|  | 
 February 23, 2004 |
San Francisco, CA Junior Bacon The boldy inscrutable governor, seen here agreeing with everything in general.
Though no one present at the convention could understand the governor through his thick Austrian accent, many believe Schwarzenegger’s statements to be against homosexual marriage, given his body language and the way he shook his finger disapprovingly while making the “buttfucking” gesture with his hands and pelvis.
In addition to these cues, when Schwarzenegger’s comments were met with a confused silence from the con...
purred into action by San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom’s issuance of marriage licenses to over 3,000 gay and lesbian couples over the last two weeks, California governor Arnold Schwarzenegger took the opportunity at the state’s Republican convention in Burlingame to grunt something about the controversial topic of same-sex marriage.
Though no one present at the convention could understand the governor through his thick Austrian accent, many believe Schwarzenegger’s statements to be against homosexual marriage, given his body language and the way he shook his finger disapprovingly while making the “buttfucking” gesture with his hands and pelvis.
In addition to these cues, when Schwarzenegger’s comments were met with a confused silence from the convention crowd, the California governor went on to spend the next five minutes struggling to pronounce the word “illegal” in a way that was intelligible to English-speakers.
Several possible translations of Schwarzenegger’s statement have been offered by various news organizations, not the least of which has been the commune, with some help from in-house action film expert Omar Bricks.
“Men are not for marrying other men,” translated Bricks, from a tape recording of the governor’s series of guttural moans and awkwardly rounded syllables. “Men are for friends and for having sex if you are too muscular and powerful for women’s bodies, who snap like twigs and have spines that shatter from your powerful pelvic thrusting. But men are not for to marry. They cannot cook good and are bad for sewing shirts that rip from bulging muscles. For this I am glad for my wife Maria who is like sewing and cooking machine, and for friend Steve who has haunches like a racehorse.”
Republican leaders across the country insist that Schwarzenegger’s statements had to have been in opposition to same-sex marriage, since the man is a Republican for Christ’s sake. Others also pointed out the governor’s obvious need to physically compensate for a lack of inner self-esteem, making support of homosexual causes unlikely, and the fact that the man comes from a foreign land where they hunt gay people for sport.
“I don’t think Arnie would support fags getting married,” stated Republican sensitivity poster-boy Orrin Hatch, pondering the inner nuances of a man who has spent the majority of his life focusing on ways to make his muscles bigger. “Fuzzbumpers maybe, that could be hot. But not two guys. After all, the dude’s from Austria. They cook gay people in soups there, from what I hear.”
President Bush also expressed his opinion of Schwarzenegger’s likely opinion, explaining that it was clear from the movies that both Douglas Quaid and the Terminator believed that marriage was a social contract to be entered into only by one man and one woman. In elaborating upon his own opposition to gay marriage, Bush also explained that he’s found intercourse with a woman to be enjoyable both times he has attempted it.
Should Schwarzenegger’s position on same-sex marriage be determined by Ouija board or some kind of “stomp once for yes” communicational system in the near future, it could spell trouble for Mayor Newsome of San Francisco. Though Newsom may have the state Constitution on his side, he’s unlikely to have enough bullets to stop Schwarzenegger if the governor is mad enough or scripted for a bloody finale. the commune news has been marrying gay people for years, and we don’t appreciate all this recent publicity bringing pissed-off homosexuals out of the woodwork demanding their money back. Ramon Nootles is our in-office barometer on the same-sex marriage issue, if he gets married before gays have the right, then the world is most definitely fucked. Incidentally, Nootles getting married is also our barometer for when to pack a parka for hell and when to keep an eye out for falling pig shit.
 |  Memorial Day Celebrated With More Memorials in Iraq
Mars rover a bad dog—very bad dog
 New Adams Dollar Coin Already Worth 75 Cents
Homeland Defense nominee withdraws name; no longer eligible for free ham
|
Cheney Comrade Injured During Hunt for Bin Laden Arizona Border Patrol Installing Landmines Serial Killer’s Neighbor: “He just wouldn’t shut up about serial killing.” Heather Graham’s Career Found Dead in Apartment |
| |
| 
 September 30, 2002
No Credit Card for ClarissaIn all ladylike honesty, this is bullshit! I had a hit TV show, I've done some pretty notable movies like Return to Skank Mountain, and my pictures as a kid look so much like Little Debbie they officially have to pay me royalties. Why the hell can't I get a credit card?
I would say it's racism, but I'm pretty sure all the credit card companies are mostly run by white people. And I basically pass for a white person, nobody really cares about if my granddad is Puerto Rican and my step-mom is Navajo. I can't really say it's genderism, or whatever that word is either, since my official birth name is Charles Coleman since my mother couldn't spell "Clarissa." Unless they have in my credit report that I somewhere attempted to buy large quantities of tampons or a girl's bike or something they wouldn't know I'm a woman.
Which leads me to the obvious conclusion I'm dealing with star-ism. Someone at the credit card deciding branch, the place where they pick who gets and doesn't get a credit card, they figured out I'm Clarissa Coleman the B-grade or higher actress and refused me the dignity of a credit card. My reputation is torn to pieces like so much duck-feeding bread and they humiliate me on paper because they hate celebrities.
It's ridiculous discrimination. I wonder if Tom Cruise goes through this sort of thing. Goes in to get a gas card so he can stop at the BP when he doesn't have any cash and they give him a big fat "No!" stamp. He's like,...
º Last Column: I've Been Scammed, Pulp Fiction-Style
º more columns
In all ladylike honesty, this is bullshit! I had a hit TV show, I've done some pretty notable movies like Return to Skank Mountain, and my pictures as a kid look so much like Little Debbie they officially have to pay me royalties. Why the hell can't I get a credit card?
I would say it's racism, but I'm pretty sure all the credit card companies are mostly run by white people. And I basically pass for a white person, nobody really cares about if my granddad is Puerto Rican and my step-mom is Navajo. I can't really say it's genderism, or whatever that word is either, since my official birth name is Charles Coleman since my mother couldn't spell "Clarissa." Unless they have in my credit report that I somewhere attempted to buy large quantities of tampons or a girl's bike or something they wouldn't know I'm a woman.
Which leads me to the obvious conclusion I'm dealing with star-ism. Someone at the credit card deciding branch, the place where they pick who gets and doesn't get a credit card, they figured out I'm Clarissa Coleman the B-grade or higher actress and refused me the dignity of a credit card. My reputation is torn to pieces like so much duck-feeding bread and they humiliate me on paper because they hate celebrities.
It's ridiculous discrimination. I wonder if Tom Cruise goes through this sort of thing. Goes in to get a gas card so he can stop at the BP when he doesn't have any cash and they give him a big fat "No!" stamp. He's like, "I'm Tom Cruise! I have bundles of cash! Thousands of dollars!" They're all shaking their heads, smirking their middle-class heads off, and they get to go home thinking they really stuck it to Rain Man's brother today. Screw that!
I thought this was the land of the freebie and all that. Where's my credit card? I slogged through countless hours of trying to remember my lines and fixing my own make-up when the idiot lady couldn't cover up the bags under my eyes after an all-nighter, and this is the thanks I get? I don't think America appreciates its celebrities. I fought hard for this country, you know—in the pages of Entertainment Weekly and on the cut celluloid of Police Academy VIII: Back in Blue Again. Where's my parade? Hell, forget the parade, where's my Master Card?
All I want to do is buy some lousy vest worn by Robert Plant on the latest Plant-Page tour on eBay, is that beyond my scope? I make a decent penny from my acting and the commune pays for the gas to auditions and stuff. I can afford a $300 Robert Plant vest, you know. I shouldn't have to beg and scrape and go to the Shell station for a money order when I've worked this hard. I deserve a credit card. We all deserve credit cards.
That's right, I'm speaking for everybody out there. The Sean Connerys, the Jennifer Anistons, the Baldwin Brotherses—even the Screeches. Can't Screech catch a break? And what about me? Let's not forget me. In fact, let's focus on me. Let Screech and Jennifer Aniston write their own commune columns.
You know, it occurs to me that it may not be celebrity-related at all. I listed my positions and salaries as an actress and commune columnist—is that it? Is it because I write for the commune I can't catch a credit card break? A clear-cut case of commune-ism.
The more I think about it, the more I'm sure that's what it is. Nobody at the commune has a credit card. Not that I could blame the Visa people. I wouldn't trust them to pay me back enough for a local phone call.
Hey, Visa, if you ever want more detailed financial information on these dildos, let me know. You slide a little $600-limit action my way and I can be an endless source of info about these deadbeats. One lousy little credit card, that's all I ask. º Last Column: I've Been Scammed, Pulp Fiction-Styleº more columns
| 
|  June 27, 2005
I Plead "Not Guilty" to the Charge of Breeding VelocimonkeysThat's right, your honor, you heard the title. I've prepared this statement in my defense because this country's legal system is inherently biased against the kind of "shock and awe" courtroom antics that would most memorably and quickly prove my innocence, and so I've been forced to make humble words, and periodic karate gestures, my servants. I stand here before you today a man innocent of the baseless accusations that I personally bred and trained a small army of vicious and lightning-quick monkeys to keep government ninjas out of my house.
These charges are untrue, your honor, and I bear no responsibility for the power company meter reader who was torn to shreds by these cunning, genetically-modified apes. The berserk primates that witnesses saw fleeing my home on May 17th had invaded my innocent dwelling only moments before, possibly descending by rope from a blimp, or creating an elaborate series of underground tunnels leading to my basement, or possibly both.
The prosecution will be calling two witnesses, Reginald "Dickface" Tungstein and Charlize "Dirty Lying Bitch" Overborn, who are both professional liars hired to gain my trust, plant monkey-breeding evidence in my home, and to fake video footage of me running frighteningly-swift killer monkeys though training drills in my own back yard. Neither of these individuals, you will note, has ever seen the movie Congo. As your honor obviously knows, this seriously calls into question...
º Last Column: My Fucking Living Will Just Died
º more columns
That's right, your honor, you heard the title. I've prepared this statement in my defense because this country's legal system is inherently biased against the kind of "shock and awe" courtroom antics that would most memorably and quickly prove my innocence, and so I've been forced to make humble words, and periodic karate gestures, my servants. I stand here before you today a man innocent of the baseless accusations that I personally bred and trained a small army of vicious and lightning-quick monkeys to keep government ninjas out of my house.
These charges are untrue, your honor, and I bear no responsibility for the power company meter reader who was torn to shreds by these cunning, genetically-modified apes. The berserk primates that witnesses saw fleeing my home on May 17th had invaded my innocent dwelling only moments before, possibly descending by rope from a blimp, or creating an elaborate series of underground tunnels leading to my basement, or possibly both.
The prosecution will be calling two witnesses, Reginald "Dickface" Tungstein and Charlize "Dirty Lying Bitch" Overborn, who are both professional liars hired to gain my trust, plant monkey-breeding evidence in my home, and to fake video footage of me running frighteningly-swift killer monkeys though training drills in my own back yard. Neither of these individuals, you will note, has ever seen the movie Congo. As your honor obviously knows, this seriously calls into question their knowledge of killer ape matters and the relevance of their testimony. Also, "Dickface" Tungstein once slept with my ex-girlfriend. Draw your own conclusions from that.
And I'm sure your honor will also be hearing a lot about these so-called "Velocimonkeys." That they have eyes dark as night and slender, scheming fingers. That I bred them by crossing insane howler monkeys with a Tasmanian devil. That when cornered, they go for the nuts like a nut-hungry piranha, and that three of them can skeletonize a bull in fourteen seconds. That at night, they sing beautiful, high harmonies to lure in birds and children for snack and sport.
I'm sure you'll also be hearing that after they tore the meter reader into confetti, the Velocimonkeys escaped, terrorizing a Dairy Queen and hijacking a 1998 Toyota Camry moments before driving it off a nearby bridge and into the river, where they all drowned at an alarming rate of speed. That no Velocimonkey bodies were ever found, because I rescued them with scuba gear and a tuna net, bringing them home and locking them in a titanium footlocker in my basement that nobody knows about. These charges and more, your honor, are horseshit times three.
I saw these monkeys, your honor, as they invaded my home while I was praying and working on the cure for childhood cancer, and I didn't think they were all that. I even hit one with a bottle of scotch and it was clearly phased, as all normal monkeys are when hit with booze. It wouldn't surprise me if that meter reader in fact suffered from a medical condition that predisposed him to falling apart like sloppy joe meat when threatened by apes.
Furthermore, your honor, in my defense I plan on exposing the powerful racism at work within our local police force. This case is clearly less about the facts and more about my Dutch-Irish heritage, and the painful stereotypes that persist about the Dutch-Irish and their love of breeding killer primate hybrids with a taste for blood. This is the case that might very well change the way we think about race in this country, and hopefully it will do so in the next 34 minutes since I've got tickets for Nickelback. Case dismissed. º Last Column: My Fucking Living Will Just Diedº more columns
|
| |
Quote of the Day“We have nothing to fear but Fear itself. Fear is, of course, my rabid pit bull infected with the plague.”
-Franklin de RooseveltFortune 500 CookieA watched pot never boils, and rust never sleeps. Doubt every instinct this week. A friend says sugar cookies turn you queer, for real. Lucky numbers 10, 10, 32, and 1.
Try again later.Top Jesus Retreat Jams| 1. | New Testament, New Testament | | 2. | Who Let the Healing Love of Jesus Out? | | 3. | Because I Don't Get High | | 4. | Mary, Mary | | 5. | Turn the Other Cheek (And Show Me Your Ass) | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 12/8/2003 A hearty "Yo" to you all, America, and welcome to the umptillionth edition of Roland McShyster's Entertainment Police, now a trademarked brand and theme restaurant in three states. We've got the candy you crave yet again this week, so let's waste no time peeling back that Hollywood Band-Aid and scowling at the owie that is this week's new releases:
In Theaters
Honey
Mariah Carrey is back, stinking up the screen in this, her latest attempt to prove that brother Jim didn't get all the acting talent in that family. If I were her, I'd settle for being known as "The Singing Carrey," because after squirming through brother Jim's off-key warbling in Mule in Rouge I don't expect her to suffer much competition...
A hearty "Yo" to you all, America, and welcome to the umptillionth edition of Roland McShyster's Entertainment Police, now a trademarked brand and theme restaurant in three states. We've got the candy you crave yet again this week, so let's waste no time peeling back that Hollywood Band-Aid and scowling at the owie that is this week's new releases:
In Theaters
Honey
Mariah Carrey is back, stinking up the screen in this, her latest attempt to prove that brother Jim didn't get all the acting talent in that family. If I were her, I'd settle for being known as "The Singing Carrey," because after squirming through brother Jim's off-key warbling in Mule in Rouge I don't expect her to suffer much competition for that title. Her prospects for one day being known as "The Acting Carrey" are unfortunately slim and none, and Slim can't act either. If she got any of the acting talent in that family, she left it in her other pants because here she stinks on ice like Nancy Kerrigan's gangrenous left knee.
The Last Samurai Show
The cruelly good-looking secret brother of commune toilet brush Alamo Cruise, embarrassing cult religion enthusiast Tom Cruise is back and John Belushing up a storm as usual in this gaijin comedy epic. Cruise's main squeeze Penelope "She's Not My Sister (wink, wink)" Cruise is strangely absent from the film, though whether this can be attributed to a lover's spat or the fact that there were no Mexican people in Japan in the 1800's is hard to say. Personally, I think they could have Jackie Chaned her into the script somehow, so look out for tabloid news of Cruise dropping a bombshell on his sisterly bombshell in the near future, mark my hypertexted words.
Lords of the Ring: Rerun of the King
Elvis Presley is back, and it turns out that instead of dying as the media reported, he actually wrestled some kind of amphetamine demon to the death on the toilet seat that fateful night, only to come back dressed all in white—or at least slightly more white than he was already known for wearing. Now he's taken up a second career as a boxing promoter in this third installment of the loosely-related "Ring" series, not to be mistaken for the pants-shitting scary movie about the little girl who sneaks out of your TV and eats all your Tollhouse cookies if you return your rental videos late. I for one was ready for an Elvis comeback, since somebody has to teach this latest generation of popamuffins how to croak through grotesque excess, but if your brain did you the favor of blanking out the memory of the first two films, this one's going to make about as much sense as a Japanese beer commercial.
Pig Fish
Famed screwball director Tim "Burt" Burton is back with his cast of circus freaks and non-gay fairies in this romp through the realm of the colorfully far-fetched. The cinematic answer to "If a pig and a fish had sex, what would they have?" (the traditional punchline of "An abortion" was apparently not P.C. enough for this studio), Pig Fish stars sporting goods heir Ewan MacGregor and world's fattest elf Danny Devito as the two opposing heads of the resultant hideous animal hybrid. MacGregor's the fastidious and methodical front end, while DeVito is the crass slob of a rear, making sure they're always on each other's nerves, literally. Though in all sincerity I have no idea how you decide which is the front or back end of a symmetrical genetic freak animal, I guess it's just Hollywood's bias for giving ribald slobs the ass end of the stick shining through here. It's kind of like those maps that show the world upside-down, with Australia on top. You can't really say they're wrong, but it hurts your brain to think about it. Same thing with this movie.
Something's Gotta Give Jack Nicholson a Heart Attack
Hilariously middle-aged arterial clog Jack Nicholson is back, in the latest comedy to bank on his not being young any more. Based on the sound premise that Jack's gotta go some time, and it's not likely to be yanking tots out of a flaming orphanage, Something's Gotta Give Jack Nicholson a Heart Attack basically plays like a role call of hilarious scenarios in which Jack Nicholson might buy the farm. Several of them include seeing Diane Keaton naked, which is funny enough, but the suspense really isn't there since everybody knows that if seeing Kathy Bates in the buff didn't do it, whatever sagging Keaton may have going on doesn't stand a streaker's chance in Hell of landing Jackie boy in the crypt. Keanu Reeves reprises his role as a pasty loser who thinks he knows karate.
Stuck on Your Ass
Hollywood's never had an original idea without having it again about ten seconds later, and if it's not fathers and sons trading bodies it's some sad sack odd couple being stuck in the same one. While Pig Fish approaches this idea from the surreal computer-animated side, the concurrent odd twin grafted to that film's ass, Stuck on Your Ass, takes a more literal approach. In this one, John Wayne lookalike Matt Damon and Greg "They Killed" Kinnear play normal twin brothers who accidentally got siamesed in a hospital mix-up when a dyslexic doctor bonered their chart with that of a three little Nepalese boys who'd been chain-ganged by Nature. I leave you to draw your own conclusions.
Well that's that and a rat-a-tat-tat, America. Glad you could make it and were able to take some time out of your busy schedule this holiday season, taking a break from planning out just how you're going to distribute the kindness and goodwill that you've been bottling up and repressing all year. See you around, America.   |
