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Box-Traveling Moron Somehow News September 15, 2003 |
Dallas, TX COUNTY FAIR NOVELTY Self-mailer Charles McKinley makes âgoing postalâ news again
Authorities believe McKinley had help from at least one co-worker at the New York warehouse where he is employed, since it is extremely difficult to nail yourself into a shipping crate from the inside. The homesick McKinley, too broke to afford an airline ticket, came up with the idea after a friend complimented him on his ability to avoid buying a car by stowing away in other driversâ trunks in order to get around town. McKinley also remembered a similar idea working in a humorous MC 900 Ft. Jesus video heâd seen years before.
McKinley took neither food...
hipping clerk Charles McKinley mailed himself from New York to Dallas in a shipping crate last week, as was reported by every major news outlet on Tuesday in the face of an apparent total lack of actual news. Authorities believe McKinley had help from at least one co-worker at the New York warehouse where he is employed, since it is extremely difficult to nail yourself into a shipping crate from the inside. The homesick McKinley, too broke to afford an airline ticket, came up with the idea after a friend complimented him on his ability to avoid buying a car by stowing away in other driversâ trunks in order to get around town. McKinley also remembered a similar idea working in a humorous MC 900 Ft. Jesus video heâd seen years before. McKinley took neither food nor water along with him for the 15-hour journey, only a broken cell-phone and a Game Boy Advance for which he soon lamented not buying a backlight. âI brought my cell phone, even though that piece of shitâs been broken for two weeks, just in case we got up in space and all of a sudden I had service again,â explained McKinley. âThatâdve been sweet, because I could call up Charles and be like âYo whatup dog, Iâm calling you from a box in space and shit!â Thereâs no way Charles would believe that, man, heâd think I was drunk or something. But heâdve been wrong. I wish I was drunk, that probably wouldâve made the fifteen hours in the dark with knees all crammed up in my face go faster now that I think about it. But yeah, I brought my cell phone because I think itâs the battery thatâs all jacked from the time I dropped it in that toilet at the bar, and I figure it might not have enough juice to pull down the phone calls from the satellites all the way to the ground, you know? But maybe itâll work on the plane âcuz weâre closer to the satellites and all that. But no dice, piece of shit was still busted.â Embarrassed federal officials are still trying to determine how McKinley made it through airport security, which presumably has some kind of dogs or something that check to make sure crates being shipped donât smell like sweaty morons. Officials refused to speculate what security measures might be in place to prevent this kind of occurrence, though they neither confirmed nor denied that a funny way to test would be to drop all packages from a height of several feet to see if any of them screamed. Upon arriving at his parentsâ suburban Dallas home, McKinley busted out of the crate with a crowbar, scaring the holy shit out of a deliveryman who thought he was dropping off a huge shipment of Triscuits. âI thought it was funny that the thing smelled like a big box of snack crackers and B.O., but I still didnât expect some weirdo to bust out like a jackass-in the-box,â explained deliveryman Billy Ray Thomas. âAnd yeah, the rumors are true, I may have screamed kind of like a girl when he popped out. And then I called the cops on my cell phone because, hey man, fuck you!â When the police arrived they arrested McKinley on an unrelated charge of passing bad checks and sneaking onto a train in a large duffel bag. Federal officials are also considering charges of âstowing away on a plane,â the violation of a law created in the 1940âs to give police characters more to do in Warner Bros. cartoons. Asked how much he saved by traveling in the cargo hold, McKinley made it clear that his employer had unwittingly footed the bill for his low-budget odyssey. âOh shit man, I couldnât afford to mail a box that heavy. You have any idea what that must cost? Damn. I just traveled cross-country in a crate, Jack, do I look like Iâm made of money?â the commune news loves a low-budget fare as much as the next guy, but we draw the line at putting on a Great Dane costume and traveling in the belly of the plane in a dog carrier. Anything more than that is just weird. Ivana Folger-Balzac is a first-class pain in the ass, but weâre not sure whether or not that entitles her to free ticket upgrades.
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Onlookers Awkwardly Try to Ignore Really High Guy at 9/11 Memorial Who Can't Stop Laughing
Trump buys land from Trump; Trump screwed in deal
$6 billion contract bounces away from Boeing
McCain: Steroids in sports dangerous for kids, great for political fuel
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Black Friday Sales Slow; Black People Blamed he nations African-American community had to bear another injustice over the weekend as it was revealed the sales on their own personal super-saving shopping event, Black Friday, were moderate at best. Undoubtedly, the responsibility for the lower-than-projected sales will fall squarely on the shoulders of the black community. Sales were not as high as initially expected, announced economical tool and white person spokesperson Neil Van Hurst of Columbia Universitys School of Business. This is owed mostly to continuing downward spending trends in recent holiday seasons. And its all the fault of black people, Van Hurst all but said. Child Left Behind recent round of standardized DMAS testing in Americas elementary schools has revealed that in spite of President Bushs ambitious No Child Left Behind education policy, at least one American child has been left way the fuck behind. I dont 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 months DMAS, a feat previously thought mathematically impossible. Conditions at Walter Reed Upgraded to Nightmarishly Clive Barker-esque Unveiling of First Black Disney Character Raises Some Concerns |
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 July 22, 2002
Volume 21Dear commune:
Ed Phillips here again. I've recently returned a little wiser from the Middle East. Like most Americans, I assumed the problem was simply based in religious differences and the insurmountable tumultuous history between Islamic and Jewish religions. I was more surprised than anybody to find out it was all over a hotel bill for a room shared by Ziggy Morgenstern and Al-Adid Shabozz back in 1967. I offered to pay the bill myself, it was only $34, but leaders on both sides were quick to stress it wouldn't make a difference. It was all the principle.
Needless to say, that started me thinking: How come you're not allowed to cook in motel or hotel rooms? It seems an incredible infringement on my rights as an American to not let me fry up some eggs and bacon on a hot plate in my own hotel room, making me survive on their continental breakfast alone. I'm not talking open-flame bonfires, believe me, I've learned my lesson after that fire three years ago. But even simple electric outlet appliance cooking is outlawed. Doesn't seem right.
I have recently collapsed the ass-section of my pants, though I hope they are repairable. I'll keep you informed on this situation as more progresses.
Ed Phillips
Hackensack, New Jersey
Dear Ed:
Thanks for the letter, and please keep us informed on the whole ass/pants story as it develops.
According to our Research Editor Griswald Dreck: "The...
º Last Column: Volume 20
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Dear commune: Ed Phillips here again. I've recently returned a little wiser from the Middle East. Like most Americans, I assumed the problem was simply based in religious differences and the insurmountable tumultuous history between Islamic and Jewish religions. I was more surprised than anybody to find out it was all over a hotel bill for a room shared by Ziggy Morgenstern and Al-Adid Shabozz back in 1967. I offered to pay the bill myself, it was only $34, but leaders on both sides were quick to stress it wouldn't make a difference. It was all the principle. Needless to say, that started me thinking: How come you're not allowed to cook in motel or hotel rooms? It seems an incredible infringement on my rights as an American to not let me fry up some eggs and bacon on a hot plate in my own hotel room, making me survive on their continental breakfast alone. I'm not talking open-flame bonfires, believe me, I've learned my lesson after that fire three years ago. But even simple electric outlet appliance cooking is outlawed. Doesn't seem right. I have recently collapsed the ass-section of my pants, though I hope they are repairable. I'll keep you informed on this situation as more progresses. Ed Phillips
Hackensack, New JerseyDear Ed:
Thanks for the letter, and please keep us informed on the whole ass/pants story as it develops.
According to our Research Editor Griswald Dreck: "The war between hotels/motels and in-room cooking dates back to 1647, when the first motel room fire was recorded starting in Ye Olde Two-Pence Inn, by a peasant guest who burned down six rooms in the inn with a small pocketfire for cooking grouse.
"Since then it has been illegal for guests of any hotel in any country, so decided by the International Terror Conspiracy of Hotel Owners and Operators, to cook in any form or fashion in any room. Part of it is fear of another hotel/motel fire, but a lot of it is because this gigantic conspiracy is just a bunch of dicks who are slow to forget grudges. In fact, it's proven that 92% of Americans are all descended from the dillhole who started the fire at the Ye Olde Two-Pence, Augustus Winterturd. So thanks to this grade-A medieval jackass we're all denied the pleasure of a hotplate-cooked hot dog, even in our enlightened age. Tough luck. Maybe if we all promise to not steal an abundance of towels, soaps, and shampoos, maybe order a few more in-room movies, they'll start giving us a little more leeway in this situation."
the commune
Editor's Note: the commune is not responsible for the repeated publishing of letters by Ed Phillips. He sends us about 75 a month, so really, you're getting a fair statistical representative of our reality.º Last Column: Volume 20º more columns
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|  March 7, 2005
FalloutI think we gave up on Chernobyl too easily. I say that knowing full-well that too much radiation can make your sack blow up like a beach ball and your fruit starts talking to you and shit, which could be plenty scary depending on what the fruit is saying. I know some people who would be terrified no matter what their pear was belching out at them over the breakfast table, but I for one believe you can't live on that uptight of a level. At least I wouldn't consider it living. If I'm greeted to a chorus of "Mornin', Omar" from my fruit bowl in the morning, who's the victim? As long as they don't scream when I eat them, I don't really consider talking fruit to have a downside.
I'm not a doctor, at least when I'm not hard-up for cash, but I've got to imagine the health effects of living in a raging nuclear fallout zone have been overstated. You know how doctors are, one month immense dosages of radiation will turn you into a puddle of goop, the next month they'll give you super powers and you'll live to be 150. It's like the whole red wine thing. I'm willing to take my chances, because even in the worst-case scenario, being a puddle of super-powered goop doesn't sound all bad. No way you've got to pay normal tax rates when you're filing as "goop."
And Chernobyl itself could really be an ideal place to live, when you think about it. It's like an empty readymade city, just without all the giant Barbie dolls and the plastic Thunderbird with nothing under...
º Last Column: Panama
º more columns
I think we gave up on Chernobyl too easily. I say that knowing full-well that too much radiation can make your sack blow up like a beach ball and your fruit starts talking to you and shit, which could be plenty scary depending on what the fruit is saying. I know some people who would be terrified no matter what their pear was belching out at them over the breakfast table, but I for one believe you can't live on that uptight of a level. At least I wouldn't consider it living. If I'm greeted to a chorus of "Mornin', Omar" from my fruit bowl in the morning, who's the victim? As long as they don't scream when I eat them, I don't really consider talking fruit to have a downside.
I'm not a doctor, at least when I'm not hard-up for cash, but I've got to imagine the health effects of living in a raging nuclear fallout zone have been overstated. You know how doctors are, one month immense dosages of radiation will turn you into a puddle of goop, the next month they'll give you super powers and you'll live to be 150. It's like the whole red wine thing. I'm willing to take my chances, because even in the worst-case scenario, being a puddle of super-powered goop doesn't sound all bad. No way you've got to pay normal tax rates when you're filing as "goop."
And Chernobyl itself could really be an ideal place to live, when you think about it. It's like an empty readymade city, just without all the giant Barbie dolls and the plastic Thunderbird with nothing under the hood. It'd be like Oklahoma City without the hick smell. They could hold a wild land grab like back in the old west days! Give me a cattle prod and let me loose in that place, trust me; I'll come out of the deal with Bricks Towers under my arm. It may have been Bank of Ruskie before the shit went Three Mile, but now that vault's Foghat's room, Ivan. What can I say; the dog likes to feel secure when he sleeps. Plus I think he might be catching on to the fact that the "Panic Room" in the Bricks Manor is just a walk-in closet with a bunch of pennies jammed in the door frame.
Still not sold on the whole Chernobyl thing? How would you like to wipe your ass with the electricity bill? You'd be living that large in Chernobyl, since who needs electricity when the whole town glows in the dark? And if that shit can power a submarine, it should have no problem juicing up my Mr. Coffee. It would be like solar power, without the suck.
I got to thinking about fallout this week because of The Man's reaction to my oceanizing of the Bricksmobile III: Red Bagel Edition last month when I was down in Panama. Turns out the big Bagel had a real emotional attachment to that car, and a real dead space alien on dry ice in the trunk. That's what he says anyway, the story smelled suspiciously of hooker mishap to me. But if that's the case, he can consider that problem solved, because the only law that's getting into that trunk now is the Fish Police. And it was my understanding that they were cancelled years ago. Bagel always has been the paranoid sort, however, and I don't think he watches TV. Something about mind-control dolphin sounds in the audio mix, I didn't read the whole pamphlet.
So now I'm on the commune shit list, of Bricks List as it's being called at the moment. Quite a change from the Dunkin Detail as it had been known for years. Thanks to my loyal readership of gun nuts, truckers and the vicarious, my ratings the office chicken has been tabulating are keeping me from napping under the axe, but I'm still keeping my options open for a career move to the Far East in case shit goes bad again like last year when I ate all of Bagel's astronaut ice cream. One more mix-up like that and Omar Bricks will be the top name on the commune's Comrade Exchange Program, because I don't think those sly fuckers want Boris Utzov back. Wish me luck.
Bricks Out. º Last Column: Panamaº more columns
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Quote of the Day“I have not yet begun to fight! When I have begun, it will look quite different. Fists will be flying about, and you will hear a high-pitched whistling sort of sound that will actually be a scream. In factâI'll make a little hand gesture to let you know. When you see that, that will let you know I'm fighting.”
-John Paul Jones RingoFortune 500 CookieThat tumor-sized growth isn't what you thought, but it could mean big money, so don't despair. One homosexual dream doesn't make you gay, but try one more. What are you in the mood for tonight? Roasted chicken, with sautĂŠed potatoes. Eat less fiber, what the hell. Lucky numbers 10, 10, 34, 10, and 194.
Try again later.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 2/3/2003 Well Hop on Pop, it's time for another installment of Entertainment Police. I guess we just couldn't hold it in any longer. Feast your eyes (and if you really are, literally, feasting your eyes, drop me an email because that sounds freaky as hell and I'm curious as to how it works) on the latest and, by default, greatest films that Hollywood is wedging in between Coke commercials this week:
In Theaters
Final Destination 2
Raise your hand if you knew there was a Final Destination 1. At first I thought this might be one of those joke titles like Leonard Part 6 or Jaws 2, but then I realized it wasn't funny, so there must really be a first film. I asked around and nobody...
Well Hop on Pop, it's time for another installment of Entertainment Police. I guess we just couldn't hold it in any longer. Feast your eyes (and if you really are, literally, feasting your eyes, drop me an email because that sounds freaky as hell and I'm curious as to how it works) on the latest and, by default, greatest films that Hollywood is wedging in between Coke commercials this week:
In Theaters
Final Destination 2
Raise your hand if you knew there was a Final Destination 1. At first I thought this might be one of those joke titles like Leonard Part 6 or Jaws 2, but then I realized it wasn't funny, so there must really be a first film. I asked around and nobody had heard of it, but somebody told me to check the Internet Movie Database, some sort of government Big Brother thing where they list every movie that anyone has even thought of making. I thanked the guy, of course, but couldn't get behind his back to make the cuckoo faces fast enough. What a freak. Like anybody cares that much about movies. Most directors can't even remember most of their films, and let me remind you, they're the ones getting paid. So anyway, the only conclusion I could come to was that there never was a Final Destination 1, but for some reason the studio wants us to believe there was. Like maybe if we can't remember the first one sucking, we'll figure it was good and be eager to see the sequel. A clever ploy, probably the smartest thing Hollywood has done since making the smallest soda size bigger than any human bladder, so you have to pay to see 9 ½ Weeks twice to catch the part you missed while you were pissing out in the hallway. But anyway, now that I've deflated the silicone out of their fake-boob premise, the real question is, should you want to see Final Destination 2? There's another question in there, too, which is if this film is a hit, will they call the next film Final Destination 3 or just admit the ruse and call it Final Destination 2 again? My guess is that they'll dodge that bullet altogether and go with some safe bullshit title like Finaler Destination or My Big Fat Final Destination. But getting back to the original question, the answer is: six.
The Recut
Al Pacino and Colin Farrell star in this boldly experimental film about Al Pacino being Al Pacino. And the funny thing is that I don't think Al Pacino's really even in the movie at all, the whole thing is just a bunch of famous scenes from Al Pacino's other movies cut together. Average white man Colin Farrell is computer-dumped into every scene to add continuity, using the same technology they used to treat us to John Wayne crapping in a beer commercial and Gandhi telling us why he'd drive a Volvo. The result is startlingly similar to Al Pacino's last eighteen films, at a fraction of the cost. Will this bold experiment in giving viewers exactly what they want pay off? That's hard to say, but I did love the parts where Farrell ad-libs and makes it sound like Pacino's talking about something other than what he was in the original films, like when Pacino's famous "Just when I think I'm outâŚ" speech from The Godfather of Soul becomes about him mud-wrestling with Barbara Bush and Margaret Thatcher on peyote.
Shanghai Knights
This isn't the first time a poorly conceived theme restaurant has been made into a movie, and unless somebody was killed by a helicopter while they were filming, this probably won't be the last. But this film certainly deserves its claim to fame as the most recent. An offshoot of those annoying restaurants where yuppies pay to eat with no silverware while a bunch of gay failed actors bash about with swords and armor and people pretend like they're having fun, the Shanghai Knights chain at least made the improvement of offering Chinese food. The upshot here was that even in those backwards historical times the Chinese knew what the hell silverware was, even if they thought it was chopsticks. But how to translate this improvement into movie success? Well, you could do worse than casting the likeably gay duo of awkward nose model Owen Wilson ( Dennis the Menace, The Math Man) and Attention Deficit Asian Jackie Chan ( Ladder Fight Disco, The Underpants) in the lead roles, and surrounding them by an able supporting cast that falls down in charming ways. The script is a little on the thin side, but that's to be expected as it was based on a menu. However, even with all its shortcomings, this film is a marked improvement over previous efforts in the genre, such as the unfortunate Steak Knight and the truly wretched Eat Your Chicken or Die.
In order to keep up with the prevailing trends in Hollywood as of late, I've decided to open up some new revenue streams for the column by inserting product placements and some ads here and there, you know, because nobody gives a shit anymore. So as I sit here and drink my Gnert⥠cola and sniff some Elmer'sâĄÂ˛ glue while I ponder the mid-winter movie season, let me be the first to suggest that it'd be awfully nice to have my cock sucked by a hookerâĄÂł right about now, maybe while I was smoking some crackâ . Yeah, that would definitely help these movies go down smoother.   |
