| Loves That Woman ';
$dunkin='2005/0905/';
$dunkintitle='The New Anne Frank Diary';
$edit='2003/1222/';
$fanmail='2005/1010/';
$fanmailtitle='Volume 64';
$finger='2005/1107/';
$fingertitle='Little Man with a Gun in His Hand';
$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='2005/0912/';
$hoopertitle='Seventh Heaven';
$hurley='2005/0404/';
$hurleytitle='Time of Healing';
$kroeger='2005/0822/';
$kroegertitle='Charity Case';
$loser='2005/1107/';
$losertitle='Paging Doctor Van';
$ned='2003/0818/';
$nedtitle='Cyantology';
$pickle='2002/020513/';
$pickletitle='State of the Art';
$poet='2005/1107/';
$police='2005/1128/';
$polio='2005/1107/';
$poliotitle='God’s Hands';
$rent='2005/1107/';
$renttitle='I’m Straight!';
$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='2005/1128/';
$zendertitle='The Seventh commune Enthusiasts Club Meeting';
?> | 
People Thrilled by Verdict for Man They Don't KnowNovember 15, 2004 |
Washington, D.C. Whit Pistol A crowd of San Mateo residents vacation from what is actually important in their lives to needlessly involve themselves in a tragedy they've seen on the TV.
Peterson, who may receive the death penalty for his crime, had been accused of the murder of his wife and unborn son, and also committed the despicable crime of occupying TV sets everywhere for more than a year when word of his sensationalized crime reached news organizations. His high-profile lawyer, smarmy Mark Geragos, defended his client as "an abominable dick, but not guilty of the crime." While ...
San Mateo jury came back with the verdict of guilty for Scott Peterson Friday, and a lot of people who couldn't possibly have known the accused mortal to any real degree were really, really pleased. Roars of approval sounded when news of the verdict reached crowds outside, spending valuable time from their lives involving themselves in a case with absolutely no bearing on them.
Peterson, who may receive the death penalty for his crime, had been accused of the murder of his wife and unborn son, and also committed the despicable crime of occupying TV sets everywhere for more than a year when word of his sensationalized crime reached news organizations. His high-profile lawyer, smarmy Mark Geragos, defended his client as "an abominable dick, but not guilty of the crime." While for the opposing side, prosecutor Rick Distaso painted a picture of a man who was "a dick who did exactly what it sounds like he did."
Details of the trial captured the imagination of America, as the miseries of others in the world whose fate our actions control went forgotten. The case became even more fascinating for the uninvolved when it was revealed Peterson had kept a mistress massage therapist named Amber, and the jury were treated to tapes of their sexy phone calls. For months, viewers followed the search for the remains of Laci Peterson, Scott's wife, and their unborn son, and ratings went through the roof when they were discovered in the San Francisco Bay. Peterson was arrested with blond hair, but not for that reason, and was carrying $15,000 the prosecution said he was using to flee to Mexico.
People in no danger from Scott Peterson at all expressed how relieved they were he would be going to jail, or would receive the death penalty. Like Mitzi Kownuhno, of Gleaton, Rhode Island.
"At last, the world makes sense again," over-dramatized Kownuhno, upon watching the verdict on TV.
Those who showed up in person to hear Peterson's fate were also happy about his guilt.
"He's going to get exactly what he deserves, and I would like to be the one to pull the switch," said Herbert Teal of San Mateo, a jobless man who would like to apply for a public executioner position.
Fellow bystander Kiki Armoire agreed. "It's the kind of crime where you have to sit up and take notice. A woman, carrying her husband's child, betrayed by a man she thought was faithful to her… it's scary to think it could happen to any of us." Armoire, 34, admitted she had no husband or children, and had been watching the case extensively between reruns of C.S.I.
"We got him," exclaimed fellow outsider Michelle Pozowonysk, hugging a nearby stranger as she cried. "Thank God we got him!"
In other cities, people gathered in groups to watch the announcement of the verdict on CNN and Court-TV. Living viewers in public establishments such as Vorlon's Tavern in New York City awaited the verdict with baited breath, as if it mattered in the slightest in their insignificant, quickly-evaporating human lives. Most reacted with a swell of joy at the decision, though some demonstrated a degree of disappointment.
"Well, shit," said Jimmy "Meatball" Hughes, a sanitation engineer from Brooklyn. "That's all I had to watch until they start showing the Christmas specials on the TV." the commune news also watched The Verdict, and rooted for Paul Newman's lovable scamp lawyer all the way. Mordecai "Three-Finger" Brown, being a non-corporeal being, cannot stick a pencil behind his ear, robbing him of the one way commune reporters can identify themselves to others.
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Lawmakers: Blogs are protected, self-indulgent, whiny speech
Contraceptive sponge returns to shelves; squarepants still unmarketable
 Guilty: Libby Takes Blame in Plame Name Game
Christina Aguilera announces engagement to manwhore
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Santa Claus on Trial: Week Three ensions ran high in the world court this week as prosecutors continued what will undoubtedly be the greatest trial of the century, at least for a long time: The world vs. Kris Kringle, also known as Santa Claus, also known as Father Christmas, et al. It was a trial marked by emotional outbursts and brutal accusations of crimes against humanity. Kringle, led into the courtroom with his ankles shackled together and a series of elaborate handcuffs binding his hands, sat quiet through most of the prosecution’s presentation of evidence. For the defense was world-famous Swedish lawyer Jorgen Fiord, who successfully defended Argentine dentist Emilio Rodriguez in 1996 against charges he was the infamous “Tooth Fairy.” Unknown American Philosopher Dead illions of Americans failed to mourn this week at the death of Baltimore-area rug salesman and unknown modern American philosopher Phillip Flaggart, originator of numerous lite-philosophical sayings such as “A picture’s worth a thousand words,” and “Why buy milk when you have a cow at home?” “A picture’s worth a thousand words,” repeated sayings fan Dennis Tudd, shaking his head in wonderment. “That kind of says it all, though a picture would say it all even better. You know.” Even within the sayings-geek community, Flaggart remained the enduring subject of controversy, with factions split between those who believed the man a humble genius, and those convinced Flaggart was a lucky moron. Flaggart himself fanned the flames in a 1987 interview, explaining that he was drunk at the time he first said “A picture’s worth a thousand words” and didn’t know what he was talking about. Aides Urge Bush to Stop Referring to Iraqi Majority as “Shits” Sheryl Crow Takes Cancer in Lance Armstrong Split |
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 July 7, 2003
SummertimesBoris think Summertimes is nice thing. Is perfect thing for going out of doors to set foods on fire. Louis teaches Boris of this fine Summertimes thing that is tradition. In homeland, persons and firemens is all mad with Boris for setting food and wall on fire. But in America? No ways! Is fun thing with fire pods and beers.
Fire pod is thing like big metal egg which stands in park. Or is like pac-mans who eats fires and hot dogs. But does not eat Boris, so no needs to hide from fire pod thing any more. Is friendly kind of monster, yes.
Good Summertimes is had with food and smoke. There is hot dogs and hamburger but no buns because goddammit Boris. First rule of Summertimes is do not to eat buns before meat is burned. Is not like rolls in fancy Sizzler restaurant. Oh, shits. Also, other thing is mayo does not keep sun from burning Boris. Lesson two.
Big part of Summertimes fun is to bring "Similar to Skippy" dog to park place. Dog is much fun, to bring back toys Boris throws away. Boris throw old toaster at park, and Similar to Skippy brings back. Again! What is this hard working dog? So funny.
Lesson three of Summertimes is that Similar to Skippy does not bring back ball of meat. Seem like good fun idea, this ball of meat to play with dog, but no. Him just run under bench and eats this toy while Louis yell about where all the meat did go.
Park has all type of magic thing, like fountain which spray water to...
º Last Column: Lesson of Dream
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Boris think Summertimes is nice thing. Is perfect thing for going out of doors to set foods on fire. Louis teaches Boris of this fine Summertimes thing that is tradition. In homeland, persons and firemens is all mad with Boris for setting food and wall on fire. But in America? No ways! Is fun thing with fire pods and beers.
Fire pod is thing like big metal egg which stands in park. Or is like pac-mans who eats fires and hot dogs. But does not eat Boris, so no needs to hide from fire pod thing any more. Is friendly kind of monster, yes.
Good Summertimes is had with food and smoke. There is hot dogs and hamburger but no buns because goddammit Boris. First rule of Summertimes is do not to eat buns before meat is burned. Is not like rolls in fancy Sizzler restaurant. Oh, shits. Also, other thing is mayo does not keep sun from burning Boris. Lesson two.
Big part of Summertimes fun is to bring "Similar to Skippy" dog to park place. Dog is much fun, to bring back toys Boris throws away. Boris throw old toaster at park, and Similar to Skippy brings back. Again! What is this hard working dog? So funny.
Lesson three of Summertimes is that Similar to Skippy does not bring back ball of meat. Seem like good fun idea, this ball of meat to play with dog, but no. Him just run under bench and eats this toy while Louis yell about where all the meat did go.
Park has all type of magic thing, like fountain which spray water to clean out Boris nose. Such magic is science.
Also is many persons in exciting bathing clothes, this is good part of Summertimes. Boris also is wearing exciting pants, but Louis says is only to go with raincoat, so no womens will love Boris until he is to get some Jams. Ah, lesson four. Thanks to Louis.
Summertimes is also good for volleyball, is fun out of doors game where Boris runs with ball and persons is tackling with Boris. Sometimes is rough game with punching to get back ball from Boris, but sometimes is just to hit ball high in air where only tall persons can reach.
Other persons is having fun with flying plate for dog to chase, but Similar to Skippy is not interested in such thing. Him just want to lay under bench and look sad that ball of meat is gone.
But is OK, Boris have much other funs. Until the man is saying time to go because Similar to Skippy throws up on persons with wheeled feet. Look out! Is big mess of crash disaster. Summertimes is over, and is time to play "Run like ass!" game before there is angry dog police. º Last Column: Lesson of Dreamº more columns
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|  May 15, 2001
Some People Call Me the Space CowboyGood people, the most wondrous of wonderful, funderful, magical things has happened to me! I was hit in the side by a dirty van while crossing the street and gravely injured. That's not the good part, but I'm getting to that—let's take the long way, shall we?
Of course, you may know that we at the commune traded our insurance benefits options for Red Bagel's home-built soap box derby cars, so the shattered bones in my pelvis, my broken arm, multiple lacerations, bruised face, and bent pinky toe couldn't seek professional care. It turns out the man who hit me with his filthy van had no insurance either, but he's making it up to me in another way—again, more later. I did the only thing I could do, seek out an Indian friend to nurse me back to health, ala the legend of the Lone Ranger. So I asked Batu, a guy who works in the commune building on a different floor, to help me, and he agreed, even though he said he's an East Indian not a Native American, which I could give two cents about. Batu loaned me his Canadian Prescriptions card for all the free Vicodin I could ever want and his home body cast kit. Needless to say, I'm doing much better now, still some internal bleeding, but that may have been there before. Let's get on to the van-smashing wonderful thing.
The man with the van is Dan Lopez, or "Space Dan" to his friends, a legion amongst which I now count myself. And they call him Space Dan for a very sound reason, not simply because he's...
º Last Column: I Can't Get Up
º more columns
Good people, the most wondrous of wonderful, funderful, magical things has happened to me! I was hit in the side by a dirty van while crossing the street and gravely injured. That's not the good part, but I'm getting to that—let's take the long way, shall we? Of course, you may know that we at the commune traded our insurance benefits options for Red Bagel's home-built soap box derby cars, so the shattered bones in my pelvis, my broken arm, multiple lacerations, bruised face, and bent pinky toe couldn't seek professional care. It turns out the man who hit me with his filthy van had no insurance either, but he's making it up to me in another way—again, more later. I did the only thing I could do, seek out an Indian friend to nurse me back to health, ala the legend of the Lone Ranger. So I asked Batu, a guy who works in the commune building on a different floor, to help me, and he agreed, even though he said he's an East Indian not a Native American, which I could give two cents about. Batu loaned me his Canadian Prescriptions card for all the free Vicodin I could ever want and his home body cast kit. Needless to say, I'm doing much better now, still some internal bleeding, but that may have been there before. Let's get on to the van-smashing wonderful thing. The man with the van is Dan Lopez, or "Space Dan" to his friends, a legion amongst which I now count myself. And they call him Space Dan for a very sound reason, not simply because he's frequently stoned out of his gourd, although that's why some of his lesser friends think they call him that. No, the fact is, my friends, Space Dan is building himself an actual rocketship. You didn't read me wrong—an actual rocketship. Space Dan has circumvented the bloated government beast and the bureaucratic red-tape nonsense and created his own private company for space exploration. I profess I was a little skeptical myself when I heard, but when I drove to his home in Littleton, a neighboring community of freaks and weirdoes to Flatbush, New Jersey, I saw quite the impressive sign hanging over his garage. He dissuaded me from seeing his state-of-the-art rocketship within, not because he didn't trust me, but the main stockholders in Space Dan's Rocket Travel Ltd.—Mom and Dad Lopez—refused to let him show anyone due to the possibility of industrial espionage. I can understand that completely, ever since I got blitzed on Southern Comfort that one night last February and offered to sell Crotchet! Magazine all of the commune's trade secrets. Lucky for us they weren't interested in buying. Oh, in my excitement, I haven't even told you the best part—I myself am going into space, and I'm going there for a price that's practically nothing! $350, a price which my wife describes as practically insane, but she's got a mouth on her that, that one. I have been given that special price because of my great injuries sustained when he hit me—and he wasn't drunk, he was just trying to grab some candy bars from the back of the van when I was struck, so he technically wasn't even at the wheel. Space Dan waived the greater fees of space gas, gantry-fixin', reupholstering the space vehicle, and the comeback fee. All that was left was the $350 local space license, which of course he couldn't do anything about. It's a price I'll gladly pay, as soon as my wife goes to sleep later this evening and leaves her purse unguarded. Just think—as soon as I'm fully recovered from my crippling injuries, I, Rok Finger, will be blasted into the cosmos by a professional private sector space-faring company. It's a dream I've had since I was a small child, but hopefully everyone at Mission Control won't be talking chipmunks. Come to think of it, what was that dream about? Maybe I'll be hit by an analyst next week and can get that worked out for free, too. º Last Column: I Can't Get Upº more columns
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Milestones1988: Future commune staff photographer Junior Bacon takes a photo that shocks the nation, until experts determine that the Sasquatch-looking thing in the picture is actually future commune editor Red Bagel.Now HiringExperienced Spelunker. Needed to find a way into Ned Nedmiller's office and see if there's anyone still alive in there. Ability to speak Dutch a plus.Least-Watched Holiday Specials| 1. | A Bush Family Christmas | | 2. | I'm Dreaming of a White Krishna | | 3. | VH1 Behind the Music: That Guy Who Sang Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer | | 4. | Christopher Walken in a Winter Wonderland | | 5. | Gerald Ford Reads "Twas the Night Before…" Oh Shit | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 12/9/2002 Hello, Young America! Time to saddle up and get on the Entertainment Train one more time, and this time we're going to ride it all the way to Not Wasting Your Money City. I hope you brought plenty of trail mix and travel Yahtzee and stuff, because… have you ever ridden on a train before? Talk about slow. I mean the director's cut of a DOGME film slow. You'd think in this day and age they could kick it in the ass with some rocket boosters or wings or likewise for the trains, but train people are like some weird branch of the Amish or something—totally resistant to change. So you can thank your lucky ass we're not actually getting on a real train and I'm just being colorful in my language. Let's get on to the movies:
In Theaters
Hello, Young America! Time to saddle up and get on the Entertainment Train one more time, and this time we're going to ride it all the way to Not Wasting Your Money City. I hope you brought plenty of trail mix and travel Yahtzee and stuff, because… have you ever ridden on a train before? Talk about slow. I mean the director's cut of a DOGME film slow. You'd think in this day and age they could kick it in the ass with some rocket boosters or wings or likewise for the trains, but train people are like some weird branch of the Amish or something—totally resistant to change. So you can thank your lucky ass we're not actually getting on a real train and I'm just being colorful in my language. Let's get on to the movies:
In Theaters
About Shit
It's long been a growing trend to have trailers for films that tell you jack about what's actually in the movie. We probably should have seen it coming that movie titles would eventually follow suit, as evidenced by Jack Nicholson's latest dance with the devil. The title tells you nothing, of course, and the trailer is just one long shot of Jack standing there, scratching his nuts. Though this is probably an effective tactic for drawing in viewers whose nuts itch, I'm not sure it's going to attract the throngs of teenage girls who make movies successful. The film itself was fine, with Jack walking around and being all old, and it'll probably win him plenty of awards since, after all, he is only like 25 in real life.
Cannibalize That
Turns out the American public just can't get enough of that face-eating crybaby Robert DeNiro. I thought the first movie was a cute idea, having DeNiro running around and gobbling up stockbrokers and whoever, then running to his shrink and crying about how he can't sleep at night and gets all emotional watching cooking shows and all that. But do we really need to go on that ride again? I may still go, just in case there are any surprise Mohawk freak-outs in this one, but if he doesn't eat Billy Crystal at the end I'm definitely going to demand my money back.
The Hot Chick
My first thought upon hearing about this one? If this ends up being about a cute little pig, somebody's gonna get their ass killed. Thankfully for that somebody, they didn't make the Babe mistake twice, but they did pull off something almost as awful by switching out the hot chick from the title for Rob Schneider half-way through the movie, like we weren't going to notice. Call it artsy if you want, but people have been shot for less than that. And I know it's hard to find hot babes who are funny, or comedians who are also hot babes, but when you use a movie title like that you're making a pact with the audience that you break the second you let some washed-up former SNL boob ooze his way onto the screen. If the audience wanted that, they would have paid to see Rob Schneider and Some Tits That Talk, and I didn't hear anybody asking for that at the ticket window.
Maid in Manhattan
Jennifer Lopez was born to wear one of those little French maid outfits, though I hear they had to take some of the poof out of the back end so that she could fit in the elevator. This is yet another installment in the fine tradition of maid-themed pun movies, a lineage that includes Maid to Order, Maid in the U.S.A., the worst TV movie ever The Devil Maid Me Do It!, the Innerspace rip-off Maid Up My Mind, the cross-dressing mafia farce Maid Men, the Korean love story I Was Maid for You, and Kirstie Alley's terribly misguided Maid for TV. This one's about par for the course, and though at first I was pissed to see that J-Lo had made another movie, I quickly realized the upside is that making it probably kept her too busy to burp up any more songs to torture my radio this year. With any luck she'll land a sitcom soon on a channel I don't get.
Star Trek: Eminemisis
Faced with lagging interest in a series that has become increasingly irrelevant in the face of flashier and less embarrassing fantasy films, the producers of Star Trek decided to beam up a hot new commodity as their latest villain: offensively white rapper Eminemineminemi… emin… Slim Shady. Though the results definitely kicked some new life up the ass of this tired franchise, the question remains as to whether the pasty faithful are ready for the film's coarse language, which is enough to make a Klingon blush. The film's theme song alone should be enough to weed out any theatergoers who thought they were going to get some Muppets talking in French: "Eminem steppin' in again/to save the whole goddamned world and give it a spin/I got Gene Roddenberry's head in a pickle jar/rolling around like Tom & Jerry in the trunk of my car/you damn right bitch, you better beam me up/watch me bitch-slap the computer till she shuts the hell up/I don't need no rubber mask to act like some space retard/But my jumpsuit's all scarred because Picard makes my dick hard-Ahh!"
That's all we're going to squeeze out of the turnip this week, folks. In the mean time, I'll be keeping an ear open for more rumors about the all-naked remake of Flashdance that's in the works, and you'll know some time after I know. Unless someone out there has been going through Joe Eszterhas' garbage, in which case you should probably give me the word. Because you know Roland McShyster's one to make it worth your while with a free Entertainment Police tee-shirt and other fabulous shwag. Not that we actually have tee shirts printed up or anything, but I could hook you up with something from my private stash, no problem. Something I don't wear anymore, and chances are I probably wore it some time when I was writing the column or at the movies or something. Right now I'm thinking the Budweiser frogs shirt, It's starting to look like that joke's probably run its course. Though if it ever becomes some kind of kitsch collector's item and you sell it, I want half.   |
