Steven Seagal's Life Like Bad Steven Seagal Movie

ews just keeps getting better and better for fans of the bizarre and absurd. Friday allegations were made that "actor" Steven Seagal, famous for his chubby-flanked kicking and limp ponytail in horrible action movies, is linked to a private investigator who alleges Seagal hired him to terrorize a reporter.

The victim of the terroristic threatening was a Los Angeles Times reporter, Anita Busch, whose name was being held confidential by police at press time. Busch wrote articles alleging a former filmmaking partner of Seagal's used mob connections to extort $700,000 from the actor, who, in one of his own movies, would have likely punched out the ex-partner with one Aikido punch and cracked the mob boss's arm into a severe fracture before kicking him backwards off the balcony. Instead, the actor paid the money.

Private investigator Anthony Pellicano was allegedly hired by Seagal to scare Busch away from writing her articles about the extortion. Police reports say in June the show biz reporter found a dead fish, a rose, and a note saying "Stop!" on the hood of her smashed car windshield. The monosyllabic note initially led police to suspect Seagal's involvement, but the combination of the dead fish and the rose was just slightly more imaginative than anything that appeared in his films, leading investigators to believe Seagal's involvement was more hands-off.

Just after the incident, Busch was approached by two men and told to stop writing articles about Steven Seagal. Had Seagal not been the perpetrator, and been in the car, and had the whole thing been one of his movies, he likely would have gotten out of the car, leaped upon the hood to deal out a series of bone-splitting kicks before flipping through the air to land behind the larger villain, bending his arm back and forcing him into the car's hood, warning him not to mess with the lady again.

Further, had this been a Steven Seagal movie, the police force would have been under the power of the corrupt Hollywood star/villain—Seagal, in this case—and seeking their help against the threatening would have been fruitless for the victim. However, the victim did go to the police in this case, and Seagal's alleged henchmen were arrested and charged with the incidents. Seagal has yet to be charged, but a paper trail and witness accounts may put Seagal behind bars yet, this time for a crime he did commit.

In the private investigator Pellicano's office, police found a cache of plastic explosive, a detonating cord and blasting cap, two grenades, 15 to 20 bundles of cash bearing $10,000 wrappers and a number of pieces of jewelry—i.e., things you might find in the hideout of the lead henchman in any Steven Seagal movie. Had the police not intercepted Pellicano and his hired goon, according to initial statements, plans were in place to blow up Busch's car, something that would have sent movie-Seagal out in the night, angrily breaking into the top boss's house—his own, in this case—to deliver the final, fatal beating that ended the movie.

In the real world, however, Seagal waits patiently for his court date, when his lawyer will argue fine points and details of testimony to discredit Pellicano's claims of direct requests from Seagal that initiated his actions. There is likely to be little kicking and punching, and Seagal will be referred to as Steven or Mr. Seagal instead of "Jack," "John," or "Mason Storm."

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Dear commune:

You boys is ate up. I read your shit all the time 'cause I know it's know or be knowed in this universe. You know?

My favorite parts is the music reviews where you tell it like it is. Whitney Houston ain't released a good album since before the motorcycle accident in '66. She can still rock okay, but she'll never top her glory days of the Synchronicity Tour. Fuckin A.

I have a problem with your shit, though. Where's the horoscopes? I think there should be horoscopes. If there's one thing I hate it's having no one to blame for my shitty life.

Well, I gotta go. The warden's calling lights out. That guy's a big prick. He says he knows nothin bout all the raping but he's right there watching it. Man, do you get raped in prison.

Speaking of which, here comes Big Henry Brown. I'll see you later. Keep writin and I'll keep reading! Damn!

R.P. McDaniels
Scales, AL

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Dear commune:

I just don't feel like this is going to work out. I'm sorry to break it to you like this, but I knew if I give myself the chance to back out I'd take it. Because there's still something there. But I can't let that get in the way, I know it's over. I need to make a clean break.

It's not you. You're great. It's me. I'm the kind of person who needs structure. The kind I need is the kind you can't provide. But I can't ask you to change-that wouldn't be fair to you. And all those things that are the problem now are what made me love you in the first place.

I can't tell you any more, I'm starting to tear up. Don't try to contact me, it'll make things harder. If you need to, give all my CDs and clothes to Rick. I'll be staying at his place.

Don't ever change. You'll always be the one I left.

Love,

Vicki Koslowski


Dear Vicki:

We should note to you that the commune is a website. We aim to provide the finest source of alternative news and counter-culture points of view, as well as topical commentary of unpopular opinions. This is not the first time this mistake has been made by readers; we seek to help make this distinction clearer in the future.

We also wish to add: You're afraid of commitment. Don't bullshit us. It isn't us, no fuck, we know that. We treat you like a queen and it's never good enough. Fuck this insane bullshit. You're afraid to be loved. You won't let us get close. Your dad left your mother and she left her next two husbands. It's the only kind of love you know. You need to trust someone and believe they love you. But that isn't going to be us. We can't wait all our lives for you to "decide" we're good for you. We hope you find that love, but not with us, sister.

We can't pretend not to be hurt. You're goddamn right it's painful. We loved you like you'll never fucking know. We're trying to be nice about it, but there is some part of us that hopes you'll fucking choke to death.

the commune

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Dear commune:

The jackals of society are feasting upon our souls right now. The commercialization of each and every individual at the hands of the corporate phantoms is not a vicious torture like electric current applied to the genitals. It is in fact the slow bleeding of society's humanity, a stealing of essence so subtle as to be hardly noticeable. But I notice. And I react.

It is my mission to reveal the horrible robbery of our spirit as a nation to the hypnotized masses. I've tried in the past to inform the public of this nightmare, but they are distracted by the Baywatches and Urkels of the world. The airwaves are filled with tripe meant to keep them occupied and not notice the hands in their pockets and the fangs in their arteries. So I'm afraid I must resort to more violent means.

Intelligent information doesn't hold attention alone. Nor do heartfelt please; so now I am forced to grab attention through violence.

I will continue to present my manifestos to such outlets as the commune, that are truly hard-up for news and filler space that letters can provide. If the commune refuses to print any further chapters in my manifesto, I will thoroughly BEAT UP A HOBO for every week my manifesto is unread. I do not seek to cause pain. I do not like violence. It is my only outlet in a world controlled by power brokers and corporate monsters.

Nor do I hate hobos. I feel they are the scuzzy bloodline of America. But my ends will justify these means. I mean to return America to its glory days. Also, hobos are much easier to find unarmed and asleep, making for easy victims. I am not a large man. Again, nothing personal, hobos.

Heed my warning, America! Your hobos are at stake!

The Hobobeater

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Editor's Note: the commune is not responsible for the content of letters or opinions expressed therein. The wacky inbred illiterate fringes of society are responsible, though we have to admit some part in calling our readers "wacky inbred illiterate fringes of society." Let's just call the whole thing even, 'kay?

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First off, we need to get it right out in the open that I had nothing to do with that huge whale that blew up in Taiwan last week. Yes, I've received all the congratulatory post cards, phone messages, and boxes of chocolate everyone has been sending, and I thank you all for those. But I'm sorry to say the "Way to go, dude!" is not rightfully mine this time around. I wasn't even in Taiwan last week, and before you start going on about remote controlled detonators and the like, let me also add that I didn't blow up any large mammals last week that I'm aware of either. I'm sure there are still some Omar Bricks fans out there searching for some loophole where whales aren't really mammals or they're related to the platypus or some bizarre shit like that, or maybe I was sleep-pranking again, but trust me on this one guys. Just let it go. Somebody else Bricksed that whale, I spent all last week in line at the DMV getting my death certificate revoked. More on that later.

Make no mistake, I'm completely flattered that when a giant dead whale explodes in the middle of a busy Taiwanese street half a world away, showering pedestrians and shopkeepers in smoky whale gore like some kind of fucked up dead fish piñata, the name Omar Bricks springs immediately to mind. It makes me feel like a lifetime spent in the pursuit of excellence has really paid off. Good to know I'm on the "Who the fuck??" A-list.

But anyone who reads this column closely should know that ever since I blew up that dead horse at the fair a few years back, I haven't been able to get my hands on anything more explosive than a packet of Pop Rocks, scout's honor. Whoever said that reputation is the motherfucker of investigation knew what he was talking about, it's like I'm a walking background check or something. I don't know who blew up that whale, if it was a member of my Taiwan fan club or some long-lost chinky relative who always blended in at the family reunions, but you've got to admire his slanty-eyed spunk. Most people would have stopped at stuffing a stick of dynamite up a carp's ass, but this guy was thinking big. Really big, I hear this was some kind of freakish Shaq whale with a five-foot dork, no kidding. I heard that most of the people who were hurt by flying whale meat didn't duck because they were too busy yelling "Look at that whale cock!" to their friends when it blew.

The official report, of course, is that some kind of nasty gasses built up inside the whale carcass while they were transporting it from the morgue over to the whale graveyard, causing the thing to blow Orca dramatically all over Tainan street right at rush hour. Right, and swamp gas reflected off a unicorn's ass explains the Kennedy assassination. The government guys who are in charge of making that shit up are the same dudes who wrote Ishtar. I trust them about as far as I can throw up. Which is pretty far, but still.

According to commune fact machine Griswald Dreck, whales don't even get gas, thanks to a diet that's heavy on soup and light on Tostada Bel Grandes, if you know what I mean. And when you think about it, the way Griswald has, it really starts to make sense. Can you even imagine what the world would be like if whales had gas? Those fucking things are huge. You'd be reading about ocean liners being capsized by fart bubbles every day in the paper. It'd be just like Titanic, except it would smell even more like rotten eggs.

Well, shit if we're not out of space already, looks like we'll have to wait until next time to explore the issue of why the DMV won't issue a driver's license to somebody who's legally dead. Turns out that "officially" being killed in a car explosion a year and a half ago has a down-side to go with the tax advantages. Go figure.

Bricks out.

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