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OH MY GOD SNOW

You know what pisses me off? These ads you see on TV for some starving children's charity in Oswego or some place, where they say that $2.90 a day can buy you a coffee, donut and a newspaper, or you can feed an entire family in Oswego. To which I say, well yeah, but what about my donut? That shit is delicious. If I feed a family in Oswego, are they then going to turn around and mail me a donut? And how long does that shit take? I'm hungry now dammit, getting a donut from FedEx in the middle of a steak dinner I'm eating next week isn't going to do me a whole hell of a lot of good. These charity boneheads have really failed to think through the details.

And what in the hell are they feeding those Oswegans for $2.90? McDonald's? Thanks, but the U.S. doesn't need any more foreigners pissed off at us like that. Even if we're feeding them Ramen noodles, that's still pretty rough. You can only make it for about three days on that stuff before you start dropping ass like a Play-Doh Crazy Spaghetti Factory.

Now if you tell me they're eating something good for that $2.90, then you've got my attention. I want a slice of that action. I haven't done the math recently, but I'm pretty sure I spend way more than $2.90 a day on food. And I don't even have any kids, or a wife siphoning off $2 of my per diem so she can buy some of that organic beeswax lip balm. You ever try eating on 90 cents a day? Well big spender, I hope you like Juicy Fruit.

I even called one of these places and told them I'd sponsor some poor motherfuckers out there in the Congo if they'd give me the hook-up on some of this cheap grub. I figured, if I'm getting 30 cent steak dinners and lobster bisque for 99 cents, I can afford to carry some freeloading Ethiopians as part of my overhead. What the hell, I've never been a selfish guy. Get on the Mitch Kroeger gravy train, you skinny fuckers.

You know what they said to me? Nothing. I mean they hung up like I had just propositioned them for phone sex. Wake up, charity assholes, that was like two weeks ago! Now I'm calling with a business proposition. No wonder you guys are on TV begging for handouts, you don't have any idea how to run a business.

My solution? Well, for one thing, I'm not one of these conservative assholes who's going to look a starving Ethiopian in the eye and tell him to go get a job and buy his own food. That's bullshit: jobs suck a nut. I would, however, suggest that maybe he should grow a pair and go kill himself a lion. Lions are good eatin', for one thing, and last time I checked they're pretty huge. Kill one of those things and you're going to be ass-deep in lion steaks for the foreseeable future. You might even be able to sell some of the less desirable cuts to your fellow villagers or trade the gonads or the gizzard for some A1 sauce and baked potatoes, to make a real meal of it.

Now don't get started on me about how some skinny Ethiopian dude, tired from weeks of not eating, is supposed to kill a big scary-ass lion. For one thing, if he's really that skinny, the lion doesn't pose any real threat since he can just slip between its teeth like dental floss. But even if he's not down to Kate Moss starvation levels quite yet, it's not like we're living in 400 B.C. here. Lions may be big and mean, but they still get run over by a Jeep just like anything else. And I know that not every starving Ethiopian villager owns his own Jeep, I'm not stupid. But that doesn't mean he can't borrow one. He wouldn't even need it that long, maybe thirty seconds or so. And what kind of asshole wouldn't lend a starving Ethiopian his car for thirty seconds? You should be ashamed of yourself, bud.

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Astute commune readers or other mythological creatures might have noticed the long sustained absence of new material over the past couple of weeks. It was the first time since 2001, the year I got my first checkbook and rented commune office space, that we've taken an extended absence from news reportage. I apologize, but it couldn't be helped, as everyone here had lost their minds.

That might be a possible exaggeration. Lefty the commune mail clerk seemed perfectly within her normal rationale, but she was particularly grumpy on the ride to the Funsational Summer Corporate Retreat and Motivational Seminar, on the commune bus, also known as the Damned Bus. Everyone was in a not so good mood, which is to say no one was in a good mood, but it was yet another of my kind concessions to brother Gay to make the commune a more profitable experience over the long haul.

Despite the silly name, Gay did NOT have fun at the Retreat. Sure, he had a ball when the clowns were doing their thing, and the white college Republican rap troupe broke it down for us, and I could see him really moved by motivational speaker Slick Hodges. But then came the group therapy session, where we attempted to learn about our own personalities in the work place, outside of the actual work place, and the hard bitter truth ran right into his sweet spots.

We tried a dandy trust exercise, where we split into groups and, blindfolded, had to put up a tent. It ended in a lot of pain for Gay, who found a tent post painfully inserted somewhere, only partially, thank God, by one or more of his teammates. Ted Ted is the angriest and most outspoken, so the obvious suspect, but he lacks the physical strength to force a tent post into the human body, while Stigmata Spent had the sheer muscle to do it—but still, someone had to hold him down. Despite the animosity toward my brother, and the fact they didn't get the tent set up, the session leader still had to admit they showed impressive teamwork in the endeavor.

As always, role-playing followed, and without going into much detail, let's just say it soon degenerated into everyone doing their Gay Bagel impersonations. My favorite was Ivana Folger-Balzac's, which consists of wagging a finger and yelling gibberish like "Habba habba habba! Habba ha!" Which is not to discredit humorless Shabozz Wertham, who puts on a pointy white hat and straightens his tie while saying, in a very Gay voice, "About time for my weekly cross-burning!" That brings down the house. Oh, and then there's—well, perhaps I should return to my earlier policy of less description. Gay wasn't very happy with this therapy, and the session leader scolded us, saying we should role-play more than one person to do it right.

To our great surprise, it did help us realize our problems—Gay. The unlicensed psychology student conducting the therapy sessions suggested we feel pressure from Gay to do well, and Gay confirmed it, interrupting the student and making her cry. Many of the staffers complained about the new weekly schedule, saying it was more work than they were used to—one story or column a week is taxing the talents of my crew, and they long for the old days of the semi-weekly schedule. Actually, they long for the days of childhood when they could eat popsicles and screw around all summer, but I'm powerless about that. But the semi-weekly thing I could do something about.

So the rift is wider and more pissed-off-filled than ever between Gay and I, since I broke our deal and put the commune back on its semi-weekly format. But anything to make my staff happier. It is important I mention that, in the end, I'm glad Gay came aboard here at the commune. Before they hated me, or Raoul Dunkin, or Ramrod Hurley, and all the back-stabbing, bad-mouthing, and vandalism really started to pull our family apart. But now I'm on the inside with it all—we've united against a common enemy, my brother. And they've got a point, of course, he really is a dick.

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