|  | 
 August 22, 2005 |
Crawford, Texas Junior Bacon Jesus has yet to claim responsibility for the stone-cold "SLUT" graffiti on protest mom Cindy Sheehan's minivan window, but the Lord does work in mysterious ways. Ooh, snap Jesus! Snap!
"Clearly, the creator has made his will known," Bush intoned smugly, as lightning crackled in the background and the lights inside the president's Crawford, Texas ranch dimmed momentarily.
Sheehan had drawn considerable national media attention to her vigil in recent weeks, becoming the focal point for criticism of the president's handling of the war in Iraq and making a tidy sum selling lemonade to the massive news crews that had assembled. But her mother's recent stroke came hot ...
he Bush Administration sighed a whistle of relief this week with the news that Cindy Sheehan, the mother of a US soldier slain in Iraq who had been standing vigil outside the president's Texas ranch for over two weeks, had finally gone home to California to care for her ailing mother.
"Clearly, the creator has made his will known," Bush intoned smugly, as lightning crackled in the background and the lights inside the president's Crawford, Texas ranch dimmed momentarily.
Sheehan had drawn considerable national media attention to her vigil in recent weeks, becoming the focal point for criticism of the president's handling of the war in Iraq and making a tidy sum selling lemonade to the massive news crews that had assembled. But her mother's recent stroke came hot on the heels of news that Sheehan's husband of 28 years had filed for divorce, causing some religious nuts and the president of the United States to suggest that God doesn't like her.
"The Lord works in mysterious ways," philosophized Bush further, apparently suggesting that Jesus doles out strokes like some kind of celestial blackjack dealer.
When asked if he worried that his comments might be construed as insensitive, the president grew tense for a moment. "I didn't say 'bitch' again, did I? You heard me wrong; I meant 'beavered.' 'Bereavered.' You know, one of them fitty cent words," explained Bush, brushing a dozen locusts off his ink blotter.
Critics have taken Bush to task for refusing to meet with Sheehan, who wanted to ask Bush what her son had died to accomplish. With his approval numbers dropping like a concrete blimp, the president opted to change his Sheehan-dealing strategy from his morning ritual of randomly firing his shotgun in the air while shouting "Bitch, get offa my lawn!" to the more politically expedient tactic of ignoring her completely.
This required having a tunnel dug so Bush could exit his Texas ranch without passing by the depressing protestors camped out front.
"It was great, just like The Great Escape," reminisced Bush, who took no part in the digging of the tunnel but did buy a six-pack of lite beer for the three itinerant laborers who survived the tunnel's construction and frequent cave-ins.
However, neither the president's hard-to-get act, nor sending his sloppy drunk brother to drive his pickup truck over roadside memorial crosses in the middle of the night, did anything to shake Sheehan's resolve. Meanwhile, frequent unexplained events at the President's ranch in the last week, including blood flowing from the faucets, the Bush twins coming down with catastrophic diarrhea, and the failure of the sun to rise at all on Saturday has some religious scholars and Christians who have actually read the bible questioning if God really is on Bush's side this time.
But before the commune could address this issue with the president, the Secret Service discovered we'd cornered Bush for a candid in-pantry interview, sans handlers, and burst in with guns drawn. Thankfully for the cause of news, this reporter was able to sneak out with the story's notes inside a false leg, which drew surprisingly little scrutiny in spite of the low number of three-legged reporters in Texas. the commune news doth protest too much, or at least that's what they say down at the protest supply store when we bitch about them never having any cool new megaphones. Ivan Nacutchacokov is the commune's resident foreign correspondent, braving such strange and exotic lands as Iraq, North Korea and Texas.
 |  Entwistle Pleads Not Guilty of Murder, Last Several Who Albums
Japanese Nikkei commits seppuku after closing in dishonor
 Border Patrol Agents Recruited for Iraq, Since Border Patrol Worked So Well  Big Ratings Prompts ABC to Seek More Dancing Handicapped Shows |
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. Serial Killer’s Neighbor: “He just wouldn’t shut up about serial killing.” Heather Graham’s Career Found Dead in Apartment |
| |
| 
 March 15, 2004
Rok the BoatEditor's Note: For the first time ever, we received no column from Rok Finger this week. We thought we'd instead run this news piece that came over the wire, hoping perhaps his missed deadline might be more explainable.
PORT-AU-PRINCE, HAITI — A boatload of approximately 200 Haitian refugees were intercepted off the Florida Keys in a boat registered to an American, Kevin McCale, of Richmond, Virginia. McCale and associates have been missing for more than a week following an incident witnessed just off Haitian shores.
According to relatives of McCale, he and his crew of five friends were believed held hostage for more than a month at the hands of a diminutive old man with delusions he was a pirate. The man had been observed by witnesses in Singapore wearing a Napoleon hat and bearing a dead starling on his shoulder. His face was described as "horrible" by those who saw him.
The boat fell into the hands of Haitian refugees, witnesses tell, when half a mile off the coast of Port-Au-Prince, under the guidance of the mischievous dwarf figure, the boat approached a makeshift raft carrying the refugees, possibly in an attempt to rob the natives. Events turned as the raft inhabitants took to the water and leapt aboard the cruise boat, piling onto it in numbers enough to nearly capsize it, and wrested control from its crew. The Americans aboard the boat were thrown into the water, including a dog wearing an eyepatch who was...
º Last Column: Give Me an "Arr"
º more columns
Editor's Note: For the first time ever, we received no column from Rok Finger this week. We thought we'd instead run this news piece that came over the wire, hoping perhaps his missed deadline might be more explainable.
PORT-AU-PRINCE, HAITI — A boatload of approximately 200 Haitian refugees were intercepted off the Florida Keys in a boat registered to an American, Kevin McCale, of Richmond, Virginia. McCale and associates have been missing for more than a week following an incident witnessed just off Haitian shores.
According to relatives of McCale, he and his crew of five friends were believed held hostage for more than a month at the hands of a diminutive old man with delusions he was a pirate. The man had been observed by witnesses in Singapore wearing a Napoleon hat and bearing a dead starling on his shoulder. His face was described as "horrible" by those who saw him.
The boat fell into the hands of Haitian refugees, witnesses tell, when half a mile off the coast of Port-Au-Prince, under the guidance of the mischievous dwarf figure, the boat approached a makeshift raft carrying the refugees, possibly in an attempt to rob the natives. Events turned as the raft inhabitants took to the water and leapt aboard the cruise boat, piling onto it in numbers enough to nearly capsize it, and wrested control from its crew. The Americans aboard the boat were thrown into the water, including a dog wearing an eyepatch who was addressed using a profane name.
The Americans swam for Port-Au-Prince, where upon reaching the shores they were abducted at gunpoint by a mob expressing anti-Aristide dissent and anti-U.S. sentiment. Witnesses, including international reporters, describe the events following as the prisoners were bound, lifted into the air, and carried through the city by the angry mob shouting "Down with tyrants!"
Following the incident, a bizarre, jarbled message from an anti-Aristide group described by other dissidents as not affiliated with official Aristide opposition was received by the U.S. embassy:
"We have your king and several of his henchmen. We also have their dog. The free people of Haiti demand an end to American meddling in the politics of our nation. The United States must end its corrupt fleecing of the Haitian people and allow fair trade so our countrymen will at last be free. Long live Haitian independence!"
U.S. representatives say they believe the off-shoot group is holding the small contingent of Americans hostage in exchange for political demands, and they are attempting to negotiate their release through non-violent means. References to a "foul, odorous midget" in the original message are believed to indicate the mysterious small man previously seen in control of McCale's vessel.
Administration officials are also seeking information about an alleged boatwreck survivor found yesterday off the coast of Florida, believing he may be involved in the incident in some way. The man, identified as Camembert Morgen of New Jersey, was picked up by the Coast Guard clinging to his wheelchair to stay afloat. Inexplicably, he was also dressed as an 18th century British woman. º Last Column: Give Me an "Arr"º more columns
| 
|  January 20, 2003
The Big Clarissa Coleman ComebackOh, jiminy! Thanks for whatever good thoughts you sent me, folks! And if you didn't, I wish you all a long burning eternity in hell. Somebody must have been on my side because I got the part! Yippie! Perhaps you couldn't read it in this small, mocking font.
I GOT THE PART!!! I GOT THE PART!!! I GOT THE PART!!!
Just to verify, in case you just read that part and think you accidentally went to Rok Finger's column on some spiel about penile implants, the part I got was of Shelly, the resourceful and somewhat ingenious desert island castaway on the new action show Archipelago Law.
None of it should come as much of a surprise, seeing as how I mentioned I had the audition and felt pretty good about it last go-round. Of course I didn't mention the show title—what, like I'm going to advertise to a bunch of wanna-bes the location of the next big audition? Forget it, I like keeping the competition reasonable. But let's just say once I gave them my Bilbo Baggins monologue from The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Rings, there really wasn't any competition. Producer Matt Viggoschultz had a feeling that I was the one for the job, he wasn't disappointed by my performance, or not significantly disappointed anyway; a little disappointment is normal.
I've met some of the other actors already and they are extremely talented, a great bunch to work with. Sure, there are a few of them I'll have to whip into shape, give them...
º Last Column: The Audition
º more columns
Oh, jiminy! Thanks for whatever good thoughts you sent me, folks! And if you didn't, I wish you all a long burning eternity in hell. Somebody must have been on my side because I got the part! Yippie! Perhaps you couldn't read it in this small, mocking font.
I GOT THE PART!!! I GOT THE PART!!! I GOT THE PART!!!
Just to verify, in case you just read that part and think you accidentally went to Rok Finger's column on some spiel about penile implants, the part I got was of Shelly, the resourceful and somewhat ingenious desert island castaway on the new action show Archipelago Law.
None of it should come as much of a surprise, seeing as how I mentioned I had the audition and felt pretty good about it last go-round. Of course I didn't mention the show title—what, like I'm going to advertise to a bunch of wanna-bes the location of the next big audition? Forget it, I like keeping the competition reasonable. But let's just say once I gave them my Bilbo Baggins monologue from The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Rings, there really wasn't any competition. Producer Matt Viggoschultz had a feeling that I was the one for the job, he wasn't disappointed by my performance, or not significantly disappointed anyway; a little disappointment is normal.
I've met some of the other actors already and they are extremely talented, a great bunch to work with. Sure, there are a few of them I'll have to whip into shape, give them some quick lessons in the entertainment biz I've picked up over the years the hard way, but I can see them being around for years. Especially with infomercials going stronger than ever.
I'm not normally drawn to drama, I've been a natural for comedy since I was 6, but I was intrigued by the challenge, as well as the prospect of getting paid for work. Between the exotic locale—Vancouver—and the great writing, not to mention the sexy costumes, it's a can't-miss show. Not like my can-and-will-miss shows over the years like Cat Cop and That 1870's Show.
This show is banking in no small part on my talent, I can tell you that. The main star is John Flomp as Sheriff Burger, but the next biggest character after THAT… well, it's Nuge, the Kooshkoosh Tribal Leader; but after THAT, it's Kiko, the Bendari Tribal Leader. Then it's Dr. Cope, the medicine person, then the inventor Professor Hannibal, the sexy lawyer Vicki Scarlet, then the twins, then the nameless, mysterious mute character, but after THAT, it's all Clarissa Coleman.
And I got a fantastic contract when my agent negotiated for the role—say what you will about Dusty, or read some of my past columns and let all that stuff stand, but he's a shark underneath that very frail, fragile exterior. I didn't get any more money, really, and points on merchandising or syndication rights were right out, but I did get an "and" before my name. And I'm listed last, folks—after the first credit there's no more important credit for a regular than "and Clarissa Coleman." Unless that's not your name, but your name is what I mean. Don't be stupid.
Yep, Hollywood has come back to me, begging and pleading, after all these years. I know I practically shit confidence, but in complete honesty there's always been some part of me, as I think is the case with most former child stars, that whispers the question, "What if you're a one-hit wonder?"
I can now say with utmost certainty: The world is about to see I'm a two-hit wonder. º Last Column: The Auditionº more columns
|
| |
Milestones1979: Some people call Red Bagel a space cowboy (wahnt-waaow). Ignorant to popular culture, Bagel burns his driver's license and spends two years living underground as Miguel Carlos Ferrina.Now HiringSmall Town Rube. Trustworthy innocent needed to flush gremlins out of elevator system. Competitive wage to be paid upon successful completion of duties. No Sci-Fi geeks, please. Top Ways to Leave Your Lover| 1. | Join Al-Qaeda | | 2. | Quit Al-Qaeda | | 3. | Mail self to Shanghai (unless from Shanghai) | | 4. | Singing Dump-o-Gram | | 5. | Blaze of Glory/Blaze of Lies | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Amstel Graves 5/13/2002 An American in TijuanaHe strolled through the courtyard of this small Mexican villa like the town was his own. He didn't really own it, not in the sense of actually holding property rights over every square foot of land in the town or anything, but really no one person can actually own a town, not really, so the fact that he didn't actually own the town shouldn't say anything about how much he felt at-home there, or how well he was loved by the townspeople.
As Sam Rothman strolled through the warm Mexican sunshine, he could faintly hear a band of mariachis (street musicians) playing in the town square up ahead. The spirited strains of La Cucaracha became clearer as Sam approached. It was his favorite song, and they always played it when they saw him.
"Yo burro es tambourine,...
He strolled through the courtyard of this small Mexican villa like the town was his own. He didn't really own it, not in the sense of actually holding property rights over every square foot of land in the town or anything, but really no one person can actually own a town, not really, so the fact that he didn't actually own the town shouldn't say anything about how much he felt at-home there, or how well he was loved by the townspeople.
As Sam Rothman strolled through the warm Mexican sunshine, he could faintly hear a band of mariachis (street musicians) playing in the town square up ahead. The spirited strains of La Cucaracha became clearer as Sam approached. It was his favorite song, and they always played it when they saw him.
"Yo burro es tambourine, Senioritas!" Sam shouted as he passed the mariachis, complimenting them on their playing. The Mariachis launched into La Cucaracha even more robustly, as if to say "You're Welcome!" back to Sam. Sam approached a happy shopkeeper who loved his family. "Buenos dĂaz!" shouted the shopkeeper cheerily.
"Quesidillas!" responded Sam. This was truly his town. All of the townspeople loved him; they looked to him as a father, a brother, an uncle, or a stranger on the street, depending on their individual inclinations. And the small children who played in the streets looked to him as if he were their father. Maybe he was, the subject had never really been broached.
Had it really been nine months since it all happened? It seemed impossible. To Sam it seemed more like seven. Seven short months since everything had gone down stateside, since his wife left him standing at the altar when they were supposed to be renewing their wedding vows, and he later found out from a sex tape he found in the VCR that she had left him for his best friend, Ted Spencer. What really hurt the most was that Sam had advised his friend to go for it, not realizing that the extramarital affair Ted was describing involved Sam's own wife. An irony bitter like vitamin pills. Seven months since he'd lost his job, refusing to toe the line with his company's vow of silence concerning the CEO's home telephone number.
"Buenos Nachos!" Sam greeted a group of young Mexican women who were weaving a rug. They smiled back, warmed by Sam's subtle charms and the beans they had been eating for lunch.
Sam fixed his gaze upon the most beautiful of the young Mexican women, a white-eyed beauty named Maria Conchita Consuelo Alonzo Montalvo Garcia Esteban Rodriguez-Gutierrez. "Oy," Sam said to her with a smile, flashing his expensively acid-bleached pearly white things. "Mai yabbos es frito bandito," he continued, laying the charm on thick like butter on a tortilla.
"Usted está bloqueando la luz," beautiful Maria CCAMGERG replied. Sam knew then that she was his for the taking, her delicate Spanish flower would open for him and him only. But he had to do this the right way, for in this foreign culture a woman's honor was all she had. For her there would be no cheap wine and horse tranquilizers, not like those street boys in Mexico City. No, this was a Mexican creature of rare grace and dignity. This would require some paper plates and a bottle of Electric Reindeer, at the least.
Just then a young man approached Sam, casually brandishing a machete big enough to hack the nuts off a cashew tree.
"¿Por qué usted está hablando con mi esposa?" he shouted in Sam's general direction.
"I know just how to handle this," Sam thought to himself. "Hola, mi amigo! Menudo la bamba soy capitan!" he said, tucking his penis back into his trousers.   |
