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commune Reporter Lil Duncan Contracts SyphilisOctober 29, 2001 |
Duncan's skanky ass infected with the spirochete Treponema pallidum
The disease, caused by the bacteria Treponema, was discovered in Duncan after a series of blood tests and physicals given to all commune staff members except Easily Riled Herb. The tests were specifically looking for anthrax or other communicable diseases possibly spread by terrorist to American news sources like ABC and NBC.
After the diagnosis, the commune offices were filled with panicked men and some of the randier women who were terrified they had contracted it, though so far all testing has revealed only Duncan carries the disease at this time. All commune staf...
reedom-loving news source the commune was the victim of international terror this week when much-beloved (no exaggerration there) reporter Lil Duncan was diagnosed with the venereal disease syphilis.
The disease, caused by the bacteria Treponema, was discovered in Duncan after a series of blood tests and physicals given to all commune staff members except Easily Riled Herb. The tests were specifically looking for anthrax or other communicable diseases possibly spread by terrorist to American news sources like ABC and NBC.
After the diagnosis, the commune offices were filled with panicked men and some of the randier women who were terrified they had contracted it, though so far all testing has revealed only Duncan carries the disease at this time. All commune staffers, especially fearless commune editor Red Bagel, will be tested second or even third times to verify the absence of syphilis.
"Terror has hit home, way too close to home, you ask me," Bagel told a group of commune reporters he demanded quote him in the next edition. "Terrorists strike to make us fearful and terrified. Hence the name, stupid. Well, they have struck, and I guarantee you, the terrorists will pay! Put that part right under the headline, too, Nootles."
Duncan's doctor J. Ernest FielgĂĽd, a specialist in sexually contracted diseases, and medically schooled in them as well, has informed the commune that syphilis is a bacterial disease that is no longer the death sentence it was deemed early in the 20th century. With penicillin, the doctor said, syphilis can be eradicated from even late-stages sufferers.
commune Research Editor, Griswald Dreck, however, disagreed.
"If syphilis shows up, the party's over, that's all I can say. Little microbes invade your neurons and turn you into a character not unlike Jack Nicholson in 'The Shining.' Brrr! All work and no play make Lil a dull girl. Check her typewriter, I betcha anything she's got stacks and stacks of that shit on her desk. I'm outta here, no joke. You sit and wait for the ax in the chest, jack."
Dreck packed his tiny ventriloquist dummy-sized suitcase and vacated the commune offices quickly. All other commune staffers are visibly shaken and worried, but so far wait patiently for the outcome.
Lil Duncan could not be reached for comment as I ain't getting near the syphilis-beridden bitch. the commune news is strong enough for men, but women are sickened by it. Ramon Nootles shouldn't act like such a bigshot around the guys who write the small type, what, he thinks his shit don't stink?
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Iraq perfectly quiet all week
Pink Floyd reunite for One Last Fucking Dime tour
Man-eating shark brought in by grouper wearing wire
Guy at next table eating salt right out of shaker
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President Demands More Wheels on Airplanes learly delighted to have an offensive position at last, President Bush lashed out at “safety ign’rant” airlines and the FAA for its low-wheel requirements on commercial aircraft. According the president’s amusing new platform, safety could be increased a bunchfold with the addition of 8-10 new sets of landing gear on standard airplanes, and hopefully would prevent scenes like the dramatic emergency landing of JetBlue Flight 292 on Thursday. The commercial airline flight JetBlue 292 ran into difficulty landing when its foremost landing wheel arrogantly faced the wrong direction and forced a tense landing situation. The event was made all the more worthy of national attention when it was revealed passengers/potential victims aboard Flight 292 were watching their own ordeal on satellite television, one of the perks the airline offers passengers willing to risk becoming human charcoal on their flights. In the end, the plane landed successful, jetting down the runway covered with foam and emitting sparks in a thrilling scene of real life danger only seen previously on repeats of Jackass. Today’s Hurricanes Not Worth a Damn, Say Elderly Southerners In the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, and the currentmath of Hurricane Rita hot on Katrina’s high heels, elderly southerners who’ve been there before are offering a reassuring voice of bitter calm to troubled Americans across the South. “Today’s hurricanes aren’t worth a hot goddamn,” groused Boca Raton resident Carter Dunlop, 88. “You all can quit your bellyaching. Back in the day, we had hurricanes to remember. I don’t recall their names or any details, but you can rest assured these latest pipsqueaks are even less noteworthy. Trust me, you’ll all hear Carter Dunlop scream like a woman when a real hurricane hits.” “Category 5? Pssh, they’ll call any old stiff breeze a hurricane nowadays,” griped Biloxi native Ted Knuck. “Back in my day, you wouldn’t cross the street for anything less then a Category 15. And that was only because it blew you across the street.” Arizona Border Patrol Installing Landmines Eminem, Ex-Wife Reunite to Work on New Material |
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 June 20, 2005
Don't Be Absurd My Dear, That's Obviously Not My ShitPlease.
Deidrebane, my dear, I tire of your ceaseless accusations. I swear this is all I've heard about all week since you found that softball-sized rock of crack cocaine in the sofa cushions. For the googleth time, darling, that's clearly not my shit. Do you see my initials monogrammed anywhere on the rock? My elegantly formal CC? Or even one of my famous "Hands Off!" post-it notes? I think not. So let's put this silly controversy to bed before I miss another moment of the Ultimate Fighting Challenge.
No, of course I don't know whose crack rock it might be. Did you ask the children? All of them? You really called Montpellier at reform school? I have to admit I'm impressed by your thoroughness, my dear. What did he have to say? Lonely? Wants to come home? Hit another student with a cue ball? Really? Now that's showing some initiative. I may have misjudged the lad. Was he playing pool or billiards? Snooker? Even better! Remind me to send him a snuff box for Father's Day. I know he's not a father, Deidrebane, but anyone can enjoy a fine mahogany snuff box. Don't be so closed-minded.
Did I see the maid rifling through the couch like she'd just lost several thousands of dollars worth of illegal narcotics? My dear, name me a day when that hasn't happened! You know how Consequa is, with her rifling. That's why we chose her from among the finalists, don't you remember? Consequa was rifling like a pro long after the others had succumbed to...
º Last Column: My Dear, Your New Children Have Become a Nuisance
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Please. Deidrebane, my dear, I tire of your ceaseless accusations. I swear this is all I've heard about all week since you found that softball-sized rock of crack cocaine in the sofa cushions. For the googleth time, darling, that's clearly not my shit. Do you see my initials monogrammed anywhere on the rock? My elegantly formal CC? Or even one of my famous "Hands Off!" post-it notes? I think not. So let's put this silly controversy to bed before I miss another moment of the Ultimate Fighting Challenge. No, of course I don't know whose crack rock it might be. Did you ask the children? All of them? You really called Montpellier at reform school? I have to admit I'm impressed by your thoroughness, my dear. What did he have to say? Lonely? Wants to come home? Hit another student with a cue ball? Really? Now that's showing some initiative. I may have misjudged the lad. Was he playing pool or billiards? Snooker? Even better! Remind me to send him a snuff box for Father's Day. I know he's not a father, Deidrebane, but anyone can enjoy a fine mahogany snuff box. Don't be so closed-minded. Did I see the maid rifling through the couch like she'd just lost several thousands of dollars worth of illegal narcotics? My dear, name me a day when that hasn't happened! You know how Consequa is, with her rifling. That's why we chose her from among the finalists, don't you remember? Consequa was rifling like a pro long after the others had succumbed to fatigue and delirium. It's her calling card, like Carson with that golf stroke. You know, Rich Carson, when he had that stroke on the course? He milked that for years, dear, always japing like he'd burst a blood vessel in his brain whenever the moment called for levity. Whatever happened to him, anyway? Died of a stroke? Really? I bet it was hilarious. Yes, I suppose it could have been the butler's crack rock, now that you bring up the possibility. He's always creeping around in the shadows, answering the door at all hours of the night. Never trusted that behavior. What was his name again? Lee Butler? That's convenient. Can't believe I couldn't remember that name, how long have we had him? Is that in decades? My word. Remind me to send him a snuff box for Arbor Day. You know, dear, it could have very well been the dog's. We don't know where he goes at night. Why are you looking at me like that? I wouldn't even know where to find a five-pound rock of pure crack cocaine. Not at this hour, anyway. Let's get back to the dog thing. Have you noticed that guilty look on his face lately? And the other day he was obviously jonesing, twitching on the floor like an electrocuted sea bass. What? I don't believe for a second that all dogs do that while they're sleeping, where did you read that? Dog dreams? Have you been watching that Oprah program again? Sincerely, Deidrebane, sometimes I wonder about you. º Last Column: My Dear, Your New Children Have Become a Nuisanceº more columns
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|  January 10, 2005
I've Fallen, and I'm Missing Survivor!Help me!
Oh sweet lord, please help me up!
I'm old and I've fallen down and I'm afraid I may have shattered my pelvis on the cold, unforgiving tile of this floor! And I'm missing the beginning of Survivor!
No doubt they'll find me here in a few days, stuck to this floor like a squashed bug, once the smell grows strong enough to overpower my neighbor Gladys and her hellish brood of cats. Then some nice orderlies will come in and roll me onto a stretcher, my pissed pant-suit long since gone bitterly dry and packed with the pea-green product of my evacuated bowels. And they'll have a good laugh at poor old me, lying dead on the floor with no idea how this season's exciting Survivor midseason finale shaped up, the cold glint of unknowing flecked within my glassy eyes!
How cruel to live a life with no finale! Eighty-seven years and Edith Walker is cancelled to make way for a midseason replacement. How sad to live such an anticlimactic life. If only I could have waited another fifty-four minutes before taking my catastrophic tumble, I could have died a fulfilled woman!
I'm afraid I'll never get to see which of those nice young men ate the rat testicles.
Alas, I keep beating my cane on the floor, hoping to thwart my Survivor-missing fate, but I don't think Mr. Humphreys downstairs has even noticed. Probably too busy watching Survivor, absorbed in its midseason-ending...
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Help me!
Oh sweet lord, please help me up!
I'm old and I've fallen down and I'm afraid I may have shattered my pelvis on the cold, unforgiving tile of this floor! And I'm missing the beginning of Survivor!
No doubt they'll find me here in a few days, stuck to this floor like a squashed bug, once the smell grows strong enough to overpower my neighbor Gladys and her hellish brood of cats. Then some nice orderlies will come in and roll me onto a stretcher, my pissed pant-suit long since gone bitterly dry and packed with the pea-green product of my evacuated bowels. And they'll have a good laugh at poor old me, lying dead on the floor with no idea how this season's exciting Survivor midseason finale shaped up, the cold glint of unknowing flecked within my glassy eyes!
How cruel to live a life with no finale! Eighty-seven years and Edith Walker is cancelled to make way for a midseason replacement. How sad to live such an anticlimactic life. If only I could have waited another fifty-four minutes before taking my catastrophic tumble, I could have died a fulfilled woman!
I'm afraid I'll never get to see which of those nice young men ate the rat testicles.
Alas, I keep beating my cane on the floor, hoping to thwart my Survivor-missing fate, but I don't think Mr. Humphreys downstairs has even noticed. Probably too busy watching Survivor, absorbed in its midseason-ending magnificence. I can just imagine it. Eliza dancing a celebratory dance as Twila is voted off the island. Oh, no sense in torturing myself; the show's nearly half-over now. But by some cruel fate I've fallen within view of the bathroom clock, so I know by the minute just how much of my precious Survivor has ticked away.
Maybe if I press my ear closer against the floor I can overhear some of the show on Mr. Humphreys' television. Hmm. Nothing but muffled voices. It doesn't even sound like Survivor. Hard to be certain, but this isn't much like how the show sounded the episode after I'd dropped my hearing aid in the toilet. What could that old fool be watching? I bet it's Murder, She Wrote. I'm afraid I've long overestimated Mr. Humphreys, that tasteless old fart.
If only I'd thought to set up a series of mirrors in the hallway so I could see the television from the bedroom floor! That oversight seems foolish in retrospect. As well as ever turning off the TV in the first place. You never know what can happen right before Survivor, putting the TV knob cruelly out of reach! I should have thought to just turn my hearing aid off—that's like having a remote control with me all the time, and one that works through walls and around corners even if you're laid out on the bedroom floor like a pancake on the griddle.
Oh, how foolish I've been. What a foolish, wasted life. Hopefully the next old bag that takes my place in this apartment will learn from my cautionary tale and never turn off the television, lest she pick an inconvenient time to be voted off the island of life!
Oh, my. Is that a rat? Well, at least I won't starve to death. º Last Column: Christmas is Cancelled Due to Lack of Interestº more columns
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Milestones1962: Modesto-area commune publishes first newsletter on hand-recycled paper with pressed soybean inks, detailing member birthdays and a potluck sign-up. commune lawyers from the year 2015 sue retroactively for eventual copyright infringement, winning custody of 74 cots and a large clay poop trough.Now HiringShaman. Duties to include spells, incantations, curing minor STDs, opening bridge to the dreamtime, relieving crushing boredom of modern life, answering general tax questions and serving as an occasional drug connection. Knoweldge of dentistry a plus.Top Positive Changes Inspired by Va. Tech Massacre| 1. | Public now rightfully suspicious of South Koreans | | 2. | Bush to up military spending to ensure troops aren't outgunned by Iraqi college students | | 3. | Handguns: two for the price of one, Big Dill's Gun Barn, Williamsburg, VA | | 4. | Congress to pass ban on recreational bazookas | | 5. | Grand Theft Auto: Va. Tech to carry "It's just a game" disclaimer | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 4/16/2007 Hola shit, gringos. It’s south- of-the- border Roland McShyster coming to you from our continental neighbors, Mexico. Cancun is all ablaze with its usual brilliance as young people flock by the hundreds to the international Wordloaf festival. That means sharp spelling, wit, and cerveza by the cold cases. Roland McShyster is all over ivy tower intellectual fare like that. But it doesn’t mean I can neglect my movie-reviewing duties, and I don’t have to since directors all send Roland M. their movies on DVD screeners, just hoping for that review blurb that will land the asses in the seats. Watch as I don’t fail to disappoint.
Disturbia
Oh, yeah, let’s kick it cool style with another gripping and gritty story of a real-life rapper who made his way to...
Hola shit, gringos. It’s south- of-the- border Roland McShyster coming to you from our continental neighbors, Mexico. Cancun is all ablaze with its usual brilliance as young people flock by the hundreds to the international Wordloaf festival. That means sharp spelling, wit, and cerveza by the cold cases. Roland McShyster is all over ivy tower intellectual fare like that. But it doesn’t mean I can neglect my movie-reviewing duties, and I don’t have to since directors all send Roland M. their movies on DVD screeners, just hoping for that review blurb that will land the asses in the seats. Watch as I don’t fail to disappoint.
Disturbia
Oh, yeah, let’s kick it cool style with another gripping and gritty story of a real-life rapper who made his way to fame from the streets. Distrubia plays himself, and also wrote the screenplay, and also did the entire soundtrack, and I think he actually slept with all the actresses himself, he’s just that kind of cross-media entertainer. The direction isn’t Jim Sheridan’s Get Rick Or Die Tryin’, but with Disturbia’s ultra-large bloodshot eyes and creepy Fu Manchu, few rappers could match his unsettling physical appearance with the best direction. Dolly Parton rounds out the cast, but not in this film.
The Hoax
When did Hollywood get so brazen? They used to at least put out an actual film, even a crappy one, to get your money. Now in this case they just secured the money to make a movie and split it between the producers and promised not to tell anyone else. Whoever else is in on the joke, they’re not quick to admit it. This film, based on a lie some writer told his mother about a script he wasn’t working on, is the first film shot entirely on no kind of film stock. It doesn’t exist, it doesn’t have a cast, nor does it have a director, and the plot is pretty threadbare, too. Most people who go to see it will probably be a little surprised when they sit in a theater for 2 hours waiting for a movie that never starts, but maybe they’ll be good sports about it. I was, even though I only received a DVD screener with pure static on it, not quite the same as spending $45 or however much a movie costs non-reviewer people. Truth-in-advertising laws forced them to title it thusly, but don’t expect that big fucking clue to keep people out of the theater. They mostly go just for a dark place to feel up their girlfriends or boyfriends, and this movie adequately fills the bill.
Perfect Stranger
I have to admit I was real excited for Bronson Pinchot’s big-screen return, and seeing the much-beloved character Balki one more. It turned out to be a hideous letdown. Pinchot hasn’t aged well, and I think they even had a stunt double doing the world-famous "Dance of Joy" in those scenes. I was heartbroken, after years of waiting to see the story of a sheep-loving immigrant who is stunned by American culture, a project so ripe for the bigscreen. Who would have believed last year’s documentary Borta would have so excellently told the same story? It certainly didn’t help that Cousin Larry held out for serious payola. Too many ingredients were missing, and too long had passed since Balki’s last visit. The magic has gone.
Are We Done, Yeti?
Now here’s a movie the guys can enjoy. Ice Cube, in quite convincing make-up, plays a Yeti with a taste for human blood. He befriends Ice T only so he can take him up to a secluded wooded area and hunt him for sport, but T is too smart for that, yo. We learn of Ice Cube’s real motivations in the opening sequences, when he hunts down rapper/actor Ice Box and carves him into a frozen treat. But things are different for Ice T, who hooks up with the only hunted game to ever escape the Yeti, Ice Pick. Together the two, with a little help from hitchhiker Ice Storm, turn the tables and make the Yeti their bitch. Oh, it is on!
Speaking of getting it on, I think they’re doing Scrabble shots down in the lounge, so I’m checking out of my bungalow for the rich intellectual nightlife of Cancun. Keep it reel, folks—no, that wasn’t a misspelling, it was a play on the terms real and reel.   |
