|
$abernathie='2005/0530/';
$abernathietitle='Legends of Suck';
$bagel='2005/0829/';
$bageltitle='Taking Back the commune';
$book='2005/0829/';
$boris='2005/0509/';
$boristitle='Boris Does Love Jehoma';
$childstar='2005/0829/';
$childstartitle='The End of an Error';
$dreck='2005/0829/';
$drecktitle='First Griswald Dreck Chat Transcript';
$dickman='2005/0718/';
$dickmantitle='Tom Cruise Loves That Woman ';
$dunkin='2005/0328/';
$dunkintitle='Highway to Hell';
$edit='2003/1222/';
$fanmail='2005/0516/';
$fanmailtitle='Volume 63';
$finger='2005/0822/';
$fingertitle='To Hell With This Desk';
$fortune='2002/020121/';
$goocher='2005/0711/';
$goochertitle='Gwar of the Worlds';
$hanes='2005/0704/';
$hanestitle='Pink is Not for Men';
$hartwig='2005/0606/';
$hartwigtitle='Parade';
$hooper='2005/0228/';
$hoopertitle='Vernon Hooper’s Fifth Syphilis';
$hurley='2005/0404/';
$hurleytitle='Time of Healing';
$kroeger='2005/0822/';
$kroegertitle='Charity Case';
$loser='2005/0822/';
$losertitle='Lost Leavings';
$ned='2003/0818/';
$nedtitle='Cyantology';
$pickle='2002/020513/';
$pickletitle='State of the Art';
$poet='2005/0704/';
$police='2005/0822/';
$polio='2005/0822/';
$poliotitle='WEASELS-B-GON';
$rent='2005/0829/';
$renttitle='For the Last Time Deidrebane, Those Aren’t the Feds';
$reynolds='2005/0425/';
$reynoldstitle='A Series of Unfortunate Evans';
$hartwig='2004/1206/';
$hartwigtitle='O Captain!';
$sickhead='2004/0419/';
$sickheadtitle='The Legendary Spot of Coco Hobari McSteve';
$ted='2005/0530/';
$tedtitle='The New War on Poverty';
$vanslyke='2005/0606/';
$vanslyketitle='Health Food is Full of Shit';
$zender='2005/0425/';
$zendertitle='The Sixth commune Enthusiasts Club Meeting';
?> | 
World Cup to Destroy JapanMay 27, 2002 |
Yokohama, Japan Junior Bacon Japanese police prepare for glorious soccer tournament n less than a week, 330,000 soccer fans from around the world will descend upon Japan for the biggest melee of apeshit social chaos since Cats: World Cup 2002. Japan is hoping the tournament will provide a boost for its belly-floating economy, and also hopes that soccer fans will leave enough of the country intact that it might be made livable again some time in the next 20 years.
Ever since Japan was selected along with South Korea to co-sponsor the games in 1996, Japanese and South Korean officials have been calling around, trying to figure out who nominated their countries and where they should mail the horse heads. Both China and North Korea are among the leading candidates.
The tournament will sprawl across Japan starting May 31st, destroying everythi...
n less than a week, 330,000 soccer fans from around the world will descend upon Japan for the biggest melee of apeshit social chaos since Cats: World Cup 2002. Japan is hoping the tournament will provide a boost for its belly-floating economy, and also hopes that soccer fans will leave enough of the country intact that it might be made livable again some time in the next 20 years.
Ever since Japan was selected along with South Korea to co-sponsor the games in 1996, Japanese and South Korean officials have been calling around, trying to figure out who nominated their countries and where they should mail the horse heads. Both China and North Korea are among the leading candidates.
The tournament will sprawl across Japan starting May 31st, destroying everything in sight and most likely leveling all 10 cities from northern Hokkaido to southern Kyushu, as well as virtually everything in neighboring South Korea.
"Oh yeah, there's no doubt about it. These crazy assholes are gonna soccer Japan and South Korea back into the stone age," noted Norio Kamijo, a senior researcher at Dentsu Institute for Human Studies.
Kamijo said the World Cup could generate some 3 trillion yen ($23.6 billion) for Japan — which should be more than enough to rebuild the Japanese cities that will need to be bulldozed into the Pacific and built up again from scratch after the tournament is over.
South Korea has offered to allow Japan to host the first several high-profile matches in the tournament, which some observers see as a sign of the warming of once-strained relations between the countries. Sources close to the events, however, suggest that South Korean officials merely hope that fans will be tired of smashing everything to shit by the time they get to South Korea.
"Hooligan experts" from Britain and Argentina have been invited to give tips and suggestions on how to spot and handle violent lawbreaking fans, inviting derisive giggles from the governments of previous World Cup host nations and forehead-smacking from British and Argentinean con-men who never thought of fobbing themselves off as "hooligan experts." British expert Sidney Bockle comments: "Jesus Christ in a sushi bar. Did you see what those animals did at the Gold Cup last year? They're gonna eat Japan alive. You don't need to hunt down an expert to guess what happens when you let loose 80,000 berserk Argentinean soccer fans in a country where all of the buildings are made out of paper. This is gonna make WWII look like Thanksgiving dinner with the in-laws. They should hide the whole country under leaf clippings and hope the World Cup thinks it moved away."
In the city of Sapporo, where the much-anticipated match between Britain and Argentina is to be played at the Sapporo brewery to save on beer transportation costs, city officials have set up machine-gun turrets in strategic placements around the building. They also plan to have several dozen coked-up bulls ready to be set loose into the streets at a moment's notice, with hopes that confused Spanish fans will lead the rioting crowd in racing the bulls out of the city.
Japanese newspapers and TV feature a daily "Countdown to Armageddon," describing scenarios of possible hooligan attacks and featuring scary backlit profiles of black-listed uberhooligans thought to be hiding in Thailand. Police in Niigata city have even staged an exercise on a ferry boat to counter the hypothetical event of crazed fans tearing up the Pacific ocean and crippling the Japanese fishing industry.
The National Police Agency announced that for every major game, particularly the matches with the British national team, they plan to mobilize more than 7,000 riot police with the instructions to shoot at the first sign of a crowd. When asked if this approach might be considered overkill, NPA head Usaki Shinjo answered "No," speaking like a ventriloquist without moving a muscle in his controlled, icy stare. the commune news: it's news to us. Ivan Nakutchacokov reports that he was enjoying a foreign assignment for the first time ever when he accidentally wandered into North Korea and was caned for trying to order a hot dog.
 | Camping Thought "Rapture" Meant "Bitchin' Sunset," Which Did Happen
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 Mohammed Confesses to 9/11 Attacks, "Falling Down A Lot" During Interrogations |
Chief Justice Rehnquist: Dead as Disco at 80 he world sighed a mournful “Oh” upon hearing of the death of Chief Justice William Rehnquist, who led the U.S. Supreme Court for 19 years and formed the holy conservative trinity of the court. Rehnquist is the second justice to retire from the Supreme Court this year, and never to be outdone, Rehnquist chose the more dramatic exit method of death in office.
The Chief Justice announced his diagnosis of thyroid cancer last year and his refusal to retire from the Supreme Court, angering liberals and conservatives alike by his reluctance to make the playing field more interesting. Never one to quit, Rehnquist had suffered greatly in recent months from radiation for his cancer treatment and a tracheotomy, actually performed by an over-anxious boyscout on a visit to the nation’s capitol. Kansas City Royals Win Little League World Series n the midst of one of the most embarrassing seasons in baseball history, the lowly Kansas City Royals saved some face this week, defeating the defending champions from Willemstad, Curacao in a stunning upset to claim their first Little League World Series title. Kansas City took the game 7-6 on first baseman Matt Stairs’ takeout of Curacao catcher Willie Rifaela during a collision at the plate in the bottom of the 11th inning. Rifaela held onto the ball, but Stairs was ruled safe since Rifaela flew off the playing field at the moment of impact. “Willie gave it a hell of an effort,” praised Curacao manager Vernon Isabella. “Especially considering he was outweighed by nearly 200 pounds in the collision. If he hadn’t come out of his shoes like that when the American hit him, I think we could have held on to win the game.” Oasis, Killers Combine Forces to Ruin Sgt. Pepper’s for Everyone Global Warming Poses Threat to National Parks, Says WWF’s “Machoman” Savage |
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 August 4, 2003
Sic the Killer Chicken on SaddamI'm going to let you all in on a secret that will save our federal government billions of Saddam-hunting dollars and will end this whole Iraq misadventure once and for all. It may take slightly longer than our current approach, but it's cheap and we won't have any more GIs shot in the ass while they're playing beach volleyball. It's simple: All we have to do is open a couple of Pizza Huts over there. They may not have that kind of hut-building technology over in Iraq yet, but we can import it. And within 30 years, all those bomb-happy assholes will have more fat pulsing through their veins than blood and they'll be dropping like lethargic, weak-hearted flies. Advantage: America.
It's a scientific fact that terrorism never originates in countries that get more than 40% of their calories from fat. Constructing a pair of tennis shoes out of plastic explosives or hucking hand grenades at an army patrol sounds like an awful lot of work when rolling over in bed is enough to raise your pulse. But you start feeding these guys rice, beans, and couscous and before you know it you've got some asshole hiding a time bomb in your birthday cake. Bad scene.
Now I'm a realist, so I realize this plan won't work quickly enough for those individuals who want Saddam Hussein's gonads in a Ball jar like, yesterday. But for those impatient folk I believe a slight modification to my Mideast peace plan may suffice.
Let's say you turn those fast food franchising...
º Last Column: Sierra Mist º more columns
I'm going to let you all in on a secret that will save our federal government billions of Saddam-hunting dollars and will end this whole Iraq misadventure once and for all. It may take slightly longer than our current approach, but it's cheap and we won't have any more GIs shot in the ass while they're playing beach volleyball. It's simple: All we have to do is open a couple of Pizza Huts over there. They may not have that kind of hut-building technology over in Iraq yet, but we can import it. And within 30 years, all those bomb-happy assholes will have more fat pulsing through their veins than blood and they'll be dropping like lethargic, weak-hearted flies. Advantage: America.
It's a scientific fact that terrorism never originates in countries that get more than 40% of their calories from fat. Constructing a pair of tennis shoes out of plastic explosives or hucking hand grenades at an army patrol sounds like an awful lot of work when rolling over in bed is enough to raise your pulse. But you start feeding these guys rice, beans, and couscous and before you know it you've got some asshole hiding a time bomb in your birthday cake. Bad scene.
Now I'm a realist, so I realize this plan won't work quickly enough for those individuals who want Saddam Hussein's gonads in a Ball jar like, yesterday. But for those impatient folk I believe a slight modification to my Mideast peace plan may suffice.
Let's say you turn those fast food franchising dogs loose on Iraq, to quell the general populace. But while you're at it you save one location for a very special KFC. You might even put this special KFC in Saddam's hometown, couldn't hurt. But the most important thing is to make sure this restaurant is really the cream of the KFC crop, no chicken fingers petrifying under heat lamps for two weeks while the crew chief does lines of coke back in the walk-in freezer. That won't do. What we need here is a real tightly run ship that's cranking out some damned delicious chicken. And once the joint's become established and you've saturated the region with fried chicken fat, one random day you close up shop very unexpectedly. Blame it on to "technical difficulties" or a chicken rampage or what have you.
But before you board up the windows, you sell one last bucket of chicken. The last ever, and it goes to the highest bidder. Doesn't matter who it is. Wherever he's hiding, some of that chicken will find it's way back to Saddam Hussein, guaranteed. Maybe a thigh, maybe a wing. Doesn't matter. But the kicker is that you've saturated that one bucket of chicken with enough fat to kill the three tenors. Silver bullet heart attack variety, extra tasty deadly. Let's see the Iraqi public claim we faked a picture of Saddam Hussein, dead on a toilet with a drumstick hanging out of his mouth. Even those cynical bastards will be shocked into acknowledging the disgusting truth.
It's a sad state of affairs when all this administration wants for Christmas is Saddam Hussein dead on a toilet, but there you go. Merry Christmas.
Escalating the plan further couldn't help but solve the bigger Mideast asshole problem, as all those hard-ons will go soft for stuffed-crust cholesterol bombs and gorgeable Gorditas. And it wouldn't cost the Western superpowers a thing, just cut the fast food chains loose and they'd lick each other's brainpans clean for the chance to do America's dirty work for us. But for God's sake, please leave Subway out of this. The last thing I need to see on television is some big fat Arab guy talking about how he used to be even more big and fat before he started mainlining veggie subs.
If that happens I'm just going to keep my ideas to myself in the future, the common good be damned. º Last Column: Sierra Mistº more columns
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|  August 19, 2002
The Cold Dish on Reality TVThe simple truth of my business—truth-telling—is that there's not enough column space and enough interest for me to write more often to tell all the unsettling truths out there. The answer for me is to prioritize what gets told, which means I use my column space for only the most dire of conspiracies and the occasional request for summarizing books for my book club reading for me. Which means some of my revelations are late in coming—like the truth about reality TV.
I have never liked so-called "reality TV," ever since the farce that was Cops first debuted, but it seemed generally harmless and not worthy of my attention, just a distraction and nothing more. But as I reach a dry spell in my material, it seems necessary now to reveal the truth about that distraction and allow people to start focusing on the horrible truths of real life, like the story behind the snakehead fish and Craig Kilborn.
To cut to the truth quick and early, reality TV is no more real than Everybody Loves Raymond, and only slightly funnier. In fact, shows like Friends hold more truth than a "reality show" like Big Brother—at least the characters on Friends are based on real friends of the creator (except for Chandler, who could never exist in our world). The Big Brother "contestants" are simply poorly-written cardboard stereotypes that live up to people's expectations so thoroughly they seem real.
Like the "real...
º Last Column: Someone Has Ruined Citizen Kane for Me º more columns
The simple truth of my business—truth-telling—is that there's not enough column space and enough interest for me to write more often to tell all the unsettling truths out there. The answer for me is to prioritize what gets told, which means I use my column space for only the most dire of conspiracies and the occasional request for summarizing books for my book club reading for me. Which means some of my revelations are late in coming—like the truth about reality TV.
I have never liked so-called "reality TV," ever since the farce that was Cops first debuted, but it seemed generally harmless and not worthy of my attention, just a distraction and nothing more. But as I reach a dry spell in my material, it seems necessary now to reveal the truth about that distraction and allow people to start focusing on the horrible truths of real life, like the story behind the snakehead fish and Craig Kilborn.
To cut to the truth quick and early, reality TV is no more real than Everybody Loves Raymond, and only slightly funnier. In fact, shows like Friends hold more truth than a "reality show" like Big Brother—at least the characters on Friends are based on real friends of the creator (except for Chandler, who could never exist in our world). The Big Brother "contestants" are simply poorly-written cardboard stereotypes that live up to people's expectations so thoroughly they seem real.
Like the "real people" on Cops, every reality show character is portrayed by unknown actors with strong improvisational skills, but poorly-constructed characters. It's amazing they've gotten away with it for this long, given the exceptionally-ridiculous paper-thin characters on talk shows like Ricki Lake and Jerry Springer.
I first became convinced of the truth while watching old repeats of Cops, which air 24-hours on independent local stations almost everywhere in the country. I distinctly saw then-unemployed actors Edward Norton, Eriq LaSalle, and John Travolta—after Look Who's Talking and before Pulp Fiction brought him back. In fact, I think I saw every member of the cast of Welcome Back, Kotter somewhere in the episode, even the guy who played Mr. Woodman. It soon dawned on me that reality TV has become a port for actors yet to make it big or weathering a bad storm. Any day now I expect to see actors with troubled careers like Larry Wilcox and Alf turning up as contestants on Survivor.
This use of destitute actors has reached its height with recent shows The Osbournes and The Anna Nicole Show. It turns out Osbournes star Ozzy Osbourne was a former singer of some kind of band, as well as an actor who has appeared in films like The Jerky Boys and Little Nicky. I'm not sure about the rest of his "family," but Osbourne himself is not a real person, just another down-on-his-luck performer. Anna Nicole, whose real name is Anna Nicole Smith, is actually nothing more than a failed actress and former Playboy playmate, again, not a "real" person. I have done so much independent research on her that I knew who she was without having to look further into it.
In all likelihood, reality TV is another fad, like space travel and feeding starving people in Africa. And besides the fact it is trivial and mindless entertainment watching self-obsessed "real people" going about their day-to-day business or competing ruthlessly for unearned money, I have nothing against it. Still, I implore producers of so-called "reality TV" to quit lying to us and presenting something as true when it's not—that's a job best left to the president. º Last Column: Someone Has Ruined Citizen Kane for Meº more columns
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Quote of the Day“May those who love us, love us, and those who don't love us, may God turn their hearts, and if he doesn't turn their hearts, may he fuck them up so I'll know not to trust cripples.”
-Old Irish Proverb, Jr.Fortune 500 CookieThat weird smell in the office: It's you, dude. Stay out of the sun this week at your doctor's request; he's tired of seeing you shirtless. This week's lucky prom dates: Mom's hot friend "Aunt" Chyniqua, Baseball Commissioner Bud Selig, a randomly selected pro wrestler, entire cast of Revenge of the Nerds, or six of the seven dwarves: Sneezy's got cancer.
Try again later.Hottest Christmas Toy Fads| 1. | Dolly Pees N' Downloads | | 2. | PEZac Anti-Depressant Candies | | 3. | Bloodbung IV for Gamecube | | 4. | Golidie2k2 Robotic Goldfish | | 5. | Virtual Bike Training Wheels Disc | | 6. | West Nile Elmo | | 7. | FunFree Learn-o-station | | 8. | Britney Spears' Diaphragm Madness | | 9. | Bob the Builder with Catcall Voice Chip | | 10. | Collect or Die Trading Card "Game" | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Marcella Whitmore 6/24/2002 Space PioneersLife on earth did not much agree
with Rufus McGee
and Magilicutty Sneed.
Two young boys, American as can be:
American as trees, or Apples Dupree.
On summer days they dreamed,
on winter nights they schemed,
lying there on their
flat-slanted backs,
staring up at
the clouds in great number,
shivering and cursing
the humorless cold,
and wishing they hadn't slept through summer.
They would've rafted down the river like gall stones in a liver,
carefree as retards on a home-fashioned raft,
except that they lived down the river three blocks and a sliver
from a factory that made cheese dust for Kraft.
So instead of paddling and singing about eyes that were stinging

Life on earth did not much agree
with Rufus McGee
and Magilicutty Sneed.
Two young boys, American as can be:
American as trees, or Apples Dupree.
On summer days they dreamed,
on winter nights they schemed,
lying there on their
flat-slanted backs,
staring up at
the clouds in great number,
shivering and cursing
the humorless cold,
and wishing they hadn't slept through summer.
They would've rafted down the river like gall stones in a liver,
carefree as retards on a home-fashioned raft,
except that they lived down the river three blocks and a sliver
from a factory that made cheese dust for Kraft.
So instead of paddling and singing about eyes that were stinging
as the chemicals burned and melted their boat,
they wrote. And wrote and wrote.
They wrote entire novels, McGee and Sneed,
they copied them word for precise word
from paperback Jurassic Parks to a biography of Larry Bird.
They wrote until their hands were cramped
and they ran out of paper.
They wrote until their backs malformed
and spines began to taper.
They wrote until their teachers quit
and declared that they were crazy.
They wrote until the sun went down
and Rufus' eye went lazy.
The townsfolk said enough's enough:
you two should join the Navy.
And though the boys were, as you know, American as Apple Gravy
they wouldn't dream to rock the boat, or rocket foreign peoples,
so instead they staged a peace protest
and wrote a book on steeples.
Finally, the town got pissed, and sealed them in a rocket
to blast them into deepest space's deepest darkest pocket.
They set the date and set out to launch Prototype XL25K
(the rocket they'd been saving up for such a rainy day).
In went McGee, in went Sneed,
with a potted plant and a box of crackers:
For Sneed was known to have a green thumb
and McGee was quite the snacker.
They sealed up the rocket, cleared the platform,
and began the countdown proper:
It started at ten and ended at one, and then zero was the topper.
And at that instant a pick-up truck
dragged the rocket into the river,
where it sank like a stone, with a splash and a moan
and something of a sideways quiver.
The town stopped to savor what they'd done as a favor:
the boys from their torment were freed!
What's that? You thought the rocket ship real?
So did McGee. So did Sneed.   |