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Ancient Writings Turn Out to be Gang GraffitiApril 29, 2002 |
Shaat-al-Arab, Turkey Some Kid With A Polaroid Ancient graffiti sings the praises of the Hanging Garden Boys recent discovery of ancient heiroglyphics in Egypt describing a military victory by the legendary Scorpion King, and believed to be the oldest on record at approximately 5,250 years, has been relegated to runner-up status by a team of archaeologists working for the last four years in this southwest Asian spot where the Tigris joins the Euphrates. The team revealed yesterday that they have uncovered an ancient wall inscribed with primitive cuneiform marks that date back nearly 6000 years, or from about the year 4000 BC.
"We're very excited about this," said team leader Dr. Robert R. "Bob Bob" Clemons. "We've said all along that this is the cradle of modern, recorded civilization, right here, not that wasteland along the Nile. Those Egyptologist bitches can kiss my dusty brown...
recent discovery of ancient heiroglyphics in Egypt describing a military victory by the legendary Scorpion King, and believed to be the oldest on record at approximately 5,250 years, has been relegated to runner-up status by a team of archaeologists working for the last four years in this southwest Asian spot where the Tigris joins the Euphrates. The team revealed yesterday that they have uncovered an ancient wall inscribed with primitive cuneiform marks that date back nearly 6000 years, or from about the year 4000 BC.
"We're very excited about this," said team leader Dr. Robert R. "Bob Bob" Clemons. "We've said all along that this is the cradle of modern, recorded civilization, right here, not that wasteland along the Nile. Those Egyptologist bitches can kiss my dusty brown ass, along with the dusty brown asses of every single one of my fellow researchers!"
The marks that had Dr. Clemons crowing like a jaybird and dancing about so excitedly appeared to be no more than a series of triangles and inverted vees, but their significance was made clear by the buzz that rippled through the international press corps that gathered to report the news.
"You can see right here," Dr. Clemons pointed out, gesturing to a series of isoceles triangles, "that there was definite gang activity going on in the area back in those ancient times. This line, for example, reads 'Sargon II is down with Nebuchadnezzer.' And over here, we have a reference to the 'Euphrates Mob,' a rival gang to the prominent 'Hanging Garden Boys' that dominated the banks of the Tigris."
Other cuneiform scratchings were translated as being gang slogans such as "Zoroastrians rule," "Medes are skanky bitches" and "Sumer Power – we the best, fuck the rest." There were also long listings of gang members' names, such as "Smiley," "Johnny Boxer," "Li'l Puppet," "Droopy," "Seymour" and "Jehosaphat."
When asked t o comment further on the translations and their significance, Dr. Clemons simply said, "Maybe some other time period, honey. Ha! That's an archaeological joke. No, but seriously, I've got a bottle of newly-unearthed 3000 year old wine waiting for me back at my tent. I'd hate to see it spoil." Though the remaining members of the press clamored for more information, all they got was a glimpse of Dr. Clemons' dusty brown ass disappearing into a complex of dark linen stretched between poles on the edge of the dig. He was seen carrying a large wheel of cheese, an earthen jar and some dates, and was leading a goat on a rope. It was quite a mystery here at the commune about Stigmata Spent's long absence, but she explained it simply by informing us that she's been accompanying Bob Bob… er, Dr. Clemons and his team for some time now, because, as she puts it, "I love a man who reads cuneiform."
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Media Plugs CIA Leak ne the most potentially controversial stories in recent years was successfully nipped in the bud by the Bush White House and its ever-faithful assistant, the national news media, as the ongoing story of former Cheney Chief of Staff Lewis Libby’s indictment, the first of a sitting White House official in history, was relegated to page 3 by bored news directors and other major Republican-driven news stories. Libby, called “Scooter” by his many enemies, is the first and likely only casualty of the under-covered story of a White House leak, in which the identity of a working CIA operative, conveniently the wife of Bush opponent Joseph Wilson. Wilson’s wife Valerie Plame was outed as a spy by a conservative columnist, and his source was traced back to the White House. While liberals hoped the 22-month investigation by Special Counsel Patrick Fitzgerald would reveal the dirty tactic came from a source as high as presidential counselor Karl Rove, the most the Democrats could succeed with was a guy named Scooter. And the victory itself was short-lived. French Protestors Politely Riot urious French protestors continued to riot over the weekend, gently overturning traffic cones and unleashing salvos of pithy wit at assembled riot police across some of the roughest neighborhoods in all of Paris. The riots began the previous week in the Seine-Saint-Denis suburb northeast of Paris, sparked by what officials believe was a disagreement over food. “Those incorrigible police buffoons know nothing of fine chocolate!” said impassioned teenage rioter Jean Touloc, only in French. The urbane French police were overwhelmed almost before the rioting even began, requiring the French Army to be brought in last week. The army surrendered four hours later, and plans were being drawn up for a transitional government when some joker switched out the treaty-signing pen with a novelty model that laughs electronically when you try to write with it. The rioters, perhaps correctly believing that they were not being taken seriously, stepped up their boisterous chants of “We beg to differ!” and their disorderly milling-about. Serial Killer’s Neighbor: “He just wouldn’t shut up about serial killing.” Heather Graham’s Career Found Dead in Apartment |
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 January 16, 2006
Eat Shit, New Year'sNew Year's: the holiday, the spectacle, and the brand of adult diapers, can all kiss Omar Bricks' cherry red ass. That's not a threat—it's a promise. Actually, come to think of it, it's an invitation, but that doesn't sound nearly as menacing. But call it whatever you will, the word is out that Omar Bricks wants all things New Year's to choke hard on a turd, now and forever.
Before you start assuming that Omar Bricks is just jumping on the recently fashionable "New Year's Eats Old Pussy" bandwagon, check the record. I've never been a fan of the holiday, and I stand behind my record dating back to the third grade, when thanks to poor legal advice I stayed up all night on New Year's Eve in a confused attempt to see if Santa Claus was real, and instead got the drop on so many drunks in bulge-ridden leisure suits that to this day I still involuntarily beat children whenever I smell polyester. I've only had one good New Year's ever, and that was the year I forgot it was New Year's and spent the night locked in a canning plant, getting sick on mangoes.
This year had its own flavor of suck since I was under the mistaken legal impression that the statute of limitations for all 2005 crimes runs out at midnight on December 31st, so I'd spent the whole night running around and settling scores, dealing out hasty justice like my immune ass was about to turn into a pumpkin. I also set free all the dogs in the neighborhood, mainly because I've always wanted to see a...
º Last Column: The Red Badge of Adulthood º more columns
New Year's: the holiday, the spectacle, and the brand of adult diapers, can all kiss Omar Bricks' cherry red ass. That's not a threat—it's a promise. Actually, come to think of it, it's an invitation, but that doesn't sound nearly as menacing. But call it whatever you will, the word is out that Omar Bricks wants all things New Year's to choke hard on a turd, now and forever. Before you start assuming that Omar Bricks is just jumping on the recently fashionable "New Year's Eats Old Pussy" bandwagon, check the record. I've never been a fan of the holiday, and I stand behind my record dating back to the third grade, when thanks to poor legal advice I stayed up all night on New Year's Eve in a confused attempt to see if Santa Claus was real, and instead got the drop on so many drunks in bulge-ridden leisure suits that to this day I still involuntarily beat children whenever I smell polyester. I've only had one good New Year's ever, and that was the year I forgot it was New Year's and spent the night locked in a canning plant, getting sick on mangoes. This year had its own flavor of suck since I was under the mistaken legal impression that the statute of limitations for all 2005 crimes runs out at midnight on December 31st, so I'd spent the whole night running around and settling scores, dealing out hasty justice like my immune ass was about to turn into a pumpkin. I also set free all the dogs in the neighborhood, mainly because I've always wanted to see a shitload of dogs running together like in the old Chuck Wagon commercials. I had to rush and do a half-ass job of setting a parade float on fire just to get home in time to watch the Times Square countdown, a yearly tradition for lazy, television-watching sons of bitches everywhere. Now, no one needs a call from CNN to catch the breaking news that New Year's television sucks big wet titty. Any time they schedule over two hours of air time for a ten-second event, you know there's going to be more crappy filler than a case of Winky's, those off-brand Twinkie knock-offs Foghat always wants every year for Christmas. About four seconds after the ball drops, they unleash an endless cavalcade of morons strategically positioned around Times Square, standing around saying shit like "There sure are a lot of people here… yep…" I haven't seen that many uncomfortable silences on TV since they gave that narcoleptic Chevy Chase his own late-night show. After the depressing spectacle of listening to Dick Clark drunk his way through the ball-dropping countdown, I was in heavy need to distraction, so I went quick to the pantry for the case of Safeway beer I'd been saving all year for the occasion. Two minutes after the drop was over, Dick was still on stuck on twenty-seven, and I was really glad I'd saved the beer. It was a sad, sad state of affairs, ladies and gentlemen, and I spilled an entire case of beer on the couch. Some would say that's what I get for opening all the cans at once, but you save time your way, I'll save it mine. I just wish I'd noticed that the beer was spilling sooner, since the couch swelled up so much it pitched me onto Foghat's loveseat, and I accidentally touched way more dog underbelly than I care to admit. Now Foghat won't even look me in the eye, which makes going to his room to use the Super Nintendo especially uncomfortable. That's right about when the neighborhood mob showed up to get their mailboxes back, which I'd been driving around collecting all night so I could open up my own Mailboxes ETC and hook up some sweet business tax breaks for 2006. I had to take a break from juicing my couch to talk the mob out of setting my neighbor Hamms on fire, because he had about 400 mailboxes lined up in his front yard like some kind of surreal drive-in theater (I didn't want to fuck up my grass). It all ended okay though, since I was able to convince the mob that the mailbox caper was exactly the kind of thing my other neighbor Mitch would do, and he wasn't home, so I had everybody over to my place to help suck the beer out of my couch. Which may sound like a great time, yeah, but actually it was kind of weird. So screw New Year's. Bricks out. º Last Column: The Red Badge of Adulthoodº more columns
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|  May 26, 2003
The Second commune Enthusiasts Club MeetingAnyone who's been receiving the commune Enthusiasts Club's personal newsletter should know we planned on discussing the major issues facing the commune and how we, as commune fans, should react.
Before I get into that, however, I would like to ask everyone out there to sign up for the commune newsletter by contacting me at Zenderphenia@hotmail.com. The last time I gave this out in a column I received a huge number of people signing up, followed by about a million pieces of junk mail detailing how I could enlarge parts of my anatomy. I'm glad for the huge turnout, folks, but I do have to wonder why I'm not hearing from any of you again. Very few of you are showing up at the actual Club meetings and just as many aren't responding to my e-mails asking for information for the Club records, like your name and stuff like that, nothing too personal. A lot of e-mails are even bouncing back, so maybe you accidentally gave me the wrong reply address.
Still, it was a record-setting turnout for the commune Enthusiasts Club last weekend when those two guys showed up who thought we were actual communists. Sorry we disappointed you, guys, but I'm glad you stuck around for the entire meeting and I finished your free literature as was part of the agreement—interesting stuff, I'll write you personal e-mails back.
Hopefully we'll see Christopher and Stag again, they'll be welcome additions to the club as soon as we can get their last names and put them...
º Last Column: The First commune Enthusiasts Club Meeting º more columns
Anyone who's been receiving the commune Enthusiasts Club's personal newsletter should know we planned on discussing the major issues facing the commune and how we, as commune fans, should react.
Before I get into that, however, I would like to ask everyone out there to sign up for the commune newsletter by contacting me at Zenderphenia@hotmail.com. The last time I gave this out in a column I received a huge number of people signing up, followed by about a million pieces of junk mail detailing how I could enlarge parts of my anatomy. I'm glad for the huge turnout, folks, but I do have to wonder why I'm not hearing from any of you again. Very few of you are showing up at the actual Club meetings and just as many aren't responding to my e-mails asking for information for the Club records, like your name and stuff like that, nothing too personal. A lot of e-mails are even bouncing back, so maybe you accidentally gave me the wrong reply address.
Still, it was a record-setting turnout for the commune Enthusiasts Club last weekend when those two guys showed up who thought we were actual communists. Sorry we disappointed you, guys, but I'm glad you stuck around for the entire meeting and I finished your free literature as was part of the agreement—interesting stuff, I'll write you personal e-mails back.
Hopefully we'll see Christopher and Stag again, they'll be welcome additions to the club as soon as we can get their last names and put them on the roll. I'll just pencil in "Marx" as the last name for now. But even with the confusing large turnout, Vice-President Sandy Meckler and I managed to get some club business done.
Besides the glaring absence of Editor Red Bagel being the big speedbump in the commune road right now, and the faltering quality that has followed, as commune Enthusiasts (capitalization intentional) we should be considering the efforts by major press junkets to lock the commune out of press meetings and other legitimate-press events. Reuters, AP, and all the major networks seem to be involved in some sort of conspiracy to cripple the commune in its attempts to get the news and report it accurately. In this age of nationalism and presidential yes, ma'am-ing, it is of greater import than ever before that the commune have access to the newsmakers the same as larger media outlets. Only the commune will report the news without putting a spin on it.
It appears to stem mostly from an April 25 press conference held by Ari Fleischer, and an incident involving commune reporter Ramon Nootles, who pointed to a CNN correspondent and said a little too loudly, "Check out the nips on that one." Those of us who know the commune's troubled history with the mainstream press, however, would not be surprised to learn this incident was staged as a trap for Nootles—Helen Thomas is always standing next to the thermostat in the White House press room, and Nootles is famous for his observant nature on reactions to cold temperatures.
Anyway, this has been more a thorn in the commune's side than a complete shut-down of news access. But if the attempt to keep them from gathering facts continues, how should the commune keep its facts straight? Maybe the mainstream press would like to see the commune just make up things, fabricate quotes and even news incidents like that New York Times reporter?
Fear not, commune Enthusiasts. We need to pull together and petition the press to allow the commune a second chance. That way we'll continue to get all the news that's only moderately fit to print. º Last Column: The First commune Enthusiasts Club Meetingº more columns
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Quote of the Day“I am the very model of a modern major general. Perhaps this explains my inability to move my limbs and the pungent smell of airplane glue.”
-Gilgamesh SullivanFortune 500 CookieYou will get kicked in the balls for a good cause this week. Expect a telephone call from a long forgotten friend today—your split personality from Belgium. Lose the mustache, that "Hitler" look is so 1997. This week's stomach-pump jackpot: $20 in loose change, long-lost stash, grandma's favorite knitting needles, Nerds.
Try again later.John Kerry's Vision for America| 1. | Americans shouldn't be despised everywhere abroad; only France | | 2. | Health care for each and every American with insurance | | 3. | A chicken in every pot, and pot for everyone without a chicken | | 4. | Make Affleck and J-Lo realize they're still in love | | 5. | Sterilize all Bush males | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 9/29/2003 Welcome back to me, America! Roland McShyster here, after the hiatus to end all hiatuses… hiati… hiya-hyacinth… uh, all multiples of hiatus! I'm back and on the attack, feeling refreshed after six weeks of boxin' and detoxin', as the saying goes. I'd like to take this opportunity to thank my good friend Orson Welch for filling my incredibly snazzy shoes while I was out, I'm sure he did a fine job and should I ever have a reason to read the columns he did while I was gone, that'll just confirm it. Keep your eyes peeled, we may just be bringing that young go-getter back for a guest spot the next time I go on vacation or lose the will to live. From the looks of my office he certainly generated more than his share of reader correspondence and acid-filled mail bombs. Kinda makes me feel...
Welcome back to me, America! Roland McShyster here, after the hiatus to end all hiatuses… hiati… hiya-hyacinth… uh, all multiples of hiatus! I'm back and on the attack, feeling refreshed after six weeks of boxin' and detoxin', as the saying goes. I'd like to take this opportunity to thank my good friend Orson Welch for filling my incredibly snazzy shoes while I was out, I'm sure he did a fine job and should I ever have a reason to read the columns he did while I was gone, that'll just confirm it. Keep your eyes peeled, we may just be bringing that young go-getter back for a guest spot the next time I go on vacation or lose the will to live. From the looks of my office he certainly generated more than his share of reader correspondence and acid-filled mail bombs. Kinda makes me feel like that guy Robin Williams played on Good Morning America to tell you the truth, and I thank you for that. Back by popular demand! But enough with the self-congratulatory bullshit, what say we get on to the movies?
In Theaters
Duplex
Somewhere out in Hollywood there's a giant magic 8-ball that's spitting out movie concepts, and I think they've forgotten how to shake the thing. In Duplex, a modern-day cross between Panic Room and Phone Booth, an engaged couple agrees to live inside a hollowed-out Xerox machine for one month as part of a radio station stunt, and the winner gets to keep the Xerox machine. Ben Stiller and Drew Barrymore star as a couple who dreams of a brighter future where they won't have to go down to Kinkos every time they need to copy a tax form or ransom note. The result is like My Dinner with Andre minus Andre the Giant's witty banter, and saying the movie makes you never want to live inside a copy machine with another person for a month is putting it mildly. There is a lot of potential for groundbreaking B.O. humor in the premise, but in a film where even the sex scenes are implausible, you have to take the whole thing with a big enough grain of salt to choke a salt donkey.
Out of Time
Now here we go with a prime example of the Hollywood's latest trend du jour: adapting popular albums into movies. So far the results of this experimental genre have been mixed at best, and any genre that was inaugurated by 1972's sterilizingly bad Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band has a lot of apologizing to do right out of the gate. But after the disappointing R.E.M./Neil Young joint project Monster's Ball in 2001, I'm surprised to say this film actually does justice to the hit R.E.M. album from 1991. My favorite chapter in the story is "Losing My Religion," where Denzel Washington plays a priest trying to figure out what to do with this naked guy who got shot by an arrow. What does it mean? Nobody knows, but it's funny because Denzel swears a lot.
School of Rock
When I heard that Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson was making his move to become a mainstream movie star, my first thought was: "Good luck, Jack Black couldn't even make that guy likeable!" Well, as usual, Hollywood set out to prove me wrong, and also as usual, Hollywood dropped the bong again. Don't get me wrong, Black is his usual spunky self as the math geek genius who is paid by the Rock's parents to tutor him with extreme prejudice, so that the Rock can get his G.E.D. and take over the family's fat rendering business. But it would take Marlon Brando to convince an audience that this meathead could pass a pregnancy test, let alone calculus, and this credibility gap exposes the film for what it really is: XXX without the action, skanks, guns or snappy grunted banter.
Shit Creek Manor
One word of advice to the unobservant: If you're going to buy somebody's creepy old haunted house and fix it up by candlelight at night, just don't. But if you decide to do it anyway, at least make sure it doesn't have some ironic name like Shit Creek Manor, because when the shit starts going down and you're running for your life from killer furniture or whatever, the irony is really going to piss you off, trust me. Second piece of advice for the film's producers: if the audience at the test screening is yelling "You gonna die, bitch!" when your heroine is in trouble and they boo when she gets out with only an involuntary hysterectomy, you just might have a turkey on your hands.
Wonderland
Val Kilmer is hilarious as the Mad Hatter in this, the lucky 10,000th adaptation of the Lewis Carroll classic. I don't know if they won a deluxe shopping spree or anything for being the 10,000th crew to make Carroll's book into a movie, but I hope they did. Lisa Kudrow was born to play Alice, a ditzy hippie chick from the Bay Area who follows a giant rat down a storm sewer and then has to play croquet with this scary-assed sewer clown. Great to see they finally got the facts right and played this one so close to the book, unlike the animated Disney version that sugar-coated Carroll's dark vision. Look out for Christina Applegate in a spot-on cameo as the sexy Cheshire Cat, and Cheech Marin chews up the screen as the burnout caterpillar who keeps insisting that "Alice isn't here, man!"
And that's the that that was this week, America. Hope you enjoyed it and would slap down a debutante to get more, because that's what we'll be doing next issue. See you then!   |