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 November 18, 2011 |
Shanesly, VT Courtesy App-Lesauce.com A bunch of apps and shit 
Apps," or software programs designed for handheld devices, are all the rage these days, as more and more internet-capable phones and state-of-the-art tablet computers utilize them to make apps one of the more enjoyable aspects of mobile technology. There are current apps out there for reading books and documents, doing your taxes, watching movies and television while on the go, and getting directions as you drive. But apps don't stop there, as independent designers and big-name companies work to bring new abilities to your tablet computer like the iPad, the Galaxy Tab, and Motorola's incorrectly spelled Xoom device. In the wake of the recent removal from the Apple Store in France of an app called "Jew or Not Jew?," designed to give insight into the background of entertainers and icons of Jewish descent, the commune, mostly me, Raoul Dunkin, decided to investigate some of the surprising apps out there for various devices. But yeah, all of these are Apple, because nobody left an HP TouchPad discarded at the bus stop last week. Although they probably should have.
Encore! For iPhone (Guncho Ltd.): This fresh app saves the user breath and energy by automatically shouting for "one more" from your favorite band who has left the stage. An update reportedly automatically requests "Free Bird" if it has not already been played, and mimics your drunken slur. Encore! costs $4.99 on iTunes and is also available for the same price for iPad. For $8.99 an Apple customer can buy Encore! Pro, which boos the opening act during the first ballad.
U.R. Gay For iPad (OutThere Apps): Ever wanted to know what your best friends or romantic partners would look like if they chose the homosexual lifestyle? U.R. Gay can take any picture of the manliest dudes or girliest girlfriends and gay them up big time. Adjust the gayness to your liking with a touch-friendly slider. Deck out that obnoxious brah in your office in a tight-fitting long-sleeve shirt and pencil-thin mustache, or a loud Hawaiian shirt and biker shorts, or go full gay with a bushy 'stache, leather vest, blue jean cut-offs and—is that eyeliner? Advisory: Can only go gay, will not work on already-gay pictures, and they highly recommend you don't try it.
iBlack (Cheap Bastards): If you're thinking this app traces the purity of your blood back several generations, you're wrong (that app's called Kiss My Black(?) Ass for iPhone). iBlack can, at the press of a button, turn your iPad, iPhone, or iPod Touch to a completely black screen so you can see your reflection, see what it looks like if your device was turned off, or simply give people the impression that your handheld computer is not being used. It functions much like if you held the button down and turned off the device, except it costs $12.99.
OverLaid For iPad (Knocks Industries): You won't find a better app than this one for your fantasy lotharios. If you've ever told your buddies about sexual liaisons that never happened, so many and so frequently that it's hard to keep track of, you need OverLaid. A spreadsheet in this app counts of all the women you've slept with, honestly, while another spreadsheet keeps track of all the women you claim you've slept with. Personalized data entry fields allow you to keep names, locations, and hotness levels (on a 1-10 scale) of all your imaginary affairs, so that you never give erroneous or contradictory information regarding all your fictional erotic encounters. For the $5.99 full version, you can also compare your actual sexual conquests, their attractiveness and numbers, with all those you've bragged about to friends, either to set goals for your bedroom romps or just feel bad about yourself. For you high schoolers, the app also includes a helpful "girlfriends in other states" section.
No Rape! (Danger Dude Enterprises): For iPad and iPhone, this clever app claims that the mere push of a button will send rapists and molesters running the other way. Works on all ages, genders, and sexual orientations, although it never details how it does this and explicitly states it offers no refunds. It's the exclamation point that sells it.
Punch Your Balls (Danger Dude Enterprises): From the people who brought you No Rape! For the iPad and iPhone, at the mere push of a button, a representative of Danger Dude Enterprises (perhaps Danger Dude himself) will come to your house when called and punch you squarely in your testicular area. This app comes with a guarantee, void outside the continental U.S. It seems like Danger Dude Enterprises are the app developers to beat.
Awkward Silence For iPhone (Krustinators, Ltd.): Have you ever told a joke and felt the burn of absolutely no one laughing, not even laughing at the fact they didn't laugh? Now you can enjoy that painful humiliation even without anyone else around. Awkward Silence bathes users in the gut-wrenching shame of stark quiet after every bombed joke or embarrassing admission. Or, if you prefer, you can come by Emil's house and just record it with your iPhone recording app. We're overflowing with riches here. the commune news is appy and we know it, so we'll clap our hands. Get it? It's like the… song with the… aw, fuck you. Raoul Dunkin is nappy, and he knows it, we snatched his comb. *clap clap*
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Fat kids everywhere cheer national trend toward declining P.E. classes
Pollsters cannot survey cell phone users, phoneless, or dopes who don't answer
Lawmakers tour Guantanamo prison, Cuban strip clubs and bars
California hacker convention hacked by jocks loaded with Coors
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President Demands More Wheels on Airplanes learly delighted to have an offensive position at last, President Bush lashed out at “safety ign’rant” airlines and the FAA for its low-wheel requirements on commercial aircraft. According the president’s amusing new platform, safety could be increased a bunchfold with the addition of 8-10 new sets of landing gear on standard airplanes, and hopefully would prevent scenes like the dramatic emergency landing of JetBlue Flight 292 on Thursday. The commercial airline flight JetBlue 292 ran into difficulty landing when its foremost landing wheel arrogantly faced the wrong direction and forced a tense landing situation. The event was made all the more worthy of national attention when it was revealed passengers/potential victims aboard Flight 292 were watching their own ordeal on satellite television, one of the perks the airline offers passengers willing to risk becoming human charcoal on their flights. In the end, the plane landed successful, jetting down the runway covered with foam and emitting sparks in a thrilling scene of real life danger only seen previously on repeats of Jackass. Today’s Hurricanes Not Worth a Damn, Say Elderly Southerners In the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, and the currentmath of Hurricane Rita hot on Katrina’s high heels, elderly southerners who’ve been there before are offering a reassuring voice of bitter calm to troubled Americans across the South. “Today’s hurricanes aren’t worth a hot goddamn,” groused Boca Raton resident Carter Dunlop, 88. “You all can quit your bellyaching. Back in the day, we had hurricanes to remember. I don’t recall their names or any details, but you can rest assured these latest pipsqueaks are even less noteworthy. Trust me, you’ll all hear Carter Dunlop scream like a woman when a real hurricane hits.” “Category 5? Pssh, they’ll call any old stiff breeze a hurricane nowadays,” griped Biloxi native Ted Knuck. “Back in my day, you wouldn’t cross the street for anything less then a Category 15. And that was only because it blew you across the street.” Serial Killer’s Neighbor: “He just wouldn’t shut up about serial killing.” Heather Graham’s Career Found Dead in Apartment |
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 September 1, 2003
Mars Needs ForeskinsThe foreskin: Nature's "Mr. Touchy." Nobody denies the role of the foreskin in making sex even more sensitive than it otherwise would be. Some scientists, like my former roommate Bill Gottlieb, estimate that without the foreskin sex loses between 5 and 95% of its sensation. That's a lot of sensitivity!
No wonder M.A.R.S. wants so many foreskins. Not Mars, the planet, of course, let's not be ridiculous; I mean M.A.R.S., the Militant Alien Researchers of Sexuality, made up primarily of Neptunians. Everyone knows the Martians haven't been active in universal events since the 1960s, being a race near extinction. Forgive my spelling of Mars instead of M.A.R.S. in the headline, but I know how it is—you mention Mars, everybody jumps to attention; you mention Neptune, people are trampling each other in an effort to get away from boredom city.
But this involves foreskins, people—the abduction of them, no less. Maybe the Neptunians aren't as boring as you thought, hmm?
The part of the story you were never told starts back in the 1930s, when plucky environmentalists, then called "Earthtotalers," lobbied on behalf of the ecology to keep foreskins from just being thrown out the window once they were circumcised. Apparently, besides the nasty habit of them falling on proper ladies who just happen to walk by hospitals, the high oil content of foreskins turned out to be causing major environmental problems. Between you and me, I think it has...
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The foreskin: Nature's "Mr. Touchy." Nobody denies the role of the foreskin in making sex even more sensitive than it otherwise would be. Some scientists, like my former roommate Bill Gottlieb, estimate that without the foreskin sex loses between 5 and 95% of its sensation. That's a lot of sensitivity!
No wonder M.A.R.S. wants so many foreskins. Not Mars, the planet, of course, let's not be ridiculous; I mean M.A.R.S., the Militant Alien Researchers of Sexuality, made up primarily of Neptunians. Everyone knows the Martians haven't been active in universal events since the 1960s, being a race near extinction. Forgive my spelling of Mars instead of M.A.R.S. in the headline, but I know how it is—you mention Mars, everybody jumps to attention; you mention Neptune, people are trampling each other in an effort to get away from boredom city.
But this involves foreskins, people—the abduction of them, no less. Maybe the Neptunians aren't as boring as you thought, hmm?
The part of the story you were never told starts back in the 1930s, when plucky environmentalists, then called "Earthtotalers," lobbied on behalf of the ecology to keep foreskins from just being thrown out the window once they were circumcised. Apparently, besides the nasty habit of them falling on proper ladies who just happen to walk by hospitals, the high oil content of foreskins turned out to be causing major environmental problems. Between you and me, I think it has more to do with prohibition of the time. After all, you're paying $45 for a beer and a foreskin lands in it, well, your whole day is just pissed away. But the Earthtotalers claimed some major ecological issue and got Congress involved, and before too long doctors had to dispose of severed foreskins like mechanics dispose of oil. Which pissed off our invisible friends, the Neptunians.
Neptunians benefited heavily from the excess foreskins thrown callously away since as early as circumcisions began. Interestingly enough, circumcisions are not the product of aliens, a nice change from most history, but the second-largest cause is behind it: Two guys drinking quite a lot. Lebzahamus and Eprudimus, two early Babylonians, were drinking quite a lot as was their custom to forget their awful names, when Eprudimus bet the other he couldn't chop the end of his dick off before Lebzahamus could pull it away. Eprudimus won, but was so envious of the sharp new look Lebzahamus had that he decided to cut off his own foreskin. Both awoke sober the next morning and horrified at what they had done, but not before a disgusting new trend had caught on.
Over the years, strangely, nobody wondered where those foreskins had disappeared to when causally tossed away. Neptunians, is the short answer. Given their limited sexual performance, Neptunians were desperate for any sort of enhancement they could get, so human penial foreskins became a popular aphrodisiac for their people. There was enough of a decline in the availability of foreskins when humans realized in the twentieth century, "Hey, what the fuck are we doing chopping our dicks off?" But then with the advent of medical waste disposal, the market for foreskins on Neptune became extremely endangered. In fact, things are so bad now that the future of the Neptune race is in jeopardy. If that sounds a little extreme, you've obviously never made love to a Neptunian woman without the aid of a foreskin aphrodisiac. º Last Column: The Most Popular Man in North Koreaº more columns
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|  January 15, 2007
Christmas: Don't Try This at HomeIt's recently been brought to my attention that the commune has not been appearing online for the last, say, nine months, give or take a full-term pregnancy. I guess the saying is true: you're always the last to know when your stuff stops getting published for the better part of a year. Anyway, spilled milk aside, it's clear wherein the blame for this blunder lies.
Gerbil tubes.
I'll be the first to admit I was the one who discovered the tubes, poking out of the walls in every room of the commune offices, including the shitter. I was scanning the walls with a studfinder, looking for espionage-style bugs, rather than the usual food-stealing bugs we've always had, when suddenly, tubes! Had covert, turtle-fighting plumbers snuck in overnight and installed them? Nope, turns out they'd been there all along. No gold star for the commune staff's powers of noticing.
But still, you can imagine our excitement at this discovery. Finally, a way to file our articles and columns without the constant drudgery of saving and emailing. Pneumatic tubes have always been the way of the future, and it was about time the commune got some, or barring that, realized we'd had them since the early 80's.
And let me just say that filing your semi-weekly columns by pneumatic tube is a joy and a pleasure. You crumple that shit up into a ball and stuff it in the tube, pushing aside last week's column, and say asta-la-deadline, asshole. Everything in life should...
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It's recently been brought to my attention that the commune has not been appearing online for the last, say, nine months, give or take a full-term pregnancy. I guess the saying is true: you're always the last to know when your stuff stops getting published for the better part of a year. Anyway, spilled milk aside, it's clear wherein the blame for this blunder lies. Gerbil tubes. I'll be the first to admit I was the one who discovered the tubes, poking out of the walls in every room of the commune offices, including the shitter. I was scanning the walls with a studfinder, looking for espionage-style bugs, rather than the usual food-stealing bugs we've always had, when suddenly, tubes! Had covert, turtle-fighting plumbers snuck in overnight and installed them? Nope, turns out they'd been there all along. No gold star for the commune staff's powers of noticing. But still, you can imagine our excitement at this discovery. Finally, a way to file our articles and columns without the constant drudgery of saving and emailing. Pneumatic tubes have always been the way of the future, and it was about time the commune got some, or barring that, realized we'd had them since the early 80's. And let me just say that filing your semi-weekly columns by pneumatic tube is a joy and a pleasure. You crumple that shit up into a ball and stuff it in the tube, pushing aside last week's column, and say asta-la-deadline, asshole. Everything in life should be that easy, and involve crumpling. Everything cruised along smooth as shit until last week, when Emil Zender got out of the hospital following months of recovery following a complicated tonsil-removal surgery and burst into the commune offices, apparently after driving straight from Vermont in his hospital duds to let us know the commune wasn't online anymore. We all made fun of him for not using the telephone instead, until he pointed out that no one answers the commune telephones and in fact we have them all in a pile on the floor of Rok Finger's office so we can close the door and not be bothered with all that ringing. True enough. So then we made fun of him for reading the commune. It turns out the tubes actually run to a pet store down the block, and they were installed in the early 1980's after an earlier tenant's stroke of genius about revolutionizing gerbil delivery. So Big Stiff's Pet Pouch has been the sole benefactor of the last nine months of commune wit, wisdom, and panache. And he was using the shit for guinea pig bedding. C'est la vie, but suffice it to say you've missed some all-time classic My Friend Polio columns while you were gone. Okay, that's not precisely true. Actually I've been mailing it in since around June, writing about shit I found in the trash and why nobody makes a barbecue big enough to cook a dolphin. So in fact you've rejoined us just in the nick of time. Oh shit, I forgot to bitch about how lousy my Christmas was. Hurry up and join us next time, because I'm out of room and gotta piss like a fish. Bricks out. º Last Column: The Deep Freezeº more columns
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Quote of the Day“I have not yet begun to fight! When I have begun, it will look quite different. Fists will be flying about, and you will hear a high-pitched whistling sort of sound that will actually be a scream. In fact—I'll make a little hand gesture to let you know. When you see that, that will let you know I'm fighting.”
-John Paul Jones RingoFortune 500 CookieLove is a relative term, but even that nugget won't save your ass if you pork your cousin. Stay away from salty snacks this week, even if it means tunneling underground. Try wearing your watch on the other arm—maybe that's your problem. This week's lucky names: Alexia. Ephyn. Scatman. Toolio.
Try again later.Top New Orleans Rebuilding Proposals| 1. | Houseboats for all! | | 2. | Move entire city to Ames, Iowa, just to see what happens | | 3. | Dig city another 20 feet lower, install Plexiglas ceiling for viewing marine life | | 4. | Pave over city to create parking lot for Atlanta SuperTarget | | 5. | Fuck it, the place was way too French anyway | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Stefan Myer-Wiener 1/27/2012 TweenightIt had been the world's most boring flight to Big, Oregon and I hated every minute of it. The old lady sitting next to me wouldn't even listen to me telling her about my stamp collection, all she wanted to do was watch gay porn on her laptop. It would be another super-dull summer in Sporks. I've been coming to Sporks ever since I was the world's most naĂŻve five-year-old. My dad and my mom split up when I was just a baby, and unlike most kids, I have a lot of sadness over it.
Dad picked me up at the airport, after bringing back the hot chick he thought was me and apologizing several times. Lawsuits are the worst. We talked about stupid stuff on the way to drive out to Sporks, the weather, how I liked school, how he lost both arms and his nose when a bomb went off in his...
It had been the world's most boring flight to Big, Oregon and I hated every minute of it. The old lady sitting next to me wouldn't even listen to me telling her about my stamp collection, all she wanted to do was watch gay porn on her laptop. It would be another super-dull summer in Sporks. I've been coming to Sporks ever since I was the world's most naĂŻve five-year-old. My dad and my mom split up when I was just a baby, and unlike most kids, I have a lot of sadness over it.
Dad picked me up at the airport, after bringing back the hot chick he thought was me and apologizing several times. Lawsuits are the worst. We talked about stupid stuff on the way to drive out to Sporks, the weather, how I liked school, how he lost both arms and his nose when a bomb went off in his face. I kept trying to tell him about the things that were bothering me, like the tag on inside of my shirt that keeps scratching that soft skin around my neck. Same old dad. He just didn't show any interest in anything I said.
When school started, it was even worse. All of the girls didn't want anything to do with me. I guess they all have money, all of them carry designer Trapper Keepers and wear the newest clogs. Mine are from last year. Mom makes a lot of money but she makes me wear second-hand clothes and get my hair done at the Dollar Salon because she says girls without money are much easier to relate to. Dad told me I can't go to the Dollar Salon anymore, unless my rich mother wants to pay for it, I'll have to cut my own hair in the car mirror.
So I was all alone, without a friend in the world, a virtual outcast in a brand new high school. I tried to tell mom I didn't like it here in Sporks, that I wanted to come home, and she just kept asking why school was in session during the summer. I can't talk to her. I'm all alone.
Or I was alone—until I met the new boy, Tedwin.
From the first time we saw each other in the cafeteria I was drawn to him. None of the other kids want anything to do with him. It's like he's an outcast, just like me. Everyone is turned off by the fact that he's so quiet, and that he looks like a male supermodel. Between that strange pale color and the fact all the girls and a lot of the guys want to have sex with him, he's got to be the most enigmatic outsider in all of this school, and this school is about 95% outsiders, you know. Oh, I forgot about Bleedin' Tits Pete. That guys like a super-outsider, but no one is drawn to him.
My dad forgot to pick me up at school one afternoon, sometimes I slip his mind when he finished having sex with my art teacher. So I was stuck walking home. I was heading down Puberty Road and most of the cars were passing me, but to my surprise, Tedwin pulled up on a sleek motorcycle, the kind all the cool mysterious outsiders drive.
"You're Bona… aren't you?" he said enigmatically. I nodded shyly, because I really got nothing else in my arsenal. He looked into the sky, in the distance, where they keep it, and noticed the sun was going down. It seemed to kind of worry him. "Are you… going home?"
I told him about my dad's forgetting to pick me up, and how my fish sometimes eats the whole leaf of lettuce but yesterday she didn't, and he gave me a smile. He asked where I lived, and I told him, and then I told him most people like Miracle Whip, but I think mayonnaise is actually better. He agreed—I've never had someone who listened to me before. And he was oddly beautiful, for a male supermodel outsider.
"I'll give you a ride, Bona." I got on the back of his motorcycle, hugging extra close to him for sexiness. It felt good to have another heart beating so close to mine. Other hearts feel best when they're inside finely carved pecs.
When we got to my house, we stayed up for hours, sitting on the porch. His family seemed just as screwed up as mind, all they ever did was nitpick and bite on each other. Both of his parents were dead, he told me, but he said they still tried to make time to see him now and then. I told him about my talent for counting words in sentences that are spoken to me (we used six-hundred and forty-two!) and my entire set of Suddenly Susan on DVD. He eventually looked outside and saw it was night, then got up to leave in a hurry. I noticed he was kind of… glowing.
"Bona… you're the most fascinating person I've ever met," he said, and I noticed he was nibbling at something in his hand. "I want to see you again… but I can't."
"You can't leave me without telling me why, Tedwin," I told him. "Even though we've only known each other for two hours, I've fallen in love with you. I think you love me, too. Tedwin— listen to me! Stop eating while I'm talking to you…!"
I smacked his hand and his food fell to the floor. It looked like… but I wasn't completely sure… brains?
"Tedwin," I said with a little gasp. "Are you… a zombie?"   |
