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 November 28, 2005 |
Camaro, seen here attempting to form rain clouds in reverse using a backyard garden hose
"I don't like schoolin'," explained eight-year-old Topeka, Kansas boy Rodney Camaro, exhibiting numerous symptoms of left-behindedness, including messy, uncombed hair, untied shoelaces, a poor vocabulary and a fondness for pro wrestling.
Camaro was brought to the attention of education officials earlier this week when test results revealed that someone had actually scored a zero on last month's DMAS, a feat previously thought mathematically impossible.
"You get twenty-five points for just making a pencil mark on the page," ex...
recent round of standardized DMAS testing in America's elementary schools has revealed that in spite of President Bush's ambitious "No Child Left Behind" education policy, at least one American child has been left way the fuck behind. "I don't like schoolin'," explained eight-year-old Topeka, Kansas boy Rodney Camaro, exhibiting numerous symptoms of left-behindedness, including messy, uncombed hair, untied shoelaces, a poor vocabulary and a fondness for pro wrestling. Camaro was brought to the attention of education officials earlier this week when test results revealed that someone had actually scored a zero on last month's DMAS, a feat previously thought mathematically impossible. "You get twenty-five points for just making a pencil mark on the page," explained testing director Earl Winters. "Fifty for writing your name. Ten for turning in your pencil at the end of the test. This kid must have eaten his pencil, he's a miracle." So what happened to Rodney? According to the boy's family, Rodney's father's wages from his job at a local rubber vagina factory have been insufficient for the family to afford a professional tutor to help Rodney learn his ABCs and lefts from rights. But many argue that the local schools have failed Camaro, as evidenced by his vague concept that North is "up" and only a dim awareness that money comes in various denominations. Camaro is often swindled in cash exchanges with his fellow students, however, due to his fondness for nickels. "Ain't nothin' better than a nickel," Rodney explained, proudly holding up a 1997 nickel the boy paid $5 for last month. Rodney also displays an appalling lack of knowledge about nutrition, history and math. According to the boy, a balanced diet includes the food groups of chocolate, milk chocolate, and Nerds. Rodney's teachers also detailed the boy's unique mathematical techniques, which include performing subtraction by running all the numbers in the equation together and adding a negative symbol, as in 4-3=-43. All reports indicate that Camaro is equally inept at science, and reads at a pre-natal level. School officials insist that Rodney's the one who has let them down, refusing to get smart and clean up his act in spite of a generous grading curve that somehow has enabled Camaro to advance to the third grade, singularly on the merit of getting older. When asked about the major players during WWII, the eight-year-old replied simply "Nutsies." Camaro was unable to elaborate with any more hilarious details. America's schools have also failed to teach Rodney a single thing about politics, as well, given the boy's inability to name the current U.S. president, or, as he is known to Rodney, the "Karate King." "Karate King don't want no name, Karate King don't need no name," the boy explained patiently in the face of this reporter's adult ignorance. Despite Camaro's lack of awareness of the president's existence, President Bush already has plans for the boy, hoping sweep Camaro under the rug by offering Rodney an appointment to one of the government's major science posts, just as soon as he gets over his weakness for public urination. Though as of press time, it was still unclear which of the two, Bush or Camaro, would have to stop peeing in public. the commune news finds it terribly sad whenever a child is left behind, unless it's at Disneyland, which we think sounds kind of fun. Ivana Folger-Balzac can't stand Republicans, or any other people for that matter, but she does prefer the president's plan to entertainter Michael Jackson's "No Child's Behind Left" policy, about which we think the less said the better.
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Ten-year search of Nichols' home reveals explosives
Video games don't encourage youth violence, but console shortage does
Omar Bricks makes self eligible for NFL draft; expected to go in top 300
Automatic bread-butterer butters wrong goddamned side
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Senator Wins Lottery, Quits "Shitty Job" epublican Senator Judd Gregg finally ran into a big steaming pile of luck Wednesday when he matched 5 of 6 Powerball numbers and won a lottery jackpot of $853,492. Gregg immediately called Vice-President Dick Cheney to let his boss know he would not be coming into work. “It’s about friggin’ time I got some good luck,” Gregg told reporters in front of his home in his home state of New Hampshire. Gregg waved his winning ticket in the air frantically and laughed. “Eat it, taxpayers! I’m gonna be my own boss from now on!” Gregg, who chairs the Senate Budget Committee and spent more than $2 million in his last re-election campaign, did admit to some sour grapes in not winning the $340 million jackpot won by an Oregon player in the same lottery. the commune's Fall Gadget Guide t’s almost the time of year to start pretending you’re Christmas shopping while you look for swanky new shit for yourself, and the commune is there for you with our first-ever annual Fall Gadget Guide. Join commune Tech Correspondent Mitch Kroeger as he guides you through the bewildering wilderness of the new and the shiny. Alec Baldwin Records Devastating Voice Mail Message for Shooter Sony’s Poorly Timed “PS3 Price Massacre” Backfires |
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 January 30, 2006
Riding the Crime WaveThe streets are more dangerous than ever. This is not only the basic premise for every movie Charles Bronson made in the 70s and 80s, it's an undeniable fact. And since I've been bored the past couple of months, I decided to see what I, Rok Finger, could do about it.
This is not simply about my bicycle being stolen right off my lawn. I don't even need the bicycle, since I have a car. I merely didn't want the neighbors kids to have it since they never took care of it—coming home, casually abandoning it right there on their lawn. They deserved to have it confiscated under neighborly authority. No, I'm going to clean up the streets for the kids, for they are the future of America. Not the neighbor kids. I want to make that clear—I'm only doing this for other kids.
One day, Ginger and I might have kids. She turns ghost white at the mention of it, and sobs uncontrollably, but that doesn't mean it won't happen. And I want these streets to be safe for them… little Rokina and Walter Payton II. If I can make the streets safer through a little violence and intimidation, all the better.
Of course, don't expect the government to work with me on this, especially not at a local level. My first attempt to make the streets safer was thwarted by the police and fire departments, who immediately came over and moved all the heavy furniture away from my neighbors' front and back doors. They wouldn't even leave the boards covering the windows—"fire...
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The streets are more dangerous than ever. This is not only the basic premise for every movie Charles Bronson made in the 70s and 80s, it's an undeniable fact. And since I've been bored the past couple of months, I decided to see what I, Rok Finger, could do about it. This is not simply about my bicycle being stolen right off my lawn. I don't even need the bicycle, since I have a car. I merely didn't want the neighbors kids to have it since they never took care of it—coming home, casually abandoning it right there on their lawn. They deserved to have it confiscated under neighborly authority. No, I'm going to clean up the streets for the kids, for they are the future of America. Not the neighbor kids. I want to make that clear—I'm only doing this for other kids. One day, Ginger and I might have kids. She turns ghost white at the mention of it, and sobs uncontrollably, but that doesn't mean it won't happen. And I want these streets to be safe for them… little Rokina and Walter Payton II. If I can make the streets safer through a little violence and intimidation, all the better. Of course, don't expect the government to work with me on this, especially not at a local level. My first attempt to make the streets safer was thwarted by the police and fire departments, who immediately came over and moved all the heavy furniture away from my neighbors' front and back doors. They wouldn't even leave the boards covering the windows—"fire hazard" this and "illegal confinement" that. Cut crime off at the source, I say. But if that option wasn't available to me, I had other ways to skin a cat. Oh, you can't skin cats by the way. Police are practically domestic terrorists organizations, if you ask me. The first thing you really need to do if you're going to oppose crime, assuming you can't acquire cool animal-like super powers, is a good intimidating costume. My wife, Ginger, came to my rescue with a fantastic military man outfit just in my size. As you realize, since children are not allowed in the military in this country, I cannot always find camouflaged fatigues in my size. Actually, if children were allowed in the military, I probably wouldn't even have to be out there doing this. But as I said, Ginger made me this snappy Green Beret outfit, only the beret is actually red. She made it for the bedroom, but I say it's good enough to wear outside. And you can see the fear creep into the teenagers' faces when I stomp up and down the block looking like a smaller John Wayne. Knowing the streets is the first step in protecting them. Actually, the costume thing is the first step. But knowing them is important as well. I patrol these streets three to four times a night, or five times, if the infomercials are too boring. It's worked wonders, since I now know all the neighbors' routines and which have very fast dogs that will chase you away from their houses, even if you're wearing very stylish camouflaged fatigues. It's required paying dues, since my house has been robbed three times this past week while I've been doing my patrols, but nothing is won without sacrifice. Except perhaps Powerball. Come to think of it, I could reduce the likelihood of being burglarized and speed up my patrol times if I had a snazzy bike to do my patrols on. I could get it done in, like, three minutes flat. I'm that fast. And I have seen a fantastic bike just like my old one laying out on the neighbor's lawn next door. It might just be time for me to confiscate a bike in the name of justice again. Until next time, fight the good fight, people. º Last Column: The Other Wedding of the Yearº more columns
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|  September 15, 2003
Faster Than a Speeding Pile of ShitWell, the good news is that I'm sitting pretty in the car-fund department thanks to my monster windfall from the raffle, a.k.a. "The Great Downtown Bingo Fire of 2003." And even better, I've been cleared of any wrongdoing thanks to my clever use of the fake name Homer Bicks on all the official paperwork, and the fact that I wore a very distracting Bob Dole mask the whole time I was down there. It was doubly distracting since half of everybody thought it was a Raul Julia mask, and they were all arguing about if he'd died or if that was just some Hollywood publicity gimmick to help promote the next Addams Family movie, The Addams Family Vs. The Manson Family. Personally, I thought it was a damned good Bob Dole mask, but it was pretty dinged up from some bachelor party action so that may have accounted for the Raul Julia misconceptions.
The bad news is I can't find anybody reputable who wants to sell me a goddamned car. I used to not trifle with such minor details as the personal ethics or legal status of some dude trying to sell me a set of wheels, that is until I got saddled with the most recent incarnation of the Bricksmobile, that flaming piece of shit that only went fast when it was rolling down the street away from me. That thing was possessed like Christine except it was by the ghost of some lazy motherfucker who didn't want to kill anybody and just liked to sit on his front lawn with his shirt off.
I'd bought that epic shitbox...
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Well, the good news is that I'm sitting pretty in the car-fund department thanks to my monster windfall from the raffle, a.k.a. "The Great Downtown Bingo Fire of 2003." And even better, I've been cleared of any wrongdoing thanks to my clever use of the fake name Homer Bicks on all the official paperwork, and the fact that I wore a very distracting Bob Dole mask the whole time I was down there. It was doubly distracting since half of everybody thought it was a Raul Julia mask, and they were all arguing about if he'd died or if that was just some Hollywood publicity gimmick to help promote the next Addams Family movie, The Addams Family Vs. The Manson Family. Personally, I thought it was a damned good Bob Dole mask, but it was pretty dinged up from some bachelor party action so that may have accounted for the Raul Julia misconceptions.
The bad news is I can't find anybody reputable who wants to sell me a goddamned car. I used to not trifle with such minor details as the personal ethics or legal status of some dude trying to sell me a set of wheels, that is until I got saddled with the most recent incarnation of the Bricksmobile, that flaming piece of shit that only went fast when it was rolling down the street away from me. That thing was possessed like Christine except it was by the ghost of some lazy motherfucker who didn't want to kill anybody and just liked to sit on his front lawn with his shirt off.
I'd bought that epic shitbox from this guy named Steamboat Willie out in front of an Indian casino several years back. Yeah, I know that story sounds like bad news right from the start, no shit Sherlock, but beggars can't be choosy when they're nearly broke and too drunk to climb on top of a tour bus and scam a ride home.
I'd met Steamboat Willie several hours earlier, at a party some blind guy was throwing in his hotel room, and I immediately disliked him. Nobody at the party was supposed to be there, it was all just a bunch of guys who had figured out they could drink for free if they impersonated a celebrity voice and fooled the blind dude into thinking the whole cast of Hollywood Squares was partying in his room.
Most of the folks there were pretty cool, picking the voice of some celebrity who could actually conceivably be there, like Robin Leach or Dick Clark. I for one was doing a pretty spot-on Arsenio Hall impression, if my memory serves me correctly. But not that asshole Willie, that hotdog had to piss everybody off by doing a fucking Mickey Mouse voice, endangering the good times and free booze for all. Thankfully the blind host guy was drunk as shit and actually wanted his picture taken with Mickey, he didn't suspect a thing. Somebody clicked their pager like they were taking a picture and everybody was happy.
That didn't stop Willie from eventually finding a way to spoil the party, as he propositioned one too many girls in that squeaky voice to go fuck on the patio, on top of stupidly refusing the blind guy's offer of a giant wheel of cheese. This brought the whole house of cards tumbling down and we all got thrown out of the hotel and casino simultaneously. But that's Steamboat Willie for you. He's the kind of sick bastard who would cut a big, wet fart in a girl's face and call it "Butterscotch Kisses." I hated that guy.
But, you know, I needed a ride home after we got tossed out and $50 sounded like a pretty good deal for a car that wasn't missing any doors or anything major like the floor. If I'd been slightly less trashed I might have considered the high emotional cost the Bricksmobile would eventually toll, but at that point I was just happy to have a comfortable place to sit down. Actually, it wasn't called the Bricksmobile back then, I'm not even sure what kind of car it was. In retrospect, it probably should have set off some alarms upstairs that the name of the car had been filed off, but like I said I was half in the bag and thought it was just an "unmarked car," like some kind of cool FBI shit.
Needless to say, Omar Bricks learned his lesson there, and this time around I'm not buying a car from anybody who talks in a cartoon voice or refers to himself in the third person. Call me prejudiced, but I've got to look out for my own best interests on this one. I can't afford to buy another car that has the "Armageddon" light come on in the dash after I've only been driving it for ten miles.
Maybe I should check and see if Consumer Reports has a rating for that shit. I need a car that rates a full moon or whatever their symbol is for "bitchin'".
Bricks out. º Last Column: Raffleº more columns
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Milestones1982: Fred Connor born, grows up to lead successful rebellion against war of the machines in 2011. Or at least he would have been, if a Terminator hadn't successfully eliminated him from history, according to Research Editor Griswald Dreck.Now HiringGood Terminator. Talking to Griswald Dreck has made us see the wisdom of employing a preventative Terminator security system, preferably a skilled Terminator robot who has been reprogrammed to protect commune staff members. No pay or retirement plans—yours is not to reason why, just to do and die.Least Heard Mobster Euphemisms for Murder| 1. | Treat this guy to a steel sundae | | 2. | Make his shoes a lot heavier, more sinkable | | 3. | Invalidate his parking | | 4. | Go apeshit on this fuck | | 5. | Fill him full of holes like a Dade County ballot (2000 only) | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 10/28/2002 Hello hello, America!
Boy have we got some nipples for you this week! I ca- nipples? You know what I mean, America, movies. Weird. Some people think it's significant when you nip out like that, ma- slip up, nip rocks, whatever. It's not like this is a column about taut, hairy man-nipples or anything. Woman! Woman nipples. Hairless and soft. I mean, it's not about that either, but if this column were about nipples, it sure as hell wouldn't be about any tempting, salty, lickable man nipples. Gross.
All right, let's get to the boobies before somebody gets hurt.
In Theaters
Auto Focus
Ford loves to kiss its own ass over the fact that they present the hit drama...
Hello hello, America!
Boy have we got some nipples for you this week! I ca- nipples? You know what I mean, America, movies. Weird. Some people think it's significant when you nip out like that, ma- slip up, nip rocks, whatever. It's not like this is a column about taut, hairy man-nipples or anything. Woman! Woman nipples. Hairless and soft. I mean, it's not about that either, but if this column were about nipples, it sure as hell wouldn't be about any tempting, salty, lickable man nipples. Gross.
All right, let's get to the boobies before somebody gets hurt.
In Theaters
Auto Focus
Ford loves to kiss its own ass over the fact that they present the hit drama 24 without commercial interruption, like Robitussin used to do with Twin Peaks. But then they turn around and flush all of that goodwill right down the crapper by putting out a movie that's one thinly-disguised two hour commercial for their miserable mini-car, the Focus. Sure, there's some porn and scandal and whatnot in there to distract you from this fact, but it's still obviously the opening salvo in the upcoming "Battle of the Shitty Midget Cars" with Ford trying to high-step its way out to an early lead over the Toyota Echo and the Chevy Burp. You might think the Honda Cramp should have a place in the fray, but it's technically in a different car class since you can fit a jug of milk in the trunk.
Formula 51
Leave it to Samuel L. Jackson to bring Heinz founder Mortimer P. Heinz to badass life on the big screen. Sure, Heinz wasn't black, but he sure made catsup like he was. And Jackson brings that tomato-squashing verve to this role so convincingly, you'll almost forget how he tricked you into paying to see that shitty genius shark movie a while back.
Ghost Ship
It sure as hell didn't work for Speed, but the makers of the 2001 Nintendo Pictures hit Ghost World apparently thought two times was a charm when they decided to needlessly recycle their hit film by setting the sequel on a big ol' boat. Sure, Patrick Swayzee gets to hop around some more and shoot fireballs out of his nose at skeleton pirates, and you know the kids love that, but not bringing back Whoopi Goldberg for the sequel was a big mistake, and the picture runs out of gas halfway through because of it. The second half of the film is exactly the same as the first, except now the ghosts are orange instead of blue, which I guess is supposed to mean something.
Jackass: The Movie
The elephant fetishists aren't going to like it, but Michael Moore's latest cannonball into the kiddie pool of conservative life is his funniest film yet. Not that it takes someone with an IQ over 15 to make our president look like a yokel, but Moore does it up right with this hilarious space invasion of all things George W. Bush. It's all here, every time he's made up a word to express his complex feelings during an interview, the notorious "Stuck Inside a Port-a-John" episode from the Republican Primaries, and some jaw-dropping super-8 footage of a teenage George W. being outsmarted by a Chinese finger trap (and tape of the classic 911 call that followed). Sometimes Moore can be too far-reaching in his satire, but this time he hit the nail on the nards.
The Truth About Charlie
Red Bagel's third unpublished book about the Vietnam War finally finds its way to the big screen, credited of course to one of Bagel's many pen names. Always one of the most popular of Bagel's photocopied manuscripts around his favorite local haunts (the Laundromat and the Crazy Crotch Tavern), Charlie uncovers the untold story of the Vietnam conflict, beginning with Grover Cleveland's illegal importation of midgets from the Orient in the 60's and continuing through the mock battles staged on a Hollywood set for the benefit of JFK's private investors. The book, if you can call a ragged stack of Xerox paper binder-clipped together a book, ripped the asshole off the entire cover-up, and changed the way about fifteen people thought about Vietnam forever. The movie, of course, is watered down horseshit with some pretty faces plastered on the package, but that's to be expected. The government hasn't let Hollywood come anywhere near the truth since Benji the Hunted in 1987*.
(*Note: Benji Bones a Bitch, the 1992 home-video hit, was filmed entirely in Vancouver, outside of the Hollywood system.)
Waking Up in Reno with Billy Bob Thornton
You know it's got to be Halloween season when they start putting scary junk in all of the upcoming movie trailers, like Jennifer Love Hewitt or shots of Billy Bob in his bikini briefs. This is what they mean when they call something a "Psychological Thriller," unless it's a movie about a killer psychologist, in which case that's what they mean. I probably should have seen it coming, from the title and all, but I have to admit I jumped halfway out of my pants during the scene when Ashley Judd wakes up and rolls over to find Mr. Slingblade between her sheets. Absolutely the scariest waking up scene since the one where that Canadian chick wakes up to find a moose head in her bed in The Godfather.
Well, it looks like that's that, America. Another two weeks down, another several hundred to go before we can lay down and die. That's how the country song goes, anyway. Old-time country, not this new truck commercial country they play nowadays. I'm talking about back when country was about having your balls chewed off by a thresher and how that means you won't be able to have no two-headed children with your cousin Moline, and how that drove you to drinkin'. These days country music is all about how your agent tricked your dumb country ass out of a million dollars and now you've got to do a Dr. Pepper commercial so the bank doesn't repossess your hideously decorated triple-decker yacht. It's crap, but it still sells since there are plenty of small-town minivan moms out there who need to be sheltered from irony. But listen to me here, you'd think I was trying to make up for not running any album reviews since Clinton was in office. Take it easy, America.    |
