New Osama bin Laden Video Shooting Up Charts

January 21, 2002

Daisycutter, CT

Anna Basil/AP

Osama b. illin'

he latest video from self-styled "gangsta wrapped in a bedsheet" Osama bin Laden appears to be the most successful offering yet from his recent album. Produced and directed by Mullah Omar tha Hit Maker, from 2001's "Ol' Dirty bin Laden in da Hizzouse," the video, "Don'tcha Fuck wit Ma Allah," is the third single to chart. It is now in heavy rotation on VH1, has been shown many times on that network's popular Pop Up Video program, and is number one with a bullet on Al Jazeera's afternoon show, Fundamentalist Dance Party. It is also rumored that a twenty-second clip of the video was aired on MTV at approximately 4 AM Tuesday of last week, but those rumors could not be confirmed at the time we went to press.

Following on the heels of the first two singles from "...in da Hizzouse," this latest single promises to make it his most successful album ever, and could garner him a nomination for Comeback Artist of the Year.

Not many people would have predicted that when the first video from the album was released. "Wha' da 911?" suffered from poor production values, and many critics thought it ran overlong, causing viewers to quickly lose interest in the muddy sound mix. The second video, "I Ain't Dead Yet, Bitch," showed more promise, but topped out at number 37 on the charts and disappeared after just a few short weeks. "Don'tcha Fuck wit Ma Allah" appears to have staying power the first two singles lacked.

There are some dissenting voices, however. On the East Coast, especially, a few insiders who preferred to remain anonymous commented that "his shit is dead, man, it ain't fresh." In response, noted Marin County, California, critic John Walker Lindh was quoted as saying "That Al Qaeda beat is funky stupid, dawg, and Osama is Playa Numbah One. It's phat, it's phresh, it's... uh... it's phluffy. You can totally dance to it."

This album marks only the second release for bin Laden since his move to Al Qaeda Mob Records. The first effort, 1993's "Truck Bombin' NYC," failed to generate much critical acclaim, and dropped out of sight soon after its release due to poor sales. Prior to that, it had been a number of years since any product had been put out at all. In the late '80s and early '90s, bin Laden collaborated with former U.S. president George H. W. Bush (the one that was actually elected) in a series of forgettable albums for the now-troubled label CIA Assassin Records and Wiretaps. Their most notable release was titled "Tha Enemy of Ma Muthafuckin' Enemy," and prominently featured Bush, performing under the name Pukeface Killah GH-Dub, with his minor hit, "Nitty Ditty Gritty Big Bird." Bin Laden's contribution to that song was the turntable-scratching and chanted background chorus, "Yo, muthafuckah, yo muthafuckah, yo muthafucka, yo." The only other song from that mix to chart at all was a cover of Tone Loc's "Funky Cold Medina."

the commune news wishes to go on, like a blister in the sun. Bludney Plud doesn't suffer from self-esteem issues, he revels in them. With a revel yell, he cries "More, more, more."

Kidnapped journalist mysteriously rescued by Superman

Stern label warning to remind people piracy is illegal

Several Newscasters Fired for Reporting Death of Don Ho

Use of Term "Gaydar" Most Effective Means of Telling Someone's Gay

March 18, 2002

At Least Your Last Name's Not Fagerbakke

º Last Column: Way to Cock Up My Birthday Party, Grandpa
º more columns

Over the course of my life, any time I've had a gripe about the way things were going or if I had things that I thought were unfair, my mom was always there to remind me that there are people out there who have it worse off than me. No matter what your problem is, there's always some poor S.O.B. out there whose wretched existence made yours look like a complimentary trip to a Bangkok whorehouse.

My mom's the undisputed master of this line of reasoning. No matter what happened when I was growing up, she always had some reason why I should be happy about it. Any time I took the guys to meet Mr. Bike Frame after riding my Huffy into a gopher hole or a curb or something, while I was on the ground in the fetal position, writhing in pain, she always reminded me that at least I didn't have spinal meningitis. I'm not kidding! Needless to say, that's not the kind of thing a guy wants to hear when he's just had his family jewels knocked back into his earlobes, so I spent a large portion of my childhood years sucking on a bar of Ivory soap.

But she never faltered. Your dog got hit by a car? That's a piece of cake compared to having cystic fibrosis. Pulled a 300 on the SATs? That'd make your day if you had hooks for hands. I don't know where she got half that shit. Every once in a while I'd catch her blatantly making something up, like the time in Jr. High when I got kicked in the nuts by a mule and she told me it was better than having Herkemer's Syndrome. I asked her what the hell that was and she just muttered something vague about having your bones itch and said I didn't want to know the details.

To be perfectly honest, I never really appreciated my mother's philosophy when I was growing up; actually I thought she was sick in the head. But now that I'm older I'm really starting to understand where she was coming from. It's taken me a long time to find my purpose in life, but now I think I've really found it. I'm here to remind people that no matter what kind of foul shit is going down in their own lives, hey, at least their last name isn't Fagerbakke.

You don't even have to know a thing about be, beyond my name, to know that I didn't have an easy time of it growing up. All my life, I've been like some kind of nickname magnet. You can try to surprise me with something new, but I'd advise you to save your breath, I promise I've heard them all: Froggerhockey, Fan-of-Balki, Faggotbacon, Fag-bot, Fuckerbacker, Fingerbecky, Shag-her-buddy, Fizzledick, Dr. Lousy Lay, Sir Fucksafreshman, Tommy Hatesajew, Dildo on Wheels, The Cunnilinguist, Tom the Racist Wonder, Tommy Comesponge, Mr. Nazi-cock, Tommy Two-Minutes, Tommy Knockmeup, The Back-door Bandit, Tom Thumbs-a-stranger, Tommy Inchwormâ€¦ the list goes on and on. I'm sure I'm forgetting some good ones, too, you can email my mom if you want the complete list.

The point is, I got stuck with the Spruce Goose of bad last names. And for a long time I thought that was a curse, you know? But now I realize it's a blessing. Just like how Superman got super-powers and used them to help out humanity when it got in a pinch, Tom Fagerbakke got a super-shitty last name and he's going to use it to raise humanity's spirits. No matter who's pissing on your parade or what kind of crap life is trying to pull, all you have to do is stop and reflect on the fact that your last name isn't Fagerbakke, and that kind of puts it all in perspective. Sure, maybe your wife left you for your boss and your mom joined a cult and your son just got into Weird Al Yankovic, but you know, at least you're still doing pretty good in the last name department. So maybe everything isn't as bad as it seems, right? Feel better?

No need to thank me, it's the work I was born to do.

º Last Column: Way to Cock Up My Birthday Party, Grandpa
º more columns

May 28, 2007

Lobbying for the 368-Day Weekend

º Last Column: Rain, Rain, Go Straight to Hell
º more columns

Once again we are celebrating the best kind of weekend, good people—a 4-day weekend. Is there anything better in the great scheme of things than having to work one day less than usual. Of course. There's the 4-day weekend. Praise be to whatever genius created this thing, having only three days of actual work at my job before another, if somewhat disappointingly short weekend, comes around. And there's always that one week when the commune was shut down for Red Bagel's circumcision—that was a sort of gloomy vacation, but the kid survived and our fearless editor was cleared of all charges. Still, I have an idea that will blows your socks all the way up to your hands so you look like a lazy puppeteer: The 368-day weekend.

Are you aware that 2007 ends on a Monday? Good people, this gives us an amazing opportunity to demonstrate that America still knows how to have fun. Let us take that weekend before the last Monday in 2007 and start the longest weekend the world has ever seen. A 368-day weekend! I'm not joking, I wouldn't even know how to joke about something like that, I take my weekends far too seriously. Do you know how many barbecues you could have in 368 days? How many exhibitions of dangerous fireworks? How many days you could mow the lawn, shirtless, enticing the female neighbors? Just think about all the nights you could stay up researching bus tickets to Albany until 3 in the morning, carefree about the stack of work waiting for you on your desk back at that miserable office?

Believe me, I love my job. If it wasn't for my job, I would feel I lacked definition, and had no purpose in the world. It's doing whatever it is I do that makes me who I am. Still, that aside, it's a soul-sucking, worthless, abysmal darkness having to work day-in, day-out. It saps the very will to live out of me thinking of the things I love in my life and how I can't do any of them because I have to spend 40 hours a week performing some bullshit function to keep our crass commercial society steaming along, crushing the innocent under its tracks. So nothing perks me up like a long weekend! And a 368-day weekend would be the longest ever.

Imagine: You leave from work on the evening of December 29, 2007 (and it's been a wonderfully short Christmas week anyway) and you return on Thursday, January 1, 2009. Wait—coming back to work on New Year's Day? I don't think so! By necessity, this plan has to be a 369-day weekend! Good Snapple, this plan keeps getting better by the minute! 369 days it is.

I'm not blind to the practical difficulties of such a plan. I'm well aware that if the banks don't function in 2008, if the farmers don't grow food and the grocers don't stock it, if the power company just shuts down for the entire year, it might cause a less-than-enjoyable weekend. I say bullocks! Which is British for bullshit. Whenever I have a long weekend I can just do a few columns ahead of time, or play catch up when I get back. Why don't we do that? Everybody stock up all the food you can in December 2007, and buy a lot of batteries and gasoline generators. I have a laptop with a battery, so I should still be able to get on the computer. But who wants to? It's a weekend! This prettyboy's not working for the weekend.

Forget the dreary drag of the office, let go of that boring drive to work every day— we can hold the presidential election in 2009. The president can't do the country any more damage if we're all at home watching The A-Team on TV Land. All I'm saying is think about it, Americans. I just might go ahead and take the "long weekend" myself if no one else wants to do it. Feel free to stop by the regal Finger estate to see my wife, Ginger, sunning in the deck chairs and good ol' Rok himself mowing the lawn. Check out my pecs.

º Last Column: Rain, Rain, Go Straight to Hell
º more columns

Milestones

1921: Underground rumor begins that Lil Duncan, to be born in 50 years, will like the kinky stuff.

Now Hiring

Deaf Mute. Duties include standing around, accepting blame for assorted office mishaps, and listening to Ramrod Hurley's stories about the one time he went fishing. Antidepressant prescription a plus.

Funniest Fake Names Read Aloud on Nightline

1.	Tad Shitbetter
2.	Grant Goodeve
3.	Phil Shitbetter, beloved brother of Tad
4.	Ho Chi Minh
5.	Royster Culpepper Ottowa Fantastic III

North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie

BY Roland McShyster

11/10/2003

Greetings, potential moviegoers, and welcome back to another week of Roland McShyster's Entertainment Police. We're back with our usual look at what Hollywood's hit with the car this week, and will do our best to jot down the license plate numbers of those responsible before the perpetrators can peel out off into the night. So without further undo ado, let's peek between our fingers at this week's movies.

In Theaters

Bastard Commander: The Far Side of the World

Honk if you're tired of seeing movies that try to make the Cobra Commander into a sympathetic character. We all know he had some kind of motivation, like all the other kids made fun of him back in grade school because he had a lisp, etc. But what Hollywood producers don't understand is that the whole point of the character is that he's just a bad guy and a jerk, and he doesn't have any kind of special gun to shoot so he's lame anyway. Those same producers called in Russell Crowe to try and recreate the white-wash job he did on insane folk-rocker Graham Nash in A Beautiful Mime, and he does his best here but it's hard to act much through a big chrome motorcycle helmet. The film is also hampered by the bizarre decision to tie characters from Gary Larson's The Far Side comic strip universe into the action. This might have been a stroke of genius in another film, but in this one the infant goes cartwheeling out the window the second a guy shows up with a gun that shoots Doberman pincer dogs. It all goes surreally downhill from there, as the film is overrun by giant talking cockroaches and ostriches wearing neckties. There were a couple of funny bits toward the end, but it turned out those were all from Far Sides I'd missed on the days my bastard next-door neighbor stole the paper.

Brother Bear

Kudos to Disney for showing some class in naming their latest animated manifesto Brother Bear, which is far more P.C. than calling him a "Black Bear," an offensive term racist scientists have been using for years. And it's a welcome turn of events after the debacle of Disney's last animated shocker, Black Hotties Acting Naughty, which was a box-office disappointment and was way too stingy with the cheesecake. Brother Bear tells the story of an African-American bear's struggle to earn respect on the street, or whatever the woodland equivalent of the street is. The clearing, whatever. Word on the street is that Brother Bear will be Disney's final traditionally-animated feature, I'm not sure if that means all their movies in the future will be done like Dr. Katz or what, but I'm game for the change. The current popularity of CGI animated films has proven amply that computers are where it's at, even if it is a lot harder to draw with a mouse. But apparently there are some guys over in Korea or somewhere who can do it, so cool.

Good Boy!

Sitting through political docudrama about George W. Bush's first 600 days in office, bankrolled by his right-wing supporters and corporate backers? Yeah, that sounds a lot better than having my nuts cut off with a weed whacker.

Looney Tunes: Back Door Action

If ever a film disturbed me to my very core as a human being, while brutally assaulting my faith in humanity, it was Baby Geniuses. But Looney Tunes: Back Door Action is number two with a bullet, and it has its eyes on the prize. While I understand that Warner Bros. has been under pressure to keep up with Disney's deteriorating morals these last several years, there is such a thing as going too far, and this time they went too far and a half. If I wanted to watch cartoons having sex, I'd move to Japan, thank you very much.

The Matrix Restitutions

It really warms my heart to see those Matrix-happy bastards finally getting what they had coming. After tricking fans of the original Matrix into sitting through the painfully unwatchable The Matrix Reloaded, which was about as much fun as watching somebody else play a video game for two hours, the Wacowski's chickens have finally come home to roost. With some guidance from the U.N. Film Crimes tribunal, the courts ordered the Wacowskis to make The Matrix Restitutions as a third "we're sorry" film to fulfill the community service portion of their sentence. The resulting movie tells the story of two comic book geeks who get into directing and score a surprise sci-fi hit, only to lose all sense of perspective and turn out a disgustingly convoluted and pompous sequel, which prompts a violent fan backlash against the brothers themselves. The courts ordered the Wacowskis to put hundreds of Matrix fans through kung-fu and wire-stunt training to make the spectacular vigilante mayhem of Restitutions believable, and it was money well-spent. The result is both satisfying and unintentionally hilarious, in a "pasty white gimp kung-fu" kind of way. And the best part of Restitutions? None of the guys get naked, and Keanu keeps his hard drive docked the whole time. Hallelujah.

The Texas Chain Store Massacre

One of my prime arguments against letting women direct movies has always been that it would eventually lead to tons of horrible movies about menstrual bleeding and shopping. Well, the first part of my prophecy came true a lot sooner than the second, but the second apocalyptic horseman has just pulled into town. While I'm sure it was very exciting if you were there in person, watching a movie about a really bitchin' sale at an outlet mall in Texas and some ladies who made an absolute killing on discounted home furnishings is one of my personal red flags that I've somehow ended up in a Turkish prison against my will.

Well, that's about all the nuts you can stuff into this squirrel's cheeks this week, gents and gentinas. Here's hoping the day's treating you well and that little claymation dude from the old Dominos Pizza commercials isn't chasing you all around, because man would that suck. Adios!