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Negative Ads Nastiest EverMarch 15, 2004 |
Washington, D.C. Snapper McGee's TV One the first in this season's line of vicious political "snaps."
Democratic debates for the past several weeks, indeed as early as they started, painted unpleasant, however true, pictures of President Bush as a "man" out of touch with the people and leading America down a path toward unjustified war and economic chaos. Bush, sitting on a monster-sized war chest of campaign finance, reserved specific retaliations until John Kerry emerged as the Democratic front-runner. Many theorize Bush was urged to action by comments ...
n what some broadcasters are calling "news," negative ads have come from both camps lately attacking the leading presidential candidates George W. Bush and John Kerry. Making the ads particularly noticeable is the level of enmity and unfounded allegation passing muster in attempts to gain early lead in the presidential race.
Democratic debates for the past several weeks, indeed as early as they started, painted unpleasant, however true, pictures of President Bush as a "man" out of touch with the people and leading America down a path toward unjustified war and economic chaos. Bush, sitting on a monster-sized war chest of campaign finance, reserved specific retaliations until John Kerry emerged as the Democratic front-runner. Many theorize Bush was urged to action by comments made by Kerry calling allegations on his defense record as false and referring to those behind the ads as "the most crooked" "lying group I've ever seen." The Bush campaign demanded and apology, and 50 lashes with a leather whip—no, 60! 100! 100 lashes!
The Democratic campaign refused to apologize, and were outraged when an ad began running Friday in major markets, following Thursday's historic terror attack in Madrid which killed 200 people. The ad showed President Bush laying a wreath at the Spanish embassy with an ominous voice narrating: "Thursday, when Spain was the victim of terrorists, President Bush was in the White House all day. Several people saw him. Where was John Kerry?"
Representatives of the Kerry campaign, teen-agers working the phones, described the attacks as "unbelievable bullshit." Campaign insiders suggest the "vicious character" attack inspired the release of a television ad they had originally thought too harsh for airing. The ad uses headlines and quotes from a Los Angeles Times story pointing to a division of intelligence in the Pentagon that privately briefed the White House on Iraq's alleged weapons of mass destruction, and may have been broken the chain of command and been responsible for the failure of intelligence. The Kerry campaign comment on the story was in text: "WtF?" Those knowledgeable in abbreviations inform us the letters mean "What the fuck?"
The Bush campaign hit back Saturday, with a speculative radio ad featuring the same ominous voice, saying, "You know, they never did catch the killer of Jon Benet Ramsey. John Kerry—you ever been to Colorado?" The ultimate insult, according to insult experts, was the added tag: "John Kerry: Soft on defense, sweet on little girls?"
Democrat campaign spokespeople described their candidate as "super-pissed," but promised retribution in the form of ads that would "tell it like it is." Sunday morning found the airing in metro markets of a hastily-assembled new Kerry ad. In it, aerial photographs of Roswell, New Mexico play to accompanying voice-over. "People are hearing a lot of things about Area 51. And the president hasn't been very forth-coming on what's there. If it's nothing special, why don't we get to see it? But if there's an evil alien menace lurking in the heart of New Mexico… what will it look like?" At which point a super-imposed picture of the president in his jet fighter suit appears on the screen. "George W. Bush. A pilot… but not of our planes."
Also joining the advertising this week was Ralph Nader's under-funded campaign, who passed around a flip book to supporters in town halls. In it, as one flips the pages, a stick figure appears to dance, while text at the bottom of the page indicts the other major campaigns: "The two-party system has the same old song and dance." the commune is currently on a waiting list to receive the flip book when everyone else is done with it. the commune news believes in running a positive campaign against our opponents, and that's why we can say we're positive the folks at Crochet! magazine have bizarre sacrificial rituals every night when the rest of us are heading home. Bludney Pludd is nothing but negative, and doesn't even have enough confidence to disagree with all the nasty things we say about him.
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Head of Colombian airport drug-sniffing dog department put down
Workplace shooting "had to happen on a Monday," says victim
New photos of Iraqi prisoners in Barely Detained Magazine
Robot car falls significantly short of standards set by Knight Rider
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Appeals Court Rules Hilton Legitimately Too Pretty to Survive Prison Climatologists Cross Legs Uncomfortably at Mention of Bangkok Conference Merck: “Crazy-Ass Brazil Giving AIDS Drugs to People With No Money” Poison Probe Reveals 90% of Packaged Foods Actually Dog Food |
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 April 29, 2011
Return to Zender (Week 2)First off, I wanted to apologize to our newly loyal readers about the comments form not working, I know some people have been trying to use it but something is messed up the code, so all that comes through is nonsense about Viagra and oatmeal cookies.
But more importantly: Orgasmic news, everyone! I’ve found Raoul Dunkin! I know, that phrase has never before in the world been uttered. I kid, Raoul, just a little old-school commune humor. But seriously, you could peel me off the ceiling when I got an anonymous tip on our commune reunition hotline (1-800-COM-MMIE) the other day saying that Raoul had been running a political news and commentary site called www.spankrag.com until it recently folded, and since then he’s been bagging groceries at a Pamida in Scottsdale. Before you could say "Spankwhat?" I was down at the library digging up a Scottsdale phonebook and within hours I had Dunkin himself on the line. After seventeen minutes of explaining who I was, Mr Dunkin’s memory was violently jogged. And better yet, he agreed to join forces with me at the commune redux! On the condition that I get the word out about the Spankrag saga. And so I’ll waste no time doing that, here in Raoul Dunkin’s own words:
"Although the website did fail, I disagree wholeheartedly with those who claim it was because of the name. Some insist that Spankrag.com was an inappropriate name...
º Last Column: Return to Zender
º more columns
First off, I wanted to apologize to our newly loyal readers about the comments form not working, I know some people have been trying to use it but something is messed up the code, so all that comes through is nonsense about Viagra and oatmeal cookies.
But more importantly: Orgasmic news, everyone! I’ve found Raoul Dunkin! I know, that phrase has never before in the world been uttered. I kid, Raoul, just a little old-school commune humor. But seriously, you could peel me off the ceiling when I got an anonymous tip on our commune reunition hotline (1-800-COM-MMIE) the other day saying that Raoul had been running a political news and commentary site called www.spankrag.com until it recently folded, and since then he’s been bagging groceries at a Pamida in Scottsdale. Before you could say "Spankwhat?" I was down at the library digging up a Scottsdale phonebook and within hours I had Dunkin himself on the line. After seventeen minutes of explaining who I was, Mr Dunkin’s memory was violently jogged. And better yet, he agreed to join forces with me at the commune redux! On the condition that I get the word out about the Spankrag saga. And so I’ll waste no time doing that, here in Raoul Dunkin’s own words:
"Although the website did fail, I disagree wholeheartedly with those who claim it was because of the name. Some insist that Spankrag.com was an inappropriate name for a cutting-edge political news site, but that’s only because they didn’t understand the name’s many clever layers of meaning. I chose the word "spank" because I wanted my site to spank the forces of ignorance and oppression with the big, meaty palm of information. And I chose the "rag" part to express my rage at the status quo and the complacency of everyday Americans in the face of having their rights stripped away one by one. To answer the obvious question, yes, I did originally want to name the site www.spankrage.com, but this was already taken by a pornography website."
Welcome back, Raoul! I have it on good authority Mr Dunkin will be providing us with cutting-edge news content for the commune in the exceedingly near future. Which is a good thing, because I had tried my hand at penning some news pieces myself to fill the gap and they were so terrible my neighbor’s dog broke into my bedroom and ate them. So I guess the world will never know about the disturbing goings-on down at the Shanesly Senior Center’s shuffleboard courts. Perhaps it’s all for the best, some news is so dark it serves no useful purpose other than to turn one’s soul away from the light.
In lighter news, I also found Roland McShyster! Sort of. I was buying some milk down at the Safeway when I realized there was a wet sheet of paper stuck to the carton. It wasn’t even glued on or anything, just stuck on because the milk carton was wet. All the milks had them. And as I squinted to make out the waterlogged type, I suddenly realized I was reading Mr. McShyster’s inimitable take on the art of modern cinema. Holy moley! (Seriously, spellcheck? You’ve never heard of moley?) I instantly bought three cartons of milk and raced home to upload Roland’s column to the website. After I got home I realized all three were the same, so now I have a shitload of milk for nothing, but it was still worth it to see the Safeway manager’s face when I casually name-dropped that I know the guy who’s been sticking movie reviews to their milk. You can imagine he was impressed. He was less thrilled that I didn’t know where Roland could be located, and my memory was too poor to provide an accurate sketch they could give to the store’s security guards, but I still think my stock has gone way up at the local Safeway.
If you have a tip about where more ex-commune staffers might be hiding, and for some reason have something against telephones (not that I blame you), I encourage you to let your fingers do the talking. Email me at Emil_Zender_remove the space, add the year Spain achieved independence times three, apologies if I don’t get back to you right away, sometimes I mix up that date in my mind, for like a month I thought it was 1847, I don’t know why I thought that, it was just weird, but anyway I couldn’t get into my gmail for a whole month until I realized that wasn’t the date at all… wait, isn’t that the date? Shit, now I’m confused again@gmail.com. Sorry for all the subterfuge but you have to be careful about Spam these days, Hormel will send entire cases of that nasty crap to anyone who isn’t careful with their info online.
This is really happening, folks! Get in on the ground floor so you can say you were here when the commune rose from the ashes like a crack fiend who had fallen asleep on the couch!
Zincerely,
Emil Zender º Last Column: Return to Zenderº more columns
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|  May 13, 2002
Fiddle"In childhood I first discovered music. For my birthday Dad gave me a fiddle, and a year later, for another birthday, he gave me a bow. I was so happy when fiddle met bow and made beautiful music. Or failing that, sharp screeching sounds that I enjoyed.
Dad never paid for any lessons or allowed me to read any books on how to play fiddle because he thought that would be cheating. Nor would he allow me to play outside the home because he thought it would permanently ruin our family name. But once I was home from school and barricaded myself in my room, I was free to wail away on my fiddle and teach myself how to play.
Of course, that never happened. It was a fiddle. I had no concept of music in the slightest, I couldn't tell a G string from a G-string like the kind a stripper wears. I never even knew if the thing was in tune or not, it was really unfair of Dad to give me a fiddle without even a book or anything. What did he expect me to do? Learn how to play from the brilliant members of my family? Stephanie played a little piano and Goose played a little craps. Not the kind of braintrust you can rely on for a musical education.
I didn't even learn until three weeks ago that a fiddle and a violin are the same instrument. I was disgusted to learn I had been playing a classical instrument the whole time. My dreams of being a world-champion fiddle player were instantly dashed. Which is to say they were probably dashed years ago when I...
º Last Column: The Plan
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"In childhood I first discovered music. For my birthday Dad gave me a fiddle, and a year later, for another birthday, he gave me a bow. I was so happy when fiddle met bow and made beautiful music. Or failing that, sharp screeching sounds that I enjoyed.
Dad never paid for any lessons or allowed me to read any books on how to play fiddle because he thought that would be cheating. Nor would he allow me to play outside the home because he thought it would permanently ruin our family name. But once I was home from school and barricaded myself in my room, I was free to wail away on my fiddle and teach myself how to play.
Of course, that never happened. It was a fiddle. I had no concept of music in the slightest, I couldn't tell a G string from a G-string like the kind a stripper wears. I never even knew if the thing was in tune or not, it was really unfair of Dad to give me a fiddle without even a book or anything. What did he expect me to do? Learn how to play from the brilliant members of my family? Stephanie played a little piano and Goose played a little craps. Not the kind of braintrust you can rely on for a musical education.
I didn't even learn until three weeks ago that a fiddle and a violin are the same instrument. I was disgusted to learn I had been playing a classical instrument the whole time. My dreams of being a world-champion fiddle player were instantly dashed. Which is to say they were probably dashed years ago when I realized I couldn't even play 'Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star' after 20 years with the damned thing.
You can imagine how frustrating it was when I found out Dad was a world-champion fiddle player himself and never mentioned it to me. He could have at least showed me how to hold the bow so the string part was touching the strings of the fiddle, I only learned that yesterday." º Last Column: The Planº 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're set loose and Fancy free, since your cat Fancy ran away. The girl checking you out at Safeway is indeed the lead singer of Deee-Lite. If one thing gets your goat, it's goat theft—consider a goat lock. Lucky Wilburys are Boo, Spike, and Lefty.
Try again later.Top 5 commune Features This Week| 1. | Interview: Lindsay Lohan's Clitoris | | 2. | Seven Bitches for Seven Pimps | | 3. | Uncle Macho's Out-of-Season Spiced Egg-Nog | | 4. | Fear and Loathing in Los Lobos | | 5. | Critics' Corner: Music Reviews to Shame You | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Vinder Ferfsson 9/16/2011 The Goth Chick With the Attitude
Tuesday, January 18-Thursday, January 20
The Chief Inspector walked the courtyard, wishing he had worn something more suited to the Icelandic weather, even something slightly more masculine. But they only played The Rocky Horror Picture Show once a month, and he promised himself when he started work as a homicide detective he wasn’t going to give up his personal life for anything. Still, the nylons weren’t as flattering as his plaid trousers.
An outline in the snow marked where the body had fallen.
Grooves marked where it had been dragged away.
To where, nobody knew.
It was a classic "whodunnitandwhere’ditgoaftertheydunnit."
*
Humdrummus Pretentious. In the...
Tuesday, January 18-Thursday, January 20
The Chief Inspector walked the courtyard, wishing he had worn something more suited to the Icelandic weather, even something slightly more masculine. But they only played The Rocky Horror Picture Show once a month, and he promised himself when he started work as a homicide detective he wasn’t going to give up his personal life for anything. Still, the nylons weren’t as flattering as his plaid trousers.
An outline in the snow marked where the body had fallen.
Grooves marked where it had been dragged away.
To where, nobody knew.
It was a classic "whodunnitandwhere’d itgoaftertheydunnit."
*
Humdrummus Pretentious. In the native tongue, it’s known as a crimson willow. It was brought to the continent by African immigrants as far back as 200 A.D. The long off-yellow stem gives the bulbous red petals a perch from which to adjaksdfaskdadjksdasa Oh, shit, did I doze while typing that? Well, fuck me, it’s a flower. You can’t expect me to really care about background information on a flower. Where’d the goddamn murder mystery go? Still waiting for a stupid body. Let’s just pretend we went through the unnecessary flower background, it’s important for a red herring later. Shit, wasn’t supposed to say "red herring." But that does make me hungry. Let me grab lunch.
*
Hansel Bergenbjörgenfurd had lost everything that mattered to him. His keys as well. He had to rent a car to take him up to the Forfürgen Estate. Never in all of his career as a down-and-out crime reporter had he ever seen such a palatial mansion. Everyone at the Forfürgen Estate was so rich they could afford to dress every letter on every sign in umlauts. As a young boy in Reykjavik, Bergenbjörgenfurd had dreamed of having multiple-umlaut wealth. But like his once-promising journalistic career, all of Bergenbjörgenfurd’s dreams had died.
Through the umlaut-laden hallway he passed, admiring the pictures of long-dead relatives who might be important later, I’m just saying. The butler, because I should have mentioned there was a butler, led him into the Lunch Hall, which was adjacent to the Breakfast Hall and on the opposite wing from the Brunch Hall, the Dinner Hall, and one floor beneath the Midnight Snack Hall. There waited Erbst Skafaldingyad.
"Mr. Bergenbjörgenfurd," said Erbst Skafaldingyad.
"Please, call me Hansel," Bergenbjörgenfurd insisted.
"I wouldn’t dream of it, Mr. Bergenbjörgenfurd," said Erbst Skafaldingyad, smoking a Barginfarg brand cigarette. "Let’s cut to business, Mr. Bergenbjörgenfurd: I wish to hire you."
Bergenbjörgenfurd was stunned, and slightly exhausted. "I don’t work as a reporter anymore. I don’t care how much money you have."
"We have all the money," Skafaldingyad said. "All of the money in Iceland."
"Oh, then I do care."
"We have a murder we wish you to investigate," said Skafaldingyad. "If you are successful, it could restore both your name… and your career. But you will need help. The help of a Goth chick. With an attitude."
*
At home with her laptop computer, Muriel Salamander crunched on Snöktjargon cookies and surfed the internet. She had hacked the bank account of a disreputable corporate slimeball and was transferring all his money to NOW, just for laughs. She was always doing such things of a highly moral nature and questionable legal status. It helped her forget the horrible secret in her past, which is revealed on page 435, if you simply can’t wait to find out later.
She was a girl of modest height, with jet-black hair that she dyed even blacker, shining green eyes that all innocence had left, a killer body, several tattoos on her neck of unicorns and lygers, and a giant nosering.
A knock at the door grabbed her attention. Could that be the cops there again? She mistrusted all cops, and all men. Most cops were men, so she mistrusted them twice as hard.
She cracked the door, then figured she could continue her kung fu later, the guy was still knocking. Opening the door only part way, she saw an older man that she was inexplicably hot for.
Bergenbjörgenfurd was shocked by the appearance of the girl inside the apartment, particularly the gold nose ring she wore. I should mention that while it’s 2011 in much of the world, it’s 1988 in Iceland.
"Muriel Salamander? The Goth Chick With the Attitude?" asked Bergenbjörgenfurd. He held up pictures of an empty, body-shaped gouge in the snow. "I need your help finding a dead man. And then solving that dead man’s murder."   |
