| Loves That Woman ';
$dunkin='2005/0328/';
$dunkintitle='Highway to Hell';
$edit='2003/1222/';
$fanmail='2005/0516/';
$fanmailtitle='Volume 63';
$finger='2005/0822/';
$fingertitle='To Hell With This Desk';
$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='2005/0704/';
$police='2005/0822/';
$polio='2005/0822/';
$poliotitle='WEASELS-B-GON';
$rent='2005/0829/';
$renttitle='For the Last Time Deidrebane, Those Aren’t the Feds';
$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';
?> | 
American Afghans Apprehended, Interred In CampsOctober 1, 2001 |
Plimpton, CT Ramrod Hurley Interred Afghan American Kiwi
The Afghan, a popular breed of mid-size long-haired dog, was reportedly introduced to America several years ago by Chinese guys who brought them here originally to eat them, reported commune Research Editor Griswald Dreck. Also, horses were originally introduced to our country as indentured servants.
Dog Fancy magazine estimates the number of interred Afghans could reach 5,000 before the end of the week. Already several Afghans face additional charges of disobeying the new law by not reporting their whereabouts.
"We said, 'Sit. Stay.' And these dogs have disobeyed," said Attorney General John Ashcr...
n a controversial move, Congress has barely passed a bill allowing the arrest and internment of thousands of American-born Afghans in "government pounds."
The Afghan, a popular breed of mid-size long-haired dog, was reportedly introduced to America several years ago by Chinese guys who brought them here originally to eat them, reported commune Research Editor Griswald Dreck. Also, horses were originally introduced to our country as indentured servants.
Dog Fancy magazine estimates the number of interred Afghans could reach 5,000 before the end of the week. Already several Afghans face additional charges of disobeying the new law by not reporting their whereabouts.
"We said, 'Sit. Stay.' And these dogs have disobeyed," said Attorney General John Ashcroft. "Bad dogs. Bad, bad dogs."
Across the United States, pet owners and sympathizers are outraged by what they call an unfounded, prejudicial law.
"These dogs are good Americans," said Nancy Martin, owner of three Afghans interred because of the new law. "Mumu, Gaia, and Kiwi were born right here in this country. They eat American food, they wear American-made sweaters and make bad on American rugs. Not Persian. Certainly not Afghanese. Bad dogs? I say, 'Bad lawmakers. Bad, bad lawmakers.'" the commune News believes in socially responsible reporting and our staff practices safe sex at least seven times a day. Ramrod Hurley is a freelance journalist, photographer, and according to Lil Duncan, "Poppinazi". Ramrod is reporting for the commune news while he searches out a publisher for his new book, "If These Tits Could Talk: A Lil Duncan Biography".
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Flash ad obscures pop-up ad in online advertising clusterfuck
New Pete Rose book admits to doing what we already knew he did
Boston husband challenges legality of no-sex marriages
Cell Phones Cause Cancer, But Only in Assholes
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Chief Justice Rehnquist: Dead as Disco at 80 he world sighed a mournful “Oh” upon hearing of the death of Chief Justice William Rehnquist, who led the U.S. Supreme Court for 19 years and formed the holy conservative trinity of the court. Rehnquist is the second justice to retire from the Supreme Court this year, and never to be outdone, Rehnquist chose the more dramatic exit method of death in office.
The Chief Justice announced his diagnosis of thyroid cancer last year and his refusal to retire from the Supreme Court, angering liberals and conservatives alike by his reluctance to make the playing field more interesting. Never one to quit, Rehnquist had suffered greatly in recent months from radiation for his cancer treatment and a tracheotomy, actually performed by an over-anxious boyscout on a visit to the nation’s capitol. Kansas City Royals Win Little League World Series n the midst of one of the most embarrassing seasons in baseball history, the lowly Kansas City Royals saved some face this week, defeating the defending champions from Willemstad, Curacao in a stunning upset to claim their first Little League World Series title. Kansas City took the game 7-6 on first baseman Matt Stairs’ takeout of Curacao catcher Willie Rifaela during a collision at the plate in the bottom of the 11th inning. Rifaela held onto the ball, but Stairs was ruled safe since Rifaela flew off the playing field at the moment of impact. “Willie gave it a hell of an effort,” praised Curacao manager Vernon Isabella. “Especially considering he was outweighed by nearly 200 pounds in the collision. If he hadn’t come out of his shoes like that when the American hit him, I think we could have held on to win the game.” Arizona Border Patrol Installing Landmines Eminem, Ex-Wife Reunite to Work on New Material |
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 March 17, 2003
Mutiny on the BagelA disturbing piece of mail has come to my attention lately, and for a change of pace, this one doesn't offer any free AOL hours.
Yes, in my Acting-Editor capacity I sometimes act like I'm opening my mail in the relative safety of my Acting-Office, otherwise known as Red Bagel's office. Usually the mail I open is addressed to the commune Editor, Editor Red Bagel, Bagel Red, Wanna-Be Colonel Sanders, Rudy Bega, Whoever Runs Your Lame-Ass Company, and variations thereof. Imagine my surprise to find a postcard addressed to Ramrod Hurley, Acting-Editor. Now imagine I study this postcard carefully, while being orally pleasured by supermodel Heidi Klum. It's not really necessary, but that's what I'm imagining so I thought we might as well be on the same page.
This postcard charmingly pictured a man holding a pile of dog feces, exclaiming in a word balloon, "Hey, look what I almost stepped in!" Immediately I was curious since I remember receiving the exact same image on a birthday card from Red Bagel last year. Indeed, this card was sent from "A desolate motel room" in Mobile, Alabama, signed by none other than our glorious leader Red Bagel. In effect, the card read:
"Ramrod: The situation is dire. Things proceed to grow more twisted and deceptive, as my unshakeable will continually nears faltering. I'm glad to see the commune is persevering in your hands even as I face an unknown fate in the bravest of ways. I wish you were beside me,...
º Last Column: The Government Can See into Your Soul
º more columns
A disturbing piece of mail has come to my attention lately, and for a change of pace, this one doesn't offer any free AOL hours.
Yes, in my Acting-Editor capacity I sometimes act like I'm opening my mail in the relative safety of my Acting-Office, otherwise known as Red Bagel's office. Usually the mail I open is addressed to the commune Editor, Editor Red Bagel, Bagel Red, Wanna-Be Colonel Sanders, Rudy Bega, Whoever Runs Your Lame-Ass Company, and variations thereof. Imagine my surprise to find a postcard addressed to Ramrod Hurley, Acting-Editor. Now imagine I study this postcard carefully, while being orally pleasured by supermodel Heidi Klum. It's not really necessary, but that's what I'm imagining so I thought we might as well be on the same page.
This postcard charmingly pictured a man holding a pile of dog feces, exclaiming in a word balloon, "Hey, look what I almost stepped in!" Immediately I was curious since I remember receiving the exact same image on a birthday card from Red Bagel last year. Indeed, this card was sent from "A desolate motel room" in Mobile, Alabama, signed by none other than our glorious leader Red Bagel. In effect, the card read:
"Ramrod: The situation is dire. Things proceed to grow more twisted and deceptive, as my unshakeable will continually nears faltering. I'm glad to see the commune is persevering in your hands even as I face an unknown fate in the bravest of ways. I wish you were beside me, instead of Sampson L. Hartwig, who snores loudly. Take heart and take pride, for though I know you would prefer stand by me in my time of need, yours is a greater role—to carry on my legacy if I fail to make it back. Godspeed, Redward Bagel."
That's what it said, in effect. In straight quotation, it read:
"Ramrod, you needledick: What the fuck have you done to my organization? I leave you alone for two goddamn seconds and you let the entire news department go to hell. Is it martial law there yet or not? You will rot in hell for eternity for what you've done to my column alone. Oh, nice job hiring that retarded Russian to write a regular column. Can you not tell when I'm joking? As of this minute I'm putting that numbnuts Raoul Dunkin in charge, and when I get back I'll show you how much I appreciate all the changes made in my absence. In the meantime I have to extract a bullet from Sampson L. Hartwig's back and fashion a temporary tourniquet. You'd better hope they get me before I can get you. Please forgive the smell of gin and unfiltered tobacco on this letter. Suck a skunk's ass, Redward Bagel.
"P.S. This postcard will self-destruct if held too close to a lit match."
This was, as you can guess, extremely alarming to me. Things had been rolling along so smoothly, the changes I implemented seem to be oiling the commune gears so well, now this: A coup attempt.
Fear not, peonic masses. Raoul Dunkin's transparent attempt to rattle my throne will not amount to anything more than a series of unpleasant assignments for a certain infamous turncoat reporter. Next week, Mr. Dunkin has the stellar position of covering the frontlines of the Iraqi-Kuwaiti border. Sure, it will be hard on died-in-the-wool action correspondent Ivan Nacutchacokov, but it's a necessary move. Not to punish Mr. Dunkin, no—if I wanted to do that I'd force him to move in with Rok Finger.
What I need is not vengeance; I need loyalty. If Raoul Dunkin can carry through with this assignment, not out of allegiance to me so much as to the commune, then I'll know I can trust him with the more important duties and assignments. In the meantime, while he's gone I'll need to figure out how he so perfectly duplicated Mr. Bagel's signature. º Last Column: The Government Can See into Your Soulº more columns
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|  September 15, 2003
Killer ColemanBefore you hear it from anyone else, I killed like six cats this week. Three of them I hit all at once, but still, that's pretty unusual.
I didn't kill any of them on purpose, but try convincing everyone else of that. I can't really blame anyone. If the police picked up a serial killer and he said the whole thing was a big misunderstanding, I probably wouldn't believe him. But then again, I don't know why I'd have access to a newly-arrested serial killer at all. Forget it. No more analogies for me.
I hit the first cat on the way to work Monday. I was late for a few photographs for that comic book I'm on the cover of, Metallichick. And this ain't even a talking gig, it's not like they couldn't find some hot skank hanging out on the stoop and get her to fill in. That's how they discovered Marlena Dietrich, my mom said. So I'm driving extra fast and this cat totally leaps out in front of me. The cat is probably dead and these kids are crying nearby, so I feel like an ass for even stopping. So I pick up the cat and tell the kids I'm taking it to the Vet. So they'll shut up. Then I went to the shoot.
Well, the cat's dead by the time I get out, and my car stinks like some kind of "Tell-Tale Dead Cat" movie. I'm really pissed off, but it was probably dead before I even got the Metallichick breasts to stay on. Probably. But now I feel all bad and crap.
I go and buy the kids a new cat at this what-do-you-call-it place....
º Last Column: Crammed in the Closet
º more columns
Before you hear it from anyone else, I killed like six cats this week. Three of them I hit all at once, but still, that's pretty unusual.
I didn't kill any of them on purpose, but try convincing everyone else of that. I can't really blame anyone. If the police picked up a serial killer and he said the whole thing was a big misunderstanding, I probably wouldn't believe him. But then again, I don't know why I'd have access to a newly-arrested serial killer at all. Forget it. No more analogies for me.
I hit the first cat on the way to work Monday. I was late for a few photographs for that comic book I'm on the cover of, Metallichick. And this ain't even a talking gig, it's not like they couldn't find some hot skank hanging out on the stoop and get her to fill in. That's how they discovered Marlena Dietrich, my mom said. So I'm driving extra fast and this cat totally leaps out in front of me. The cat is probably dead and these kids are crying nearby, so I feel like an ass for even stopping. So I pick up the cat and tell the kids I'm taking it to the Vet. So they'll shut up. Then I went to the shoot.
Well, the cat's dead by the time I get out, and my car stinks like some kind of "Tell-Tale Dead Cat" movie. I'm really pissed off, but it was probably dead before I even got the Metallichick breasts to stay on. Probably. But now I feel all bad and crap.
I go and buy the kids a new cat at this what-do-you-call-it place. Pet store. And the guy tells me this is the best cat they got, it's a coleco, and the little shit begins throwing up all over the car when I take it out of park. So I put it in the trunk, just for the ride over. The car already smells like dead cat, I'm not going to have puddles of cat vomit on the floorboards, too.
I had to drive around the neighborhood about 30 minutes before I saw the kids playing on a basketball court. I tell them I got a surprise in my trunk, and I do—a dead cat. Those little bastards screamed until I thought the police would show up. If I had to guess, it either died from the heat or that choking thing, ass-fix something. But I tell them he's going to be alright, that I'll rush him to the emergency room. Then son of a bitch if I don't hit three more cats just standing out in the middle of the street, like they're forming some kind of feline chain of protest against me. I didn't even see the pricks.
I decided to cut my losses and not go back to that neighborhood—those kids had to learn about death sometime anyway. That still didn't stop my cat-killing karma because one of those fuckers is screaming out my window all night Thursday. So I'm starting to freak out because when I'm in a normal state of mind I know cats can't really talk to each other, no matter how many good movies are based on that idea, but I'm all wound up about cat killing and think he's calling together an army to attack me.
It's all too fresh in my mind and I don't want to talk about it, but like I told the cops, it really was supposed to be a warning shot. I never fired the gun before outside of the target range and I swear I've never hit anything with the first try. I figured aiming dead at him was the best way to make sure I didn't hit him. Once in a lifetime shot, like one of the police guys said.
If you're one of those PETA people, please stop calling me—I get it. I'm an asshole. My mother's a cat-lover and she'd agree with you. I promise if you all stop throwing pig's blood or whatever it is at me on the streets and spray-painting my car I'll make a donation to some kind of cat-saving group of yours. Just lay off. º Last Column: Crammed in the Closetº more columns
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Quote of the Day“To sleep, perchance to dream. As long as I do not dream of being pursued by that creepy Duracell robot family, for that shit was truly too much for a soul to endure.”
-Robert ShakenspearFortune 500 CookieDo not take the road less traveled, 'cause the toll is complete bullshit. If everyone jumped off a bridge, would you? Your mother will finally find out this week. Two brutal assaults is a coincidence, three is a lack of self-control. Expect to be broken hearted this week, as the writing on the bathroom wall foretold. Lucky numbers all make a sum of 9.
Try again later.Top Phrases Never Before Spoken| 1. | Do these pants make my cock look too big? | | 2. | That's one hot retard. | | 3. | Sheboygan? That's my kinda town. | | 4. | That movie would have been better with a lot more Ben Affleck. | | 5. | Hot damn, airplane food! | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 8/5/2002 Hey hey hey, America! A very Fat Albertesque greeting goes out to all of you out there today. The dog days of summer are upon us, but we're hangin' tough in the most real sense of the phrase, not like a bunch of pampered fifteen year-old singing poofs with their names magic-markered into their underwear elastic. Not like that at all. We're savoring the last month of summer's bounty while preparing to grit our teeth through the movie theater Death Valley that is fall. You all know I've never been a fan of dicking around any longer than is necessary or fashionable, so let's get on with the savoring!
In Theaters
Blood Work
Note to the last three desperate fanboys out there who are still...
Hey hey hey, America! A very Fat Albertesque greeting goes out to all of you out there today. The dog days of summer are upon us, but we're hangin' tough in the most real sense of the phrase, not like a bunch of pampered fifteen year-old singing poofs with their names magic-markered into their underwear elastic. Not like that at all. We're savoring the last month of summer's bounty while preparing to grit our teeth through the movie theater Death Valley that is fall. You all know I've never been a fan of dicking around any longer than is necessary or fashionable, so let's get on with the savoring!
In Theaters
Blood Work
Note to the last three desperate fanboys out there who are still arguing that Clint Eastwood isn't getting old: His latest thriller revolves around the premise of waiting for blood test results to see if his character does or does not have Alzheimer's. Can you handle the suspense? Was his recent pantsless serenade of the president's daughter the result of neurofibrillary tangles and senile plaques in his brain, or has he just been out on the range too long? And if it isn't the former, can he remember the number for his defense attorney? Meanwhile, a sadistic killer is leaving Eastwood clues at the crime scenes that may allow him to crack the case wide open… or is Clint just forgetting to pick up after himself? And who changed all the presets on his car stereo?
Full Frontal
With all of the premiers and screenings and special viewings that Hollywood movies have these days, it's often necessary for a director to watch his own movie up to a half-dozen times, whether he likes it or not. Usually this isn't a big deal, but since Steven Spielberg's last movie was the eight-hour floater A.I., I had to wonder what effect this would have on him. The answer is clear in Spielberg's latest film, which can be best described as a valentine to the lobotomy. America's favorite talking reindeer, Julia Roberts, stars as the film's lobotomized heroine who discovers that life, network sitcoms and popular music are all a lot more fun once you've had your cerebellum neutered. Roberts drools her way through the role with an intensity I thought she reserved only for People magazine photo shoots.
Love and a Ballet
Love and Basketball director and "funniest pseudonym" award winner Gina Prince-Bythewood tries to double-dip that chip and gets burned bad in this terribly conceived urban drama. Rap star Treacle stars as a hip-hoppin' mad black ballet star who falls in love with a French ballerina and must learn to do ballet by the rules, something that goes against all of his trash-talking street-style ballet instincts. Once again, Hollywood overestimates urban America's taste for ballet and rap stars in tights. If somebody doesn't get shot at the premiere, I'm going to call and ask for my money back.
Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio of Disguise
Lately it seems like everybody is trying to cash in on the unexpected success of 1999's Being John Malkovich by grafting a real celebrity onto their own half-assed pot brainstorm. This time the premise is that the chick from Robin Hood is dressed up as Dana Carvey, playing herself in drag in a movie about an Italian waiter. If you're confused, don't feel bad: they had to film the movie in sections with three different crews so nobody would try to figure out what it was supposed to be about, which became necessary after three gaffers exploded during pre-production. In the end, the film is just a run-of-the-mill mindfuck, about on par with Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band and Beaches.
Spy Kids 2: The Island of Lost Diaries
Everybody's favorite anonymous preteen Latino superspies go AWOL and give up the spy game when they discover a secret island crammed to the gills with kids' diaries, stolen by the evil chimpanzee minions of Professor Nosprabloom. Can their crotchety 30 year-old parents convince them that saving the world is more important than laughing their asses off all day while they read the private confessions of every kid alive? The parents come armed with stacks of US Weekly and People magazines as a form of eavesdropping methadone, but will it be enough? The franchise is back with another worthy installment that's a big improvement over Spy Kids Breakdance Fever and Spy Kids and Mary Kate & Ashley's Best Sleepovers. Everyone's as good as you'd expect them to be, but to be honest I don't think they can get away with casting Cheech Marin as a ten year-old much longer.
XXX
Oscar winner Tom Hanks is out to sabotage his typecast image as a bedwetting malcontent in this gruff action thriller cut from the same cloth as Buford's Beach Bunnies and Jeff Speakman's With a Grenade Crammed Up Your Ass. Don't let the title get you too excited, though, all three of the X-es refer to Hanks' three ex-wives, who have hatched a diabolical plan to mess up his shit and take over Eastern Europe as a side-note. Many in the audience won't even recognize Hanks, who put on over 100 pounds of beef for the role and pulls off the monotone part so well you'll think he can't act at all. Easily Hanks' best "against-the-grain" role since he played that scary-assed clown in Stephen King's Itshay.
That's all she wrote, boys and girls. Be sure to swing back this way in two weeks to see what's washed up, dead and bloated, on the shores of entertainment. You can bet Roland will be there, poking it with a stick and taking detailed notes. Until that time, watch one for me, America.   |
