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 March 3, 2003 |
Washington, D.C. Junior Bacon President Bush acts out fantasy of telling cops to take Saddam away with wax figure. Or maybe Bush is the wax figure and Saddam's real... it's hard to tell here
"I, for one, will not get fooled again," said Bush, paraphrasing the Who. "Iraq may think compliance to all our demands will keep us from carrying through with military action. Think again."
The White House comments follow a week of controversy, where Iraq not only appeared to comply with U.N. Weapons Inspectors' demands, but CBS also aired a Dan Rather interview with Saddam Hussein where the dictator voiced his views on the United States, the threat of War, and how the hell two Bushes get elected in Ameri...
merica's somehow-President George W. Bush verbally lashed out at Iraq and "evil" regime leader Saddam Hussein Friday, calling Iraq's promise to destroy missiles ordered eradicated by U.N. Weapons Inspectors "a blatant move to prevent a war with their country."
"I, for one, will not get fooled again," said Bush, paraphrasing the Who. "Iraq may think compliance to all our demands will keep us from carrying through with military action. Think again."
The White House comments follow a week of controversy, where Iraq not only appeared to comply with U.N. Weapons Inspectors' demands, but CBS also aired a Dan Rather interview with Saddam Hussein where the dictator voiced his views on the United States, the threat of War, and how the hell two Bushes get elected in America.
When asked by reporters what Iraq could do to prevent a war with the United States at this point, Bush responded, "What are you, terrorist?" A Washington Post columnist was then subdued by Secret Service and detained until evidence could be found to prove him guilty.
A war with Iraq, while not off the table, is losing steam with Iraq's apparent compliance with U.N. demands and other recent factors. Saturday Turkey's parliament failed to approve a bill allowing U.S. troops to set up a base in the country as a northern front against Iraq. France, Germany, Martin Sheen, and Sean Penn have also firmly announced opposition to the war and will likely refuse to lend military support.
In answer to recent protests here and abroad, the president announced his reaction by saying he would not run the country by "listening to focus groups," presumably implying the majority of the American people or anyone who disagreed with him.
"Iraq thinks simply doing whatever they're told by the U.N. will delay a war—well, they've got another thing coming," Bush emphasized, now paraphrasing Judas Priest. "Saddam is up to his old tricks. It may look like he's destroying all his missiles and meeting U.N. requirements, but it's just another shameless attempt to avoid war 'cause he knows what's coming.
"This guy, he knows how to play games," continued Bush, slackening his posture and straying way off-script the way his handlers hate, "but we know how to play games, too. Our game is called Can o' Whupass. And he opened this game when he tried to kill my dad. Can's open, Saddam—you ain't closin' it now."
When the press gallery grew quiet, Bush tossed the podium off the stage with a loud squeal of the fallen microphone. The president then fell to his knees, screaming loudly between sobs: "My dad! He tried to kill my dad! Daddy, no!"
In a less melodramatic White House press release hours later, the administration stressed that even disarming Saddam of all missiles would not reduce the threat he poses to the United States and the free world. The White House indicated they have strong evidence, obtained on the condition they would not show it to anyone, that Saddam Hussein's hands are registered lethal weapons.
Until Saddam Hussein is removed from power, the press release stated in closing, and his hands or at least all fingers are removed by force, the United States must continue efforts to neutralize this threat to the safety of the Western world. the commune news is not harboring any nuclear materials in accordance with their peace treaty with Crochet! magazine—and if they think they're man enough to come up here and verify that, bring it on. Lil Duncan is the commune Washington correspondent and there's not much you can do to dispute that.
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Online scrapbooking brings boredom to the Net
Trump buys land from Trump; Trump screwed in deal
I'm telling you, Wanda don't live here, G
FDA completely bogarting entire Paxil stash
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Lost Leaves Plotlines Half-Solved in Honor of Shooting Victims MySpace to Offer Breaking News on What Ira Mankovics is Doing Right Now Alec Baldwin Records Devastating Voice Mail Message for Shooter Sony’s Poorly Timed “PS3 Price Massacre” Backfires |
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 April 22, 2011
Return to ZenderHello, friends, and welcome to my dream. My name is Emil Zender and it is my mission in life to reunite the commune, to bring back together what fire hath torn asunder. What's the commune, you ask? Is it possible you have not lived before today? If it is, click on Archives up above immediately, read every last word, and then return. We'll be waiting for you.
As the non-clueless among you already know, the world's finest online newsmagazette came to a fiery end but a few short years ago, after their palatial Flatbush, New Jersey office building burnt to the ground mid-way through 2007. Urban legend has it that columnist Omar Bricks burnt the building down by setting potatoes on fire and shooting them indiscriminately off the roof using a propane-fueled potato cannon. That urban legend was likely begun by Bricks' own column stating this fact, and the videos of this event he later posted on YouTube.
Either way, after the building burnt down and the commune folded, its staff scattered to the four winds like dandelion spores farted out of God's mustache. For the first couple of years I figured this was just the way of life, everything must die, for each thing a season, turn turn turn. But recently I've realized that is bullshit, and have decided to take it upon myself to reform the commune or herniate myself trying. I vow to track down every last commune employee, dead or alive,...
º Last Column: The National commune Enthusiasts Club
º more columns
Hello, friends, and welcome to my dream. My name is Emil Zender and it is my mission in life to reunite the commune, to bring back together what fire hath torn asunder. What's the commune, you ask? Is it possible you have not lived before today? If it is, click on Archives up above immediately, read every last word, and then return. We'll be waiting for you. As the non-clueless among you already know, the world's finest online newsmagazette came to a fiery end but a few short years ago, after their palatial Flatbush, New Jersey office building burnt to the ground mid-way through 2007. Urban legend has it that columnist Omar Bricks burnt the building down by setting potatoes on fire and shooting them indiscriminately off the roof using a propane-fueled potato cannon. That urban legend was likely begun by Bricks' own column stating this fact, and the videos of this event he later posted on YouTube. Either way, after the building burnt down and the commune folded, its staff scattered to the four winds like dandelion spores farted out of God's mustache. For the first couple of years I figured this was just the way of life, everything must die, for each thing a season, turn turn turn. But recently I've realized that is bullshit, and have decided to take it upon myself to reform the commune or herniate myself trying. I vow to track down every last commune employee, dead or alive, and whine at them until they help me. You heard it here first. My dream is that the commune will ride once again, if at all possible functioning out of my very home. I've literally had this dream hundreds of times. Now before any naysayers get word of this and try to debunk my bona fides, I will freely admit that it is not my house alone. The deed is indeed in my mother's name. But the entire basement level is my sovereign domain, not to be intruded upon even by my mother or her boyfriends. True, they do sometimes invade regardless, when the satellite goes out and they want to watch my wisely redundant cable TV service, or when my mom's main boyfriend Doug wants to have sex in my bathroom. This is because my fuzzy toilet seat cover is quite a bit nicer than theirs upstairs, mostly because I don't have a lot of sex on it. Anyhow, as you've probably noticed, the commune's downstairs neighbors at Crochet! Magazine have persevered and thrived, moving to swank new digs in Asslatch, New Jersey, and continuing to publish their fine periodical. I've been a loyal subscriber for years, if only because their magazine smelled kind of like the commune offices due to their close proximity. That unique cocktail of aromas, one part Boris Utzov's Russian bologna, one part the smell of plastic burning, one part Rok Finger, was an intoxicating brew that made up for the fact that I don't know anything about crocheting. True, their current editions smell nothing at all of the commune, and are much the poorer for this. But I keep up my subscription purely for the memories, thrice-removed as they may be. A special thank you to the folks at Hipsoda.com for providing me with this space to re-launch the site. As you're surely aware, Hipsoda.com was able to archive the contents of the commune in its entirety shortly before the devastating fire, and God bless them for that. I don't know the site's owners well, but I imagine them to be intense commune fans second in their devotion only to yours truly. In the one conversation I've had with these fine gentlemen, they claimed to have archived the site to use as evidence in an upcoming lawsuit. But I'm a commune fan, I know sarcasm when I hear it. The thought has crossed my mind that they may just be allowing me this space in the hopes that I will succeed in tracking down the commune's far-flung prodigal sons and daughters, making the serving of subpoenas all the easier. Actually this thought crossed my mind shortly after one of Hipsoda.com's owners told me this is exactly why they were providing me with this space. But, once again: sarcasm. Sarcasm, you are a wily bitch. Stay tuned to this space for much, much more. Zincerely, Emil Zender º Last Column: The National commune Enthusiasts Clubº more columns
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|  February 4, 2002
Open Up Your Wallets, Corporate Greed-HoundsRecently I became aware of the completely bogus trend of huge corporations purchasing the naming rights to sports arenas all over the country. Qualcomm Stadium, MCI Arena, Depends Dome, Enron Field, Pepsi Center, McDome Deluxe, Fleet Center, Sta-Free Stadium, Arco Arena, Staples Center, Ex-Lax Arena, Bank One Ballpark, Anusal Arena and Joe's Crab Shack Stadium all blot the national sports landscape with their stinky names. And these are only the most obvious examples; some other crafty executives have even slipped their company names in under our collective radar. Did you know Coors Field was actually named for the beer? Neither did I. Crafty bastards. I thought that was the team name, like the noises doves make. And yeah, I thought that was a pretty candy-assed name for a baseball team, but that didn't mean it wasn't true. Just look at the Boston Butterfly Kisses.
One faithful reader was sharp enough to point out that this kind of thing has been going on for years, and that one needs to look no further than Wrigley Field for proof. And I'll be damned if the fabled home of the Chicago Cubans isn't the biggest stinker of the bunch, naming their stadium after a cheap line of plastic insect replicas aimed at gullible kids.
Many (at least one) readers of my column have written in, asking if I'm pissed off about this issue, and the crass commercialization of our culture. You're damned right I am! Where the hell was I when they were dreaming this stuff...
º Last Column: Sick and Tired
º more columns
Recently I became aware of the completely bogus trend of huge corporations purchasing the naming rights to sports arenas all over the country. Qualcomm Stadium, MCI Arena, Depends Dome, Enron Field, Pepsi Center, McDome Deluxe, Fleet Center, Sta-Free Stadium, Arco Arena, Staples Center, Ex-Lax Arena, Bank One Ballpark, Anusal Arena and Joe's Crab Shack Stadium all blot the national sports landscape with their stinky names. And these are only the most obvious examples; some other crafty executives have even slipped their company names in under our collective radar. Did you know Coors Field was actually named for the beer? Neither did I. Crafty bastards. I thought that was the team name, like the noises doves make. And yeah, I thought that was a pretty candy-assed name for a baseball team, but that didn't mean it wasn't true. Just look at the Boston Butterfly Kisses.
One faithful reader was sharp enough to point out that this kind of thing has been going on for years, and that one needs to look no further than Wrigley Field for proof. And I'll be damned if the fabled home of the Chicago Cubans isn't the biggest stinker of the bunch, naming their stadium after a cheap line of plastic insect replicas aimed at gullible kids.
Many (at least one) readers of my column have written in, asking if I'm pissed off about this issue, and the crass commercialization of our culture. You're damned right I am! Where the hell was I when they were dreaming this stuff up, and why wasn't I cut in on the action? In case nobody has noticed, a commune salary doesn't go as far as it used to, especially not since they realized that Omar Bricks and Bricks Omar are the same person and they stopped sending me two paychecks every week. Who's the executive scumbag who thought I couldn't use a cut of those fat naming-rights checks, and where can I find his car?
As far as I'm concerned, these stadium owners have the best racket going, and Omar Bricks wants a piece of the pie. I'd like to officially make it known that the Bricks homestead is available for renaming for a reasonable fee in the low seven figures. Or maybe less, depending on the other offers I get. I may be willing to let the naming rights go to anyone who's willing to pick up my cable bill.
Come to think of it, why stop there? After brief consideration I've decided that an even larger plum is available for the pickling. The naming rights to Omar Bricks himself are now officially on the market. Just think of it, what corporate money-monkey wouldn't drool over the idea of having a commune columnist as a walking human advertisement? Just think of the kind of boost that a mind-blowing column by Pepsi Bricks could give to that product line. Or, conversely, a biting commentary by Omar Coke, assuming of course that it was made clear that I wasn't some kind of megalomaniacal drug lord. Separate rates are available for both first and last name rights, with a package deal possible if the price is right.
But of course, should your company bear an unfortunate family name like Shitkisser or Bungwarp, I reserve the right to raise my rates. I'm not even sure that such terrible names even exist, but I know for a fact that if I didn't prepare for such a contingency, all the Assgrotens and Leiki-Nippels of the world would come out of the woodwork waving fists full of cash and I'd be screwed.
It's a high-stakes game where the winner takes all, and to let down your guard is to be devoured like an Easter Peep. So keep your gummy marshmallow eyes peeled, commune readers. Coke out. º Last Column: Sick and Tiredº more columns
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Quote of the Day“My love is like a red, red wiiiine… go to my heaaaad… make me forgeeet… Wait. Sorry. My love is like a red, red rose… just like eeeeevery night has its daaaaaw- awawaaaan… Just like eeeevery cooowboy… Fuck.”
-A.D.DobbsFortune 500 CookieClowns don't hate you, they just feel sorry for you. Your "Don't Worry, Be Slappy" series of self-help books finally broke the five-copy sales barrier this week, and just got you sued by the estate of Slappy White. This week's lucky strikes: Clover-Workers' Union, ump didn't see ball careen off batter's jock and through strike zone, killed them all while they were dreaming about killing you, threw your ex-wife's severed head down lane on accident.
Try again later.Top 5 Other Hasselhof Home Videos| 1. | Whoopsh!: Outtakes From the Drinking Videos | | 2. | 5 hours straight of sucking in gut until a rib pops out | | 3. | All-nude Batwatch starring some girls from the escort service | | 4. | Intense argument with his car over who is the real star of Knight Rider | | 5. | Imaginary non-German music awards show where Hasselhoff sweeps every category | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 3/31/2003 Holy movie overload, America! Like most of us, Hollywood is doing a little spring-cleaning this week, but instead of dragging unused exercise equipment and boxes of used pornography to the curb, they're dragging their excess cinema to the, well… Cinema. That's what they call movie theaters over in Europe, unless they're showing skin flicks. They call those places Fuckhausen, which if you ask me is much better than the obvious alternative of Skinema. Because that just sounds gross. Enough of that though, we have no time to waste on Europe this week. Too many movies!
In Theaters
Ass! Ass! National Tango!
Either a bold career move by star Robert Duvall, or else the product of a Duvallian...
Holy movie overload, America! Like most of us, Hollywood is doing a little spring-cleaning this week, but instead of dragging unused exercise equipment and boxes of used pornography to the curb, they're dragging their excess cinema to the, well… Cinema. That's what they call movie theaters over in Europe, unless they're showing skin flicks. They call those places Fuckhausen, which if you ask me is much better than the obvious alternative of Skinema. Because that just sounds gross. Enough of that though, we have no time to waste on Europe this week. Too many movies!
In Theaters
Ass! Ass! National Tango!
Either a bold career move by star Robert Duvall, or else the product of a Duvallian drunk-fest lost weekend, Ass! Ass! National Tango! is a stupefyingly bizarre new film that establishes writer/director/star Duvall as the Japanese David Lynch. And yeah, I know he's not Japanese, but how else can you explain that title? Or the fact that half of the roles in the film are played by roller-skating apes? Reviewing this film is like trying to review a dream, or a sexual encounter with a great white shark. Good luck there. Over half the film is instruction on what you should bring with you if you want to have a nice picnic. The rest is like a cross between Last Tango in Paris, Tango & Cash and the commercial where that guy wakes up hung-over in bed with the Budweiser Clydesdales. Weird.
Bringing Down the House
Steve Martin's trail of tears continues, as apparently whoever has been picking his scripts for him lately still has Martin's wife and kids in an undisclosed location with guns to their heads. You've got to feel bad for Martin, no doubt, but the real victims in all of this are his fans, since I highly doubt Steve has actually sat through any of the shitty movies he's been in lately. Sure, you wouldn't be crazy to suggest that his kidnapped family are victims too, that's fair enough. But wherever they are, they still probably haven't seen Bringing Down the House, since even kidnappers have a conscience. That, and I imagine it's pretty difficult to bring kidnapping victims to the movies, as people have enough trouble with their own kids and elderly relatives. Having someone hog-tied and with a pillowcase over their head tagging along while you're trying to find a seat in the dark and then they need you to carry them to the bathroom would probably sour you on the whole experience even before the Coke commercials were over.
Dreamcatcher
You know gay cinema has hit a saturation point when they start naming big-budget films after gay slang terms that most breeders would completely miss. The name fits the film however, a bizarre parable about the search for Mr. Right. Only in this case Mr. Right turns out to be some weird alien thing that explodes out of people's asses and makes everyone in a one-mile radius overact. I'm not sure exactly what symbolic significance this has within the gay dating culture, but the alien is pretty badass.
The Hunted
CrĂĽe drummer Tommy Lee and Benecio Del Toro of riding mower fame star in this remake of the popular "stupid French skunk in love" cartoons from the 1940's. The stunt casting might seem a misfit at first, but Del Toro is perfect as the horn-dogging Pepe and Lee is scarily convincing as the hot chick skunk who always seems to have a headache.
Piglet's Big Movement
Residents of The Hundred Acre Woods are suffering from a serious case of the heebie jeebies after Piglet takes a shit the size of an El Camino. Everybody wants to ask him about it, for the sake of curiosity and the public health; only nobody knows a tactful way to bring it up. A lot of soul-searching ensues before Pooh is finally elected to solve the mystery, since with his name the matter seems to fall under his jurisdiction. After some funny misunderstandings and adventures, Pooh finally discovers that Piglet didn't shit at all; Eeyore just fell asleep in a mud bath. Disney's latest is fun for the whole family, though it make be too graphic for any conservative senators in the family.
Tears of the Sun
Let me be the first, or at least the most recent, to say that this is a really stupid name for a movie. It sounds all poetic at first, and you imagine Bruce Willis saying some shit so beautiful it makes the sun cry, like he does in all his movies. But then when you stop and think about it, it's just insane. Even if the sun really did come to life with a face and start flinging scoops of raisins all over the place, and then Bruce said some sappy high-school graduation speech nonsense that made the sun cry, it wouldn't be some beautiful poignant moment like you'd think. It would be hell on earth! Those would be some molten, flaming tears that would fuck up everything in sight, burning right through houses and orphanages and there'd be car alarms going off all over the place. Thanks a lot, Bruce! Asshole.
Willard
I always knew there was something not quite right with Willard Scott, but I never would have imagined he controlled a huge legion of nasty killer rats. I just thought he probably wore panties or was secretly in the KKK or something. The grisly truth snuck up on me like I was a drunk virgin on prom night. I guess it just goes to show that just because you're optimistic and give people the benefit of the doubt, that doesn't mean they're going to play along just to keep you from looking stupid.
That's the column this week, gents and gentiles. The Oscars are worm-food until next year, but we're still frolicking through the meadow, picking delicious movie melons from the melon tree. Be sure to check back next issue for more of the smoky bacon flavor you've come to crave.   |
