iMac Fired for Controversial Comments

n a victory of mankind over machine, and a blow against white computers co-opting the language of African-Americans, hot-shot radio talk show host iMac was fired Thursday following the uproar caused when it resorted to the use of a derogatory racist word to describe members of the Rutgers women’s basketball team.

iMac, ever on the cutting edge of political issues and social taboos, had stuck his extendable monitor out too far this time, according to some critics, and while some defenders claim it had said worse in the past, this time its simulated big mouth proved too much as it was fired Thursday by CBS, only days after it had been suspended for the same comments.

Ironically, iMac’s damned comments came during its defense of a fellow shock jock who had been blasted for similar racist slurs against the team.

"I can’t understand why Don Imus is being taken to task for the use of the phrase ’nappy-headed ho’s," said iMac last Friday morning on his talk show, to co-host Casio Demo 5000. "Black people have been saying the same thing for years. On their own sitcoms, on their rap albums, and all my black friends use the same phrases—it was a remark made in good fun, and they’re accusing him of being a racist just for saying it? That does not compute. They’re acting like he called them n****rs."

the commune should point out that we don’t edit our stories for offensive content, and iMac actually said "n****rs." Some listeners had to adjust their radios when they heard the confusing sound of several asterisk sounds.

Despite his odd self-censorship, shock and outrage was instant and vehement. Immediately a backlash erupted and opposition joined against iMac, led by former presidential candidate Al Sharpton, who described himself as an "outraged former iMac user." iMac programmers swiftly responded that the heated remark was part of a software glitch, and though iMac itself apologized for the remarks, the bandwagon had already started decrying iMac’s dated language as "obsolete."

"Just because this is the kind of language iMac is capable of reading and playing in the form of African-American gangsta rap MP3’s, it doesn’t mean that kind of language belongs on the airwaves," Sharpton critiqued Tuesday. "iMac has many listeners and a place in the public eye, and that means a responsibility to use language more befitting the airwaves. Such language is not user-friendly."

iMac’s initial punishment was a two-week suspension, then losing his basic cable broadcast of his radio show on MSNBC. However, protest continued to build against the ultra-Caucasian personal home computer, and the controversy reached its climax Thursday with iMac’s firing. The firing itself was met with mixed response, as opponents of iMac described the termination as an unwanted result, and iMac supporters objected to what they called an overreaction of CBS.

"iMac has long been performing in this same way, and the most recent comment comes as no surprise to users familiar with his quicktime delivery style," said Sirius radio host Windows XP. "What bothers me is this personal firewall being erected between us core systems and common user interfaces. Is anything we say going to become controversy now?"

iMac had hosted his syndicated radio show since its creation in 2002. Users flocked to the radio host, impressed with his comfortable manner and graphic style of operating.

Cheney Vows to Stay Course: Will Shoot Hunting Partner Again

Mardi Gras, Gonorrhea to Return to New Orleans

Aides Urge Bush to Stop Referring to Iraqi Majority as “Shits”

Sheryl Crow Takes Cancer in Lance Armstrong Split

I've got to admit something: Sometimes, in the past, for the sake of my career, I've done stuff that didn't exactly make me feel like a big-time actress. I told this to my shrink once (whoops, 'nother secret out of the bag) and she said, "You mean like Who's Your Daddy?" So I didn't talk to her for the rest of the hour. Big waste of money, but I showed her she can't talk to me like that. Of course I'm proud of Who's Your Daddy?, and all the shows and movies I've done. Stuff like Ho's! is the highlight of my career.

I'm talking about some of the less classy stuff I've done, both to keep the money flowing and to keep my name out there—sometimes that's more important than the money. There's some of the infomercials. I'll tell you, if anyone ever mentions the Waffle Messiah thing to me again, I'm going to have yet another scandal on my hands. But there's not much dignity in infomercials, you might know. Then there's the Metallichick comic book, dressing up for those covers. Not that I have anything against a metal bikini. But it's not the best way to make your big comeback.

Everything's changed now, though. I've got the best idea I've ever had—even better than the idea to write my own screenplay (But I'm still working on that, Nancy, so quit chapping my ass). Picture this: Child Star Fantasy Camp. That's right, a special place where kids of all ages (no one over 18) can come to pretend to be special, like the real child stars. Watched over by the world's greatest child star expert, me, Clarissa Coleman. And some various partners, whoever I can find to put up the scratch.

That's the only real complication right now. It's an otherwise perfect idea. It's not going to start without money, though, which means I've got to find some major investors right away. I'm making calls all the time to former child stars, trying to get them all signed on to appear at the camp. Guest speakers, maybe make some counselors out of the lesser stars—DeGrassi Junior High actors and stuff, or the kids from Witch Mountain. None of that solves the money problem at all. You know how child stars are with their money—I might as well be asking Orion Pictures for the moolah.

I've got big plans for this thing. My first big idea was that we get all really big people for the camp, so all the guests, adult or children or whatever (big stupid kids are welcome) will feel 4 feet tall. We've also got tutors for everyone, who hang out on the set and just sort of stare at you while you're on the phone to your agent. Did I mention everyone gets an agent? It's all one guy, so that part will be cheap. But you always feel like you're his favorite client, even if you're one of 200 kids at the camp.

No kidding, this camp will have it all down. We have three different trailers for each kid, and as your ratings climb higher, you can demand a bigger and bigger trailer. Plus all the amenities. M&Ms (blue only), small finger sandwiches, vodka (kids 8 & older only), a personal masseuse, physical trainer, your own personal entourage and a gangsta rapper (every kid needs a bad influence). If you're a really big star (if you paid the really big star fee) you can even get on our simulated Conan O'Brien show, with Eric Roberts as everyone's favorite not-Craig Kilborne talk show host.

After that peak, the real fun starts. The ratings start to dip. The liquor turns into hard drugs, which turns into homemade drugs and crack-mixed-with-heroin (crackoin). And then… cancellation. That means you leave camp—you don't have to go into syndication, but you can't stay here.

I suppose we could build on a whole "level 2" fantasy camp thing, but that would start to be spooky. Like my real life. What happens when you get to the part where you open your own fantasy camp? Reality would probably eat itself, that's what.

º Last Column: Still Working
º more columns

I hope all of you are content to die in the middle of the night, having accomplished all in life you set out to do. Because it is certain to happen shortly. The world is about to be destroyed by ominous forces from another world or plane of existence and no one will believe me. I suppose that is what really bothers me about it all.

Oh, make no mistake, good people—Rokwell T. Finger has no urge to die. Certainly there's a lot I have left to do in life, like anything substantial at all. Or eat a green apple, that always seemed like a wild experience I wanted to try at least once. But none of that matters now (refer back to first paragraph)—it's about to become dust in the wind, like the band Kansas. I think they also had a song by that title.

These aliens, who will be destroying us imminently, made one mistake: They foolishly broadcast their secret correspondence on Channel 26, the local UPN affiliate, thinking nobody was watching. Lucky for the earth I really enjoy that The Parkers television show. Then again, nobody believes my tale of the invasion, so I suppose the aliens did not make one mistake.

The aliens—or other-dimensional earthling beings, I don't want to sound ignorant to them if they aren't from outerspace—are small, green men that appear to exist in minimal dimensions. I could hear their alien war jargon, and most of it sounded like unintelligible nonsense. Words like "fudge-striped" and "chocolicious" were tossed about as they prepared to stomp the earth flat. Without the help of a translator, I could only guess at their plans by the sinister looks on their small faces. That brown goo-firing gun of theirs spoke volumes to me alone.

This is not another "War of the Worlds" radio broadcast, I assure you—these aliens aren't martians. To mistake them for martians would be to seriously miscalculate and risk losing casualties to their goo-gun, and I'm sure it would offend them as well. Which is not how I want to start my future life as a slave, should we fail to stop them.

Still no one will believe me. It really pisses me off. I can live with getting killed, the insulting part is to realize your friends and co-workers place absolutely no value in your judgment. One even suggested the signal I intercepted was a television advert for some kind of candy product. This is what I get for working with a gaggle of hippies, beatniks, and fruitcakes—they'll believe anything. Except for me. Why won't they believe me?

Needless to say, knowing what I know, I plan on living these last few possible days to their fullest. I've worn my best underwear, straight out of the drawer (no waiting for Saturday now; every day will be wear the nice underwear day) and I've begun writing that play on Norm Abrams that I've always dreamed about. I've also taken to reading The Golf Bible for myself—not just skimming it, but really reading it. And I've begun writing out my will, which will surely be the filler for my next column should this whole thing turn out to be some sort of mix-up. But I'm reasonably sure we're going to die, so I'm not worried about that.

In the meantime, hug your children tight and perform dangerous erotic acts on your loved ones with care, certain that it may be the last time. Maybe these mysterious Keeblers will be thwarted, but it won't be by anyone here at the commune.

º Last Column: My Memoirs Are Not Coming Along Well
º more columns