|  | 
 October 24, 2005 |
Washington D.C. Whit Pistol New Hampshire Senator Judd Gregg, Powerball winner, decided to give an impromptu speech on the way home from filming an Old Navy commercial for extra spending cash.
"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.
"I wouldn't hav...
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. "I wouldn't have minded some of that sweet cash," snickered Gregg, who didn't bother dressing up for the press conferences. Wearing a pair of cutoff jeans, brown flip-flops, and a Senate Budget Committee muscle T, Gregg added, "I only play the lottery when it gets into real money like that. I could've used it more than that Oregon guy. What do they even have in Oregon? I bet he uses that money to move to a kick-ass state like New Hampshire." Though Gregg's announced resignation would be effective immediately, officials at the Republican Party Headquarters, the very mouth of hell, claimed Gregg would soon recant his resignation, and chalked it up to "lottery euphoria." "He does this all the time," said RNC spokesperson Phyllis Harbor. "Last year he fixed up an old Geo of his and sold it and told Cheney he was quitting. Just a few months ago he called in because a banking error in his favor left $3,000 extra in his account. Or maybe that was a beauty contest he won… I may be getting confused with a Monopoly game we played in the office last night. But frankly, Mr. Gregg is fairly high-strung for a Senator. He quit one time when the Sci-Fi Channel had a Twilight Zone marathon on. He ended up taking a sick day and just came in regular. No big deal." Fellow Budget Committee member Sen. Kent Conrad (D, North Dakota) confirmed Sen. Gregg has a tendency to overreact in financial situations. "He was going around everywhere in town just a few months ago, trying to raise $300 million for some 'project' he was putting together. When I asked him about it, it turns out he wanted to open a bait shop by the interstate so he could quit this 'lousy job' and be his own boss. I reminded him he's a millionaire already, and he had perhaps overestimated the amount of start-up capital it takes to open a bait shop. But that's Judd for you. He doesn't take well to numbers." Gregg himself answered some questions by phone, and was so far staying resolved in his plans to leave the Senate. "Forget it. I'm quitting this shitty job. I might give 'em some notice—till the end of the week at least. But come Friday, no joke, I'm outta here." Gregg made a whistling sound to punctuate his impending exit, and the sound of Rosanne playing on Nick-At-Nite could be heard. "Between the lotto money and some stocks and shit I could sell, I might finally be able to buy a partnership in a bowling alley like I've always wanted. I'm so ready to be my own boss it's not even funny." The soon-to-be-ex-Senator was kind enough to respond to all questions, but no one here thought to ask what a Senator is doing playing the lottery anyway. the commune news doesn't play the lottery because it's all just a popularity contest. Ramon Nootles has never won any popularity contests, mostly due to him being an unrelenting asshole.
 |
Derby winner stripped of prize when revealed as man in horse costume
Hamburgler enters FBI 10 Most Wanted after record 400-burger heist
Pakistan tests nuclear bomb; now has to save up for another one
New Heart Rejects Cheney
|
Iraq blah blah blah Suicide blah blah blah Dead Big Whup: Whale Swims Across the English Channel Heather Graham’s Career Found Dead in Apartment Polish Roof Falls in Following “Drinks Are on the House” Debacle |
| |
| 
 April 15, 2002
Slice of Life"Once in a while someone will ask me, 'Samuel L. Hartwig, what's your view of life?' I'll usually say the same thing: I'm paying you for the entire hour, doctor, you should be answering my damn questions.
I do have an answer, though: Life is just like a picnic. Everybody shows up expecting a piece of the pie. Some rush the picnic table, some walk to the picnic table. Some trample and pound on your brother Goose and say it's because they worried there wouldn't be enough pie for everyone, but you suspect it's because Goose likes to flash gang signals. Then you finally get to the picnic table yourself—not the fastest, not the slowest, but you get there just the same.
And the damn pie is all eaten up! What's with that? It's a friggin' picnic, mom, you should have known everybody was going to want pie. You were making one, was two pies beyond your pie-making capacity? 'Cause that's a pretty shitty pie-making capacity, if you ask me.
Then mom tells you she did make two pies, and you feel a little sheepish and realize it was all a big fuss for nothing. You step right up and cut into your slice of the pie, that was there all along.
'This is coconut, mom!' you scream at her. What's wrong with coconut? Oh, nothing, only it fucking kills me dead. That might be a slight problem. I'm your own son and you don't know I'm allergic to coconut? Nice. Just great. You couldn't save one piece of blueberry pie that would not kill me but...
º Last Column: The Room
º more columns
"Once in a while someone will ask me, 'Samuel L. Hartwig, what's your view of life?' I'll usually say the same thing: I'm paying you for the entire hour, doctor, you should be answering my damn questions.
I do have an answer, though: Life is just like a picnic. Everybody shows up expecting a piece of the pie. Some rush the picnic table, some walk to the picnic table. Some trample and pound on your brother Goose and say it's because they worried there wouldn't be enough pie for everyone, but you suspect it's because Goose likes to flash gang signals. Then you finally get to the picnic table yourself—not the fastest, not the slowest, but you get there just the same.
And the damn pie is all eaten up! What's with that? It's a friggin' picnic, mom, you should have known everybody was going to want pie. You were making one, was two pies beyond your pie-making capacity? 'Cause that's a pretty shitty pie-making capacity, if you ask me.
Then mom tells you she did make two pies, and you feel a little sheepish and realize it was all a big fuss for nothing. You step right up and cut into your slice of the pie, that was there all along.
'This is coconut, mom!' you scream at her. What's wrong with coconut? Oh, nothing, only it fucking kills me dead. That might be a slight problem. I'm your own son and you don't know I'm allergic to coconut? Nice. Just great. You couldn't save one piece of blueberry pie that would not kill me but there's a whole untouched killer coconut pie waiting just for me. What a fantastic substitute.
No, I don't want a fruitcup. Do you want a fruitcup? I'll tell you where you can shove a fruitcup. Leave me alone, I'm going to play Frisbee with those kids. Maybe you'll get lucky and some coconut will accidentally blow into my mouth from the death pie over here and you'll finally be rid of me.
Yep. That's kind of how I see life." º Last Column: The Roomº more columns
| 
|  February 4, 2002
Volume 13Dear commune:
I got drunk last night. But wait, I'm not writing with good news.
Me and my girlfriend went out to eat and I think I hit her. She shattered into a million pieces and I couldn't even see her head no more. It freaked the hell out of me.
What do I do? I'm thinking about running to Mexico, but since I live in Florida it would be a long run. If I turn myself in, will I get the chair? Is it legal to do something illegal as long as you are drunk?
Donnie Colbert
Osmond, FL
Dear Donnie:
We at the commune do not condone violence against women, unless they are in some sort of pro-wrestling outfit, or are Diana Ross. We are sympathetic with your plight, yet sickened by your very existence.
You should immediately go to the police and face whatever punishment will be handed down to you. It may be harsh, but it is necessary. It does not take a man to hit a woman, but it does take a man to face the consequences, and it takes two or more men to change a lightbulb, we understand.
Also, you may want to verify that you have not hit a giant Frisch's Big Boy statue or some other order-taking fast food restaurant device. In cases where a victim's head shatters into a million pieces, this is often the first thing overlooked.
the commune
Dear commune:
I have two questions.
1) Can you tell me more about the history...
º Last Column: Volume 12
º more columns
Dear commune: I got drunk last night. But wait, I'm not writing with good news. Me and my girlfriend went out to eat and I think I hit her. She shattered into a million pieces and I couldn't even see her head no more. It freaked the hell out of me. What do I do? I'm thinking about running to Mexico, but since I live in Florida it would be a long run. If I turn myself in, will I get the chair? Is it legal to do something illegal as long as you are drunk? Donnie Colbert
Osmond, FLDear Donnie:
We at the commune do not condone violence against women, unless they are in some sort of pro-wrestling outfit, or are Diana Ross. We are sympathetic with your plight, yet sickened by your very existence.
You should immediately go to the police and face whatever punishment will be handed down to you. It may be harsh, but it is necessary. It does not take a man to hit a woman, but it does take a man to face the consequences, and it takes two or more men to change a lightbulb, we understand.
Also, you may want to verify that you have not hit a giant Frisch's Big Boy statue or some other order-taking fast food restaurant device. In cases where a victim's head shatters into a million pieces, this is often the first thing overlooked.
the commune
Dear commune: I have two questions. 1) Can you tell me more about the history of styling mousse? 2) Have you always run the Red Bagel column in the commune? Thanks. Chazz Harlan
Cowerfoot, WYDear Chazz:
1) No.
2) Yes. The Red Bagel column has run since day one of the commune, yet it may have been overlooked as it's been written in tiny subscript within the commune logo, so as not to be read by the government. We then realized nobody else was reading it either, so we took the bold move of putting it in normal size letters on a page, just like the other columns which nobody is reading.
You're welcome.
the commune
Dear commune: I have recently purchased a cell phone and I'm worried about getting cancer of the head. I don't even know what kinds of head cancer there are out there. I want the least terminal kind, or failing that, none at all. I'm not sure if the cell phone even works. Sometimes I call from a tunnel, I get static, sometimes I get Bachman-Turner Overdrive. Not a recording or radio broadcast, the whole band. Sure, it's nice asking them where they came up with the riff for "China Grove," but they tell me that was the Doobie Brothers anyway and quit calling them. It confounds me. You know what else confounds me? Cereal. I'm not sure why we should eat it with milk and why we eat soup with water. I don't suppose anyone's figured that out. "Weak Hat" Tim McGee
Harrisburg, PADear "Weak Hat":
Well, you see… uhm… did you actually ask a legitimate question?
the commune
Editor's Note: the commune is not responsible for lost items such as luggage, watches, shoes, babies, or nuclear warheads. Especially since we're an online news source. Quit blaming us and take responsibility for your own sad lives.º Last Column: Volume 12º more columns
|
| |
Quote of the Day“Ask not what your country can do for you; cuz trust me, you ain't gonna get shit that way.”
-John Fitzpatrick KentuckyFortune 500 CookieOrganization is the key to surviving life's travails. Try sorting your problems large to small, then run like hell. Nobody can stand your face, voice or odor, but on the upside, everyone likes your car. This week's lucky ways to die: hanging plus drowning, three-year diarrhea, shop 'til you drop, the summertime blues.
Try again later.Top Rejected Cars| 1. | Honda Pfffttpp | | 2. | Chevy Crack Ho | | 3. | Chrysler on the Cross | | 4. | Ford Theater | | 5. | He Ain't Chevy He's My Brother | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Shelly Strood 9/1/2003 Study Hall Hood: A Hatty Pearst, Teen Detective MysteryThere was the loud sound of footfalls behind her. Could it be—the murderer? Hatty had to think quick, or she would be discovered searching for clues in the locker room. Thinking the obvious, she tried each locker until one near the end was found unlocked, and climbed inside. The door closed with a faint click just as she heard footsteps in the room.
Hatty was nervous as could be. Her heart raced, and beat her liver by ten seconds in a photo finish. She tried to hold her breath as she heard the loud footsteps approaching. It sounded like Fred Astaire, judging by the tap of the shoes, but it couldn't be since he had died long ago. It was likely only one other person—the murderer!
She had mixed feelings. If the murderer flung open the locker door, she would be...
There was the loud sound of footfalls behind her. Could it be—the murderer? Hatty had to think quick, or she would be discovered searching for clues in the locker room. Thinking the obvious, she tried each locker until one near the end was found unlocked, and climbed inside. The door closed with a faint click just as she heard footsteps in the room.
Hatty was nervous as could be. Her heart raced, and beat her liver by ten seconds in a photo finish. She tried to hold her breath as she heard the loud footsteps approaching. It sounded like Fred Astaire, judging by the tap of the shoes, but it couldn't be since he had died long ago. It was likely only one other person—the murderer!
She had mixed feelings. If the murderer flung open the locker door, she would be able to see who he was. But if he flung open the locker door, he would see who she was and probably kill her, if he was the murderer. If he wasn't, that would leave her with doubt. The only way for her to discover if whoever was outside was indeed the murderer of Professor Dimble was to be found in the locker and murdered. That would pretty much put all doubts to rest.
Still, she hoped it wouldn't happen. She would get no credit for capturing the murderer if he killed her. But it seemed it was becoming inevitable. He must have caught a whiff of her perfume, Liz Taylor's White Diamonds, because he began to fling open the lockers starting with the first at the far end. Hatty wished she had some kind of weapon, like a gun or a knife or a sharpened stake, if he were a vampire. She wished she were a cop or a secret agent, or someone who could protect herself, instead of a too-curious high school girl with a keen detective mind. Then, she wished she were a princess, with a huge castle and gigantic knockers. It did no good—the mysterious stranger kept getting closer and closer, opening locker door after locker door, until he was almost up to hers.
"Hello?" she heard a loud, bellowing voice, not belonging to the murderer. But it was enough; he was frightened off, and she heard his stylish-but-loud clacking shoes clomp out of the locker room.
When she stepped out of the locker, relieved and breathing doggedly, she saw her savior standing there: Brando, the janitor.
"Mr. Brando! It was sure a lucky thing you heard that strange man and came to my rescue, here in the girl's locker room!"
"Yeah," said Mr. Brando, appearing slightly confused. "It's a good thing. This place is completely empty after school hours. Some guy could have come in here and masturbated all over you and no one would have ever known!"
"I was more afraid of him killing me!" said Hatty, finally catching her breath.
"Oh, yeah. They'd never find out about that either, I guess."
Hatty looked around the smallish, somewhat sensual locker room. "Jeez-louise, if you didn't see him as he ran out, then where did he go?"
Brando thought for a moment, and it was painful. "I suppose he could have gotten out through the crawlspace." Hatty asked him what crawlspace he was referring to. "I'll tell you. The crawlspace over there, behind the showers. There's a small, janitor-sized cubby hole in the wall where a body could squeeze in, then escape through a hidden passageway to the football field!"
"My goodness! That's where he's gone, I'll bet anything! Come on, we've got to catch him—he's probably the man that murdered Professor Dimble!"
"Yeah!" cried Brando. "And I'll bet he's done other despicable things, like leaving child pornography magazines in that crawlspace. I'll bet you anything!"   |
