| Loves That Woman ';
$dunkin='2005/0905/';
$dunkintitle='The New Anne Frank Diary';
$edit='2003/1222/';
$fanmail='2005/0516/';
$fanmailtitle='Volume 63';
$finger='2005/0905/';
$fingertitle='I’m Fresh Out of Haitian Cigarettes';
$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='2005/0905/';
$police='2005/0905/';
$polio='2005/0905/';
$poliotitle='Omarelief';
$rent='2005/0829/';
$renttitle='I’m Not that Big a Fan of Talking';
$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';
?> | 
 November 18, 2011 |
Shanesly, VT Courtesy App-Lesauce.com A bunch of apps and shit 
Apps," or software programs designed for handheld devices, are all the rage these days, as more and more internet-capable phones and state-of-the-art tablet computers utilize them to make apps one of the more enjoyable aspects of mobile technology. There are current apps out there for reading books and documents, doing your taxes, watching movies and television while on the go, and getting directions as you drive. But apps don't stop there, as independent designers and big-name companies work to bring new abilities to your tablet computer like the iPad, the Galaxy Tab, and Motorola's incorrectly spelled Xoom device. In the wake of the recent removal from the Apple Store in France of an app called "Jew or Not Jew?," designed to give insight into the background of entertainers and icons of Jewish descent, the commune, mostly me, Raoul Dunkin, decided to investigate some of the surprising apps out there for various devices. But yeah, all of these are Apple, because nobody left an HP TouchPad discarded at the bus stop last week. Although they probably should have.
Encore! For iPhone (Guncho Ltd.): This fresh app saves the user breath and energy by automatically shouting for "one more" from your favorite band who has left the stage. An update reportedly automatically requests "Free Bird" if it has not already been played, and mimics your drunken slur. Encore! costs $4.99 on iTunes and is also available for the same price for iPad. For $8.99 an Apple customer can buy Encore! Pro, which boos the opening act during the first ballad.
U.R. Gay For iPad (OutThere Apps): Ever wanted to know what your best friends or romantic partners would look like if they chose the homosexual lifestyle? U.R. Gay can take any picture of the manliest dudes or girliest girlfriends and gay them up big time. Adjust the gayness to your liking with a touch-friendly slider. Deck out that obnoxious brah in your office in a tight-fitting long-sleeve shirt and pencil-thin mustache, or a loud Hawaiian shirt and biker shorts, or go full gay with a bushy 'stache, leather vest, blue jean cut-offs and—is that eyeliner? Advisory: Can only go gay, will not work on already-gay pictures, and they highly recommend you don't try it.
iBlack (Cheap Bastards): If you're thinking this app traces the purity of your blood back several generations, you're wrong (that app's called Kiss My Black(?) Ass for iPhone). iBlack can, at the press of a button, turn your iPad, iPhone, or iPod Touch to a completely black screen so you can see your reflection, see what it looks like if your device was turned off, or simply give people the impression that your handheld computer is not being used. It functions much like if you held the button down and turned off the device, except it costs $12.99.
OverLaid For iPad (Knocks Industries): You won't find a better app than this one for your fantasy lotharios. If you've ever told your buddies about sexual liaisons that never happened, so many and so frequently that it's hard to keep track of, you need OverLaid. A spreadsheet in this app counts of all the women you've slept with, honestly, while another spreadsheet keeps track of all the women you claim you've slept with. Personalized data entry fields allow you to keep names, locations, and hotness levels (on a 1-10 scale) of all your imaginary affairs, so that you never give erroneous or contradictory information regarding all your fictional erotic encounters. For the $5.99 full version, you can also compare your actual sexual conquests, their attractiveness and numbers, with all those you've bragged about to friends, either to set goals for your bedroom romps or just feel bad about yourself. For you high schoolers, the app also includes a helpful "girlfriends in other states" section.
No Rape! (Danger Dude Enterprises): For iPad and iPhone, this clever app claims that the mere push of a button will send rapists and molesters running the other way. Works on all ages, genders, and sexual orientations, although it never details how it does this and explicitly states it offers no refunds. It's the exclamation point that sells it.
Punch Your Balls (Danger Dude Enterprises): From the people who brought you No Rape! For the iPad and iPhone, at the mere push of a button, a representative of Danger Dude Enterprises (perhaps Danger Dude himself) will come to your house when called and punch you squarely in your testicular area. This app comes with a guarantee, void outside the continental U.S. It seems like Danger Dude Enterprises are the app developers to beat.
Awkward Silence For iPhone (Krustinators, Ltd.): Have you ever told a joke and felt the burn of absolutely no one laughing, not even laughing at the fact they didn't laugh? Now you can enjoy that painful humiliation even without anyone else around. Awkward Silence bathes users in the gut-wrenching shame of stark quiet after every bombed joke or embarrassing admission. Or, if you prefer, you can come by Emil's house and just record it with your iPhone recording app. We're overflowing with riches here. the commune news is appy and we know it, so we'll clap our hands. Get it? It's like the… song with the… aw, fuck you. Raoul Dunkin is nappy, and he knows it, we snatched his comb. *clap clap*
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Australian record industry cracks down on mate-to-mate file-swapping
Tree farmers plagued by "mad log" disease
FDA: Celebrex has incredibly effective lobby
Hurricane Fred heard to remark: Wiiiiiillllllmmaaaaa!
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Officials to Celebrities: Please Get Out of New Orleans isaster-relief officials in New Orleans made a stern announcement today to the thousands of celebrities descending upon the devastated city in hopes of providing humanitarian aid in exchange for career-boosting photo ops: We’re serious; you really need to leave now. “We’ve got to get these fucking celebrities out of New Orleans,” sighed an exasperated Lt. Mark Bolio of the Army’s 92nd Airborne. “They’re drinking up all our bottled water and bitching about the catering all day.” The influx of famous faces has weighed as a heavy burden on officials who have spent the last week scrambling to get everyone out of the city-shaped deathtrap. Receding water levels have exposed a nightmare world of toxic contamination, with nearly the entire city soaking in deadly levels of E. coli bacteria, lead, crude oil, PCBs, asbestos, leptospirosis, battery acid, herbicides, raw sewage, DDT, snakes, and according to at least one local, cooties. After busting a nut trying to remove the bulk of New Orleans’ stubbornly entrenched locals, many of whom refused to leave their pets or belongings, the Army was not prepared to deal with the celebrity occupation. Wisconsin Man Takes in Jazz Band he whole nation wants to do their part to help the victims of Hurricane Katrina, but a Madison, Wisconsin man is doing so much he makes all the other volunteers and charity donors look like dried puke. For Albert Pohl Martinson hasn’t merely taken in three or four family members or refugees from New Orleans: He’s taken in a whole jazz band. “I just wanted to do what I could,” Martinson told a deluge of fawning media standing on his front lawn. “So I said I would take in the first group of refugees I could. I sent them bus tickets and had them carted up here immediately. And then, being a good citizen, I called the local news to make sure they were informed.” However, Martinson didn’t stop and giving the 5-man combo all the food, shelter, and clean water they needed; he also bought them sparkling fresh instruments so they could take their mind off their troubles. Congress Lobbied for More Material to Complete Brando Memorial Impotent Landslide in China Kills Only Micro-Fraction of Glorious Population |
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 November 15, 2000
God Owes Me BIG TIMESome people act like God owes them something... just because they were born! As if being given the gift of life entitles them to something other than each and every lucky breath they take. Nosiree Bob.
Look at my face! Now you know damn well somebody owes me something for that, people.
Nobody owes Claudia Schiffer jack shit. Miss pretty priss can bitch and moan all she wants about how rough it is being a supermodel and working all day in a swimsuit until the fabric cuts your pert little nipples, and okay, maybe the beaver teeth are a bit repugnant. But her case don't matter a hill o' beans to my having to cart this puss around for eternity.
Ain't nobody on earth done so wrong to deserve my gruesome hood ornament. If the Geneva Convention applied to my sadsack mug God would be up on some serious crimes against humanity charges, that's for sure. And I make no apologies--hell, with this creepy kisser nobody would stick around to listen to 'em anyway. I'm not a handsome man, that's something I and everybody I've ever encountered instantly knows. But what matters is... I'm damn ugly.
"Wait, Rok," you say, looking quite the fool while reading the commune and talking back, "I know where this is going." But you're wrong. This isn't about disproving the existence of God. If anything, my nasty neanderthal visage proves there is a God and he's one twisted bastard, He is.
I'm not pushing any unwarranted charges on Hisself,...
º Last Column: Nabisco Loves Me
º more columns
Some people act like God owes them something... just because they were born! As if being given the gift of life entitles them to something other than each and every lucky breath they take. Nosiree Bob.
Look at my face! Now you know damn well somebody owes me something for that, people.
Nobody owes Claudia Schiffer jack shit. Miss pretty priss can bitch and moan all she wants about how rough it is being a supermodel and working all day in a swimsuit until the fabric cuts your pert little nipples, and okay, maybe the beaver teeth are a bit repugnant. But her case don't matter a hill o' beans to my having to cart this puss around for eternity.
Ain't nobody on earth done so wrong to deserve my gruesome hood ornament. If the Geneva Convention applied to my sadsack mug God would be up on some serious crimes against humanity charges, that's for sure. And I make no apologies--hell, with this creepy kisser nobody would stick around to listen to 'em anyway. I'm not a handsome man, that's something I and everybody I've ever encountered instantly knows. But what matters is... I'm damn ugly.
"Wait, Rok," you say, looking quite the fool while reading the commune and talking back, "I know where this is going." But you're wrong. This isn't about disproving the existence of God. If anything, my nasty neanderthal visage proves there is a God and he's one twisted bastard, He is.
I'm not pushing any unwarranted charges on Hisself, I'm just saying that all this can be cleared up nice and neatly with a blank check. His holiass can definitely afford it, just invent more gold or utarnium, the ultimate valuable metal or something. But it's quite clear I've been done wrong and it don't take no Judge Wapner to rule in my favor to prove it. I'll forget the whole thing if Our Lord Who Art Laughing His Ass Off Up In Heaven will just cut me some quick cash. And it better be soon, I've got a high school reunion to go to soon. º Last Column: Nabisco Loves Meº more columns
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|  May 13, 2002
JESUS: Son of God or Animated Talking Dog? Today's DiscussionGrape. Fuckin'. Nuts.
That's what my mornings are reduced to these days, ladies and gentlemen. A bowl full of rock-hard gravel that's supposed to help me live to 120. Have you ever even seen a 120 year-old? Sweet Bubble-Yum Jesus, I saw a guy who was 118 once and I thought he'd come to tell me about Christmas Past, I almost shit my pants. He looked like he'd died three times already but kept coming back for the buffet. So I'm really starting to wonder at the wisdom of choking down this mole-food.
And yet now I find myself more in the mood for some kind of gooey sugar treat in the shape of a rabbit or bird. How fickle these desires, that tear my soul asunder.
-RIIIIING-
That's right kids! You've found today's magic vocab word, "asunder"! Congratulations!
-drunks cheer-
Now, for the grand prize, can you use today's word in a complete sentence? Let's see:
"Uh, yeah. Here we go: Man, if she gotta assunder that miniskirt, I'll give you TWENTY bucks for an hour!"
-DINGDINGADING-
That's it! Congratulations, you're now the proud owner of "EAT IT!", the board game that makes cleaning out the refrigerator FUN! If you can't name its atomic weight, you're gonna EAT IT!
Ah, what a precarious, flighty thing this day is, like a little bird lofted on the wing, a little, gentle bird, so small and downy, so delicate and...
º Last Column: Ninety Seconds in Hell
º more columns
Grape. Fuckin'. Nuts.
That's what my mornings are reduced to these days, ladies and gentlemen. A bowl full of rock-hard gravel that's supposed to help me live to 120. Have you ever even seen a 120 year-old? Sweet Bubble-Yum Jesus, I saw a guy who was 118 once and I thought he'd come to tell me about Christmas Past, I almost shit my pants. He looked like he'd died three times already but kept coming back for the buffet. So I'm really starting to wonder at the wisdom of choking down this mole-food.
And yet now I find myself more in the mood for some kind of gooey sugar treat in the shape of a rabbit or bird. How fickle these desires, that tear my soul asunder.
-RIIIIING-
That's right kids! You've found today's magic vocab word, "asunder"! Congratulations!
-drunks cheer-
Now, for the grand prize, can you use today's word in a complete sentence? Let's see:
"Uh, yeah. Here we go: Man, if she gotta assunder that miniskirt, I'll give you TWENTY bucks for an hour!"
-DINGDINGADING-
That's it! Congratulations, you're now the proud owner of "EAT IT!", the board game that makes cleaning out the refrigerator FUN! If you can't name its atomic weight, you're gonna EAT IT!
Ah, what a precarious, flighty thing this day is, like a little bird lofted on the wing, a little, gentle bird, so small and downy, so delicate and blue-eyed, a precious drop of God's love on this sylvan sphere, like a-JESUS CHRIST, how did I get this gun in my hand? For the last time, I don't know anything about any mass shooting at Chuck E. Cheese's! And for the love of God, tell the voices in my head to stop arguing about football!
Remember kids, if you feel a tingle in your dingle, make sure she's single before you mingle; you know what I'm saying? I've got a scar here that taught me that very lesson, and I'm passing it on to you. Not the scar. Unless you get too close to my Mustang, then all bets are off.
And now, from your friends at Hallmark, a warm greeting:
Rub a double-dumpling
Stick it up your nose
Cease with all your mumbling
And take off your clothes.
Thanks folks, we've been getting a lot of requests for that one, a real throwback to the lyrical styles of yesterweek. I'm Dick Van Patten, and you've been great. Goodnight everyone, and smoke a doobie for Huey P. Newton.
-closing theme aka Darth Vader's Empirial March-º Last Column: Ninety Seconds in Hellº more columns
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Milestones2003: The infamous "Battle of the Bulge" breaks out at when office wench Ivana Folger-Balzac mistakes Ramrod Hurley's beerbelly for a birthing alien larvae and sets into the Acting-Editor with a can opener. The skirmish and resultant standoff lasts 18 hours and claims the lives of several Crochet! magazine staffers, for whom the commune observes a moment of near-silence.Now HiringSexecutioner. Why does everybody keep laughing when we say that? We need a dude who can kill some fucking people in an official capacity, okay? What's so funny about that? You guys are sick. Anyway, pay commensurate to experience. Must provide own mask, axe, electric chair, whatever floats your boat.Top 5 Movies with Top in the Title| 1. | America's Next Top Hovel: The Movie | | 2. | Top Dog 2: More Chuck Norris and a Talking… What Do You Mean the Dog Can't Talk? | | 3. | Top Nun | | 4. | Pop on Top: A Dirty Cartoon with Rhyming | | 5. | Spinning Yarns: Robin Williams Tells Stories About Tops For Two Fucking Hours | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Turner Volst 11/11/2002 Season of the BitchSpencer Chowheim had read every gun magazine ever and was intimately acquainted with the tensile strength of vulcanized Black Forrest steel. He was likewise an expert on the failure rate of Zlotsinger 9mm rounds and the temperature at which gunpowder combusts, which, as he knew, was 7500 degrees Fahrenheit. He knew the relevant facts as well as anyone, possibly even better. But still, it sat funny on his rectum. He should have brought the Mannlicher.
No doubt, this was a job for the Steyr Mannlicher. Why had he brought the Rosenbold 9mm? He'd be lucky if he got out of this alive.
Make no mistake of it; the Rosenbold is a fine gun. The cool glow of its carbon-shanked blue steel barrel is enough to set any rogue double agent's nerves at ease. This had been...
Spencer Chowheim had read every gun magazine ever and was intimately acquainted with the tensile strength of vulcanized Black Forrest steel. He was likewise an expert on the failure rate of Zlotsinger 9mm rounds and the temperature at which gunpowder combusts, which, as he knew, was 7500 degrees Fahrenheit. He knew the relevant facts as well as anyone, possibly even better. But still, it sat funny on his rectum. He should have brought the Mannlicher.
No doubt, this was a job for the Steyr Mannlicher. Why had he brought the Rosenbold 9mm? He'd be lucky if he got out of this alive.
Make no mistake of it; the Rosenbold is a fine gun. The cool glow of its carbon-shanked blue steel barrel is enough to set any rogue double agent's nerves at ease. This had been paramount in Chowheim's reasoning during his weeks of deliberation over what gun to bring on this mission. But now, actually in the field, it was clear that he'd brought the wrong gun.
Maybe it was the unprecedented danger of the mission that had Chowheim feeling uncertain, or the fact that he had leftovers from dinner still sitting in the trunk, possibly going spoiled. It was a cold night out, but still… what if the Audi's triple-lacquered sheet metal skin trapped too much of his body heat from the ride over inside the cabin of the car, and that heat had transferred through the back seats and into the trunk? It was quite possible that the meal-retaining leg of this mission was already in jeopardy, a veritable code blue. It was clear that mayo was the key. How much mayo do they put on those sandwiches, anyway? Chowheim smiled, as his months of preparation were finally paying off. Two ounces of mayo. A half-ounce over the national average. He would have to cut his losses with the sandwich and press forward with the remainder of the mission. That bird had flown.
Chowheim wiped the condensed moisture off the face of his watch, a reminder of the city's foggy streets or possibly a remnant from when he dropped the Rosenbold in a urinal at the restaurant. A quarter to one. It could be any minute now. He folded up his coat collar, made from an expensive blend of microfiber and elk snout, and crouched down further in the entryway. The sidewalk glistened in the strange glow of a streetlight; moist from the fog that dragged its way through the city, or possibly urine. Chowheim ran through a year's worth of police reports and evaporation tables in his head.
It was urine.
A cold drop of water dripped on Chowheim's hat, ran down the back of his neck, ducked inside his collar, shot down his spine and made a beeline straight for his asscrack. Nerves of steel or no nerves of steel, that was really starting to piss him off, and he hoped the bitch would come soon.
Chowheim began scouting out angles of approach from his perch in the entryway and calculating the probability of each, given the moon's orbit in Pisces. He had it figured down to the third decimal place when a voice interrupted his figuring.
"Excuse me, can I get by?" The voice came from a woman of the female persuasion.
Chowheim stepped to the side reflexively and uttered an apology before he realized. As the door shut and locked behind her, he deftly de-pantsed the Rosenbold. It was her! CIA mole Nikki Santana! He fired the gun into the air several times in hopes that curiosity would lure her back. Silence crept in like a fog as the sound of the echoing gunshots faded away. He waited.   |
