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NRA Wages Court Battle Against RealityDecember 8, 2003 |
Washington, D.C. Sloe Lorenzo NRA mouthpiece Wayne LaPierre shares his hilarious impression of a deer caught in an NRA member's sights
"We're looking at bringing a court case that we're as legitimate a media outlet as Disney or Viacom or Time-Warner or any of those places," explained Wayne LaPierre, the NRA's own version of commune whale tampon Raoul Dunkin. An uncomfortable silence followed after this reporter stopped laughing.
According to LaPierre, the NRA is one of the biggest magazine publishers in the United States, with an impressive stable of nearly a...
pparently feeling that the current national climate is as ripe a time as any for a complete break from any recognizable form of reality, the National Rifle Association is attempting to buy a television or radio station this week, in hopes of declaring itself a news organization exempt from spending restrictions in the campaign finance law.
"We're looking at bringing a court case that we're as legitimate a media outlet as Disney or Viacom or Time-Warner or any of those places," explained Wayne LaPierre, the NRA's own version of commune whale tampon Raoul Dunkin. An uncomfortable silence followed after this reporter stopped laughing.
According to LaPierre, the NRA is one of the biggest magazine publishers in the United States, with an impressive stable of nearly a dozen publications, including "American Rifleman," "Patriotic American Hunter," "Gun Nut," and "Buck-Naked Beer-Swilling Bitches."
Since the NRA has such extensive experience bringing news to the mullet-wearing portion of America's magazine-buying public, LaPierre argues that the NRA should enjoy the same political benefits enjoyed by organizations with less-embarrassing member ranks.
"I defy you to convince me that the NRA is any different from those organizations, just because they actually have news departments and wear pants around the office," said LaPierre, himself clad in pajama bottoms adorned with a machine-gun pattern. "We're just as legitimate a news source as any of them are, even more so when you consider the way they ignore the obvious gun angle in everyday stories." LaPierre further argued that paranoid gun freaks have as much a right as anyone to be represented in the media, but this reporter can't be sure of the exact quote as my notes just contain a doodle of a cow shitting on a scale for this part of the story.
The NRA's latest moves can be seen as a sign of the times, as there have been few periods in history when a lobbying group would so boldly admit to circumventing campaign reform legislation in hopes of buying influence in next year's elections.
Historically one of Washington's most powerful and twitchy lobbies, the 4 million-member NRA has spent millions over the years supporting pro-gun candidates. Since the organization is financed with corporate money, under the campaign finance law of 2002 it is currently banned from running ads mentioning candidates by name during the two months preceding a general election. News organizations are exempt from such restrictions, allowing them to cover the news and follow elections without being accused of shilling for political candidates.
Convinced that the NRA is capable of such impartial and unbiased political coverage, LaPierre promises that the NRA and its lawyers will continue to fight this attack on their "First Amendment rights," possibly even going so far as to broadcast pro-gun ads from ships anchored in international waters at election time. Another uncomfortable silence followed after this reporter stopped laughing. the commune news has also brought several of its own lawsuits in an effort to be considered a media organization, but thus far the orderly connotations of the term "organization" have been a difficult sticking point. Ivana Folger-Balzac isn't a card-carrying member of the NRA, but as a gun-carrying card she is often mistaken for the same.
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 October 24, 2005
It's Alright, Ma, I'm Only BleedingA lot of people have written letters to me asking why so many mothers kill their kids. This frightens me, I must tell you now. But that doesn't give me an excuse not to answer it. So let's work on that conundrum right now, since it's been a pretty boring couple of weeks here at the commune and the conspiracy river is running dry.
I have to ask you first, are there really that many more moms killing their kids these days? Or is it more likely that in the last ten years a media which has more than doubled in size and output is fighting to grab our attention with sensationalistic stories that hit us right in the gut? No, it's the first one. There are a lot more moms killing their kids.
Which prompts us to ask, "Dude, what the fuck?" Only more intelligently than that.
I answer that question with a more high-falutin' one: "Is it intrinsic to our nature to want to kill our children?" Because I say it is.
Sir, it's our very genetic make-up to kill our offspring. If it wasn't, people would have a lot fewer children. And consequently, we'd probably care a lot less about sex. Which is horrifying enough. But as I said, we would have two children per couple to maintain the future of our species. Instead, mother nature (or whatever mother makes things happen around here) gave us three, four, five or more children. This is because we are expected to kill most of them at some point before they reach adulthood, and can properly defend...
º Last Column: Remember Those We Lost
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A lot of people have written letters to me asking why so many mothers kill their kids. This frightens me, I must tell you now. But that doesn't give me an excuse not to answer it. So let's work on that conundrum right now, since it's been a pretty boring couple of weeks here at the commune and the conspiracy river is running dry. I have to ask you first, are there really that many more moms killing their kids these days? Or is it more likely that in the last ten years a media which has more than doubled in size and output is fighting to grab our attention with sensationalistic stories that hit us right in the gut? No, it's the first one. There are a lot more moms killing their kids. Which prompts us to ask, "Dude, what the fuck?" Only more intelligently than that. I answer that question with a more high-falutin' one: "Is it intrinsic to our nature to want to kill our children?" Because I say it is. Sir, it's our very genetic make-up to kill our offspring. If it wasn't, people would have a lot fewer children. And consequently, we'd probably care a lot less about sex. Which is horrifying enough. But as I said, we would have two children per couple to maintain the future of our species. Instead, mother nature (or whatever mother makes things happen around here) gave us three, four, five or more children. This is because we are expected to kill most of them at some point before they reach adulthood, and can properly defend themselves. Of course, we came up with ways to stay our homicidal instincts over the centuries. First, we invented music—all music has a subtle effect on our turbulent emotions, quelling them from our innate homicidal rage. Except rap. We also invented ice cream. It might not have anything to do with killing your children, but it is pretty damn cool we invented it. So let's say it's not one thing in particular, but a combination of many things that have stopped us from killing our offspring—because believe me, the cavemen used to pile up five, six kids a year, as I understand it. I have a friend whose taken an archaeology class who will back me up on this. Once again, let's say it's modern ice cream and gangsta rap. Because of these changing modern times, which have worked to erode the false serenity we've built up over the years, things have basically gone all dickhouse. Tempers burn out like fuses made from suicide bomber hair. And then mom realizes she has little Billy's thin, breakable neck right between her hands and she's getting ready for the snap. Now the final question: "What can we do to change this?" To which I have the even more final question: "Should we do anything about this"? My question beats yours. Turn that back on me, if you think you can. I say humans murdering their young is part of the natural evolutionary process. Especially these days, when the untalented and moronic are outbreeding the Red Bagels by 3- or 4-to-1. If a kid is smart enough to keep himself from getting killed by mom, that's a kid that's going places. Not to put all the responsibility on these kids, but all the responsibility is on these kids. That may seem harsh, but it's no different than the little caribou out in the middle of the Serengeti, being chased down by wild mountain tigers. Or whatever equivalent evolution thing happens to animals. Run fast, kids. Momma's mad, and she ain't going for the belt this time. º Last Column: Remember Those We Lostº more columns
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|  October 1, 2001
Darby"Uncle Trey had a dog that we all liked a lot, a dog by the name of Darby. He was a small white dog with wiry hair, I think he was a Jack Russell terrier. Darby used to love to dance on his hind legs. He'd do that for hours on end; all you had to do was hold up your hand like you were giving him a treat and he'd dance. My sister Stephanie made him a tutu out of lavender chiffon, and every time we visited Uncle Trey, she'd put that tutu on Darby and make him dance around. That brought a smile to everyone's face, even Uncle Trey, who was known for not having much of a sense of humor.
The other thing that Darby did was bark and snap at water coming out of the hose. That, and dig in the yard. He was always digging under the fence and getting out. He'd dig a new hole under the fence at least once a week, and then go out and roam the neighborhood for hours until one of the neighbors called Uncle Trey and asked him to please put his damn dog back in the yard and not let him get out again. One time Uncle Trey came out in the morning and found a new hole under the fence, and the tutu that Stephanie had made for Darby stuck there. He got mad and swore, and when Darby finally decided to come home, Uncle Trey shot him.
But at least he let us bury him in the tutu that Stephanie had...
º Last Column: Mr. Dingle
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"Uncle Trey had a dog that we all liked a lot, a dog by the name of Darby. He was a small white dog with wiry hair, I think he was a Jack Russell terrier. Darby used to love to dance on his hind legs. He'd do that for hours on end; all you had to do was hold up your hand like you were giving him a treat and he'd dance. My sister Stephanie made him a tutu out of lavender chiffon, and every time we visited Uncle Trey, she'd put that tutu on Darby and make him dance around. That brought a smile to everyone's face, even Uncle Trey, who was known for not having much of a sense of humor.
The other thing that Darby did was bark and snap at water coming out of the hose. That, and dig in the yard. He was always digging under the fence and getting out. He'd dig a new hole under the fence at least once a week, and then go out and roam the neighborhood for hours until one of the neighbors called Uncle Trey and asked him to please put his damn dog back in the yard and not let him get out again. One time Uncle Trey came out in the morning and found a new hole under the fence, and the tutu that Stephanie had made for Darby stuck there. He got mad and swore, and when Darby finally decided to come home, Uncle Trey shot him.
But at least he let us bury him in the tutu that Stephanie had made." º Last Column: Mr. Dingleº more columns
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Quote of the Day“The good die first. Then, the not-so good. Then the ugly. Strike that, the ugly should die first. Can I start again? If there are any good left, don't kill them yet, we've still got some uglies over here.”
-Billiam SwordswartFortune 500 CookieThe next time you give a dog as a gift, why don't you try poking some holes in the cellophane, ay handyman? Here's something to chew on: gum. Remember: you can't hurry love, but you can get your ass in motion when you're blocking the express lane, chunky. This week's lucky ducks: Donald, Daffy, Dontrelle, Fukka.
Try again later.Top Nonsensical Curses| 1. | Motherbumper Fannyfuck | | 2. | Shitwheeler | | 3. | Short-Handled Ass Tank | | 4. | Mop-Handle Michelangelo | | 5. | Pelé! | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 8/19/2002 Hey is for horses, America! And since at last count, horses were unable to manipulate computer keyboards with their big, stupid paws, I'm going to go ahead and assume we've got real live people in the house tonight. So I won't be serving up any hay today people, just some hot, steaming vittles of entertainment flavor. Hopefully that sounds just about right up your alley, as the British say. And hopefully that's not some kind of nasty euphemism for sex, though I've got a bad feeling about it since nearly everything the British say is, so the odds aren't in my favor. But enough about the British! When's the last time they made a movie worth seeing? I thought not. Let's get our minds back on the great U.S. of A, and the thing we do best: selling dreams and soda pop. On to the movies!
Hey is for horses, America! And since at last count, horses were unable to manipulate computer keyboards with their big, stupid paws, I'm going to go ahead and assume we've got real live people in the house tonight. So I won't be serving up any hay today people, just some hot, steaming vittles of entertainment flavor. Hopefully that sounds just about right up your alley, as the British say. And hopefully that's not some kind of nasty euphemism for sex, though I've got a bad feeling about it since nearly everything the British say is, so the odds aren't in my favor. But enough about the British! When's the last time they made a movie worth seeing? I thought not. Let's get our minds back on the great U.S. of A, and the thing we do best: selling dreams and soda pop. On to the movies!
In Theaters
Adventures of Pluto Nash
Yet again, Eddie Murphy plays another troubled mathematical genius trapped in the body of a cartoon dog. Yawn. This time around it's on the moon, as if that's supposed to stir up our Malt-o-meal something fierce. Rosie O'Donnell co-stars as the hot young multi-ethnic thang on the lunar block, which goes a long way toward showing how little attention went into making this film. Murphy's obviously still pissed about not landing the Eddie Murphy role in the Men in Black films, but his revenge here is misguided: I highly doubt Will Smith is going to get suckered into sitting still for two hours to watch this turkey.
One Hour Photo
A picture's worth a thousand words, and if you say 'em slow enough it takes about an hour to say all one thousand. At least that's the message I got from Robin Williams' latest philosophical snorer about an annoying birthday party clown who learns the value of family when he kills one with his Suburban. Williams flees the scene of the crime with only a worn photo he pulled from the flaming wreck, a family photo that haunts him and always seems to trigger eerie harpsichord music. As you may have guessed, by the end he's learned the value of laughter, seizing the day, respecting the insane, cross-dressing and eating leafy greens. I might have been more touched if he didn't do that leprechaun voice so much.
Serving Sara
Another great cannibal comedy starring a Friends alumnus, I guess that's one formula that really can't go wrong. Matthew Perry carries in his pocket an innate likeability that makes him a natural to play the American-Psycho-next-door at the heart of this crowd-pleaser. Don't clog up your brain cells worrying about the plot, since the writers sure didn't, just know that it'll be worth your eight bucks when that stuck-up heifer Elizabeth Hurley finally gets hers in the last act. And take it from me, you haven't laughed until you've seen a surprised Perry spit a breast implant across the table at his family's Thanksgiving dinner.
Simone
It's true: great films have been made on far skimpier premises than a producer's drunken bar boast that he can make a star out of an inflatable sex doll. And for a while, this one works, making us laugh at Al Pacino's frantic bumbling attempts to make an A-list movie and recording star out of a polyurethane actress with a BJ mouth. But the comedy turns mean when Pacino's creation turns out to be a huge success, rubbing our noses in the fact that we'll pay good money to see any rubber-boobed bimbo who smells hyped and has been seen dining with Harrison Ford. It may be true, but it's a cheap shot nonetheless.
Undisputed
Look, anyone who can walk on his hands to Kansas wins my respect right away. I don't care if you make crappy movies, or you can't act your way out of an airsickness bag. You're still the man. Keep that in mind when seeing Wesley Snipes' new popcorn-muncher, a prison male-bonding picture in which Snipes spends way too much time cradled up against Ving Rhames' big, manly tit. I mean, it could be worse, you know? You could be at dinner theater.
Well folks, that's the way the shammy shakes, at least this week. Now it's time to get out there and do your patriotic duty to keep those turnstiles turnstiling. It may not always be fun, but where else can you find such a large, captive audience with which to share your fascinating cell-phone conversations? We'll be back next time with cakes, cookies and… dare I say movies? Maybe! You'll just have to check back then if you want to find out.   |
