Falwell in Domain Name-Buying Frenzy

pset that the domain name jerryfalwell.com is being used as a parody site to lampoon the words and actions of one of America's best-known televangelists, the Reverend Jerry Falwell is busy these days buying up domain names of his own to prevent any further satire from being posted on the Internet. Already he has purchased such names as jerryfalwellisaloudmouthasshole.com, jerryfalwellatemyballs.com and jerryfalwellsucksdonkeydick.com.

In addition to those names, he has also put money down to prevent such sites as jerryfalwelljerksoffgoats.com, jerryfalwelltakesituptheass.com and jerryfalwellisafuckingignorantshithead.com from becoming highly-visible web pages that might get hundreds of hits a day from well-meaning Christians seeking more information about him.

"I'm snapping those puppies up as fast as I can," Reverend Falwell was quoted as saying. "Right now I've got dozens more waiting in the wings. Just this morning, I sent checks to cover jerryfalwelltonguesmyanus.com, jerryfalwelleatsshitanddies.com, and one that I thought was really disturbing, jerryfalwellswallowshyenaspunk.com."

He went on to lament that "Good Christians everywhere have a right to be spared from this sort of filth. What do you think would happen if some innocent young person got on the Internet and, in trying to find out something about one of my pronouncements that God is going to punish America with a meteor or a severe hurricane because it allows homosexuals and abortionists to live, that young person accidentally clicked on jerryfalwellsuckedafartoutofmyass.com? Why, the whole moral fiber of this great country is at stake."

The most recent domain names purchased by Reverend Falwell have included jerryfalwellisafascistmotherfucker.com, jerryfalwellblowshimself.com, jerryfalwelldrownsinmenstrualjuices.com, and jerryfalwelllikesdaffodils.com.

Asked about that last name, Reverend Falwell explained, "Well, I do like daffodils, especially the yellow and white kind. I thought, since I'm buying a bunch of domain names anyway, why not get one that I like? I mean, have you ever seen how a big bunch of white and yellow daffodils can brighten up a room? I just love them. Them and sweetpeas. Oh, you should see what the room looks like when you get a bunch of white and yellow daffodils and mix in some sweetpeas that are all different colors. It's a glory to God, I'm telling you."

There was no word on whether Reverend Falwell's compatriot Pat Robertson would be purchasing any similar domain names in the near future, though this reporter did discover that an unkown person paid money recently for the rights to use patrobertsonisafuckingdickheadliar.com.

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Dear commune:

the commune’s coverage of the war in Bosnia has been nothing short of commendable. Objective? No. But objectivity is a quality far overvalued in our current society. A steaming dog turd on the side of the road is objective. But not the commune. Prompt? Not really, but promptitude is unquestionably in the eye of the beholder. Compared to the newspapers of early colonial America, printed manually on handset printing presses only once a month at best, the commune is truly a gleaming pillar of prompt reporting. Factual? I say with admiration in my typing voice that the commune has never let the facts get in the way of cleaving swiftly to the heart of a story and exposing it, still beating, for the public’s disgusted perusal. Bravo, commune. If but there were only a million other news sites like thee, for then the commune could be called one in a million.

Sincerely,

Rodery Hollenbeck
Steinburgen, RI


Dear Rodery:

Thank you kindly for your letter, and we apologize greatly for the serious delay in its publication. It seems that office gaywad Raoul Dunkin penned a half-assed Successory quote on the back of your letter and has been carrying it around with him for years, both for inspiration and in hopes of getting it made into a poster, superimposed over a soft-focus photo of geese in flight. Rest assured that he spent some serious time in the commune’s solitary closet for that stunt, one hour for every commune-bashing letter we’ve had to run since we received your delightful correspondence. So thank you. Oh, and if it wouldn’t be much trouble, could your possibly provide verifiable proof of your existence? Some heartless cynics around the office think that just because your letter came to us on Red Bagel’s personalized stationary that it was some clever ruse by Bagel to boost staff morale, kind of like that stripper he hired to work in the mailroom. Thanks. Oh, and by the way: "Wherever you go, there’s a goat." That’s the Successory Dunkin wrote on your letter. Raoul wanted us to pass it on to you and we obliged, only because it makes him look like even more of an asshole.

the commune

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Editor’s Note: the commune is not responsible for the way your girlfriend cut her hair. Saying she looks like a hick was a simple statement of fact, and hardly warranted your childish response. We can only hope that the unfortunate person who one day informs you of your status as a big, dumb redneck is as fleet of foot as the commune.

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Greetings, good homos. Rok Finger here, reporting from the street. Which street isn't important right now, and besides the sign is in a bold font that offends my sensible eyes. Go ask a little bird if you really need to know that detail of my story.

If I've learned one thing from my time on the street, and I have, it's that homos are people too. And by that I mean that everybody's a homo these days. So I hope that's going well for all of you.

Rok Finger, however, is a man cut from a more old-fashioned cloth. Burlap. Most self-respecting men have no time for such a rough, abrasive material, preferring a fabric more pleasing to the touch like Dacron or sponge. Which is why Rok Finger has always sought the company of the female sex. And by that I mean females willing to have sex while I participate or take notes. And thanks to the twin pillars of emotional neediness and parental neglect, these women do exist. Against all odds, especially the steep ones determined by the good people of Las Vegas.

Those unfamiliar with the Finger legend might not know that I built my considerable early fortune on the windfall from a bet I won when my former wife, Arvelyn, slept with me on our wedding night. I had taken action from her parents, a local biologist, and Arvelyn herself, and I am not boasting when I say the odds were low and the payoff large. To this day Arvelyn curses herself for the lack of restraint she showed that night, falling asleep with the key to her chastity belt in plain view on her key ring atop the hotel nightstand. We were married fifteen years before she paid off that debt, after which time I had to learn to use my legs again and adjust to a life of not being carried around all the time.

If I've learned two things from my time on the street, and some would argue that I have, one would be the homo thing, no doubt. But the other thing is that we've really come a long way in bed-making technology since the days when everyone slept in cardboard boxes on the street. You don't realize just how comfortable a real bed is until you've spent a night sleeping in a dumpster full of basketballs behind a sporting goods store. Regardless of slanderous comments I may have made in this very column in the past, those mattress-makers really know what they're doing. My apologies go out to them for any uninformed remarks or calls for bloodshed I may have made previous to now.

If you're waiting for a third thing, you'll have to continue doing so as I haven't learned it yet. To be pathetically, shiveringly honest, I'm tired of learning the lessons the street has to offer. Call me old-fashioned, but Rok Finger prefers his lessons in easily-digestible half hour sitcom form, watching shows like COPS from the comfort of my own home. Or even someone else's home. A friend, neighbor or visually-challenged sexual predator would suffice. I don't claim to be picky, as long as you don't harbor political views or any opinions that differ from my own. Any interested parties need only leave their front door open tonight, with a trail of donuts or pulled-pork sandwiches leading to a warm bed near a cable-ready television.

I'll do the rest.

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