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January 31, 2005 |
Baghdad, Iraq Sloe Lorenzo An Iraqi citizen teaches her daughter the value of “really sticking it to some jerk” as she votes for her choice for representation in the General Assembly—also known as “the green mile.”   atastrophe struck Saturday when 275 random Iraqi citizens were sentenced to death by election to the General Assembly in the first free elections in Iraq’s history. Somehow, amidst the threat of violence and the actual violence in which potential voters were killed trying to attend the polls, 275 individuals were selected for unknown reasons to represent the various designated regions of their country, condemning them to a life full of terrorist violence and victimization by fanatic groups. Some speculators say a few of the newly-elected yet-to-be-killed assemblymen actually wanted the job, as organized groups of Kurds and Shiites in particular voted despite the danger to capture a greater control of the country than they have traditionally had. Others say, that as may be, ...
atastrophe struck Saturday when 275 random Iraqi citizens were sentenced to death by election to the General Assembly in the first free elections in Iraq’s history. Somehow, amidst the threat of violence and the actual violence in which potential voters were killed trying to attend the polls, 275 individuals were selected for unknown reasons to represent the various designated regions of their country, condemning them to a life full of terrorist violence and victimization by fanatic groups. Some speculators say a few of the newly-elected yet-to-be-killed assemblymen actually wanted the job, as organized groups of Kurds and Shiites in particular voted despite the danger to capture a greater control of the country than they have traditionally had. Others say, that as may be, come the first meeting of the General Assembly, you will be able to count the number of people not being dragged to the capitol building on one hand—the hand of an Iraqi thief, as the joke goes. An estimated 280,000 Iraqis living outside the country voted via absentee ballot Friday, marking about 25% of the vote. While the absentee ballot traditionally favors George W. Bush, the results have not yet been tabulated, so some of the poor bastards destined for bomb threats and random shootings don’t even know there’s a ballot with their name on it yet. Of those Iraqis living abroad, who had the luxury of voting without being subjected to random acts of terror, 60,000 were living in neighboring Iran—presumably for the safety the non-U.S.-occupied country provides. However, some of Iraq’s new electorate could be determined by early results already, and were quite optimistic about the future. “I believe I will live well past sundown,” said Abiri Al-Hussah, revealed as the winner of his district’s election, a small section just outside Tikrit. “Anything after that is up for grabs. I damn the son of dogs who nominated me for the ballot—a thousand deaths be handed down from Allah to the chronic masturbator.” Others had a less rosey view of their future in Iraqi politics, such as Jukret Dutat, a newly-elected official from Kazul. “Well, shit,” said Dutat, as a translator deciphered for us. “This is what I get for not getting a subscription to the newspaper. You sideswipe one [untranslatable]’s car on the freeway and—boom!—you’re elected. This is not fair. I have no interest in politics and have no hope for a democracy in Iraq. I am here not by the will of the people, but because I could not resist brandishing the sign of Chula to slow drivers. This, as they say, completely chomps the dicks of goats.” U.S. President George W. Bush, himself a winner by a wide margin of a seat on the General Assembly, which he’s ineligible for since he’s not a citizen of the country, saw the best hope for the future by the comparatively terror-free success of the election. “The Iraqi people finally have a governing body in places—several bodies, in fact,” said the president, with his always-enlightening poor choice of words. “These are brave, freedom-loving men who will be happy to serve their people in the legislative branch of their country—not that they have much choice in the matter. You’re picked, you serve. End of story. Your sacrifice will long be remembered by your country, when they’re one day no longer blowing up their leaders.” In Baghdad, Nassawa Al-Badib, the majority leader of the Shiite party, likely to become the next president of Iraq as the representative of the party receiving the largest vote, had great ambition for the country’s steps into democracy. “At last we will be able to show the world, Arab and non-Arab alike, that Iraq is not a place of cruelty and violence. I will embrace my new role in the government, and guide my country out of these shadows, into its bright future. I will do this, of course, from my new home in Sarasota, Florida.” Al-Badib quickly boarded a jet leaving the country and gave the twin two-fingered “victory” salute made famous by Dick Nixon. the commune news understands that government should represent everyone, but this “absentee ballots” stuff is goofy—if you can’t be bothered to show up, why should you get a vote? Given these hard standards of ours, you’ll understand why Ivan Nacutchacokov’s vote in our “Should We Sell Everything in Ivan Nacutchacokov’s Desk” election doesn’t count. Want to buy some snapshots of Ivan with his dog?
 |  Unveiling of First Black Disney Character Raises Some Concerns No rule against dog running in Kentucky Derby
 Big Whup: Whale Swims Across the English Channel  Turkey to Block Offensive Websites; commune Offers Pre-Emptive "Fuck You" |
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 11, 2005
Plot PointsOkay, I've been accused by my screenwriting teacher of writing movie scripts without plots. This would be forgivable if I could work in some major special effects, or maybe the illusion of a really complicated plot (what they call "Matrixism" now in Hollywood) but apparently I can't do anything like that. My screenplay is a small indie movie, meaning that I only have three car chases and I'm casting actors nobody's ever heard of—besides myself.
My first screenplay was the shark thing, but I got tired of being laughed at every time I read the shark's lines in class—and I admit I didn't think much about it, how hard it's going to be casting a shark who can act. Then I changed him to a bear, but "never work with bears" is, like, Hollywood rule #5, so that didn't help it at all. Then I found out Paramount and Dreamworks are both working on their own underwater bear-attack movies, so I dumped that puppy quick.
Next Nancy suggested I work on something more autobiographical, which I thought meant about the life of my car, but apparently it's a fancy word for just writing what I did today. I'm thinking easy street! But it's a lot harder than it sounds.
Most of the scenes are like: "Fade in. I'm going to the store and shit, just to get hamburger meat because I'm sick of eating at fast food joints because the burger is 90% bun, which is just their way of ripping you off. I also bought a big jar of hamburger-sliced dill pickles, because...
º Last Column: Bumped Again! º more columns
Okay, I've been accused by my screenwriting teacher of writing movie scripts without plots. This would be forgivable if I could work in some major special effects, or maybe the illusion of a really complicated plot (what they call "Matrixism" now in Hollywood) but apparently I can't do anything like that. My screenplay is a small indie movie, meaning that I only have three car chases and I'm casting actors nobody's ever heard of—besides myself.
My first screenplay was the shark thing, but I got tired of being laughed at every time I read the shark's lines in class—and I admit I didn't think much about it, how hard it's going to be casting a shark who can act. Then I changed him to a bear, but "never work with bears" is, like, Hollywood rule #5, so that didn't help it at all. Then I found out Paramount and Dreamworks are both working on their own underwater bear-attack movies, so I dumped that puppy quick.
Next Nancy suggested I work on something more autobiographical, which I thought meant about the life of my car, but apparently it's a fancy word for just writing what I did today. I'm thinking easy street! But it's a lot harder than it sounds.
Most of the scenes are like: "Fade in. I'm going to the store and shit, just to get hamburger meat because I'm sick of eating at fast food joints because the burger is 90% bun, which is just their way of ripping you off. I also bought a big jar of hamburger-sliced dill pickles, because I'll eat those fuckers like Pez. Anyway, I get to the store and the meat guy—what'cha call 'em? Butchers? He's giving me the eye real funny, because it looks like I'm wearing just a bra and underwear in the store, but it's really a swimsuit, and if it isn't, what the fuck, he can't tell. So I say: "Why don't you do a wall-carving, caveman? It'll last longer."
The script is really flying now. It's just like writing for the commune, because no one's editing me. I figure, 89 more pages of this and I'll have the summer's feel-good comedy all banged out. But I take in about 30 sample pages and, the way everybody looks while I'm reading it, you'd think I brought them Hitler's book. What did he call that? Mein Kampf and Musings. Everybody thinks it's all over the place and not going anywhere in particular—like how I drive. That kind of crack is real personal, and upset me bad, but they had a point about the screenplay. I might watch a movie about me flirting with a mechanic to get out of paying for an oil change job, but you make it somebody not me and I'm walking out.
So Nancy introduced me to plot points. If you can point to a script in a couple places and say, "There, that must be the plot," then that means you've got a plot. You should be able to do it at least a couple of times. The first plot point is where you say, "Aw, shit, what's this asshole getting himself into?" Then the second plot point starts everything toward the resolution, or as the French say, the ending. It's when you can point at the screen and say, "Hey, asshole's got a plan to get out of this!" It's like the two plot points in a Scooby Doo episode are when the gang meets the old caretaker or whoever who tells them to stay away from the old amusement park. The second plot point is when Freddy comes up with the plan with the roller skates and beer barrel to catch the ghost. It's amazingly simple when you explain it in Scooby Doo terms, but that goes for just about everything.
I'm going to have to go back and fake a plot point in my script, and I'll see if that doesn't trick everybody into thinking it's good. If that doesn't work, I'll have to sketch out a new idea. It's a shame, though. I would've loved to act out that part in the script where I catch the drug dealer and break his arm for selling me cheap stuff. But fuck it, as the French say. Hollywood isn't ready for a true Coleman film yet. º Last Column: Bumped Again!º more columns
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|  November 12, 2001
First Kiss"I remember quite clearly the first girl I ever kissed. I was very young and inexperienced, no older than 13. No younger than 13 either. In fact, I was 13.
She was a very self-assured woman, slightly older, around 16. She wore confidence like a dress, and she wore her dress like a dress, so it was like she was wearing two dresses, but both matched her rose-colored shoes.
Her hair was long and feathery, golden, not real gold but just blonde, though calling it 'golden' makes it sound more poetic, I like to think. Her lips were fat, naturally so, not like mine that were still fat from that playground fight with the ugly kid a day before. No, her lips were beautiful, like sweet candy wax lips and you wanted to taste but not eat because that would be disgusting.
'Do you want to kiss me?' she asked. I'm no fool, so I told her I did, though I was very nervous.
I could tell she was very reluctant, wearing a shy smile and a twinkling sparkle in her eye as she tried to play all normal about it. And, kiddies, that li'l devil I was, that 13-year-old Sampson L. Hartwig, I leaned in and planted the most fantastic kiss on her lips.
'That's an extra dollar,' she reminded me, but it was worth every penny as she put her clothes back on while I watched to make sure no flatfeet cops were cruising...
º Last Column: Penpal º more columns
"I remember quite clearly the first girl I ever kissed. I was very young and inexperienced, no older than 13. No younger than 13 either. In fact, I was 13.
She was a very self-assured woman, slightly older, around 16. She wore confidence like a dress, and she wore her dress like a dress, so it was like she was wearing two dresses, but both matched her rose-colored shoes.
Her hair was long and feathery, golden, not real gold but just blonde, though calling it 'golden' makes it sound more poetic, I like to think. Her lips were fat, naturally so, not like mine that were still fat from that playground fight with the ugly kid a day before. No, her lips were beautiful, like sweet candy wax lips and you wanted to taste but not eat because that would be disgusting.
'Do you want to kiss me?' she asked. I'm no fool, so I told her I did, though I was very nervous.
I could tell she was very reluctant, wearing a shy smile and a twinkling sparkle in her eye as she tried to play all normal about it. And, kiddies, that li'l devil I was, that 13-year-old Sampson L. Hartwig, I leaned in and planted the most fantastic kiss on her lips.
'That's an extra dollar,' she reminded me, but it was worth every penny as she put her clothes back on while I watched to make sure no flatfeet cops were cruising by." º Last Column: Penpalº more columns
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Milestones1750: Antonio Salieri, second-rate composer and eternal inspiration to the commune. His alleged murder of Mozart, as portrayed in Amadeus, forever encourages us in our war with Crochet! magazine.Now HiringStepchild. Just sit around and eat and drink me out of house and home without ever raising a finger. Hey, I'm talking to you, you little shit. There ain't no law says I got to be nice to you just 'cause I'm knocking boots with your mom.Top Selling Dog Food Flavors| 1. | Kibbles 'n Christ | | 2. | Meow'd Mix | | 3. | Low Carb Horse Nuggets | | 4. | Tastes Like Ass Smells | | 5. | Upchuck Wagon | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Southern Elvis Brandon 6/10/2002 The Negative Sum of NumbersThere was something disappointing about going home from New York Art College. A depression set in as soon as Smythe drove his middle-class luxury car across the borders of his old California hometown, Burnt Pines. He was here to spend a few weeks of his summer vacation before flying first class to Europe to live life as a starving artist, where he would make a killing.
Mom and dad couldn't meet Smythe at the airport because he wanted it to be a surprise. Also, they were emotionally distant and mom was haunted by the sexual abuse of Smythe by an uncle that she couldn't prevent; but mostly because it was supposed to be a surprise.
Only one person knew about Smythe coming in, his best friend Eddie "Big Fucking Junkie" Joneser. Eddie was supposed to meet Smythe at...
There was something disappointing about going home from New York Art College. A depression set in as soon as Smythe drove his middle-class luxury car across the borders of his old California hometown, Burnt Pines. He was here to spend a few weeks of his summer vacation before flying first class to Europe to live life as a starving artist, where he would make a killing.
Mom and dad couldn't meet Smythe at the airport because he wanted it to be a surprise. Also, they were emotionally distant and mom was haunted by the sexual abuse of Smythe by an uncle that she couldn't prevent; but mostly because it was supposed to be a surprise.
Only one person knew about Smythe coming in, his best friend Eddie "Big Fucking Junkie" Joneser. Eddie was supposed to meet Smythe at the airport, but once again, Eddie had let him down. Smythe was forced to fly back to New York City and drive all the way back in his car. You'd think after all this time he'd be used to Eddie letting him down. It was something he had never gotten used to.
Smythe went to Eddie's parents' house, where there was a huge hub-bub going on. Apparently, there was a party in full gear! Shit. Just like Eddie. Saturday afternoon and the party is still going on.
Parking his car, Smythe walked around back and found the yard full of fat degenerates. Ugly, down-trodden, just aching for a fix or to gamble or have sex with a dead person, no way of telling how far these people had slid from society's ranks.
"Where's Eddie?" demanded Smythe. People were confused and a little frightened, one was pregnant, and a guy eventually pointed toward the house.
Smythe stormed through the house, bumping into freak after weirdo, until he found the upstairs bathroom. Two guys were standing around doing God knew what, holding cocktails and waiting outside the bathroom. Smythe kicked it in, and inside, to his suspicions, he found Eddie sitting on the toilet.
"Jesus!" said Eddie, pulling up his pants. "You scared me, Smythe! I had to pinch one off!"
"Stop the act, Eddie," Smythe commanded, looking in the toilet for drugs. "I know you flushed the drugs down the toilet. And then pooed in there so I wouldn't search too good. Why, Eddie?"
"I—"
"Shut-up! I don't want to hear your lies anymore." And he didn't. Smythe dragged Eddie out by the arm as Eddie continued trying to pull his pants up. Smythe tossed him to the floor, as one of the suited guys entered the bathroom.
"C'mon, man, be cool!" pleaded Eddie.
"Knock off the act, Eddie, you're a junkie!" snapped Smythe. "I know you're jealous of me. I went to Art College, Eddie, it doesn't mean I don't still love you like a brother. If you want to be jealous, that's fine, but don't lose yourself in these ridiculous drugs. You're killing yourself."
"I told you, I don't take drugs!" said Eddie.
"Fuck you, Eddie," said Smythe, in a language that would have disappointed his mother. "You not only take drugs, you make them! Everybody knows it, it's no secret."
"I told you this before, man, I make an acid-reflux inhibitor. And I don't make it myself, I'm just CEO of the company that makes it. It's over-the-counter—"
"Aaaah!" screamed Smythe, grabbing his head like James Dean. "Stop the lies, Eddie!"
"It's the truth, you dick," said Eddie, standing up again and straightening his tie. "And for the last time, I'm not jealous of you going to Art School. I told you, I graduated six years ago with a Masters in Business Management from Princeton. Now if you're done interrupting the company picnic, I've got a three-legged race to win."
It was too much for Smythe. He let Eddie exit in peace, talking to another guy in a suit about fourth quarter earnings and appeasing stockholders. He just wanted to walk away, but Smythe knew if he didn't do something Eddie would be dead before he was 30. Next month.   |