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BENSON WINS!January 5, 2001 |
The East Coast Tony Fuggit/AP Former Butler Benson DuBois t long last the recount is over, and former Lt. Governor Benson DuBois has been named Governor of the state in which he resides, which could not be ascertained at press time.
Patient voters in the state have waited since 1986 for the new Governor to be named, when Benson DuBois, former Lt. Governor of the state, ran a "very close race" against the state's incumbent Governor James Gatling, whom he had worked under since fall of 1979. The two were very close friends over the years, which made the race very comedic for all, with moments of poignant drama.
"This has been a long, trying time for us all," DuBois said in a press conference in the state capitol yesterday. "Fortunately, before the results were announced, the Governor and I reflect...
t long last the recount is over, and former Lt. Governor Benson DuBois has been named Governor of the state in which he resides, which could not be ascertained at press time. Patient voters in the state have waited since 1986 for the new Governor to be named, when Benson DuBois, former Lt. Governor of the state, ran a "very close race" against the state's incumbent Governor James Gatling, whom he had worked under since fall of 1979. The two were very close friends over the years, which made the race very comedic for all, with moments of poignant drama. "This has been a long, trying time for us all," DuBois said in a press conference in the state capitol yesterday. "Fortunately, before the results were announced, the Governor and I reflected fondly on all the capers we've had since our debut in politics and have pledged to support the winner, who we can now safely say is me. Now if that lunkhead Clayton and the people will agree to do the same, we can move this great state forward into the next millenium." Benson, as he is commonly known, has delighted audiences of political candidacies everywhere with his rags-to-riches tale that is almost too lucky to be believed. Starting off as the Governor's butler in 1979, he is frequently suspected to have played a major role in all aspects of state policy and concerns. Eventually Benson was appointed Lt. Governor, where his role in politics increased even as situations became even wackier. Benson has also given back to the community, teaching his illiterate basketball star nephew how to read and educating the Governor's daughter on the dangers of sneaking out to go to a rock concert. The new Governor-Elect is expected to appoint major state positions in the next few weeks, including Gretchen Krause as the Secretary of Staying the Hell Out of My Face. When pressed for comment, the Governor-Elect would not disclose what state he presides over. the commune News is not part of the Jew-run media but does enjoy several Jew-run bingo games and massage parlors. Lil Duncan is the commune's senior correspondent and a really boring verse of "The Name Game."
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American Idol Finale Results: America Loses Memorial Day Celebrated With More Memorials in Iraq Congress Lobbied for More Material to Complete Brando Memorial Impotent Landslide in China Kills Only Micro-Fraction of Glorious Population |
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 June 1, 2003
Volume 44Dear commune:
Aren’t you just tired of all this bullshit?
Reggie Shaw Dove Plains, GA
Dear Reggie:
We know exactly what you’re talking about. Those fussy pricks downstairs at Crochet! magazine need to be put in their goddamned place. First they have the gall to involve the police in our staff’s hallowed Annual Pogo Stick Race semifinals. We here at the commune may be a passionate bunch, given to boisterous arguments and cataclysmic displays of machismo, but we’ve never been unable to resolve our own pogo race photo finish disputes among ourselves. Sure, small-arms fire is sometimes involved, but cooler heads and Russian Roulette always prevail.
And speaking of meddling, who are they to say who can and who can’t keep livestock in the building’s common areas? They automatically assume it’s the commune’s goats that have been shitting in the elevator. As if their staff is above suspicion. The pricks.
Anyway, thanks for understanding. Sometimes the commune just needs to vent.
the...
º Last Column: Volume 43 º more columns
Dear commune: Aren’t you just tired of all this bullshit? Reggie Shaw Dove Plains, GA Dear Reggie:
We know exactly what you’re talking about. Those fussy pricks downstairs at Crochet! magazine need to be put in their goddamned place. First they have the gall to involve the police in our staff’s hallowed Annual Pogo Stick Race semifinals. We here at the commune may be a passionate bunch, given to boisterous arguments and cataclysmic displays of machismo, but we’ve never been unable to resolve our own pogo race photo finish disputes among ourselves. Sure, small-arms fire is sometimes involved, but cooler heads and Russian Roulette always prevail.
And speaking of meddling, who are they to say who can and who can’t keep livestock in the building’s common areas? They automatically assume it’s the commune’s goats that have been shitting in the elevator. As if their staff is above suspicion. The pricks.
Anyway, thanks for understanding. Sometimes the commune just needs to vent.
the commune Editor’s Note: the commune is not responsible for those embarrassing Capri pants all the girls are wearing these days. We’re guessing a sauna mishap was responsible for those ridiculous things. But we do look forward to making snide remarks when we’re looking at photo albums ten years from now, just for the record.º Last Column: Volume 43º more columns
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|  January 20, 2003
The Myth of TornadoesThe first tornado, or "dizzy wind," was reported in ancient Sumer in 4914 B.C.. The Sumerian king returned home from an afternoon pillage one day to find his castle in total disarray, with royal garments strewn everywhere and the court musicians stuck up in a tree. He called upon the court scientists, who declared it the work of an ungodly natural phenomena caused by God's drunken uncle Blitzen. Later it was discovered that the king's ex-wife had been over that day and had caused the whole thing as usual, so the king had the court scientists tarred, feathered and cooked in a terrible big pot pie. And while he was at it he had the royal ex-wife beheaded again, since it apparently didn't take the first time.
When the Renaissance came along and slept on the world's couch longer than anyone would have liked, all sorts of half-assed thinkers came out of the woodwork to declare that they had the answers to all of nature's mysteries, like why sticks are pointy and why a dropped donut always falls in poop. For a while it was funny, but before too long people were longing for the Dark Ages again, when you could be ostracized, killed and buggered (in that order) for talking about anything other than how nice the weather was.
But unfortunately for fans of involuntary necrophilia, the Renaissance eventually led to the modern age, with its own host of superstitions and scientific old wives' tales. Modern scientists explained that twisters were actually...
º Last Column: The History of Fast Food º more columns
The first tornado, or "dizzy wind," was reported in ancient Sumer in 4914 B.C.. The Sumerian king returned home from an afternoon pillage one day to find his castle in total disarray, with royal garments strewn everywhere and the court musicians stuck up in a tree. He called upon the court scientists, who declared it the work of an ungodly natural phenomena caused by God's drunken uncle Blitzen. Later it was discovered that the king's ex-wife had been over that day and had caused the whole thing as usual, so the king had the court scientists tarred, feathered and cooked in a terrible big pot pie. And while he was at it he had the royal ex-wife beheaded again, since it apparently didn't take the first time.
When the Renaissance came along and slept on the world's couch longer than anyone would have liked, all sorts of half-assed thinkers came out of the woodwork to declare that they had the answers to all of nature's mysteries, like why sticks are pointy and why a dropped donut always falls in poop. For a while it was funny, but before too long people were longing for the Dark Ages again, when you could be ostracized, killed and buggered (in that order) for talking about anything other than how nice the weather was.
But unfortunately for fans of involuntary necrophilia, the Renaissance eventually led to the modern age, with its own host of superstitions and scientific old wives' tales. Modern scientists explained that twisters were actually caused when high-powered attorneys ran into the front of low-pressure salesmen, resulting in a fun party game with a spinner. People never really believed that, but the spinner was so much fun that few saw fit to question the philosophy behind it.
To this day, a goodly proportion of the superstitious masses still believe in the tornado, this mythical "wind beast" that can pick up an entire trailer park at once and deposit it in a better part of town with no warning, even if they're just about to say who gets to marry the millionaire. Wild-eyed true believers tell fantastic tales of tornadoes that can blow a piece of straw through an oak tree or even drag a needle through Tipper Gore's ass.
Hollywood has done much to play into the public's ignorant fears, creating computer-generated tornadoes so real you'd swear they really were the bane of hayseeds from Kansas to Oklahoma. The Helen Hunt drama Twister won many a convert to the cult of the tornado, even though the film's credits spell out exactly who was responsible for the digital sleight-of-hand in large font. Many remember seeing the foam-rubber tornado in 1939's The Wizard of Oz as a child and have simply always assumed they were real. Others should know better, but there is little hope in arguing with someone who has a deep-seated need to believe in tornadoes.
Sadder still are the so-called tornado victims, who grab for headlines with vivid tales of the twister that took their truck, their house and their hometown. A sparse few have any kind of hard evidence, beyond some twisted wreckage and a town-shaped hole in the ground. Tornado hoaxes such as these have proliferated in recent years, as a deep need for contact with the supernatural has pushed many desperate people to the edge. A hilarious few claim to have been "taken" by the twister, up into its spinning winds, presumably to a magical land of merry-go-rounds, spinning tops and ice skaters twirling around perpetually like Lazy Susans.
Eventually there will come an enlightened age when we are free from such inane superstitions, but unfortunately it's not likely to happen until our alien creators come back and anal probe us into being smart. º Last Column: The History of Fast Foodº more columns
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Milestones2002: commune staffer writes this ìMilestonesî blurb, causing time to fold in on itself and destroy the universe.Now HiringCharles Bronson. Experienced Charles Bronson needed to pull off some Deathwish-style menacing to scare off Ivana Folger-Balzac once and for all. Five years Charles Bronson experience minimum. Please provide references, and filmography.Top Reasons Why You Couldn't Have Killed Your Dead Wife| 1. | What, and miss the prime Christmas Eve fishing season? | | 2. | Too busy having extramarital affair to plot murder | | 3. | Pregnant wife-killing totally against religion | | 4. | Ha. I wish! | | 5. | Spirit too crushed from living with soulless bitch for years | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Dr. Whoot 12/22/2003 Some Fuck Stole ChristmasIt was on all-hallowed Christmas Eve it happened. In the middle of the night, in the coldest of December airs, some fuck came down the chimney of every stinking house and stole Christmas right from under the sleeping noses of the whole goddamn town.
People awoke all a-clatter from their dreams of sugarplums and shit and found every single piece of valuable merchandise had been lifted during the night. Even the sentimental crap, homemade decorations and what, had disappeared without so much as a fingerprint. Detectives in the 9th precinct were shithouse. The best investigator in property crimes was put on the case, Detective Jethro Davies.
Davies scouted the crime scenes, which was every house in the entire damn town, and had owners and family members making a...
It was on all-hallowed Christmas Eve it happened. In the middle of the night, in the coldest of December airs, some fuck came down the chimney of every stinking house and stole Christmas right from under the sleeping noses of the whole goddamn town.
People awoke all a-clatter from their dreams of sugarplums and shit and found every single piece of valuable merchandise had been lifted during the night. Even the sentimental crap, homemade decorations and what, had disappeared without so much as a fingerprint. Detectives in the 9th precinct were shithouse. The best investigator in property crimes was put on the case, Detective Jethro Davies.
Davies scouted the crime scenes, which was every house in the entire damn town, and had owners and family members making a detailed list of all stolen goods. They requested FBI help on the case, but on Dec, 25th it was hard to get Washington moving, no matter how big the crime. Davies scowled as he knelt under the mantle in a house where once hung stockings, garland, Christmas cards, and those little ball things.
"This guy went apeshit all over the whole town," growled Davies. "Tell me, Mendez—what kind of sick fuck goes through a whole town in one night, carts off roughly 6,000 pounds worth of valuable merchandise, and doesn't leave a fingerprint?"
Mendez shook his head and held his mouth. "I think I'm going to be sick!" He vomited all over the crime scene. Davies stepped back, then patted him on the back.
"It's okay, Mendez. If it doesn't affect you, you ain't human."
All available detectives were called in to canvas the crime scenes in the first 72 hours. Everyone acted with haste and forced jolly, dimly considering in their heads the sick fuck could already be hundreds of miles away from here by now.
Davies and secondary detective Ted Geisel went over the evidence together in a late-night session.
"Anything unusual in the report?" asked Davies.
"Pretty much the same everywhere chief," said the detective. "Every house—tinsel, decorations, trees, all the trees. Every goddamn present you could ask for. This freak will be rolling in it tonight. One house reported their fucking Christmas dinner had been stolen. Roast beef with all the trimmings."
"Beef? That looks like an 's.'"
Then the news came over the police scanner: A suspect on old Grouch Hill was being pursued, wanted for questioning. A ghost-white look shot over Davies' face.
"They got him. They got the son of a bitch."
"We'd better hurry," said Geisel, stepping up and grabbing his jacket from the chair. "That was broadcast over the scanner. Every hillbilly with a shotgun in fifty miles is going to be looking to put two shots in that fuck's back. Let's roll."
Even on the way to the car they realized they were already too late. Pick-ups and El Caminos by the dozen were rolling out of drive-ways, every seat stocked with pissed off townspeople who saw no Christmas that day. They were hooting and hollering, ready to take their yuletide cheer out of someone's ass. There was no way enough policeman could be assembled to stem the violence in time. That Christmas-stealing fuck, whoever he was, would be experiencing frontier justice tonight.
For more of this great story, buy Dr. Whoot's Some Fuck stole Christmas   |