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 June 27, 2005 |
Hilton heiress Paris, seen here doing not a goddamned thing of note
Mothers were crying in the streets and children were dumping out bottles of Hilton's best-selling "Sexpot" children's bubble bath in protest upon hearing the news, and at least twelve people had to be talked down from ordering extra dessert and totally going off their fad diets after the news struck.
Internationally, distraught internet bootleg fans lamented the long nine-month-or-longer wait to see Hilton's childbirth video on the internet. Millions expressed a vague sense of malaise at the thought that whatever Hilton is famous for ...
otel heiress and mysteriously celebrity-like person Paris Hilton ruined the lives of millions this week with the announcement that in two years' time, she will retire from whatever the hell it is she does in order to start a family.
Mothers were crying in the streets and children were dumping out bottles of Hilton's best-selling "Sexpot" children's bubble bath in protest upon hearing the news, and at least twelve people had to be talked down from ordering extra dessert and totally going off their fad diets after the news struck.
Internationally, distraught internet bootleg fans lamented the long nine-month-or-longer wait to see Hilton's childbirth video on the internet. Millions expressed a vague sense of malaise at the thought that whatever Hilton is famous for doing, she won't be doing it any more twenty-four months from now.
According to local teenagers, after taking the "oops, somebody stole my sex video and now I'm really famous, isn't it funny how that works" route to career relevance pioneered by Pamela Anderson and ex-hair band dongmeister Tommy Lee, Hilton raised being famous for nothing to an art form, starring in a show about her being famous for nothing on which she didn't do anything, then specializing in ironic movie appearances that capitalized on her status as not an actress.
"She was in that, that uh, Troy movie," remembered ocelot trainer Doug Finken. "She was that pussy little brother that the Hulk had to bail out. Jesus, man, everybody remembers that."
"No way dude," disagreed Finken's companion, Artie Dolch of White Plains, Arkansas. "She was on that show Real World: Rich Bitches with Lionel Richie. How could you forget that shit? That shit was on TV for like, ten years yo. I never watched it though."
Others remembered Hilton's legendary career differently.
"I know she's got a casino in Vegas, that's for sure," explained a confident Lucia Weisman of the Bronx. "Is she European or something?"
"Oh man, she was hot in that one Winger video," added Staten Island's Frank White. "That one where she was eating that big fucking hamburger, you remember that? That bar-be-cue sauce was hot as shit."
Confident in our grasp of what slobs off the street think, we decided to head straight to the source: Paris Hilton's publicist, Liz Dick.
"She's a brand name," explained Dick.
Ookay. So, a brand of what?
"What's hot this week? Cell phones? Paris Hilton is a brand of cell phones. This week. Check back with us again next week, though, since I hear denim panties are on the rise. On second thought, don't call us again." the commune news was in a huff when we heard Paris Hilton would be retiring, but that was when we thought she was the guy who makes Plaster of Paris. Can't live without that stuff. Truman Prudy has emerged crabby but undaunted from his nine-week ordeal spent trapped inside a sleeper sofa in a friend's apartment, and is currently lobbying for mandatory safety tags reminding sleeper sofa owners to check for comatose Brits before performing the bed/couch conversion.
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500,000 new jobs created in April already outsourced
Celebrities donate lip service to needy tsunami victims
Less attractive woman kicked out of bed for eating crackers
White men dominate science positions, all non-sports positions
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At Least One
Team in SuperBowl ‘Really Came to Play’ War on Terror Finally Focused on Real Threats Who’s the Black Pit That Killed a Night Club Prick? Elevator Shaft — Damn Right Apple iPhone to Contain Real Fruit Filling |
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 April 28, 2003
Here's Your Objectivity, Dykecommune Editor Ramrod Hurley here, for one, was shocked and insulted by comments by BBC Director Greg Dyke Thursday insinuating American media coverage had lost all pretenses of objectivity. Or maybe "insinuating" was not the right word. "Outright accusing" is probably closer.
Posh, I say. Or if that's too effeminate for you: bullshit.
There's always someone from international media sources quick to charge American media coverage with being biased. Those people we call "terrorists." It's a shame to see the BBC align themselves with terrorists. Terrorists.
Speaking as the head of the commune, America's first source for third-source news, we know the virtue of objectivity more than anyone. the commune has prided itself on being an alternative source of news from its inception, and spelling its title with all lowercase letters. And though we value dissenting opinion like anyone, we recognize the importance of sharing the same dissenting opinion as those in power.
It doesn't take pure objectivity to see Iraq is a country plagued by years of repression, a government under which only suffering flourished. Even the most objective eyes can recognize Saddam Hussein was the great Satan, and only his immediate, brutal death could free his people and oil. The administration was quick to point this out, and provided evidence by way of saying it repeatedly. It was in the best interest of our nation, the people of Iraq, intangible...
º Last Column: Apologies to the President
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commune Editor Ramrod Hurley here, for one, was shocked and insulted by comments by BBC Director Greg Dyke Thursday insinuating American media coverage had lost all pretenses of objectivity. Or maybe "insinuating" was not the right word. "Outright accusing" is probably closer.
Posh, I say. Or if that's too effeminate for you: bullshit.
There's always someone from international media sources quick to charge American media coverage with being biased. Those people we call "terrorists." It's a shame to see the BBC align themselves with terrorists. Terrorists.
Speaking as the head of the commune, America's first source for third-source news, we know the virtue of objectivity more than anyone. the commune has prided itself on being an alternative source of news from its inception, and spelling its title with all lowercase letters. And though we value dissenting opinion like anyone, we recognize the importance of sharing the same dissenting opinion as those in power.
It doesn't take pure objectivity to see Iraq is a country plagued by years of repression, a government under which only suffering flourished. Even the most objective eyes can recognize Saddam Hussein was the great Satan, and only his immediate, brutal death could free his people and oil. The administration was quick to point this out, and provided evidence by way of saying it repeatedly. It was in the best interest of our nation, the people of Iraq, intangible ideas like freedom and democracy, and possibly apple pie, that we secure with military force the safety of the country.
To you critics, I say that the American media has objectively rallied behind the president in this time of crisis. For the sake of liberating Iraq from the greatest evil the world has ever known, we have put aside our need to "investigate" and "question" the administration. Those who allege we're co-conspirators with the Washington agenda in Iraq, I tell you this: Saddam Hussein gasses his own people. Do you like that? Gassing your own people? Is that your idea of objectivity? Buttholes.
We at the commune have embraced a new kind of objectivity, a quieter, more servile objectivity. It's not like we haven't tried the "objecting" kind of objectivity. We did that for years, with reporters like Raoul Dunkin and that other Duncan, what's her face, invading the personal space of Washington's top brass and asking them questions they didn't want to hear. We've even tried more a offensive, hands-on approach to reporting with correspondents like Ramon Nootles with personal space issues and groping habits, or Ted Ted who frequently quotes his friends and rants loudly in lieu of actual information. In the end, like that commercial song says, you "got" to give the people, give the people what they want. The people have spoken, and they want reinforcement.
You guys at the BBC and other terrorist-friendly news organizations can lob charges at American news all you want, but the fact is you only bitch us out as news organizations because that's what Britain and other countries want to see. Ooo, America sucks, ooo, America is full of inbred hillbillies with a gun in each hand and shouting "Whoo-hoo!" through a mouth full of overcooked hamburger. Well, that's surely true, but only anti-American European dicks would want to watch that on the news all the time. In the end, it is the responsibility of electronic media to cater to what its audience already expects to hear. And the commune's new slogan is, we cater! º Last Column: Apologies to the Presidentº more columns
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|  September 15, 2003
The Return of Boguslaw SadowskiWell, well, well, if it isn't Boguslaw Sadowski—actually, it is. Or someone who looks incredibly like him.
That's correct, good people, my old nemesis, 40 years my junior, has returned: Boguslaw Sadowski. Also known as "the mad Russian," when he gets extremely pissed off. He may not actually be Russian, but I'm not here to argue semites. All I know is he's my arch-enemy and the stakes in this game of me vs. the mob are raised considerably.
You may remember Boguslaw Sadowski posed as a woman on the internet and tricked me into paying for his flight over here from Eurasia—at least you might remember it if it happened to you. He broke my heart that day. I was all set to meet the most unconventionally beautiful woman of my life and make her my bride, only to find out I had been conned by one of the best. Sure, things work out for the better in the long run, and I met my darling Felchyana, which brings me to my current mixed-up with the mob existence. So maybe things work out for the best only to backslide into the territory of terminally fucked up once again.
But I'm rambling, which is unlike me. What's important is that although ostensibly nothing has changed, things have changed considerably. In addition to trying to find a way out of new mob family and still keep my new wife, I now have my latest worst enemy breathing down my neck.
Boguslaw is unattractive—large and burly, a pock-marked face, iron jaw, slick...
º Last Column: Not My Bag, Man
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Well, well, well, if it isn't Boguslaw Sadowski—actually, it is. Or someone who looks incredibly like him.
That's correct, good people, my old nemesis, 40 years my junior, has returned: Boguslaw Sadowski. Also known as "the mad Russian," when he gets extremely pissed off. He may not actually be Russian, but I'm not here to argue semites. All I know is he's my arch-enemy and the stakes in this game of me vs. the mob are raised considerably.
You may remember Boguslaw Sadowski posed as a woman on the internet and tricked me into paying for his flight over here from Eurasia—at least you might remember it if it happened to you. He broke my heart that day. I was all set to meet the most unconventionally beautiful woman of my life and make her my bride, only to find out I had been conned by one of the best. Sure, things work out for the better in the long run, and I met my darling Felchyana, which brings me to my current mixed-up with the mob existence. So maybe things work out for the best only to backslide into the territory of terminally fucked up once again.
But I'm rambling, which is unlike me. What's important is that although ostensibly nothing has changed, things have changed considerably. In addition to trying to find a way out of new mob family and still keep my new wife, I now have my latest worst enemy breathing down my neck.
Boguslaw is unattractive—large and burly, a pock-marked face, iron jaw, slick jet-black hair parted down the middle and a nose worn away by years of fisticuffs. The same features I found so attractive when I thought him a woman are now reprehensible and threatening. He is what the ancient Greeks meant when they coined the phrase, "a man not to be fucked with."
I wish I had that luxury. And a speedboat. But time is slippin' into the future and I'm running short on ideas. As if things weren't bad enough, now in addition to finding a way to take out Yogi and the rest of the ambiguously Russian mafia, I must contend with the world's most intimidating 5-foot noseless mobster.
I sought out Omar Bricks' advice, being something of a young ruffian himself, and I believe what he said was quite true: "A man can only be pushed so far until he explodes like a mailbox full of gunpowder." That wasn't so much his advice to me on the situation as it was a warning of what would happen if I kept bothering him for advice. But it's as true in our time as it was in his, yesterday afternoon just before happy hour.
It's clear I will have to act, and with extreme prejudice and racial epithets. But like a thick scab, I must pick my moment. Camembert is already on board, and has guaranteed he will "fight like a crazed rabbit if you drag me into this." Whether he was directing the fighting at me or our common enemy, I'm not sure, but when push comes to shove, Camembert will roll in on my side, if I push him in that direction.
My current thought is to make allies with the, let's say, "Russian" mafia while awaiting Lee's return. When Lee comes back, with his kung-fu grip and sizzling bass lines, I will finally have the backup I need to challenge Yogi for leadership of the mob. Not that I necessarily want to be a mob leader, but I've heard stories like this before—hearty and sincere white people forcing their way into gangs, taking them over, and using them as a tool for good. And if I had a Coolio song to back me up, I could even make it into a box office hit. But first thing's first.
Step one: Bide my time. Step two: Gather a bad-ass army. Step three: Challenge for leadership of the tribe. Step four: Make a hit motion picture with a best-selling soundtrack. Step five: Stop telling all my secret plans in my nationally web-published column. But that's a consideration for a more peaceful time. º Last Column: Not My Bag, Manº more columns
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Milestones1749: At this site, in 1749, nothing happened.Now HiringBag Man. Some kind of illegal-parcel-delivering hobo needed to transport sensitive packages and sleep in our dumpster. Five years dumpster-sleeping experience required. Keeping your big mouth shut skills a plus.Top Freak Dancing Steps| 1. | The Funky Jock | | 2. | Running Teenage Father | | 3. | Shotgun Wedding | | 4. | The Discarded Fetus | | 5. | The Shut Up This Is Just How I Dance | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 8/5/2002 Hey hey hey, America! A very Fat Albertesque greeting goes out to all of you out there today. The dog days of summer are upon us, but we're hangin' tough in the most real sense of the phrase, not like a bunch of pampered fifteen year-old singing poofs with their names magic-markered into their underwear elastic. Not like that at all. We're savoring the last month of summer's bounty while preparing to grit our teeth through the movie theater Death Valley that is fall. You all know I've never been a fan of dicking around any longer than is necessary or fashionable, so let's get on with the savoring!
In Theaters
Blood Work
Note to the last three desperate fanboys out there who are still...
Hey hey hey, America! A very Fat Albertesque greeting goes out to all of you out there today. The dog days of summer are upon us, but we're hangin' tough in the most real sense of the phrase, not like a bunch of pampered fifteen year-old singing poofs with their names magic-markered into their underwear elastic. Not like that at all. We're savoring the last month of summer's bounty while preparing to grit our teeth through the movie theater Death Valley that is fall. You all know I've never been a fan of dicking around any longer than is necessary or fashionable, so let's get on with the savoring!
In Theaters
Blood Work
Note to the last three desperate fanboys out there who are still arguing that Clint Eastwood isn't getting old: His latest thriller revolves around the premise of waiting for blood test results to see if his character does or does not have Alzheimer's. Can you handle the suspense? Was his recent pantsless serenade of the president's daughter the result of neurofibrillary tangles and senile plaques in his brain, or has he just been out on the range too long? And if it isn't the former, can he remember the number for his defense attorney? Meanwhile, a sadistic killer is leaving Eastwood clues at the crime scenes that may allow him to crack the case wide open… or is Clint just forgetting to pick up after himself? And who changed all the presets on his car stereo?
Full Frontal
With all of the premiers and screenings and special viewings that Hollywood movies have these days, it's often necessary for a director to watch his own movie up to a half-dozen times, whether he likes it or not. Usually this isn't a big deal, but since Steven Spielberg's last movie was the eight-hour floater A.I., I had to wonder what effect this would have on him. The answer is clear in Spielberg's latest film, which can be best described as a valentine to the lobotomy. America's favorite talking reindeer, Julia Roberts, stars as the film's lobotomized heroine who discovers that life, network sitcoms and popular music are all a lot more fun once you've had your cerebellum neutered. Roberts drools her way through the role with an intensity I thought she reserved only for People magazine photo shoots.
Love and a Ballet
Love and Basketball director and "funniest pseudonym" award winner Gina Prince-Bythewood tries to double-dip that chip and gets burned bad in this terribly conceived urban drama. Rap star Treacle stars as a hip-hoppin' mad black ballet star who falls in love with a French ballerina and must learn to do ballet by the rules, something that goes against all of his trash-talking street-style ballet instincts. Once again, Hollywood overestimates urban America's taste for ballet and rap stars in tights. If somebody doesn't get shot at the premiere, I'm going to call and ask for my money back.
Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio of Disguise
Lately it seems like everybody is trying to cash in on the unexpected success of 1999's Being John Malkovich by grafting a real celebrity onto their own half-assed pot brainstorm. This time the premise is that the chick from Robin Hood is dressed up as Dana Carvey, playing herself in drag in a movie about an Italian waiter. If you're confused, don't feel bad: they had to film the movie in sections with three different crews so nobody would try to figure out what it was supposed to be about, which became necessary after three gaffers exploded during pre-production. In the end, the film is just a run-of-the-mill mindfuck, about on par with Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band and Beaches.
Spy Kids 2: The Island of Lost Diaries
Everybody's favorite anonymous preteen Latino superspies go AWOL and give up the spy game when they discover a secret island crammed to the gills with kids' diaries, stolen by the evil chimpanzee minions of Professor Nosprabloom. Can their crotchety 30 year-old parents convince them that saving the world is more important than laughing their asses off all day while they read the private confessions of every kid alive? The parents come armed with stacks of US Weekly and People magazines as a form of eavesdropping methadone, but will it be enough? The franchise is back with another worthy installment that's a big improvement over Spy Kids Breakdance Fever and Spy Kids and Mary Kate & Ashley's Best Sleepovers. Everyone's as good as you'd expect them to be, but to be honest I don't think they can get away with casting Cheech Marin as a ten year-old much longer.
XXX
Oscar winner Tom Hanks is out to sabotage his typecast image as a bedwetting malcontent in this gruff action thriller cut from the same cloth as Buford's Beach Bunnies and Jeff Speakman's With a Grenade Crammed Up Your Ass. Don't let the title get you too excited, though, all three of the X-es refer to Hanks' three ex-wives, who have hatched a diabolical plan to mess up his shit and take over Eastern Europe as a side-note. Many in the audience won't even recognize Hanks, who put on over 100 pounds of beef for the role and pulls off the monotone part so well you'll think he can't act at all. Easily Hanks' best "against-the-grain" role since he played that scary-assed clown in Stephen King's Itshay.
That's all she wrote, boys and girls. Be sure to swing back this way in two weeks to see what's washed up, dead and bloated, on the shores of entertainment. You can bet Roland will be there, poking it with a stick and taking detailed notes. Until that time, watch one for me, America.   |
