yslexia rereffus Mark Dingus-Smith held the world in awe this week after news broke that the central Indiana resident, no shit, talks to God on a regular basis. Thankful that the nation's latest God-talker is neither a Republican politician nor a New Age fruit, pious Americans have swarmed from miles around to gawk at the modest man's Indiana home, many hoping to eavesdrop on these heavenly conversations and catch a hint of what God really thinks about gays, contraception, and the red-hot topic of gay contraception.

Many were intrigued to find this simple man on a first name basis with the universal creator, with trivia buffs particularly interested in the discovery that, according to Mark, God's first name is Rufus.

"Who's a good boy? Rufus is a good boy! Rufus is the best boy in the whole wide world, isn't he?" gushed Dingus-Smith, offering encouragement to the singular deity, who surely must find his awesome responsibilities dispiriting at times. "Yes he is! Rufus is such a good boy!"

According to local news reports, neighbors discovered Dingus-Smith's gift after overhearing several one-sided conversations emanating from the house where Dingus-Smith lives alone with his dog, and asking the lifetime dyslexia sufferer just who he was talking to. Though unaccustomed to the national attention, Mark was already locally famous for unintentionally starting a minor Martian-invasion scare in the region last year after claiming in a bar that the nation's breast implants were full of aliens. After the shooting stopped, it was discovered that Dingus-Smith actually meant "saline."

Although the affliction of dyslexia is most often associated with difficulties in reading caused by the mental transposition of letters, in some extreme cases it can lead to the confusion of entire concepts. The most famous recent example of such being U.S. president George Bush's mistaken belief that Iraq had acquired WMD's, when in actuality the rogue Middle Eastern nation had just opened their first Wendy's.

According to Dr. Nikolai Balsvet of the McClurg Institute, dyslexia effects over 20 million Americans, though to those afflicted it only seems like 0.2 million, adding to their sense of isolation.

Some of the religious pilgrims who have made the trek to central Indiana and spent weeks camped out on Dingus-Smith's lawn have been disappointed with meeting Dingus-Smith and observing his decidedly laid back God-talking routine, which often involves playing with this dog and drinking Coors Light. Many untrue believers decried the entire story as "bullshit," peeling out in their RVs and pausing only long enough to throw trash on Dingus-Smith's lawn.

Others were upset that Dingus-Smith was taking his time working hot-button political issues into his dialogue with the eternal source of all life.

"I'm still pissed Mark hasn't asked God about gay contraception," groused lawn-camper Colman Slank of Nebraska. "He's always too busy playing with that goddamned dog of his. But this is one issue that really gets my goat. It's like the Reese's Peanut Butter Cup of moral outrage, that one. 'You got sinful perversion of man's natural sexuality in my blasphemous triumph of modern technology over God's natural plan!' 'Oh yeah, well you got blasphemous triumph of modern technology over God's natural plan in my sinful perversion of man's natural sexuality!'"

"You remember that commercial, right?" followed-up an uncertain Slank.

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Dear commune:

I feel a little dumb even asking this, but since the Sept. 11th terrorist attacks I've been plagued in my mind with the same question: Why can't the U.S.A. find Osama bin Laden? He is only one man and Afghanistan is a country smaller than the state of Texas. It seems like if we were serious about it, we could do it.

Don Hoffman,
Winston-Salem, Massachusetts


Dear Don:

We have turned your question over to commune Research Editor Griswald Dreck:

"Don, of course Osama bin Laden is only one man; unfortunately, this one man is a master of black magic and is able to walk through shadows like portals to other dimensions. One minute Osama Loddy-Dotty can be in some Quaker plantation milking butter, then the next he is back in Afghanistan sewing outfits for his 7-year-old soldiers. And in another split second he can walk through another shadow and be under your bed, planting a bomb or whatever suits him. And let us not forget the magical amulet he has that turns him into a cardboard cutout. One minute our military is coming in and the next they find that who they thought was Osama bin Laden in the flesh is actually a celebrity cutout for people who want to get their picture taken with him or for displays in book stores when his autobiography comes out—or so they thought!"

Thanks for your question.

the commune

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Dear commune:

Last night I saw your editor, Red Bagel, on the Conan O'Brien show and he was full of more alcohol than Dean Martin's piss. He kept calling Conan "Carmine" and demanding that the band play "She Drives Me Crazy" by the Fine Young Cannibals. I was deeply ashamed to be a commune reader, and then I saw the Conan O'Brien show and everything was alright again.

But beyond that, I was intrigued by some of the specific drunken ramblings of Bagel to the NBC talk show host. He kept mentioning the "other angle" of the Kennedy assassination, alluding to, I suspect, some additional footage of the assassination of John F. Kennedy other than the Zapruder film that has not been released to the public. May I please know more of this?

Emil Zender,
D'Artagnan, Washington


Dear Emil:

Red was, in fact, referring to the "other angle" of the assassination of John F. Kennedy, Jr., though the mistake is understandable since the junior Kennedy is widely believed to have died in a plane crash owing to difficulty with the weather. According to Red, the truth would open a vast conspiracy so dark and terrifying that Americans everywhere would collectively vomit upon hearing it.

Red is the leader in an effort to bring the truth behind Kennedy's alleged assassination to public attention, asserting that there is footage out there, taped by the same guy who caught the Rodney King beating on camera, an ex-C.I.A. man known as "Super Fudge" in innermost circles. This footage captures an angle at which you can clearly see government-trained gremlins having sexual congress with the right side of the plane, and Kennedy, though a skilled pilot, was unable to save the plane from crashing into the sea. Though why Red calls this footage the "other angle" is anyone's guess, since no footage of the Kennedy plane crash is available to our knowledge.

The details and reasons why are known, Red assures us, but he says no one accuses Shirley Temple Black and Blue Oyster Cult of pre-meditated murder without ample proof, so he is reluctant to reveal any information until the much-sought "other angle" footage is in his grubby little hands first.

Thanks for asking, Emil.

the commune

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Dear commune:

I like what you're doing with your little commune thing here. Very nifty. I've tried investing in stock for the commune, but apparently you can't buy it in regular markets. I was wondering, does the commune have a mission statement? Are there any rules for commune reports, or guidelines to follow?

DeWayne Juan
New York City, New York


Dear DeWayne:

You cannot purchase commune stock anywhere, we are not a corporation up for sale to the highest bidder. You can, however, get free commune stock by collecting Rolly Cigarettes coupons and sending them in, though most people opt for the reversible hunting hat.

We at the commune have a mission statement like anyone intent on delivering quality service to the customer. However, the mission statement has changed several times over the years since the staff usually cannot agree on any one statement. Our first mission statement was "Put out or get out." After that we switched to, "You don't have to be crazy to work here, but cocoa humping donkey." A few folks laughed at that but others didn't care for it, so we started going with, "Good to the last goddamn drop," and of course that offended the coffee people and Christians. We replaced our mission statement with some indecipherable clucking noises for a while, and that was doing fine, but we eventually decided to change it again.

This is our most recent mission statement, and it hangs proudly on the door of our New York offices: "I don't see any bright ideas coming from you, Mr. Bigshot with the fat mouth and all."

And every day all of the commune reporters, columnists, sponsors, and staff nurses do their damndest to make that statement true. Thanks for writing, DeWayne.

the commune

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Editor's Note: the commune is not responsible for nobody but the commune, and the commune don't need nobody neither, so you can just go back to living with your mom and leave the commune to it's stacks of Maxims and Guns & Ammo, the commune will be fine. You'll see.

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What's shakin', Kevin Bacon?

Things are okay here. I'm still adjusting to living in New York and especially working at the commune. It's a perplexing place. I’ve been here a few weeks already and so far the only person who's spoken to me is Omar Bricks. I nodded to him in the hall and he convulsed like he's just stepped on a power line and said:

"-bzzzzrrt- Ah, sorry about that. Freakin' security robots! They don't understand anything short of a pizza wheel to the neck."

After that I'm not sure if I'm upset about not hearing from the rest of the staff. Not that a little common concern wouldn't be nice, you know? So, how was your bus ride? Four wheels? Eight? Did you get a mid-ride meal or just peanuts? Here's to hoping your ears popped okay. The standard stuff.

One thing I do know for sure, the commune employee directory is hopelessly obsolete. Apparently they change employees like a whale inhaling plankton, and I think the employee list includes everyone who walks in the doors or is spotted within 100 yards of the building by the guy up on the roof with the binoculars. I'm not kidding, Employee #7710 is listed as "Suspicious Man with Jeri Curl". It's nuts.

And Christ in a cameo, the commune sends us emails about everything! Any time someone retires or transfers or quits or contemplates taking a break to use the bathroom, I get an email about it. I get all excited thinking it's an email from someone nice and instead it's a notice that Bramblethorpe Titdonkey has been promoted to Salad Bar Manager. Do I look like I give a shit? Should I wear a different shirt?

Ah, alas, I must persevere.

Mainly I'm just working on settling in. I just talked to my new auto insurance guy, and he kept saying he would drop my rates considerably if I drove a Hummer. Or something like that. Something about a hummer.

What else? Didn't have time to make a lunch today, so I stole a can of honey-roasted peanuts from the bank to snack on. I just made a really bizarre sound dislodging one from my throat and suddenly some crazy bastard was in here in a duck-hunting hat. I need to hurry up and eat the rest of this can before I choke to death or get shot.

Speaking of the bank, one thing I've discovered recently: If anyone gives you any shit while you're there, just start bleeding everywhere and they'll give you anything you want just to get you out of there. Nobody wants any freaky hemophiliacs running amok in their bank. It's like an unwritten rule or something.

I guess I'd better get back to this paper airplane prototype I've been working on, since this column is going nowhere fast. I've got some flaps torn into the wings so I think it's going to fly pretty sharp. Should put somebody's eye out for sure. Sounds like a... hey, why is a "Barrel of Monkeys" supposed to be so much fun? Who's word are we taking on that? More so than say, a Bathtub of Lizards or a Closet of Weasels... or a Trunk of Pigs? I really wonder.

Can you believe masturbate.com isn't in my spellchecker? What is this, the stone age?

º Last Column: Volume 4
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