dead now and can't ever come back, unless they're ghosts. Exercise your right to vote. It doesn't matter who you vote for as long as you vote—they don't even count those things anyway. The same dicks get into office no matter what. But vote, like I said, or the rest of us will make you feel bad.

Heh, heh. That reminds me about this dog story—ask me about it, I'll tell you next time.

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