|
$abernathie='2005/0530/';
$abernathietitle='Legends of Suck';
$bagel='2005/0829/';
$bageltitle='Taking Back the commune';
$book='2005/0829/';
$boris='2005/0509/';
$boristitle='Boris Does Love Jehoma';
$childstar='2005/0829/';
$childstartitle='The End of an Error';
$dreck='2005/0829/';
$drecktitle='First Griswald Dreck Chat Transcript';
$dickman='2005/0718/';
$dickmantitle='Tom Cruise Loves That Woman ';
$dunkin='2005/0328/';
$dunkintitle='Highway to Hell';
$edit='2003/1222/';
$fanmail='2005/0516/';
$fanmailtitle='Volume 63';
$finger='2005/0822/';
$fingertitle='To Hell With This Desk';
$fortune='2002/020121/';
$goocher='2005/0711/';
$goochertitle='Gwar of the Worlds';
$hanes='2005/0704/';
$hanestitle='Pink is Not for Men';
$hartwig='2005/0606/';
$hartwigtitle='Parade';
$hooper='2005/0228/';
$hoopertitle='Vernon Hooper’s Fifth Syphilis';
$hurley='2005/0404/';
$hurleytitle='Time of Healing';
$kroeger='2005/0822/';
$kroegertitle='Charity Case';
$loser='2005/0822/';
$losertitle='Lost Leavings';
$ned='2003/0818/';
$nedtitle='Cyantology';
$pickle='2002/020513/';
$pickletitle='State of the Art';
$poet='2005/0704/';
$police='2005/0822/';
$polio='2005/0822/';
$poliotitle='WEASELS-B-GON';
$rent='2005/0829/';
$renttitle='For the Last Time Deidrebane, Those Aren’t the Feds';
$reynolds='2005/0425/';
$reynoldstitle='A Series of Unfortunate Evans';
$hartwig='2004/1206/';
$hartwigtitle='O Captain!';
$sickhead='2004/0419/';
$sickheadtitle='The Legendary Spot of Coco Hobari McSteve';
$ted='2005/0530/';
$tedtitle='The New War on Poverty';
$vanslyke='2005/0606/';
$vanslyketitle='Health Food is Full of Shit';
$zender='2005/0425/';
$zendertitle='The Sixth commune Enthusiasts Club Meeting';
?> | 
Former CIA Director Doesn’t Know SportsApril 30, 2007 |
Washington, D.C. Snapper McGee Former CIA Director George Tenet admits he doesn’t know dick about sports in his new book. In an old White House photo, Tenet tries to bluff his way through a description of a "goal and two assists" he saw in a televised game of checkers.   h, baby, there’s being a girl and then there’s being a girl—know what I’m saying? Take as an example former CIA Director George Tenet, the man who complains in his new book At the Center of the Storm that he became a poster boy for the fuck-up in Iraq and that his comment "It’s a Slam Dunk, Mr. President," was used as grounds for the Iraqi invasion and taken out of context. Now it turns out that, according to Tenet’s new book, the problem is trying to use sports terminology in the workplace without knowing shit about sports.
Like a lot of women out there, this reporter only watches sports for the unspoken erotic tension between the players and the frequent male touching. But honey, at least I watch. Which leaves straight boys like George Tenet...
h, baby, there’s being a girl and then there’s being a girl—know what I’m saying? Take as an example former CIA Director George Tenet, the man who complains in his new book At the Center of the Storm that he became a poster boy for the fuck-up in Iraq and that his comment "It’s a Slam Dunk, Mr. President," was used as grounds for the Iraqi invasion and taken out of context. Now it turns out that, according to Tenet’s new book, the problem is trying to use sports terminology in the workplace without knowing shit about sports.
Like a lot of women out there, this reporter only watches sports for the unspoken erotic tension between the players and the frequent male touching. But honey, at least I watch. Which leaves straight boys like George Tenet trying to fumble (another sports term) around the office to describe international situations in a language the president can understand. If he don’t know sports and the president don’t know international politics, they might as well be speaking Swahili and German to each other, sweetie.
In Tenet’s new book, the freshest alibi that testifies he’s someone else who didn’t do shit to cause the unpopular war in Iraq, the former CIA Director tells how he responded to the president’s question about the intelligence that Iraq had weapons of mass destruction (WMD is so 2003 now), to which Tenet replied with the damned expression "Slam Dunk." But Tenet says the case against him is not so clear.
"The president likes to receive all of his briefings in language that the public can understand," Tenet wrote of his former boss and frequent sly critic. "This makes it easier for the razor-sharp mind of President Bush to prepare information for his press conferences—with so many things on his plate like writing a balanced budget, researching the privatization of health care, and his late-night situation meetings, sports terminology can get the point home to the American people without the president complicating the matter with the convoluted jargon familiar to President Bush, but strange to our ears.
"In this matter, I incorrectly clarified the intelligence case for Iraq’s possession of weapons of mass destruction as a ’Slam Dunk.’ I have very rarely ever seen a football game, so using this terminology was my mistake. I should have gone with ’home run,’ which is at least familiar to me because of dating slang. I did not mean that the ball was knocked out of the park. I meant that that thing happens where—what’s the term for when a player pretends to throw the ball, but you’re not sure he did, and any player could have or not have the ball? A ’clusterfuck,’ maybe? Whatever that thing is, that’s what I meant to say. Boy, I must have really messed up my sports lingo, though."
Tenet’s book further criticizes politicians out there, including the White House, for making him the scapegoat for the war because of the "Slam Dunk" comment. When the intelligence for Iraq was revealed as faulty, detractors pointed to Tenet as the face for the flawed intelligence system and put the burden on him and his people for a war that many accusers say was initiated only by the president’s interests. Tenet goes on to describe the process as "just plain mean."
Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice was uncharacteristically frank in her response to Tenet’s charges in her response with Wolf Blitzer on CNN Sunday.
"George screwed the pooch and he knows it," said Rice. "That’s not a sports term, so maybe I won’t have to translate it for him. We should send him to the penalty box for his knocking us over it all, but he wouldn’t know where the fuck it is anyway." the commune news is way familiar with sports terminology, and frequently likes to invent our own to liven things up. By the way, did you see the Cubs totally pontoon that short-sheet into the baker’s dozen last week? Total bullshit. Correspondent Stigmata Spent is also total bullshit, if you’re looking for a genuine lady to go out clubbing with, but she knows her football, and she’s more fun to talk to.
 | Large undecided voter population in Japanese election lack honor
Boston husband challenges legality of no-sex marriages
 Impotent Landslide in China Kills Only Micro-Fraction of Glorious Population Contraceptive sponge returns to shelves; squarepants still unmarketable
|
Chief Justice Rehnquist: Dead as Disco at 80 he world sighed a mournful “Oh” upon hearing of the death of Chief Justice William Rehnquist, who led the U.S. Supreme Court for 19 years and formed the holy conservative trinity of the court. Rehnquist is the second justice to retire from the Supreme Court this year, and never to be outdone, Rehnquist chose the more dramatic exit method of death in office.
The Chief Justice announced his diagnosis of thyroid cancer last year and his refusal to retire from the Supreme Court, angering liberals and conservatives alike by his reluctance to make the playing field more interesting. Never one to quit, Rehnquist had suffered greatly in recent months from radiation for his cancer treatment and a tracheotomy, actually performed by an over-anxious boyscout on a visit to the nation’s capitol. Kansas City Royals Win Little League World Series n the midst of one of the most embarrassing seasons in baseball history, the lowly Kansas City Royals saved some face this week, defeating the defending champions from Willemstad, Curacao in a stunning upset to claim their first Little League World Series title. Kansas City took the game 7-6 on first baseman Matt Stairs’ takeout of Curacao catcher Willie Rifaela during a collision at the plate in the bottom of the 11th inning. Rifaela held onto the ball, but Stairs was ruled safe since Rifaela flew off the playing field at the moment of impact. “Willie gave it a hell of an effort,” praised Curacao manager Vernon Isabella. “Especially considering he was outweighed by nearly 200 pounds in the collision. If he hadn’t come out of his shoes like that when the American hit him, I think we could have held on to win the game.” Heather Graham’s Career Found Dead in Apartment Polish Roof Falls in Following “Drinks Are on the House” Debacle |
|  |
 | 
 September 15, 2003
Look Out for FuzzOh crap, Boris is in trouble with law.
Yes, is true. Is worse than time Boris use hair blower to dry off in shower, then finds out is against hair blower law.
Boris is moving Louis mattress other day, to get valuable things when Louis is out on street making robot money. Boris doesn't not have mattress of own for to put valuable things underneath, so must be sneaky to use Louis mattress when no persons is looking. Don't worry, is normal thing to do on TV and movies. Over times Boris has many valuable things hidden under mattress, like pretty soaps and collection of nickels in piglet bank. Louis doesn't not know even of this thing, is so secret. But him does complain back is hurting from sleep lousy so maybe Louis back does know this secret.
OK, so Boris wants to get under mattress to look at valuable things, is right? Well, lesson one is even if Boris wants to climb under mattress to be secret when looking at things, is so hot in there not a good idea. Better to move mattress instead. So Boris is moving mattress with little paper handle for grabbing, you know thing. But handle is shit and come off like no good. Then Boris looks at thing and is printed note saying "Boris, you are not to tear off this thing or the police will shoot you so many times." This is scary warning for Boris to go to jail for so long like funny persons on COPS show because he is so bad to rip off tag thing.
"Oh crap," thinks Boris. "This is bad kind...
º Last Column: Wave Hello to Heat º more columns
Oh crap, Boris is in trouble with law. Yes, is true. Is worse than time Boris use hair blower to dry off in shower, then finds out is against hair blower law. Boris is moving Louis mattress other day, to get valuable things when Louis is out on street making robot money. Boris doesn't not have mattress of own for to put valuable things underneath, so must be sneaky to use Louis mattress when no persons is looking. Don't worry, is normal thing to do on TV and movies. Over times Boris has many valuable things hidden under mattress, like pretty soaps and collection of nickels in piglet bank. Louis doesn't not know even of this thing, is so secret. But him does complain back is hurting from sleep lousy so maybe Louis back does know this secret. OK, so Boris wants to get under mattress to look at valuable things, is right? Well, lesson one is even if Boris wants to climb under mattress to be secret when looking at things, is so hot in there not a good idea. Better to move mattress instead. So Boris is moving mattress with little paper handle for grabbing, you know thing. But handle is shit and come off like no good. Then Boris looks at thing and is printed note saying "Boris, you are not to tear off this thing or the police will shoot you so many times." This is scary warning for Boris to go to jail for so long like funny persons on COPS show because he is so bad to rip off tag thing. "Oh crap," thinks Boris. "This is bad kind of shit." Is true. Boris can imagine hearing funny COPS song out window, but is not so funny when Boris is one crawling under fence while police dogs bite on his fanny. This ruins joke of song. Boris does turn out all lights and hide behind stove like no one is home. If police persons come with Boris-sniffing dogs, they will not find Boris because they are smelling food smells from stove. Is so easy to fool dogs this way, because they are not tall enough to see what is behind stove. After while stove hiding place does get uncomfortable, and there is bugs who lives back there and does not like Boris at all. So Boris does move and hides in closet behind vacuum machine, where carpet is soft on Boris fanny. But after while this does get dark and boring, so Boris move to hide behind couch, where there is magazines to look at and laugh. This is more fun way to hide. After more while Boris is hiding on couch because gameshow is on, but Boris is ready to run behind stove or some place if police does come. Later Boris does forget he is hiding and goes out to get sandwich. But next day, memory does come back of mattress crime and then all day Boris is haunted by COPS song in head. "Bad Boris, Bad Boris, what shoes come unglued? Wash your gum in stew when they comfort you!" Is so strange, this song. Boris wish to call head-radio with request for different song, like "Common Eileen." That is fun song does not make Boris so scared. After some thinking time in stove hiding place, Boris does figure out the smart idea. Police persons can't not shoot Boris so many times if there is no thing of proof, no thing they call elephants. So Boris must hide this thing using brain. And this is what Boris does, putting tag handle back on mattress with special duck tape. Is special tape for when duck does fall apart, one strange thing Louis does have just in case of this happening. Now Boris is thinking is pretty safe. Police persons does not spend so much time in Louis bedroom to find tag thing is taped like duck. Boris does still run when hearing COPS song, but this is "just in case" smart running. º Last Column: Wave Hello to Heatº more columns
| 
|  May 30, 2005
Legends of SuckBaseball fans love nothing more than debating who was the best of the best, and which of the game's many legends are deserving of enshrinement in the hallowed Hall of Fame. Boring, I say. I'd rather see newborn monkeys processed into chewing gum than sit through another of those inane debates. No, what interests me is the exact opposite. Who exactly were the worst of the worst, the most pathetic, inept baboons ever to strap on cleats? Who were the miserable excuses for human evolution that made us retch the most, clutching our privates in wonder at how these crack babies made it to professional ball in the first place?
Who can forget Frank "Gas Can" Whitmore? Frank was famous all across the Caribbean League because bringing him into a game to stop a rally was like trying to piss out a house fire after drinking a gallon of turpentine. In both cases, your dick would catch on fire instantly.
Then there was Lennie "Three Strikes" Driscoll. This human marvel couldn't hit the ocean if he fell out of a submarine. I saw one game where every time Driscoll came up, the ump would give him two strikes just for stepping into the batter's box, to save time. This guy would strike out in batting practice. I saw one game where he was wearing a jersey at least ten sizes too big in hopes the pitcher would hit him accidentally, so he could get on base for the first time all season. Only then the wind picked up and Driscoll ended up taking off like a kite, and he was...
º Last Column: Every Team Stinks This Year º more columns
Baseball fans love nothing more than debating who was the best of the best, and which of the game's many legends are deserving of enshrinement in the hallowed Hall of Fame. Boring, I say. I'd rather see newborn monkeys processed into chewing gum than sit through another of those inane debates. No, what interests me is the exact opposite. Who exactly were the worst of the worst, the most pathetic, inept baboons ever to strap on cleats? Who were the miserable excuses for human evolution that made us retch the most, clutching our privates in wonder at how these crack babies made it to professional ball in the first place?
Who can forget Frank "Gas Can" Whitmore? Frank was famous all across the Caribbean League because bringing him into a game to stop a rally was like trying to piss out a house fire after drinking a gallon of turpentine. In both cases, your dick would catch on fire instantly.
Then there was Lennie "Three Strikes" Driscoll. This human marvel couldn't hit the ocean if he fell out of a submarine. I saw one game where every time Driscoll came up, the ump would give him two strikes just for stepping into the batter's box, to save time. This guy would strike out in batting practice. I saw one game where he was wearing a jersey at least ten sizes too big in hopes the pitcher would hit him accidentally, so he could get on base for the first time all season. Only then the wind picked up and Driscoll ended up taking off like a kite, and he was called out for leaving the batter's box as he flew over the opposing team's dugout, swearing all the way like a foul-mouthed angel.
There was "Shoeless" Joe Montegle and "Cupless" Joe Smitz, the middle infielders for the Flagstaff Fag's Half in 1971, both of whose careers ended on the same messy double-play attempt.
And I haven't even mentioned the worst catcher I ever saw, Phil "Nose Bone" Drummond, who had a nasty habit of jumping out of the way whenever the ball was coming too fast, leading to a fatwa being issued on his head by the Minor League Umpires' Insurance Fund. Phil was also renowned for his hard-nosed play on close plays at the plate, like the time he took out an umpire in a bone-jarring collision when Phil was trying to get out of the way of a runner that was coming home.
Few lists like this would be complete without Blind Willie McTipp, the second baseman for the North Shore Riggers in the mid-seventies. I could write an entire column just on the many problems raised by having a seeing-eye dog on the field. Not only did the dog constantly fight McTipp over the ball, but Willie would be dragged off the field involuntarily every time somebody in the crowd started hucking around a Frisbee, which made the infield defense a little shaky.
Surprisingly, Willie wasn't the only legally blind player ever in pro ball, since Wenchell "Lights Out" Croup was in the same league a few years later, as a first baseman for the Stone Valley Nothings. By then, dogs had been outlawed from most stadiums thanks to the Southby Spineless Weasels' "Neuter Night" promotion mishap in 1980, so Wenchell was on his own, which made things interesting to say the least. For the most part, he depended on his teammates yelling when and where they were throwing the ball, like "NOW! CROTCH!" Croup was almost killed several times in 1982 when the team got a new shortstop from the Dominican Republic who didn't speak any English. But you can bet your concussed ass he learned the important parts of Spanish real quick-like that season.
But inept as they all may be, none of these paragons of motor-skill deformity could hold a candle to Hodge "Black Hole" Lightner, the centerfielder for the Long Island Dutch Ovens for most of the 1960's. Hodge set a minor-league record for going three entire seasons, 1961-1963, without ever touching the ball. By bat, glove, or hand, Hodge remained unsullied by horsehide for three long seasons. Players of the day considered Lightner to be something of a miracle, since the team's entire training staff, mascot, and most of its fans either caught or were hit with the ball at least once during that time span.
But Lightner had a unique talent for making spectacular diving attempts at catches, no matter where on the field or in the stands the ball was hit, and never actually making contact with the ball. Fans loved his hustle and management kept bringing him back, season after season, on the mistaken belief that Lighter was "so close" and just on the verge of "busting out." Those hopes ended one day in 1967, when Lightner was trampled by fans during a "free ice cream" promotion at the Dutch Ovens' home park, Home Field.
There were more terrible players than just those, of course, but even thinking about these guys is giving me indigestion. Butter me up with some Pepto Bismol next time and maybe I'll tell you the rest. º Last Column: Every Team Stinks This Yearº more columns
|

|  |
Quote of the Day“1.327493 is the loneliest number. Technically.”
-Inglebert Thomas, Professor of MathematicsFortune 500 CookieYou will quit smoking, but only in hospital nurseries. One step at a time, baby. You will finally lose that unwanted 50 pounds, thanks to a fortuitous kidnapping. The bank won't be your only withdrawal this week, drugnuts. You will believe everything you read.
Try again later.Top commune New Year's Resolutions| 1. | Breakfast with Bagel | | 2. | Boris. Proper English. 'Nuff Said. | | 3. | Convince Ramrod Hurley that picture of Nelson Rockefeller has no religious significance | | 4. | One news story with a verified fact in it | | 5. | Finally finish off Ivan Nacutchacokov | |
|   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.   |