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January 10, 2005 |
Flatbush, NJ Mrs. Bird, Graphics A podge of the hodge that made 2004 so yearish oodbye, 2004. Thanks so much for biting the dong and hanging around for at least eleven months too long, until it finally took a forty-story tall wall of hauling ass saltwater to wash your taste out of our mouths. Thanks for finally dragging your skanky, broken ass off our calendar at last, and don’t think we won’t be calling the Goodwill in the morning to come pick up what’s left of your shit. The new year is here, and it doesn’t stink quite so strongly of Jovan Musk.
2004 dazzled us like strange, incomprehensible kabuki theater, in which a talking gonad was somehow re-elected president and the biggest group of losers this side of Color Me Badd accidentally won the World Series. Martha Stewart went to jail and Kobe Bryant didn’t, teaching America’s children a v...
oodbye, 2004. Thanks so much for biting the dong and hanging around for at least eleven months too long, until it finally took a forty-story tall wall of hauling ass saltwater to wash your taste out of our mouths. Thanks for finally dragging your skanky, broken ass off our calendar at last, and don’t think we won’t be calling the Goodwill in the morning to come pick up what’s left of your shit. The new year is here, and it doesn’t stink quite so strongly of Jovan Musk.
2004 dazzled us like strange, incomprehensible kabuki theater, in which a talking gonad was somehow re-elected president and the biggest group of losers this side of Color Me Badd accidentally won the World Series. Martha Stewart went to jail and Kobe Bryant didn’t, teaching America’s children a valuable lesson about the horrors of overly tasteful home décor. The country had to grow up fast with the revelation that Janet Jackson has breasts, while her brother Michael strangely has no interest in the same. Americans everywhere were up in arms about an unjustified war in Iraq… no wait, sorry. Americans everywhere were up in arms about a fertilizer salesman who snuffed his wife, vigilantly demanding to see justice done before more Modesto singles could be put in harm’s way.
Meanwhile, on the bright side of political news, Ronald Reagan and Yasser Arafat both died in “unrelated” incidents, leaving more Ben Gay for the rest of us.
There were also the usual run of celebrity mercy killings, though 2004 couldn’t even get those right, as nobody was especially eager to see Ray Charles, Marlon Brando, Rodney Dangerfield or Christopher Reeve go. Though the thought of the four of them all on the same bus to the afterlife offers many amusing possibilities, which isn’t a half-bad idea for a sitcom or at least a winning bar joke. Note to self: write down this million-dollar idea!
2004 was the year gays started getting married, Britney Spears couldn’t stay married, and somebody accidentally married J-Lo. Though thanks to a timely UN intervention, Ben Affleck remained single at year’s end.
But mostly, 2004 felt like a dead hooker rolled up in a carpet, which shrinks mercifully in the rearview mirror by the minute as we peel out bravely into the future. Both of the top grossing films of the year were sequels, which seems like a golden treat when you realize the third-place film was about Jesus getting the holy shit beaten out of him. And the top-selling album of the year was by some kind of disgruntled movie theater employee, likely having had to sit through one too many screenings of The Passion of the Christ or, even worse, Catwoman.
However, movies couldn’t sate our thirst for horribleness in 2004, so the real world had to oblige us with the Madrid train attacks, ethnic cleansing in Sudan, and the tragic first-ever meeting of the Russian PTA. By the time the south Asian tsunami rinsed what was left of 2004 down the crapper, few were sad to see it go. Unless they were wealthy, horny Republican NBA stars with points on The Passion.
We’ll miss you, 2004. Like we miss polyester underwear. Don’t let history hit you in the ass on your way out. the commune news remembers 2004 only as a big, gray blur, thanks to the magic of our break room microwave with the missing front door. Red Bagel is the commune’s fearless editor, not to be confused with the commune’s beardless predator, Ramon Nootles.
 | Customers win $8.5 mil lawsuit with McDonald's, spend it all on cheeseburgers
Hostage-happy terrorists abducting other terrorists
Earth spins faster at its core, says scientist out of his ass
Suspected mad cow just has poor coping skills
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British Nearly Affected by London Terror Attacks ith their famously stoic façade put to the ultimate test, Londoners came through with flying colors this week, failing to register the slightest emotion in the face of stunning terror attacks on the city’s mass transit system that left 50 dead and over 700 wounded. “Oh yes, it was quite a mess,” explained commuter Harold Alburn, who was aboard one of the bombed subway trains and only survived due to being caked in a human cocoon formed by the flaming remains of his fellow passengers. “That rail line’s going to be down for weeks, you have to assume.” Jackson Prosecution Produces Bloody Glove he Michael Jackson trial escalated to the seventh level of hooplah Friday as prosecutors introduced into evidence a bloody sequined gloved that had not been previously revealed publicly. The defense requested a recess, to which the witty judge replied that no one had been good enough to deserve recess, but they would take a brief break. It gave the Jackson defense, led by attorney and Warhol knock-off Thomas Mesereau, a chance to recover from the five-fingered blow. Oasis, Killers Combine Forces to Ruin Sgt. Pepper’s for Everyone Global Warming Poses Threat to National Parks, Says WWF’s “Machoman” Savage |
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 January 21, 2002
The Man in the Baloney SuitThere once was a man
in a baloney suit,
Who danced on the
street corner all day.
He'd dance a jig
when the mood struck him
And then repeat it
without much delay.
Oh what a sight, with all his might
He'd spring and he'd spritz all around.
And he'd make fantastical robot sounds
Whenever his feet touched the ground.
The children all loved to dance with him
As he'd twirl and he'd beep and he'd toot.
And they'd snack the day away merrily,
On the pieces that fell from his suit.
Oh what a lark, staying out 'til dark
Watching the baloney man dance.
As our parents, from windows watched carefully
To make sure that he stayed in his pants.
The neighborhood dogs loved baloney man,
Even more so than the kids.
They'd yip and they'd yap and their paws went rap-rap
On the street while they did what they did.
Oh how they schemed, in gray-toned dreams,
That suit would be theirs to eat.
But that spry dancing man was too fast for them,
And they just nipped at the soles of his feet.
I asked my father one afternoon
Where the man got his suit made of meat.
My father told me "Baloney's not meat,
What it is I'd rather not say.
Don't eat it, don't smell it, don't even try to spell it,
Don't use it to patch up your tire.
While you're at it, stay away from that baloney man.

º Last Column: Rosey Red-Ass º more columns
There once was a man
in a baloney suit,
Who danced on the
street corner all day.
He'd dance a jig
when the mood struck him
And then repeat it
without much delay.
Oh what a sight, with all his might
He'd spring and he'd spritz all around.
And he'd make fantastical robot sounds
Whenever his feet touched the ground.
The children all loved to dance with him
As he'd twirl and he'd beep and he'd toot.
And they'd snack the day away merrily,
On the pieces that fell from his suit.
Oh what a lark, staying out 'til dark
Watching the baloney man dance.
As our parents, from windows watched carefully
To make sure that he stayed in his pants.
The neighborhood dogs loved baloney man,
Even more so than the kids.
They'd yip and they'd yap and their paws went rap-rap
On the street while they did what they did.
Oh how they schemed, in gray-toned dreams,
That suit would be theirs to eat.
But that spry dancing man was too fast for them,
And they just nipped at the soles of his feet.
I asked my father one afternoon
Where the man got his suit made of meat.
My father told me "Baloney's not meat,
What it is I'd rather not say.
Don't eat it, don't smell it, don't even try to spell it,
Don't use it to patch up your tire.
While you're at it, stay away from that baloney man.
Of him, I'm beginning to tire."
From that day on I was cast aside,
No more joyous dancing for me.
I'd watch and weep from my windowsill,
While the other kids squealed with glee.
Oh what a way to spend your days,
But now I'm older and I don't even care.
All those kids grew up and got ass cancer,
And that baloney man was ate by a bear. º Last Column: Rosey Red-Assº more columns
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|  June 9, 2003
Bagel's BackDon't wet your pants, readers, but the news is true: I have returned from my mission: impossible and can safely say it was more precisely mission: not-too-bad. At times with my traveler's discount I could arrange a pretty swank motel and it was mission: quite-enjoyable. However, on the darker side, there were certain areas of the South where it was more like mission: avoid-violation; the less said there the better.
When I left you all mysteriously shortly before the New Year began, I explained how everything was so hush-hush the details could not be revealed. Has anything changed? No, and don't bug me about it. I didn't say anything in that Barbara Walters interview and I'm not about to give it up so easily for you. Suffice to say that the problem was "taken care of" in a mafia/Navy S.E.A.L. sort of way, but—hey! That wasn't Barbara Walters at all! Didn't even look like Barbara Walters, but I just figured she had more cosmetic surgery. It seems so obvious now, with no tape in the camera and a ninja working the soundboard. Oh, well, no since dwelling on that.
I have returned, though, and I am almost nearly improved, or at least 100% as good as I was before. If anything, I have improved for my venture. There comes a time at which every man must go into the woods and go crazy for a stretch of time to really know themselves; that's what the Indians used to do. When you can turn your head, look over your shoulder, and see the other side of your face,...
º Last Column: Little Deuce Coup º more columns
Don't wet your pants, readers, but the news is true: I have returned from my mission: impossible and can safely say it was more precisely mission: not-too-bad. At times with my traveler's discount I could arrange a pretty swank motel and it was mission: quite-enjoyable. However, on the darker side, there were certain areas of the South where it was more like mission: avoid-violation; the less said there the better.
When I left you all mysteriously shortly before the New Year began, I explained how everything was so hush-hush the details could not be revealed. Has anything changed? No, and don't bug me about it. I didn't say anything in that Barbara Walters interview and I'm not about to give it up so easily for you. Suffice to say that the problem was "taken care of" in a mafia/Navy S.E.A.L. sort of way, but—hey! That wasn't Barbara Walters at all! Didn't even look like Barbara Walters, but I just figured she had more cosmetic surgery. It seems so obvious now, with no tape in the camera and a ninja working the soundboard. Oh, well, no since dwelling on that.
I have returned, though, and I am almost nearly improved, or at least 100% as good as I was before. If anything, I have improved for my venture. There comes a time at which every man must go into the woods and go crazy for a stretch of time to really know themselves; that's what the Indians used to do. When you can turn your head, look over your shoulder, and see the other side of your face, then you know yourself sufficiently to return to the cozy life. Any minor neck injuries can be worked out with a chiropractor, or a large man in an alley who has had informal chiropractic training.
If there is a bittersweet part of my journey, it is that America will never know the sacrifices I have made to ensure its future. At least not until 2005, by which time Future Bob should have reported it sometime in the past already. But even if that day never comes and that article is never edited properly, I can live in anonymity. I didn't drag ass across America's outback and brave death and fire (and sometimes splinters) for fame and glory, or flame and gory. I did it for the future. Show's what that rewards. Don't count on me to do it again, everyone—bail yourselves out next time.
I've had enough of living in the past, though. Unless I could live in 1965 for a small period of time and see the Beatles play live, that would be sharp. But for me, I busted my ass for the sake of the future, and that's what I'm concentrating on.
First and foremost is shaping up the commune. Any fool can see leaving Ramrod Hurley in charge while I was gone was the worst mistake I made since suggesting to Rob Schneider he had a viable film career. I apologize whole-heartedly for the devil-embracing way he ran the commune, and mostly for the blasphemous columns he ran in my stead. Ramrod is entitled to his own opinions and beliefs, of course, but he is wrong. If I ever get him out of my old office I'll take my revenge out of his ass with methodical, metric-based accounting procedures.
Yes, the commune will be the commune of the past from now on—challenging authority, walking hand in hand with the outsiders, and giving voice to the voiceless, as long as they can do sign language or something. We shouldn't have to just make up what they're saying. the commune is not a tool or puppet for the rich gluttons who run this country—just this one. When I started the commune, I had a vision that one lone reporter with nothing but a stout heart and true vision could call the president a gaylord and there was nothing he could do about it. I still think that's true. Especially now that the tide seems to be turning against ol' "president" Bush again.
By the way, you may hear allegations of a missing columnist by the name of Sampson L. Hartwig who was last seen in my company. This is just more establishment rhetoric to bring down the threat that is Red Bagel. There was never such a columnist, no matter what the spin doctors or Hartwig family says. This ratty old hat? It's mine. I bought it while on the road.
It's good to be back. º Last Column: Little Deuce Coupº more columns
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Quote of the Day“Be always on the phone, so that when the devil calls, he will get your voicemail.”
-St. JerryFortune 500 CookieJust because you don't like the message, don't waste your time killing the messenger. John of Lancaster already took care of that for you 500 years ago. New scientific breakthroughs now make it possible to wash your hair while it's still attached to your head: no more tedious cutting and re-attaching with naval knots. Try to remember: Chex are for breakfast, checks are for paying bills. You will mix those up again this week. This week's lucky dogs: Lassie's offspring still living off residuals, all Irish breeds, and the two-legged one-balled variety.
Try again later.Top-Selling Pamphlet Books| 1. | Women Who Are Happy with Their Weight | | 2. | The Reagan Memoirs | | 3. | The Joy of British Cooking | | 4. | A Complete Guide to Montana's Gay Bars | | 5. | The Tao of Vince Lombardi | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Skippy LeBonne 3/17/2003 Alphabet SoupMonday, March 17, 2003
Anemic anteaters
from Azerbaijan
bounce from brassieres
and bark at batons.
Cold-water codfish cause
cramps in the colon of a
dark-dimpled debutante
named Deborah Dedolin.
East of the egg factory, eyes can enjoy
fat-fingered Francophiles
fasting in festive Flournoy.
"Great!" gabbed the grouse-eating Gregory Gregross.
"How homey, a heart heals in the hearths of hosts."
Incredulous Incans inspect his inflection while
judicious Japanese gents make joking suggestions.
Kiss-kindling Kansans knit knives in a knot as
laconic Laotians look lazy a lot.
Merely making mention of meatloaf as he might
Nicholas Nanewton needs news...
Monday, March 17, 2003
Anemic anteaters
from Azerbaijan
bounce from brassieres
and bark at batons.
Cold-water codfish cause
cramps in the colon of a
dark-dimpled debutante
named Deborah Dedolin.
East of the egg factory, eyes can enjoy
fat-fingered Francophiles
fasting in festive Flournoy.
"Great!" gabbed the grouse-eating Gregory Gregross.
"How homey, a heart heals in the hearths of hosts."
Incredulous Incans inspect his inflection while
judicious Japanese gents make joking suggestions.
Kiss-kindling Kansans knit knives in a knot as
laconic Laotians look lazy a lot.
Merely making mention of meatloaf as he might
Nicholas Nanewton needs news of the night:
"Only obliging an orange or one oat…
perhaps peas, persimmons, parsley? Please promote
quietly, quaintly and quite quick the quality of radishes and rubarb and ruffled red roe!
Salmon swim stateside and slip slightly slow
through thoughts that trip toward the tip of my toe,
underneath unusual ulcers until or unless
venomous vitamins vent my vile stress."
Wouldn't we want well-worded wishes which
examine such exciting expository expertise on dishes?
"Yes, young Yertle, yesterday you might. Yet
zebras zipping zeppelins is too much. Goodnight."   |