|
$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='2005/0905/';
$dunkintitle='The New Anne Frank Diary';
$edit='2003/1222/';
$fanmail='2005/0516/';
$fanmailtitle='Volume 63';
$finger='2005/0905/';
$fingertitle='I’m Fresh Out of Haitian Cigarettes';
$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='2005/0905/';
$police='2005/0905/';
$polio='2005/0905/';
$poliotitle='Omarelief';
$rent='2005/0829/';
$renttitle='I’m Not that Big a Fan of Talking';
$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';
?> | 
March 26, 2007 |
London, England Junior Bacon The British warship HMS Cornwall, shown here surrendering to an Iranian on a bicycle. n a move that surprised few familiar with the terrible wrath of the legendary Iranian Navy, British Prime Minister Tony Blair announced today that his country would be surrendering to Iran rather than facing almost certain destruction.
“A proud era in the history of Great Britain comes to an end today,� announced Blair, Prime Minister since 1997 and secret Transformers collector even longer. “We had a good run of it, I’d say,� a proudly defiant Blair mused. “But you don’t muck about when you’re dealing with the Iranian Navy. I have my kids to consider.�
“There’s no use crying over spilt milk,� agreed British Secretary of State for Defence Desmond Henry Browne (BSSDDHB). “It’s been fun, I must admit, being the top dog on the internationa...
n a move that surprised few familiar with the terrible wrath of the legendary Iranian Navy, British Prime Minister Tony Blair announced today that his country would be surrendering to Iran rather than facing almost certain destruction.
“A proud era in the history of Great Britain comes to an end today,� announced Blair, Prime Minister since 1997 and secret Transformers collector even longer. “We had a good run of it, I’d say,� a proudly defiant Blair mused. “But you don’t muck about when you’re dealing with the Iranian Navy. I have my kids to consider.�
“There’s no use crying over spilt milk,� agreed British Secretary of State for Defence Desmond Henry Browne (BSSDDHB). “It’s been fun, I must admit, being the top dog on the international scene. Or perhaps second-to-top dog, after America… or maybe third after Germany. I don’t have recent figures in front of me. But the point is, every dog has his day, and we all knew our day had to come to an end some day. At the hands of the Iranian Navy? How else?�
Iran’s Navy, a fearsome juggernaut of nautical supremacy, has terrorized the seas since the 1200s, when Iran began conquering coastal lands at will and making pirates eat their own hats. With coastal access to the crucial Arabian and Caspian Seas, the land mass of Iran was ideally located for maritime dominance. Even geographical limitations such as a lack of access to the Pacific Ocean were laughed at by the Iranian Navy, infamous world-wide for carrying their huge warships by hand overland when doing so would be more impressive than simply sailing around the Cape of Good Hope or even around small islands.
Massive blockades of Iranian warships crippled the world economy numerous times in the 1500s, with the entire Spanish Armada going to their deaths in a futile attempt to import much-needed Spanish rice in defiance of Iran’s wishes. The Iranian people, though poorer than a record executive on land, have nevertheless lorded over the seas for generations, with an iron fist and a wooden bottom. Because an iron bottom would sink like nobody’s business.
This latest development came to a head when 15 British sailors were captured by the Iranian Navy while conducting a routine search of a cargo ship carrying fuses and detonators in Iraqi territorial waters.
“We had just finished inspecting and signing off on the Iraqi freighter,� explained naval officer Roger Phillip, communicating through a photograph released by the Iranian Navy via holes ripped in his sweater forming the message in Morse code. “When suddenly the very sun was blotted out by an armada of fearsome warships, and we knew our own doom had engulfed us.�
Though the unconditional surrender of a world power over a small naval skirmish over 3,000 miles away is unusual, few consider Britain’s move premature, given the unbelievable hurt the Iranian Navy could rain down on the U.K. should they get their dander up.
A few foolhardy souls have suggested a death-before-dishonor approach, unwilling to bow down to their Iranian masters so quickly.
“I think we could take ‘em,� grumbled brave sausage peeler Roscoe Euclid of Saxby, loading supplies into an inflatable dingy moments before going to his certain death.
Final plans have not been announced as to what Britain’s new Iranian overlords plan to do with the country, though early indications point to a bonanza of beheadings. the commune news wishes not to offend the magnificent Iranian Navy with our article, and hereby place full responsibility for its publication on the shoulders of foreign reporter Ivan Nacutchacokov. Ivan Nacutchacokov is currently hiding in the commune’s umbrella closet, nervously clutching a wooden tennis racquet.
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Bailey Savings & Loan loses $8,000
Sepracor sleep drug packs power of 600 history teachers
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Officials to Celebrities: Please Get Out of New Orleans isaster-relief officials in New Orleans made a stern announcement today to the thousands of celebrities descending upon the devastated city in hopes of providing humanitarian aid in exchange for career-boosting photo ops: We’re serious; you really need to leave now. “We’ve got to get these fucking celebrities out of New Orleans,” sighed an exasperated Lt. Mark Bolio of the Army’s 92nd Airborne. “They’re drinking up all our bottled water and bitching about the catering all day.” The influx of famous faces has weighed as a heavy burden on officials who have spent the last week scrambling to get everyone out of the city-shaped deathtrap. Receding water levels have exposed a nightmare world of toxic contamination, with nearly the entire city soaking in deadly levels of E. coli bacteria, lead, crude oil, PCBs, asbestos, leptospirosis, battery acid, herbicides, raw sewage, DDT, snakes, and according to at least one local, cooties. After busting a nut trying to remove the bulk of New Orleans’ stubbornly entrenched locals, many of whom refused to leave their pets or belongings, the Army was not prepared to deal with the celebrity occupation. Wisconsin Man Takes in Jazz Band he whole nation wants to do their part to help the victims of Hurricane Katrina, but a Madison, Wisconsin man is doing so much he makes all the other volunteers and charity donors look like dried puke. For Albert Pohl Martinson hasn’t merely taken in three or four family members or refugees from New Orleans: He’s taken in a whole jazz band. “I just wanted to do what I could,” Martinson told a deluge of fawning media standing on his front lawn. “So I said I would take in the first group of refugees I could. I sent them bus tickets and had them carted up here immediately. And then, being a good citizen, I called the local news to make sure they were informed.” However, Martinson didn’t stop and giving the 5-man combo all the food, shelter, and clean water they needed; he also bought them sparkling fresh instruments so they could take their mind off their troubles. Aides Urge Bush to Stop Referring to Iraqi Majority as “Shits” Sheryl Crow Takes Cancer in Lance Armstrong Split |
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 March 7, 2005
Ol' Lee Loves ChachiIn all the other hubbub since the year began, I may have forgotten to mention my old bassist roommate Lee returned. He arrived shortly after Christmas, when his plan to storm Tokyo with techno rock failed miserably. It's okay, though, because he has started a Christian rock band. It makes sense, if you think about it, since he believed he died in the car accident years ago and is now reincarnated as a street preacher.
Surely you don't expect me to mention every minute detail that happens in my life, so sorry if some of this stuff comes as a surprise. I had originally planned this column, in fact, to be an update of how the X-M radio purchase was going when Camembert suggested I write about Lee to my "loyal reader." Camembert thinks that's funny. Ever since he started dating Girl Elvis he thinks he's a hoot, there's no other word for it.
Back to the Lee story, good people. Lee is back, yes, and he believes he's a street preacher, out to promote the gospel, yes, all this is true. And as I said, he's started a Christian rock band which operates out of my basement. I'm obviously too busy trying to make my A.M. radio station profitable to consider all of this too seriously, but apparently it makes Lee happy.
I wish I could say Lee has been easier to live with since coming back, but it's not the case. You may recall old Lee was something of a pain in the posterior, constantly making fun of me, never paying his portion of the rent, and...
º Last Column: Solid Gold A.M. Radio º more columns
In all the other hubbub since the year began, I may have forgotten to mention my old bassist roommate Lee returned. He arrived shortly after Christmas, when his plan to storm Tokyo with techno rock failed miserably. It's okay, though, because he has started a Christian rock band. It makes sense, if you think about it, since he believed he died in the car accident years ago and is now reincarnated as a street preacher.
Surely you don't expect me to mention every minute detail that happens in my life, so sorry if some of this stuff comes as a surprise. I had originally planned this column, in fact, to be an update of how the X-M radio purchase was going when Camembert suggested I write about Lee to my "loyal reader." Camembert thinks that's funny. Ever since he started dating Girl Elvis he thinks he's a hoot, there's no other word for it.
Back to the Lee story, good people. Lee is back, yes, and he believes he's a street preacher, out to promote the gospel, yes, all this is true. And as I said, he's started a Christian rock band which operates out of my basement. I'm obviously too busy trying to make my A.M. radio station profitable to consider all of this too seriously, but apparently it makes Lee happy.
I wish I could say Lee has been easier to live with since coming back, but it's not the case. You may recall old Lee was something of a pain in the posterior, constantly making fun of me, never paying his portion of the rent, and spending most of the day high. It's more of the same now, except he has sworn off drugs, he's too polite for everybody's taste, and he's convinced we're all damned to hell for our behavior. Same ol' Lee, except for he's mostly different.
It may hardly be worth mentioning, I can no longer tell, but Lee has developed an unhealthy fascination with TV's Scott Baio as well. Ever since finding out he was a kind gentlemen with conservative politics, Lee has thought him quite a role model to adopt. And of course, for Lee, that kind of thing naturally leads to obsession and death threats, the usual circumstance in life where you become convinced you're the celebrity and the celebrity himself is an impostor taking your place—we've all been there, I tell Lee, but just because Carroll O'Connor won't take your calls doesn't mean it's your mission mandated by God to kill him. Lighten up, fella, I tell him.
In one ear and out the other, with new Lee. Old Lee at least would have lit himself some doobage and "chilled" for a while, realized he was perhaps getting ramped up about something silly. But new Lee wants to move forward with the "kill Chachi" plan immediately. Honestly, Lee, nobody has time for all this nonsense. I've got X-M radio options to consider, those take up more than half my week alone. Then there's running the radio station, not to mention the five minutes it takes me to write my commune columns for the next two months. If you're jumping out of the closet and dry-clicking your gun every ten minutes, shouting, " Now who's in charge, Charles?" a man will never get anything done.
My first instinct is to ask Lee to move out, but you know as well as I do, I'm not capable of that kind of cruelty. Except for to Camembert. Maybe Girl Elvis can be persuaded to do it for us, she's never thought much of him, I can tell that much. She's already threatened to call the police on him, but I tell her his band's cover of "In the Ghetto" may be bad, but it's hardly illegal. Heck, kids, at this point I might even kill Scott Baio myself just to get on with the world. I don't have time for another caper at this point, I'm stretched way too thin. º Last Column: Solid Gold A.M. Radioº more columns
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|  January 19, 2004
A New HopeHere's something that'll get you thinking, talk about a "Mr Rogers was a sniper in 'Nam"-level surprise. Thanks to commune editor's-brother Gay Bagel's mandate that we boost commune readership and revenue up from absolute zero Kelvin in 2004, it's been officially mandated by the powers obese that I quit writing about my epic saga to get a goddamned car. Apparently Bagay (as I like to call him in print and roadside graffiti) thinks my column may be alienating readers who are too rich to ever have to worry about not having a car, and if they don't read the site we can't siphon their accounts dry of funds electronically while they surf.
I don't know the details, if that's just advertising lingo or if we're actually hoovering out bank notes over the telephone line while those poor rich saps try to figure out what in the hell Boris Utzov is talking about or what. But either way Bagay thinks we've catered to the Salisbury steak set too much in the past, when we should be writing for dudes who order off the menu at Taco Bell and use silver spoons to eat their civet cat pudding.
Normally I'd have my ass chapped by the man giving my creative freedom a titty-twister like that, but from what I hear most of the staff received similar warnings. From the mandate that Lil Duncan start banging celebrity scumbags instead of her usual unknown variety, to the new "no accepting collect calls from international jails" rule (AKA the Ivan Nacutchacokov Accord), everyone...
º Last Column: Wipeout º more columns
Here's something that'll get you thinking, talk about a "Mr Rogers was a sniper in 'Nam"-level surprise. Thanks to commune editor's-brother Gay Bagel's mandate that we boost commune readership and revenue up from absolute zero Kelvin in 2004, it's been officially mandated by the powers obese that I quit writing about my epic saga to get a goddamned car. Apparently Bagay (as I like to call him in print and roadside graffiti) thinks my column may be alienating readers who are too rich to ever have to worry about not having a car, and if they don't read the site we can't siphon their accounts dry of funds electronically while they surf.
I don't know the details, if that's just advertising lingo or if we're actually hoovering out bank notes over the telephone line while those poor rich saps try to figure out what in the hell Boris Utzov is talking about or what. But either way Bagay thinks we've catered to the Salisbury steak set too much in the past, when we should be writing for dudes who order off the menu at Taco Bell and use silver spoons to eat their civet cat pudding.
Normally I'd have my ass chapped by the man giving my creative freedom a titty-twister like that, but from what I hear most of the staff received similar warnings. From the mandate that Lil Duncan start banging celebrity scumbags instead of her usual unknown variety, to the new "no accepting collect calls from international jails" rule (AKA the Ivan Nacutchacokov Accord), everyone around here is feeling the pinch. Except of course for Rok Finger, who got a slightly different haircut and left town, Truman Prudy, who makes appearances here like he was Haley's comet, and the aforementioned Boris Utzov, who from last word was riding bitch on a Harley somewhere in the Dakotas. Or, for that matter, Stu Umbrage, who's writing a gripe calendar in New Mexico, or Sampson L. Hartwig, who's either dead or a big fan of Harry Houdini. Come to think of it, where in the hell is everybody? This place is starting to look like Stuart Anderson's on Mad Cow night. What am I still doing here?
Anyway, the upshot of the whole censorship deal is that I'm getting a "company car," by which they mean Red Bagel's old Camry that he won't drive anymore because he thinks it's bugged. Which I guess is a problem if you're Red Bagel and you say embarrassing shit all the time, but what do I care? The old Bricksmobile had a megaphone for karaoke purposes; this'l be like having my own radio station. Plus since it is Red Bagel we're talking about here, odds are they're not even listening-device-type bugs, the car's probably infested with robotic insects or some shit as a little "fuck you" from the CIA or the Shriners.
All in all it's an uncharacteristically sweet deal for a commune employee, I would have been less surprised to get a post-it note on my desk saying that I AM the new company car. Now I guess Bagel and I are even from the time he ate my carrier pigeon.
Not that I'm getting carried away or anything, after all, it is a Camry. Not exactly a street-illegal funnycar or anything bitchin' like that. And Bagel didn't exactly take care of it after he uncovered the SUV conspiracy and bought himself that armored duck tours truck he drives around town. As a matter of fact, Gay pulled the thing out of a line-up of "bugged" cars Red planned on monster trucking over, replacing it with Raoul Dunkin's Tercel so his brother wouldn't notice. But I don't give a shit about any of that. It's got four wheels and it rolls both downhill and up, so Omar Bricks is calling it a car. Plus I've already replaced the Camry nameplate with one I pried off a Jaguar at the airport, so the stupid 90% of the world already thinks I drive a Jag. The right seat covers and a press-on spoiler should fool the rest.
Bricks out. º Last Column: Wipeoutº more columns
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Quote of the Day“How many roads must a man walk down before someone will give him a fucking ride? What, do I look like a serial killer or something? Blow me in the wind, buddy.”
-Zimm BobbermanFortune 500 CookieHere comes another lecture on the same old tax-and-spend bullshit, courtesy your butler. Quit picking at it and maybe it wouldn't get infected. Who beefed? Details inside. Better save that big comeback tour until after you've had at least one hit song.
Try again later.Least Popular April Fools' Pranks| 1. | Entire world repopulated with talking dogs while you slept | | 2. | Autistic cousin did your taxes for you, but it turns out he's a music savant | | 3. | You're CNN's Kidnapper of the Week! | | 4. | Woke up covered in 200 glued-on toupees | | 5. | Anal rape | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Clarise Sickhead 1/31/2005 The Road to BudokanOn the road to Budokan
I met a man named Rama Dan.
And Rama Dan had a dog
named Frog,
who hopped like the same.
Frog also wore
a green polystyrene suit,
serving to make
the resemblance more acute.
Frog didn't know what a frog was
or that his way of moving,
for a dog, was
quite strange and notably unique.
Or that a proper frog should ribbet,
not squeak.
Frog could be said
to be more stupid than a dead
ocelot or a pile of socks.
Frog liked to eat rocks.
And on the way to Budokan
he ate a turtle with a rock-like tan.
And the turtle's brother was Steve
who followed us and wouldn't leave
even when we asked him to.
Or threatened him with...
On the road to Budokan
I met a man named Rama Dan.
And Rama Dan had a dog
named Frog,
who hopped like the same.
Frog also wore
a green polystyrene suit,
serving to make
the resemblance more acute.
Frog didn't know what a frog was
or that his way of moving,
for a dog, was
quite strange and notably unique.
Or that a proper frog should ribbet,
not squeak.
Frog could be said
to be more stupid than a dead
ocelot or a pile of socks.
Frog liked to eat rocks.
And on the way to Budokan
he ate a turtle with a rock-like tan.
And the turtle's brother was Steve
who followed us and wouldn't leave
even when we asked him to.
Or threatened him with much kung-fu.
The turtle followed, then stepped on an ant,
who was the aunt of an ant named Kant,
who joined this motley caravan
and kept up pace, even when we ran.
And the ant Kant offended an ostrich jerk
named Murray who was out of work
and looking for trouble, so in a hurry
our larger group was plus a Murray.
And before very long Murray had flipped the beak
to a herd of tuna who'd stopped to take a leak
on a beach by the road where a high-strung toad
had taken offense when Rama Dan called him a choad.
So then the tuna were swimming in pursuit
and the toad had crawled inside Rama Dan's boot
and was biting his ankle like a toothless piranha,
which pissed off a goldfish bowl full of Arowana
who quickly proved how much ass they could haul
by rolling that bowl like a demented hamster ball.
And I don't even know where the pterodactyl came from
or that Eskimo bitch that smelled like spiced rum.
But I'm pretty sure those Quakers, they had their reasons,
like the way Murray always screams "Fuck You!" when he's sneezing.
And the jugglers and panda bears
were likely just unaware
that Kant looks at everyone like that
and Rama Dan meant it like "phat."
But there was truly no convincing
the trick riders or the lobsters mincing
behind us like an army of freaks
that Frog means no offense when he squeaks.
At first we were trailed for malice or spite
but then just because it looked fun, quite the sight
and the sun was out and it was nice outside
so more people joined in, walking side by side.
Then somebody thought it was a goddamned parade
and a marching band came and the marching band stayed
and we marched into Budokan like a conquering Army
while the people were cheering something luscious and smarmy.
And I actually started to enjoy it, hey what the hell?
Rolling with the punches has always served me well.
But then that goddamned ostrich Murray screamed "Fuck you!"
and started the famous riot that leveled Budokan.   |