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Bush Adds Segway Scooters to "Axis of Evil"June 23, 2003 |
Kennebunkport, ME Assad the Unseen President Bush taking a digger that had nothing to do with his âAxisingâ of the Segway Human Transporter pon returning from his weekend vacation in Kennebunkport, Maine on Tuesday President Bush announced that the Segway Human Transporter, a motorized scooter popular among newsmagazines and eccentric billionaires, had been added to the âAxis of Evilâ over the weekend. The âAxis of Evil,â a list of rogue nations designated by Bush in 2002 for future âliberation back to the stone age,â originally consisted of Iran, North Korea and Iraq. Cuba, Libya and Syria were later added to the list after an underattended Bush birthday celebration in July. The list has taken on a broader tone in recent months, as the roll call of the presidentâs âAxisâ enemies has been expanded to include the environment, ice cream headaches, the city of Toronto, STDs, gay bikers, ABCâs primetime l...
pon returning from his weekend vacation in Kennebunkport, Maine on Tuesday President Bush announced that the Segway Human Transporter, a motorized scooter popular among newsmagazines and eccentric billionaires, had been added to the âAxis of Evilâ over the weekend. The âAxis of Evil,â a list of rogue nations designated by Bush in 2002 for future âliberation back to the stone age,â originally consisted of Iran, North Korea and Iraq. Cuba, Libya and Syria were later added to the list after an underattended Bush birthday celebration in July. The list has taken on a broader tone in recent months, as the roll call of the presidentâs âAxisâ enemies has been expanded to include the environment, ice cream headaches, the city of Toronto, STDs, gay bikers, ABCâs primetime lineup, cold sores, childproof Advil and Blue Oyster Cult. This seemingly neurotic daily expansion of the list has led to the ironic cultural trend of âAxisingâ disliked pop-culture fads or unpopular coworkers in wiseass circles nationwide. âBritney Spears? Sheâs so âAxisâ right now,â gossiped clubgoer Ryan Barnes. âSheâs worse than North Korea, talk about stockpiling weapons of mass deSUCKtion! Ha ha. Oh, and piercing. Iâm so fucking sick of piercing.â Much speculation has surrounded the timing of Bushâs âAxisingâ of the Segway Human Transporter, which took place concurrent with grainy home video footage hitting the Internet that showed Bush falling off a Segway like a big retarded ape last weekend in Maine. While the Bush administration has denied any link between the two events, the public remains skeptical. âDid you see that shit?â gasped college sophomore Dennis Porter. âThat was tha bomb, I almost shit when that gimp wanged his nuts on that gay-ass scooter thing! Who does he think he is, Devo?â The Segway Human Transporter was unveiled in December of 2001 after a full year of speculation and claims that Dean Kamenâs mysterious new invention would change the world forever. Once unveiled, the transporter was met with embarrassed silence from an American public that had thought it was going to be a hovercar or android man or something incredible like that. âThanks to the Segwayâs four internal gyroscopes, itâs nearly impossible to fall off of the transporter,â explained inventor Kamen. âWe used to just say it was impossible, but then we discovered that if you get a blind guy drunk enough, and have him try to ride it down some stairs, sometimes they can manage. And now, well, the president thing of course.â In his speech, Bush vowed to embargo any possible shipments of Segway scooters destined for North Korea, keeping the dangerous fad toy from falling into the hands of Kim Jong Ilâs bizarre regime. The president, however, did not take this opportunity to explain what use the North Koreans would have for an expensive goofy scooter that looks like George Jetsonâs lawnmower.
the commune news thought those razor scooters were going to change the way we lived forever, so weâre not about to be fooled twice concerning the revolutionary power of scootering. Lil Duncan has yet to have a president fall off of her mid-ride, but the term is still young.
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 September 5, 2016
Return to Zender (Week 280)I donât even know where to start, bizarrely loyal commune fans.
Much like when you attempt to make a casserole, itâs tempting to try and trace the thread back and discover where exactly you went wrong. Was it when you added the pickles? Was it when you had the idea to make a casserole in the first place? Was it when the NSA kicked your front door down and dragged Ivan Nacutchacokov screaming and flailing out into the night?
Some pundits would surely argue that inviting Crochet! magazine to set up shop in my motherâs attic was asking for trouble. Due to simultaneous downturns in the publishing and Kleenex box cozy industries as well as rising insurance premiums, Crochet had lost their lease on their Assflush, New Jersey offices, which theyâd moved to a few years ago without leaving a forwarding address after Omar Bricks somehow burnt down their office in Asslatch. Some momâs-basement-dwelling conspiracy theorists (I donât mean that as a dig, I mean they literally live in my momâs basement and work for the commune) argued that Bricks couldnât have burnt down the Asslatch offices since he was in jail in Panama at the time.
But all reliable witnesses tell the same story, that Crochet! received an anonymous package in the mail that turned out to be a huge box of annoying glitter that got absolutely everywhere, and that the glitter somehow combined with the seven gallons of elephant shit Bricks had previously...
º Last Column: Return to Zender (Week 50) º more columns
I donât even know where to start, bizarrely loyal commune fans. Much like when you attempt to make a casserole, itâs tempting to try and trace the thread back and discover where exactly you went wrong. Was it when you added the pickles? Was it when you had the idea to make a casserole in the first place? Was it when the NSA kicked your front door down and dragged Ivan Nacutchacokov screaming and flailing out into the night? Some pundits would surely argue that inviting Crochet! magazine to set up shop in my motherâs attic was asking for trouble. Due to simultaneous downturns in the publishing and Kleenex box cozy industries as well as rising insurance premiums, Crochet had lost their lease on their Assflush, New Jersey offices, which theyâd moved to a few years ago without leaving a forwarding address after Omar Bricks somehow burnt down their office in Asslatch. Some momâs-basement-dwelling conspiracy theorists (I donât mean that as a dig, I mean they literally live in my momâs basement and work for the commune) argued that Bricks couldnât have burnt down the Asslatch offices since he was in jail in Panama at the time. But all reliable witnesses tell the same story, that Crochet! received an anonymous package in the mail that turned out to be a huge box of annoying glitter that got absolutely everywhere, and that the glitter somehow combined with the seven gallons of elephant shit Bricks had previously mailed to Crochet!, forming some kind of prank napalm. All it took was a spark from the teddy bear Omar had delivered a week later that sang Happy Birthday to You in a loud, high pitched voice over and over nonstop for a week before melting down and catching on fire, igniting the napalm and Crochet!âs huge stash of crocheted shawls, baby hats, coasters and old lady slippers they were holding onto in case of a governmental crackdown or the endtimes. Needless to say, the resulting fire was huge and weird and didnât smell very good. As possibly the worldâs only commune/Crochet! fandom dual-citizen, I couldnât pass on the once-in-anyoneâs-lifetime-ever chance to rescue both of my favorite publications and quickly dispatched a singing telegram to invite the Crochet! staffers to share space with my momâs horrific doll collection in the attic. No one was more surprised than I was when they accepted, especially since it violated several restraining orders Crochet! themselves had filed. But the promise of free rent and Raoul Dunkinâs lawn pit BBQ proved to be too much to resist. Some opinionated commenters have suggested that I upset the natural balance of things by having Crochet! in the attic and the commune in the basement, reversing the long-standing tradition of Crochet! being the communeâs "asshole downstairs neighbors" as the entire commune staff continued to call them even after months of them living and working two floors above. And I was constantly reminded of how this messed up Griswald Dreckâs famous rhyme " Crochet! on bottom and commune on top, fuck you Aesop!" which everyone loved even though nobody was sure which fable he was referencing. But, frankly this arrangement just made more sense since the commune staff were constantly burying their various mistakes in the crawlspace under my basement and I knew if I put the commune in the attic, all of those mail-order brides and dead Pomeranians would just get shoved out the window and end up on my lawn. And besides, there was always the buffer of the main floor of the house between the two staffs, an air gap full of my mom and Doug having sex that even I hated to cross. I figured that would be enough, but of course itâs obvious now this was like stuffing a wolverine and a Kardashian in a sack and expecting things to work themselves out. Honestly, things did go pretty smoothly for the first few months, a few driveway knife fights notwithstanding. It took a little while to get the Crochet! folks up to speed on how to deal with Ivana Folger-Balzac since they werenât used to dealing with psychopaths, but before long they were dropping into the fetal position on the ground like pros the second she pulled into the driveway on one of her frequent visits in hopes of getting someone to slip up and give up Ivanâs whereabouts. They also adjusted well to the conga line of bill collectors and process servers constantly flowing up the front steps all day, and if you ask me in their time here they published some of their strongest special issues on potholders and cat diapers ever. But then, of course, Omar Bricks found us. Say what you will about him, but that guyâs Crochet!-dar is impeccable. He never actually finished a column while he was here, I think mostly because he was so busy making Crochet!âs life completely miserable, to the glee of the rest of the commune staff. Those few weeks are kind of a blur in my memory, I remember Omar replacing all the fruit roll-ups with fly paper, and replacing their toilet seat with a thin paper replica. At some point heâd got a whole case of tiny walkie talkies at Costco and proceeded to install them in all of my momâs horrific dolls in the attic. You havenât been woken up until youâve been woken up by 57 deeply disturbing porcelain dolls singing Sex Dwarf at 4 in the morning. But the last straw was when Omar asked the Crochet! staffers to watch his dog Foghat while he went to Burning Man. I know that sounds kind of anti-climactic but trust me, that attic was uninhabitable within 48 hours and I had to call FEMA after the hardiest survivors from the Crochet! staff had cleared out. I must apologize commune readers, but the thought of all those Crochet! staffers flocking to the bus stop with their little crocheted suitcases and beanies is a little too much for one Emil Zender to bear just this moment. Check back in next week, brave friends, and weâll bring the rest of this tale home. Zincerely, Emil Zender º Last Column: Return to Zender (Week 50)º more columns
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|  December 9, 2002
I Want to Be a CartoonI was really enjoying that new Adam Sandler movie until someone told me it was a cartoon. Maybe it's my lousy depth perception, but I couldn't tell. He had all the usual facial range, I just thought they air-brushed him in the film or something. But no, he was a cartoon in it.
I didn't really like cartoons until that. Cats and mice running around trying to destroy each other... so? All I can think about is how some talented actors are out of work because some stupid sidewalk artist worked cheaper. I work cheap, folks. And don't give me any of that crap about special effects or anything. Shoot at me, stick firecrackers in my mouth, drop me off a cliff and toss an anvil down afterâyou don't know how bad I want to work. And stupid cartoons are taking perfectly good jobs.
Well, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em, that's what I say. Or somebody said it. I said if you can't beat 'em, hire someone bigger to do it, but that doesn't apply in this case. I got to thinking about the cartoon stuff, though, and decided I could do thatâthe voices, I mean.
I went to my agent, DustyâI call him that because he's so old his skin has flaked into a fine layer of powder over his entire bodyâand told him to get me some voice work. He sent me to a telemarketing firm, so I obviously went back and had to straighten things out with him. He's ancient, people, he's scared of new-fangled technology, like telephone devices. But he did get me a voice audition at...
º Last Column: The Net Lacks Fake Nude Clarissa Coleman Pics º more columns
I was really enjoying that new Adam Sandler movie until someone told me it was a cartoon. Maybe it's my lousy depth perception, but I couldn't tell. He had all the usual facial range, I just thought they air-brushed him in the film or something. But no, he was a cartoon in it.
I didn't really like cartoons until that. Cats and mice running around trying to destroy each other... so? All I can think about is how some talented actors are out of work because some stupid sidewalk artist worked cheaper. I work cheap, folks. And don't give me any of that crap about special effects or anything. Shoot at me, stick firecrackers in my mouth, drop me off a cliff and toss an anvil down afterâyou don't know how bad I want to work. And stupid cartoons are taking perfectly good jobs.
Well, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em, that's what I say. Or somebody said it. I said if you can't beat 'em, hire someone bigger to do it, but that doesn't apply in this case. I got to thinking about the cartoon stuff, though, and decided I could do thatâthe voices, I mean.
I went to my agent, DustyâI call him that because he's so old his skin has flaked into a fine layer of powder over his entire bodyâand told him to get me some voice work. He sent me to a telemarketing firm, so I obviously went back and had to straighten things out with him. He's ancient, people, he's scared of new-fangled technology, like telephone devices. But he did get me a voice audition at this big animated studio.
Let's just say we didn't get along. There's no room for improv in cartoons, it turns out, and their writers are complete crap, totally unrealistic dialogue. If someone was hitting you with a hammer, which would you say: "Hey, Telly! Ooch! Ooch! That stings!" or "Step off, motherfucker, or I'm a rip your head off and skull-fuck you!" The stupid director tries to tell me they can't say "skull-fuck" on Saturday morning cartoons, but everybody remembers that one Smurf used to say it all the time. I told him I'd clean it up but after a few rehearsalsâwell, you'd be surprised what you can't say on Saturday morning these days, or as I like to think of it, "Satur-Nazi morning."
I figured then I'd try to get on one of those night-time cartoons like The Simpsons, but they said they only hire celebrities to do voices. I know, ooch, that stings. Been on the air twelve years and they think they know showbiz better than me. I even called back, pretending to be Tracey Gold from Growing Pains, but they told me the same thing. I bet they wouldn't have said that if I told 'em I was Boner.
Well, if all that fails I can at least try pitching an idea for my own cartoon show. How hard can it be?
My idea is border collie, just like Lassie, and I'm always getting into funny jams week after week. Say like my owners have this baby and they're neglectful parents and shit, they leave me to watch the baby but the baby gets out and buys crack or something. Now I've got to get the baby to chill out and mellow before the parents get back. Oh, and I talk. I'm a talking border collie with a catchphrase, like, "Holy shit!" or something. More clever, maybe, I don't plan on writing it. Just pitching the idea and sitting back to collect those Creative Consultant checks. It doesn't have to be a border collie either. It could be a malamute or something funnier. I'll let the writers work on it.
What I'm saying is that I've got ideas, folks, big fat gold-shitting ideas. Somebody needs to ring me up and put me back on TV, even in two dimensions. º Last Column: The Net Lacks Fake Nude Clarissa Coleman Picsº more columns
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Quote of the Day“Why do birds suddenly appear, every time you're near? Bitch, you stink like birdseed.”
-DJ Qwik BitzFortune 500 CookieThis is really going to be your week: You will be held personally responsible for everything that happens on the world stage this week. Try bathing with Comet instead of soap for a change, trust us, it's just as good. Your lucky haircuts: Duck's Ass, Ant Hill, Elephant's Crotch, Bill the Cat, Baker's Dozen, Louisville Doosey, Bung Wipe.
Try again later.Top Rejected Muppets| 1. | Pasta Monster | | 2. | Mr. Cancer Dog | | 3. | Turd Bird | | 4. | The Leaping Leper | | 5. | Pig Bird | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Wyatt Chomski 10/14/2002 The Lover of BonerbrookeThe sun was smoldering a warm blood red, but with more orange, near the horizon as Chaska bent delicately over the basin and cut loose a powerful stream of half-digested salmon. A bit of salmon, anyway, a bite, which had served as the fishy icing on top of a gargantuan feast of cupcakes, pies, pure Bolivian chocolate, ice cream, strawberries, pastries, raw cookie dough, pickles, glazed ham, Valentine's Day truffles, flapjacks, pork roast, gingerbread, aerosol whipped topping, potatoes in cheese sauce, beef tips, Twinkie filling and a tall glass of gravy, all of which Chaska had stuffed down her delicately sculpted throat and crammed into her petite, dainty stomach in the last three quarters of an hour.
As Chaska tended to her ravishing figure, the setting sun nuzzled up...
The sun was smoldering a warm blood red, but with more orange, near the horizon as Chaska bent delicately over the basin and cut loose a powerful stream of half-digested salmon. A bit of salmon, anyway, a bite, which had served as the fishy icing on top of a gargantuan feast of cupcakes, pies, pure Bolivian chocolate, ice cream, strawberries, pastries, raw cookie dough, pickles, glazed ham, Valentine's Day truffles, flapjacks, pork roast, gingerbread, aerosol whipped topping, potatoes in cheese sauce, beef tips, Twinkie filling and a tall glass of gravy, all of which Chaska had stuffed down her delicately sculpted throat and crammed into her petite, dainty stomach in the last three quarters of an hour.
As Chaska tended to her ravishing figure, the setting sun nuzzled up against the horizon, burning a deeper red, darker and darker, seeming to pulse as it sought refuge from the barren sky in one blissful, sinful, erotically inevitable plunge below. Finally, with a sigh whispered on the breeze, the earth surrendered and allowed the sun to penetrate its horizon, thrusting its fiery, molten love into the earth's ample back hills.
Wiping an errant fleck of ham skin from her bottom lip, Chaska lathered her porcelain hands and splashed the bracingly cold water on her taut, naked body. Running her hands over her impossibly sensuous figure, both elegant and voluptuous, yet surprisingly athletic all at once, she gazed longingly into the mirror, awaiting her lover's touch like a Saint Bernard waiting for a rawhide bone to come out of the pet store bag.
Alas, it was a touch that could never come, since Lance had perished all those long months ago, defending her honor against a street vendor who had insisted on exact change. Still in mourning, Chaska pulled on the lacey, semi-transparent panties she had worn throughout her bereavement and marveled one last time at her awe-inspiring body, which she'd always enjoyed without ever working out but had never let go to her head. She slipped into a slinky, backless evening gown that she liked to wear when she was lamenting a lost love, for the comforting way it hugged her curves and cradled her breasts like a sterling serving platter, as she prepared for another night of remembering Lance.
Just then, there was a noise at the door, and Chaska twirled around to discover Bane Ratham, the white-hot multimillionaire hunk that everyone knew really ran things behind the scenes in Bonerbrooke, standing in the open doorway. His shirt torn in an erotic fashion and his taut, beefy man-tits heaving, it was obvious he had run straight from town on foot, possibly not stopping to open Chaska's front gate.
"Chaska," Bane panted, out of breath in a manly, erotic fashion, not like a wheezing asthmatic. "It struck me while I was out working up a manly sweat, mentoring orphaned Chinese boys, that I couldn't bear to live another second of my life without you. I came here as fast as I could. Sorry about your gate."
Chaska melted inside and instantly swooned from the overwhelming eroticness of it all, but instead of falling, she found herself cradled in Bane's bulging arms, like a pair of boobs in an evening gown. "Quench my burning fire, Chaska," Bane pleaded, his smoky gray eyes fixed on Chaska's soul like snipers of love. Chaska nodded a dazed nod and reached for her diaphragm before Bane gently stopped her hand.
"But first, I want you to marry me," Bane whispered, gesturing to a shirtless, rock-hard, desperately hot priest standing in the doorway, his white collar cutting repressively into his bulging, well-tanned neck. "This is my brother Dave, he's a priest."
Chaska drank in the priest with a long, taboo gaze. She glanced back up into Bane's smoldering eyes and smiled.
"Hello Dave," Chaska cooed, with a twinkle in her eye.   |