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August 29, 2005 |
West Bank, Israel Whit Pistol An old-fashioned Palestinian weather vane points north, to what may now be Tehran West. sraeli Prime Minister Ariel "Olive Branch" Sharon announced last Wednesday that the disputed Gaza Strip had been returned to Muslims at long last, marking the end of a 38-year call by Middle Eastern countries that the Jewish nation leave the settlement to its Islamic inhabitants. However, Islamic critics complained the Gaza Strip had not actually been released by the occupying Israeli forces, but merely re-zoned so the Strip itself now lay within the Egyptian borders. Sharon balked at such claims, because balking is second-nature to him. "For years they demand Israel return their stupid little piece of land, well, it’s done," said Sharon, spitting to punctuate his point. "Israeli congress has re-zoned and now all of area is Israel. Why are so many Muslims occup...
sraeli Prime Minister Ariel "Olive Branch" Sharon announced last Wednesday that the disputed Gaza Strip had been returned to Muslims at long last, marking the end of a 38-year call by Middle Eastern countries that the Jewish nation leave the settlement to its Islamic inhabitants. However, Islamic critics complained the Gaza Strip had not actually been released by the occupying Israeli forces, but merely re-zoned so the Strip itself now lay within the Egyptian borders. Sharon balked at such claims, because balking is second-nature to him. "For years they demand Israel return their stupid little piece of land, well, it’s done," said Sharon, spitting to punctuate his point. "Israeli congress has re-zoned and now all of area is Israel. Why are so many Muslims occupying Israeli land? Have they not gotten the memo? But you won’t see us stoning them or setting off bombs in their cafés. Had they any cafés. We merely ask them to leave. Promptly. Within twenty-four hours, or face arrest and devastating loitering charges." Even standard Israel supporter the United States has had a little trouble digesting this latest crafty maneuvering from its World Council ally. U.S. officials have called for a more appropriate fulfillment of the pledge to leave the Gaza Strip, stating that while re-zoning is an effective way to keep minority votes under control in domestic situations, it is unacceptable for solving international land disputes. The re-zoning itself appears to be a response to earlier criticisms that the original disembarkation from the Gaza Strip failed to meet expectations from Israel’s promise, as the country annexed additional land for its own borders to build a demarcation wall around Maaleh Adumim, inside the West Bank, effectively stealing a portion of that area in the name of tightening security. Some of the few sane Middle East analysts left fear the drastic measure by Israel could inspire combative Arabic states to strike back with their own internal ordinances to diminish the effects of the Gaza re-zoning and Israel’s seizure of the West Bank. "Sharon may have opened the door to a new style of war between Israel and the Arabic states," said Professor Udi Al-Batang of Cairo University. "The bombings and military strikes may take a back seat to re-mapping and re-districting. Not that this won’t lead to bombings and military strikes of their own. But justifying what you’re doing with the internal laws of your own country cannot build a lasting peace. People outside your own borders will be outraged, and that outrage will inspire more violence. And I know what I’m talking about. I’m tempted to buy myself a machine gun because I went to bed in Cairo and woke up in the poverty-stricken Gaza Strip this morning. Thank you, Mr. Sharon." Many leaders in the Arabic communities warned Sharon he must comply with the years-old promise to end occupation of the real Gaza Strip. But most likely, Sharon didn’t understand because it was all in the Arabs’ own languages. "If Israel wants to build a 100-foot wall to defend ourselves, we certainly have that right," pledged Sharon. "If we want to control the borders of our country, for security’s sake, and move them wherever and whenever we feel like it, we certainly have that right. Clearly the best way to maintain piece in a region long torn by strife is to build more fences and take all the land we need. Finally… we are safe." Although this reporter rushed to get this story out sooner, its delivery was delayed along the way by the fact that after standing in the middle of Jerusalem one minute, he found himself a minute later standing in New Mesopotamia, by order of the Syrian Rezoning Congress. Whoopsy-doo. the commune news wouldn’t mind redistricting that sweet little area across the street—providing that’s a hot tub we’re seeing with our binoculars, and not actually the broken septic tank someone told us it was. Ivan Nacutchacokov has yet to make it back from New Baghdad or wherever the hell it was he ended up after all that instant traveling.
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Guilty: Libby Takes Blame in Plame Name Game Court Battle Continues as Worms Claim Ownership of Anna Nicole’s Body Finely Aged Winemaker Ernest Gallo Corked Failure of Sirius Radio Blamed on "You Can't be Sirius!" Ad Campaign |
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 January 7, 2002
Ask Not What Your Country is DoingGood people, do you know there's a war going on? I trifle not. I just found out about it, much to my astonishment. It's apparently in Albania or Argentina, somewhere in that region, and yes, we are heavily involved. Our fighting boys and their dads and butch sisters are over there as we speak. If only there were some way the public could be informed on the political actions of our leaders.
Needless to say, as a patriotic American second in fervor only to the late Roy Cohn, I went down to offer my skills to the military recruiters. Unfortunately, my skills as an ace columnist and professional dreamcatcher weaver didn't exactly suit the needs of the military at this time. I am unfortunately unfit for active service, due to my height, my age, and a phony backbrace I wore to the recruiter's office, which I assure was part of an unrelated matter I'd rather not go into.
It's sad to know you're not class A cannon fodder material, but I'll learn to deal with it. There are other ways to serve my country, I know, and I was determined to find it as long as my country was under fire and my interest was minorly raised.
I'm proud to say, loyal readers, Rok Finger was the first on his block to organize a rubber drive. I went door to door collecting, but faired poorly; it's a shame how many used prophylactics are just thrown out these days. The few I did collect, well, let's just sum up by saying the federal officials I talked to weren't anxious to...
º Last Column: Why Not Have Two Christmases? º more columns
Good people, do you know there's a war going on? I trifle not. I just found out about it, much to my astonishment. It's apparently in Albania or Argentina, somewhere in that region, and yes, we are heavily involved. Our fighting boys and their dads and butch sisters are over there as we speak. If only there were some way the public could be informed on the political actions of our leaders.
Needless to say, as a patriotic American second in fervor only to the late Roy Cohn, I went down to offer my skills to the military recruiters. Unfortunately, my skills as an ace columnist and professional dreamcatcher weaver didn't exactly suit the needs of the military at this time. I am unfortunately unfit for active service, due to my height, my age, and a phony backbrace I wore to the recruiter's office, which I assure was part of an unrelated matter I'd rather not go into.
It's sad to know you're not class A cannon fodder material, but I'll learn to deal with it. There are other ways to serve my country, I know, and I was determined to find it as long as my country was under fire and my interest was minorly raised.
I'm proud to say, loyal readers, Rok Finger was the first on his block to organize a rubber drive. I went door to door collecting, but faired poorly; it's a shame how many used prophylactics are just thrown out these days. The few I did collect, well, let's just sum up by saying the federal officials I talked to weren't anxious to take them off my hands. I could barely take them off my own hands, it wasn't a pleasant experience. Until a more concentrated need for recycling pops up, though, I won't be collecting any more materials for the government.
My next thought was to buy and sell war bonds. But I wasn't even sure where to start the purchase of war bonds. I remember the old slogan, "Buy bonds where you work or bank," so I began there. Fellow columnist Omar Bricks was only too happy to sell me the war bonds he happened to have. War bonds are easy to tell from fake bonds, he assured me, by the various colors they are written in. Each one is hand-stenciled in crayon. As the guarantee on the front ensures, they are good "till the shit comes tumblin' down."
Would you believe I could not re-sell any of these? Some even told me they were fake. I know that is not the case, but perhaps being from the foreign province of New Jersey Mr. Bricks' war bonds are not good here. So I simply took orders for them from various friends, neighborhood associates, and vaguely Mafioso types. Well, without getting into the fine details, what I was doing was not quite "bonding" and was actually referred to as "illegal betting" by the federal agents. They would not cover my bonds, even though I made it clear I expected America to win the war by April or I would not collect on my bond. The charges are still pending, I'm sure we can once again sort everything out without any jail time, my attorney Morrie is quite the mouthpiece.
With all else failing, I tried to assemble a Rok Finger calendar to sell to my fans, with all proceeds going to the war effort. I was thwarted, however, despite all my guarantees to the photographer they would only be semi-nude photos. Damn spineless photographers and their weak stomachs.
In the end, I decided my only real outlet was to go about my daily life. My regular business. Go to work, come home, use the bathroom as needed, spend time with my friends and family, neighborhood associates and vaguely Mafioso types. And spend like a monkey with winning lottery tickets. So I have. New S.U.V., board games by the dozens, a widescreen HDTV, and a new George Foreman grill. The soldiers in Aufvedersehn are doing their part the only way they know how; and here at home, we're doing ours. º Last Column: Why Not Have Two Christmases?º more columns
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|  December 9, 2002
Through the Colon of a WhaleA Gonit on a sled
races home to his bed
through the colon of a whale
sleeping on a bed of shale
snoring gently, without fail.
Through corridors the green sled slid
past hooks and nooks
where blue snails hid
by toreadors who long debated
how they'd come to be located
improbably, deep in these innards
and who was singing that Lynard Skynard.
The Gonit's sled shot past the belly
where several ships swayed in the jelly
each one's crew singing quite loudly
a different tune, and they sang it proudly
all except for an alien saucer
who's crew sat glumly, reading Chaucer.
And from the stomach's cavernous walls
sounded pounding, and muffled calls
to keep it down, we're trying to sleep
and we hope you drown, you bleepity-bleep.
The Gonit slid
the Gonit slipped
past a half-digested ship
and a clam who had the grippe
and a drunk who was quite ripped.
A school of sturgeons
were seen merging
with a herd of white sea horses
and a jar of jellyfish changing courses.
A submarine was wedged between
an obese dolphin and a walrus,
six antelopes who'd caught a virus
squeezed by in search of mint papyrus.
And still the Gonit sped along
from colonic locations far and yon
through endless twisting tubes and tunnels
that slowly...
º Last Column: The Girl Everyone Just Sort of Assumed Was Native American º more columns
A Gonit on a sled
races home to his bed
through the colon of a whale
sleeping on a bed of shale
snoring gently, without fail.
Through corridors the green sled slid
past hooks and nooks
where blue snails hid
by toreadors who long debated
how they'd come to be located
improbably, deep in these innards
and who was singing that Lynard Skynard.
The Gonit's sled shot past the belly
where several ships swayed in the jelly
each one's crew singing quite loudly
a different tune, and they sang it proudly
all except for an alien saucer
who's crew sat glumly, reading Chaucer.
And from the stomach's cavernous walls
sounded pounding, and muffled calls
to keep it down, we're trying to sleep
and we hope you drown, you bleepity-bleep.
The Gonit slid
the Gonit slipped
past a half-digested ship
and a clam who had the grippe
and a drunk who was quite ripped.
A school of sturgeons
were seen merging
with a herd of white sea horses
and a jar of jellyfish changing courses.
A submarine was wedged between
an obese dolphin and a walrus,
six antelopes who'd caught a virus
squeezed by in search of mint papyrus.
And still the Gonit sped along
from colonic locations far and yon
through endless twisting tubes and tunnels
that slowly narrowed like a pink funnel.
The tunnel's subtle turn and twist
lulled the Gonit like a hypnotist
and his eyes began to droop
by the three-hundredth loop-the-loop.
First he nodded, then he dazed,
his eyes took on a glassy glaze
as he began to dream and dream of sleeping
because quite shut his eyes were creeping.
Into a Gonit dreamscape he sweetly slipped
as his body slouched forward and his round head dipped,
a move he regretted, there can be no doubt,
when he missed his turn and was pooped right out. º Last Column: The Girl Everyone Just Sort of Assumed Was Native Americanº more columns
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Quote of the Day“I am the very model of a modern major general. Perhaps this explains my inability to move my limbs and the pungent smell of airplane glue.”
-Gilgamesh SullivanFortune 500 CookieYou're set loose and Fancy free, since your cat Fancy ran away. The girl checking you out at Safeway is indeed the lead singer of Deee-Lite. If one thing gets your goat, it's goat theft—consider a goat lock. Lucky Wilburys are Boo, Spike, and Lefty.
Try again later.Worst Country Songs Ever| 1. | She Left Me for an African-American | | 2. | I Don't Feel Like Drinkin' | | 3. | Here's a Quarter, Go Buy Some Bubblegum | | 4. | What's the Capital of Tennessee Again? | | 5. | If Anyone Needs Me, I'll be Down at the Nail Salon | | 6. | Regretfulness is the Hardest Word to Spell | | 7. | Mama Didn't Raise No Episcopalians | | 8. | I'm So Lonesome I Could Call an Escort Service | | 9. | I Got This Hat on Sale | | 10. | You Mispronounced My Name for the Very Last Time | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Mitch Kroeger 2/13/2006 The AristocratsEveryone knows I come from a show business family, and the stories from those days have more than once enthralled huge pockets of the coach section on boring trans-Atlantic flights. The best story of all, however, can’t be told on an airplane due to its tendency toward self-incrimination.
It all starts with my father, a proud and foolish man, who once had a bright idea for how to spruce up the family’s sagging vaudeville act: he had us all drop acid before the show. Everyone: my sister, my brother, our baby brother, our mother, our grandmother, and the family dog, Lucas. And dad was so confident in his newfound scam that he invited a top talent agent to the nightclub where we were performing, in hopes of spinning the new act off into a variety show on ABC.

Everyone knows I come from a show business family, and the stories from those days have more than once enthralled huge pockets of the coach section on boring trans-Atlantic flights. The best story of all, however, can’t be told on an airplane due to its tendency toward self-incrimination.
It all starts with my father, a proud and foolish man, who once had a bright idea for how to spruce up the family’s sagging vaudeville act: he had us all drop acid before the show. Everyone: my sister, my brother, our baby brother, our mother, our grandmother, and the family dog, Lucas. And dad was so confident in his newfound scam that he invited a top talent agent to the nightclub where we were performing, in hopes of spinning the new act off into a variety show on ABC.
The show that night started off pretty normal, with dad playing "Swanee" on his armpit and grandma shooting hard-boilt eggs out of her snatch into the crowd like a Gatling gun. But then out of nowhere, a donkey that may or may not have been an official part of the show jumps on stage and starts sodomizing my older brother, who was already terrified of donkeys from a similar incident in early childhood.
Out of the corner of his eye, my dad catches sight of the donkey, which causes him to immediately and thoroughly upchuck his entire lunch and a martini he had for breakfast. The problem is, he’s French-kissing my mother at the time, and after a half-second delay the vomit gushes out of her nose like the soda fountain at a bulimia theme park. As my mother pulls back in disgust, there’s a wet piece of roast beef hanging out of her nose, and in that instant everyone realizes my dad had Arby’s for lunch. This fact grosses out everybody completely, and they start vomiting back and forth like a giant game of laser tag.
My father, still phased, blindly flails out and whips off my sister’s skirt, revealing a gang of Balinese pygmy midgets gang-fucking the corpse of Jackie Kennedy like a pack of starving rats underneath.
This guy in the back starts laughing so hard he throws up blood, which a pregnant waitress slips in, popping her baby out like a cork and the thing zips across the room straight into the donkey’s mouth. The donkey chokes on it, falls off my brother and dies.
The crowd screams, causing my father to flail again and tear off my grandmother’s skirt, which reveals Tom Cruise sucking Dame Edna’s cock.
Now the crowd’s reacting like it’s the end of the world, and then suddenly it is. Out of nowhere, the fattest man anyone there has ever seen comes out in a latex bikini and eats a mess of dried apricots out of Jimmy Stewart’s diaper, setting off another chain reaction of vomiting that climaxes in a priest somehow barfing up my baby brother’s ass. The worst part of it all is that the baby loves it.
Dad, still blinded by his own vomit and roast beef, falls into the rear curtain, tearing it down and revealing the oldest chorus line in Reno, Nevada, their dentures in a wet pile on the floor, struggling to stretch their gummy maws around Steve Urkel’s disturbingly monstrous dong. Urkel’s playing a Gameboy. Seemingly oblivious to his surroundings and the gang of great-grandmothers slobbering on his Pocahontas, he achieves a personal best at Tetris.
A cadre of underage Vietnamese girls run out and start mopping up the stage with their hair, while we take a short break to watch my drunken uncle Henry trying to piss on the family dog, which has been shaved, coated in butter, and is dog-dancing in a giant scalding frying pan on the side of the stage to the adulation of dozens.
For the climax, the entire state of Oklahoma comes out and shits on my grandmother.
Believe you me, the talent agent is blown away.
"Christ on ice!" he shouts over the din of applause and unconscious people falling into tables. "What do you people call yourselves?"
My dad, proud as an unrepentant felon, honks a horn and spreads his arms, beaming with a smile as wide as Louie Anderson’s ass, and proudly intones:
"The Kroegers!"
And at just that moment, a premature Negro baby flops out of my mother’s cooch and hits the floor with a wet slap, squeaking:
"No, fuck that!
THE ARISTOCRATS!"   |