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Bush Declares Environment Part of 'Axis of Evil'November 25, 2002 |
Washington, DC Whit Pistol Environment-siding traitors, either wearing masks or genetically misbread to look like Bush, make a lot of hooplah to support terrorism.
"It's like some villain out of that new James Bond movie, which opens tomorrow," said Bush at a meeting with oil lobbyists and business friends Thursday. "The environment is threatening the safety of America and our way of life by taking from us what is ours. The reason oil and gas is so expensive—doesn't that just make ya mean mad?—is all because th...
n his brashest act against ecological ideologies yet, President Bush declared the environment to be part of the "axis of evil" that includes Iraq, Iran, and North Korea. The environment, said Bush, in a speech written for him by a college buddy he hired, has conspired to deprive America of its much-needed fossil fuels and energy with blatant threats to "cut off" the availability of these fuels and deprive the world of oxygen.
"It's like some villain out of that new James Bond movie, which opens tomorrow," said Bush at a meeting with oil lobbyists and business friends Thursday. "The environment is threatening the safety of America and our way of life by taking from us what is ours. The reason oil and gas is so expensive—doesn't that just make ya mean mad?—is all because the environment has decided to hold out for better treatment and reduced emissions and stuff. I say we stand up and tell them where we stand!"
Afterwards, in response to reporters' questions if he was out of his mind, Bush stated: "I am in full possession of all my facilities, and I want to keep it that way. We must act now to crush the evil regime of the environment. All these threats to America, from earthquakes to hurricanes, it's all the environment's fault. I will not allow this assault on Homeland Security TM to continue by 'Mother Nature' and her axis of evil buddies."
The White House has stated its opposition to the 1997 Kyoto Protocol, signed by environment-friendly former president Bill Clinton. The Kyoto Protocol is an international treaty in which the United States pledged, with other countries, to reduce dangerous greenhouse gas emissions by seven percent in an effort to help the environment. Bush's assertion is that the Kyoto Protocol will be a threat to the recovery of the economy, which thrives much better when businesses run rampant and unchecked, left to police themselves in areas of deadly emissions. Bush elaborated Thursday that to obey the Kyoto Protocol is to play right into nature's diabolical plan to extort America.
"It is high time," said Bush, then pausing to laugh as he realized he said "high," "that America stop coddling terrorists like the environment. They're our emissions and we can make them if we want. And it's high time Mother Nature stopped holding back on the fossil fuels—we all know you got more. You know what we call someone who dishes out a little bit o' goodies and then stops all of a sudden? A tease, that's what."
The environment, according to Bush aides, has caused America to curb its business such as automobile manufacturing, logging and textile manufacturing, and nuclear arms production. The environment is also believed responsible for mudslides, tornadoes and tropical storms, earthquakes, and other "natural disasters," and the White House is warning it that the heat will only go up until the environment ceases its actions.
America's demands: Unlimited fossil fuels, quicker replacement of oxygen, warmer climate in the winter and colder climate in the summer, and as many trees as we can chop down and turn into furniture.
"We're through jumping through your hoops, environment," said an angry Bush, addressing the sky. "Get rid of all this terror, and the way this whole city stinks. If you don't, we have no alternanative but to consult the U.N.—" Bush and a few buddies laughed in each other's directions. "…and take action against this direct threat to our safety. Remember, we know where you keep your rainforests." the commune news is not a friend to the environment, as that weird smell emanating from Rok Finger should tell anyone. Lil Duncan is a sex machine, only this one doesn't rip your member off like that faulty Thai pump we bought—yeeouch!
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Bailey Savings & Loan loses $8,000
 Sanjaya Unites Indian Fans, People Who Hate American Idol
Derby winner stripped of prize when revealed as man in horse costume
Punk-ing of William F. Buckley even more dull than predicted
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Several Newscasters Fired for Reporting Death of Don Ho 5 Million White House E-Mails Missing, All About Low-Cost Cialis Sanjaya Unites Indian Fans, People Who Hate American Idol IRS: Excessively Needy Girlfriends Can’t Be Declared “Dependents” |
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 December 10, 2001
President Bush Will Have to Kill a Man to Get Some Goddamn RespectThe time has come, and no one is happier than I am. The honus is on the president to prove he's a man. He's been disrespected every which way by everybody in the business. Celebrities, political commentators, foreigners living abroad. Now the president has but one option to earn some respect: Kill a man with his bare hands.
Yes, at this point, even shooting a man in a gunfight in the middle of the day, high noon, will not get the president the respect he needs. He has waited far too long to make an example out of some ballsy jackass badmouthing him. The only way to get some goddamn respect at this point is a hands-on, take-no-prisoners approach.
When you think of our least-respected presidents, you know, Gerald Ford, think to yourself: Did he ever kill a man? Nope. Ford was not an elected official either, let's not forget that. He had more reason than anybody else to kill a man, it was necessary for him to earn the public's respect in a way no elected official needs. Especially with that Chevy Chase smart-ass giving him the business on Saturday Night Live each week. Sure, there are reports that Ford rubbed out a guy here or there for making fun of him and his golfing accidents, but without a body, without some verified film of it or whatever, he's a big pussy in the eyes of the nation—and our history books.
Who didn't sit up and take notice when Reagan, his first week in office, grabbed that cook in the White House kitchen and...
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The time has come, and no one is happier than I am. The honus is on the president to prove he's a man. He's been disrespected every which way by everybody in the business. Celebrities, political commentators, foreigners living abroad. Now the president has but one option to earn some respect: Kill a man with his bare hands. Yes, at this point, even shooting a man in a gunfight in the middle of the day, high noon, will not get the president the respect he needs. He has waited far too long to make an example out of some ballsy jackass badmouthing him. The only way to get some goddamn respect at this point is a hands-on, take-no-prisoners approach. When you think of our least-respected presidents, you know, Gerald Ford, think to yourself: Did he ever kill a man? Nope. Ford was not an elected official either, let's not forget that. He had more reason than anybody else to kill a man, it was necessary for him to earn the public's respect in a way no elected official needs. Especially with that Chevy Chase smart-ass giving him the business on Saturday Night Live each week. Sure, there are reports that Ford rubbed out a guy here or there for making fun of him and his golfing accidents, but without a body, without some verified film of it or whatever, he's a big pussy in the eyes of the nation—and our history books. Who didn't sit up and take notice when Reagan, his first week in office, grabbed that cook in the White House kitchen and drowned him in the big pot of clam chowder? All those wise-asses shut the fuck up real quick back then. The statement was clear: Shut the fuck up now or you're next. Bush followed suit strongly, leading the charge into Panama in 1989, not even a weapon in hand, and beating Manuel Noriega to death with a loaf of stale bread, impaling him on an American flag that was left flying on the capitol building for some months for all to see. A tough move, no doubt, he got some respect with a capital R. And now, with the current president under such strain and trial, a lot of pundits are asking: Like father, like son? George W. Bush has but one course of action as I see it: The next time he's out in public somewhere, pick the biggest guy out of the crowd. And break him like a goddamned baby. Whether or not the guy says anything, hell, he can even be Bush's biggest supporter, I don't care, that's the only way he's going to get props at this point. And weapons are out. Bare hands, kung fu or backstreet brawler style, the kind of mano-a-mano the Ultimate Fighting Championship founders would be proud of. If Bush's shirt happens to tear and reveal his ripped muscular physique, all the better. People need to be saying, for weeks afterward, "Christ on the rag, did you see what the president did to that big motherfucker on the White House lawn? I wouldn't want to be that asshole, that's for sure." I have faith in the president. As his campaign slogan made clear, he comes from a long line of ass-kickers goin' way back. But now, if there was ever a time, now is the time to prove it.º more columns
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|  April 1, 2002
Volume 16Dear commune:
Quick! I'm playing poker and I can't believe the winning streak I'm on. What beats a flush?
Joel Harmonica
Marshall, GA
Dear Joel:
If you're talking about Flush, the refreshing carbonated drink with the real taste of prunes in every drop, nothing beats a flush. If you're talking about poker, a royal flush beats a flush, and somehow that bastard Murray used up all his luck for the next century 'cause he's got one. We suggest changing the game to 52 Pick Up and darting out of there with whatever money you got.
the commune
Dear commune:
Coming from Upper Darby, Pennsylvania, Todd Rundgren has always leaned toward a sound more British-influenced than from his area of origin. A self-taught guitarist who has since learned every other instrument involved in rock music, Rundgren started in bar bands and found success in the music business.
Initially Rundgren found success working behind the scenes, as a sound engineer and producer for artists ranging from The Band to Meat Loaf. But a gifted songwriter with influences like Laura Nyro and The Who, Rundgren was already on a course to find his own fame. He's charted continuously through his music career since the 1970s, but never has found the acclaim of more famous musicians. Perhaps Todd Rundgren will always remain a master producer and underground figure in the world of American rock 'n'...
º Last Column: Volume 15
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Dear commune: Quick! I'm playing poker and I can't believe the winning streak I'm on. What beats a flush? Joel Harmonica
Marshall, GADear Joel:
If you're talking about Flush, the refreshing carbonated drink with the real taste of prunes in every drop, nothing beats a flush. If you're talking about poker, a royal flush beats a flush, and somehow that bastard Murray used up all his luck for the next century 'cause he's got one. We suggest changing the game to 52 Pick Up and darting out of there with whatever money you got.
the commune
Dear commune: Coming from Upper Darby, Pennsylvania, Todd Rundgren has always leaned toward a sound more British-influenced than from his area of origin. A self-taught guitarist who has since learned every other instrument involved in rock music, Rundgren started in bar bands and found success in the music business. Initially Rundgren found success working behind the scenes, as a sound engineer and producer for artists ranging from The Band to Meat Loaf. But a gifted songwriter with influences like Laura Nyro and The Who, Rundgren was already on a course to find his own fame. He's charted continuously through his music career since the 1970s, but never has found the acclaim of more famous musicians. Perhaps Todd Rundgren will always remain a master producer and underground figure in the world of American rock 'n' roll. Richard Pelt
Viola, IODear Richard:
Does anyone even want to talk about the commune anymore?
the commune
Dear commune: I am outraged! This web publication is complete and utter nonsense. I've tried to keep an open mind, I entertain the wild theories of alternative news sources quite a lot, I like to think of myself as someone who challenges the status quo. But your "news" is just half-assed research and unconfirmed rumors. Did you think the American public was too dumb to notice? All updates of the commune have been so poorly done, yet this latest was the weakest yet. Is your editor Red Bagel really presenting the idea that President George W. Bush is the grandfather of former President George Herbert Walker Bush, and has traveled through time to prevent a society of robots from destroying his past? It's all really too much. Not only is it just plain ludicrous, much of it is plainly a distorted plagiarizing of James Cameron's Terminator films. With this kind of man in charge of your publication it's no surprise the rest of the reporting follows such a shoddy standard. Get your act together. Lucy Johannsen
Moulon Rouge, LADear Lucy:
Your letter is very insightful, well conceived, and makes extremely valid points. As such, I can't say we have any experience in answering such a letter. Wow. Yep, that's something.
Our best response at this time is that you should take your big fat business elsewhere, shorty. What's that? Yeah, we went there. Shorty. As in not tall, not at all, shorty. Short stuff. Short stack. Short pie alá mode. Take your letter and shove it, shorty.
the commune
Editor's Note: the commune is not responsible for the state of slang. We, too, miss old proper English which has been so sadly replaced by the rap lingo. And we do mean old English, like the kind spelled "olde English." Yea, 'twas a proper time twixt Roman times of yore and most modern h'ppenings.º Last Column: Volume 15º more columns
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Milestones1979: Some people call Red Bagel a space cowboy (wahnt-waaow). Ignorant to popular culture, Bagel burns his driver's license and spends two years living underground as Miguel Carlos Ferrina.Now HiringSmall Town Rube. Trustworthy innocent needed to flush gremlins out of elevator system. Competitive wage to be paid upon successful completion of duties. No Sci-Fi geeks, please. Top 5 commune Features This Week| 1. | Get Un-Ugly for Summer | | 2. | Tits: One Man's Opinion | | 3. | Choosing the Most Out-of-Date Pictures for Your Personal Ad | | 4. | Uncle Macho's Pure Stallion Dog Food | | 5. | Me vs. the Turkey Vulture: How the Turkey Vulture Cheated | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Dan D. Nancy 3/4/2002 The Rheumatic Sleeping Doomsday MachineJohn Patriot was cornered. His back was to the wall, literally, and his feet were on the ground and he was reaching for the stars, literally. The stars in question were world- famous action movie heroes Bruno Wills and Armin Schwarzengroove. They were pinned down on the second floor and Patriot, the C.I.A.'s premiere agent, was trying to save them, but had himself been pinned down by a sharpshooter in a tree across the street, who had in turned been pinned down by a large rottweiler just beneath the tree. It wasn't pretty, nor was the situation.
"Please save us!" moaned the cowardly box office star Wills. "I think I speak for both of us!"
"Definitely," said Schwarzengroove, through a barely-discernible accent. "Help to save us, please, Mr. C.I.A. man."
John Patriot was cornered. His back was to the wall, literally, and his feet were on the ground and he was reaching for the stars, literally. The stars in question were world- famous action movie heroes Bruno Wills and Armin Schwarzengroove. They were pinned down on the second floor and Patriot, the C.I.A.'s premiere agent, was trying to save them, but had himself been pinned down by a sharpshooter in a tree across the street, who had in turned been pinned down by a large rottweiler just beneath the tree. It wasn't pretty, nor was the situation.
"Please save us!" moaned the cowardly box office star Wills. "I think I speak for both of us!"
"Definitely," said Schwarzengroove, through a barely-discernible accent. "Help to save us, please, Mr. C.I.A. man."
Patriot hadn't told them his name.
"I'm John Patriot! Stay calm. I've saved the president six times so I think I can handle this situation." Joking helped alleviate the situation for Patriot.
"I'm scared," cried Wills, soiling himself.
"Just take it easy!" shouted Patriot again, growing sick of the two little toads as a bullet whizzed past his head, and Wills' whiz also whizzed past his head down the wall. "Two fat gay rabbis walk into a bar—"
"Patriot!" a familiar voice screamed from across the street. It was Ed McMahon, inexplicably standing in the middle of the firefight, and he was gesturing to Patriot's partner Decent Smith. Smith was standing over the tree sharpshooter, who was now dead on the ground and being gnawed at by the rottweiler.
"Smith, you old son of a bitch!" shouted Patriot. Smith winced, knowing too well it was true. "I thought for sure my bacon was cooked! I'm glad you got here in time!"
"Save the cordialities," Smith rudely said. "You've still got to rescue those rich Hollywood prettyboys!"
"Right!" said Smith, throwing his empty gun aside and pulling a pump shotgun from his back waistband. "We'll continue the cordialities later, at a time when there's no one shooting at us!"
Patriot kicked open the door to the building, knocking a nun standing behind the door unconscious, and speeding down the hall as fast as the C.I.A. 9-time Employee-of-the-Month's legs would carry him.
"I'm coming, prettyboys!" shouted Patriot.
He quickly climbed the stairs and kicked open the door, sending a troop of Boy Scouts careening across the room. At the end of the hall, standing over the two prettyboys, who were cowering in puddles of themselves and begging for their lives, was the wealthy communist drug-dealing terrorist Macarbo Gabizi. Macarbo was from the Middle East and heavily involved in terrorist groups, whom he financed with drug money sold from his Colombian estate, drugs he helped smuggle into the United States through his connections in communist Cuba. Castro, if you must know.
"Macarbo!" exclaimed Patriot, aiming his pump-action shotgun at the hideous villain's face. They had known each other for years, since the beginning of this novel, and as many times as they had nearly killed each other, they felt comfortable on a first-name basis.
"Back off, capitalist western drug-free swine!" muttered Gabizi in his ethnic accent. "These Hollywood scum will be the first to die! How will your America feel when I destroy its two greatest heroes!"
"Its greatest movie heroes," reminded Patriot. "You've still got the real thing to deal with. That's right, Macarbo, these two may be more used to trailers and Hollywood Boulevard she-males than real bullets and blood and bloodshed from bullets. But I'm the one you really want. Let them go. And I'll exchange myself for them."
Though it made no sense, Macarbo agreed, shoving them forcefully from the second-floor window, causing both to sprain their uvulas. As promised, even though it was a promise to a good-for-nothing godless communist smackhead pusher-man insane terrorist… Patriot lowered his gun.   |
