Dean to America: "Sorry I Yelled at You"

n another self-critical apology on national news, Vermont Governor Howard Dean tried to cheer up teary-eyed Democrats by letting them know, once again, he was sorry he yelled at them last Tuesday.

“Clearly, I was in a bad mood, or at least it seemed like I was in a bad mood,� Dean spoke slowly, in his lecture tone on Friday’s CBS Evening News With Dan Rather. “I want to make it known again, I was not yelling at you. I was just having a bad day.�

Blubbering Democratic and fence-riding undecided voters have chastised Dean, along with his supporters, for an almost human display of emotion following his third-place finish in the Iowa caucus last week. The candidate, previously holding a fair lead over other Democratic presidential nominees, has since appeared on every national media outlet except for the Food Channel and Screw! Magazine to let everyone know his yelling should not mistake him for being an exciting candidate.

“Understand,� Dean continued later, on NBC’s Later with Carson Daly show, “sometimes, you and your campaign people put a lot of work into getting your message out there, and it only helps you come in third in a state full of corn-chucking sons of—I’m sorry, sorry. Again, I’m not mad at you, Iowa. I mean, you can probably go and hand the thing to Bush right now, if you want, but—I apologize. I’m getting off message. I’m just saying, John Edwards? Isn’t he the guy that talks to dead people? How does John Edwards beat me? Tell me that and I’ll shut up.�

Dean’s efforts to apologize haven’t wavered since Tuesday’s outburst. He again tried to amend his statements and not go ballistic Saturday on M-TV’s Punk’d, with Ashton Kutcher.

“Sometimes I get a little riled up. I’m only human, or 80 percent human by-product, and I get mad sometimes. Like when Ashton made me think my car had been crushed into a cube—that was pretty funny, dude. But when I lost my temper, it wasn’t because I couldn’t take a joke. And that’s what the Iowa caucuses are, after all, right? Big fat jokes. John Edwards beats me, yeah, like I’m so sure—sorry. I’m losing my focus. What I mean to say is, sometimes, we candidates get mad and we fight with each other. But we’re not yelling at you, Democratic voters. It’s not your fault. Unless you’re from Iowa—lousy little outhouse right smack dab in the middle of America—�

Despite repeated outbursts on other news shows, Dean managed a reserved manner on Saturday morning’s Flatbush, New Jersey cable access show, 4 a.m. with Boner Cunningham.

“We’re taking lumps on this one, true, but it’s not distracting us from our campaign. The problem with this country is George W. Bush and a wayward administration, and we’re taking that message to the New Hampshire caucus, and people are responding. The Iowa caucus was a disappointing setback, but the New Hampshire caucus will show my campaign hasn’t suffered. I admit, I’m not a perfect person. I am capable of getting mad. Like when you introduced me as ‘that weird yelling guy’ on your show, or when you asked me if my statement of having ‘warts’ meant they were on my genitals. You think it’s funny, but it’s just the kind of thing that might send me into a rage if I weren’t so focused on the upcoming caucus and—look, you little shit, the word is ‘caucus,’ there’s nothing funny about it. Quit sniggering before I come over there and give you something to wail about.�

Needless to say, this reporter didn’t, and the governor did. We can safely say I think the commune has found a candidate worth endorsing.

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Hey commune:

Grady Volsang here again, for the first time. Pissed off? Yeah, that's right. You must've got a warning call from my wife. Seems like you can't piss out a window in this town without cheesing off some bleeding-heart liberal, that's what I've noticed. But I'll be a pitbull's bitch if I give a greased Jesus what those weasels think. I've said it before, and I'll say it again this afternoon, after my hydrotherapy: I'm done with Donettes. You know, those little donuts that come in a package? Yep, through with them. Finished, kaput. Don't even try to sell me any, because you'll be sorely disappointed. I've eaten those things every day for forty years and I still haven't had a good one. So you know what? Nuts to you, Mr. Donette. You had your chance. From now on I'm taking my business to the Sno-Balls camp. I hear they know how to treat a fella.

Grady Volsang
Verno Beach, FL


Dear Grady:

We here at the commune couldn't agree with you more, Grady, even if we knew what you were talking about. What is clear, however, is that you are some kind of missing link that science has spent eons in search of. Your unfortunate body could speak volumes to the right researchers, about the effects that ingesting several tons of stale donut meal over the decades could have on blood pressure, IQ, running speed, cancer of the ass, and one's resistance to being gutshot. You owe it to America, Grady, to be autopsied immediately.

the commune

---

Editor's Note: the commune is not responsible for anything we may have done while under the influence of pure cane sugar.

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There are a couple of different ways to go about getting yourself a new car. What most people do is they exploit the underclass until they've got enough greenbacks to roll up on Mr. Mercedes or Mr. Benz and slap one of them in the face with a stack of $100 bills. "Booya, bitch! Where's my wheels?" or however the classy blueblood expression of that sentiment comes out. This doesn't work so hot for the members of the exploited underclass, who lack the sufficient Benjamins to make for an impressive slap-stack, so most of them have to stick a gun in somebody's face to keep from having to take the bus to church on Sundays.

As for the rest of us, the poor suckers stuck in-between who are too cheap for caviar and too soft for prison, we have to get creative.

For a while I thought I might be able to screw The Man (or at least The Man's fine trophy wife) and increase the Omar Bricks Needs a Goddamned Car Fund by playing the stock market. Seemed easy enough, since it's basically just like a horse racing with companies, except you don't have to worry about any of the companies banging their funny bone on the starting gate and throwing the jockey into the stands when the buzzer goes off. I knew I never should have bet on a horse named "Buyer's Remorse."

Plus on the stock market they don't give the companies misleading names like "Jailbait" that make them sound really fast but then it turns out they're just not fully-grown. I've always thought the FCC should step in and require that they give the horses accurate names, like "Shithead," "Slow as Fuck" and "Money Pit." Some kind of truth-in-advertising type thing. I guess when they vow to protect consumers they don't include degenerate gambling consumers under that umbrella, the self-righteous pricks. Sure, the racing form's not going to look as cool when half the horses are named "Shitbird" and "Gonad," but that's a small price to pay not to have the horse you bet on get lapped in a one-lap race. It's especially rough on the kids when they shoot a horse before the race is even over. But what in the hell are little kids doing betting on horse races, anyway? They should be off betting on cartoons or some shit.

So playing the market sounded easy enough, at least compared to betting on horse races. That was like having a license to print IOUs. But any old idiot can predict what products are going to hit or flop, or at least that's what I thought before all my stock in the Swiss Piss powdered lemonade brand tanked. I'm just glad I didn't invest in those chocolate logs you float in the punch bowl for when you throw a party, those things didn't do very well at all. At least I got out from under Swiss Piss before the lawsuit hit.

I guess my broker truly lived up to his name, since I did end up broker than when I'd met him. But he said it was probably all for the best, since I didn't stand to earn much from only owning one share of stock. And that's what pissed me off, why even call it a "share" when you're going to reward some rich prick for gobbling up thousands of the things then and give me the shaft for only having one? That doesn't sound much like sharing to me, the greedy bastards.

But that was all water under the dyke when I realized that all I needed to get my car funds together was to hold a really bitchin' raffle. People go apeshit for a raffle, and it's better than the lottery because I don't get any money from the lottery. So a raffle was definitely in order.

I went down to the bus station to talk to my good friend and local raffle organizer Poontang Douglas, and we got the particulars in order. The tickets sold out fast when people heard the prize was something in a "mystery box." Raffle freaks love that shit.

What they didn't know, and this was the brilliant part of the plan, was that it turns out the prize in the box is a shitload of tickets to the raffle. That ought to keep 'em guessing, right?

Well, I don't know about you, but when I'm guessing I usually sit there and scratch my head a little, maybe look up at the ceiling or something, you know? I sure as hell don't set the bingo hall on fire. Goddamn degenerate gamblers.

Bricks out.

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