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.

"Phil had a real talent for being misunderstood as more profound than he really was," explained Flaggart's late wife, Lucious. "I remember that night, and what Phil said was 'That picture's worth a thousand bucks,' referring to a blurry Polaroid he carried around that was supposedly a picture of Farrah Fawcet's left tit."

Flaggart fans remain undeterred, however.

"Don't even talk to his wife," sneered Tudd. "She's never been a pro-Flaggart."

Lucious Flaggart retells a similar story about another famous saying attributed to her late husband, "In the future, everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes."

"He was standing in line for a movie in New York, and Andy Warhol overheard him say what he thought was 'In the future, everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes,' a line which Warhol then stole for himself. Luckily for Andy, he didn't hear what Phil actually said: that in about fifteen years, miniature furniture was going to be really popular. Phil never knew what he was talking about. He was drinking a lot back then, too."

Whether Flaggart was a genius or a boob, he's definitely dead now, a fact upon which even the pro-Flaggarts and the Flaggart-doubters can agree.

"Dead, misunderstood genius," summarized Tudd.

"Dead moron," disagreed a solemn Eugene Frits, a leading Flaggart-doubter and roommate to Dennis Tudd.

"Maybe he was autistic, you ever think of that?" retorted Tudd, just before the interview grew ugly.

"Maybe you should kiss my ass and do your own dishes for once, buttfuzz," explained an agitated Frits, moments before this reporter ducked out the fire escape to the sound of breaking dishes, heeding the Flaggartism about getting the fuck out while the getting the fuck out is good.

Controversial Rockwell Painting Found in Collection of War Criminal Spielberg

Giuliani Woos Conservative Base By Killing Arab

Bush Admonishes Tornado’s Cut and Run Policy

OH MY GOD SNOW

Dear Commune:

You have my phone number. You, the commune. You need to call the phone company and straighten this out. I've had the same phone number for 42 years and I'm NOT about to give it up. Thank you.

Agnes Knutson
Bromade, NJ


Dear Agnes:

We here at the commune are very sorry to hear that your life has become interesting in a way that makes you mildly uncomfortable. Obviously, we'll call the phone company right away and make sure they restore to you the number you've earned by staying in the same miserable place for your entire life. Pssssh! Right! You can stuff it up your ass with the nice old lady act, lady. We here at the commune pay our bills, biiiiatch, and if you see fit to bring your mess all up in our shit again you will be introduced to some mad hurtin'. Damn. Also, tell your withered old biddy friends to stop calling here, they keep kicking us off the Internet.

the commune

---

Editor's Note: the commune is not responsible for anything we got your kids to eat. Lengthy precedent has established that U.S. courts consider a triple dog dare to be legally binding.

º Last Column: Volume 29
º more columns

Well, well, well, if it isn't Boguslaw Sadowski—actually, it is. Or someone who looks incredibly like him.

That's correct, good people, my old nemesis, 40 years my junior, has returned: Boguslaw Sadowski. Also known as "the mad Russian," when he gets extremely pissed off. He may not actually be Russian, but I'm not here to argue semites. All I know is he's my arch-enemy and the stakes in this game of me vs. the mob are raised considerably.

You may remember Boguslaw Sadowski posed as a woman on the internet and tricked me into paying for his flight over here from Eurasia—at least you might remember it if it happened to you. He broke my heart that day. I was all set to meet the most unconventionally beautiful woman of my life and make her my bride, only to find out I had been conned by one of the best. Sure, things work out for the better in the long run, and I met my darling Felchyana, which brings me to my current mixed-up with the mob existence. So maybe things work out for the best only to backslide into the territory of terminally fucked up once again.

But I'm rambling, which is unlike me. What's important is that although ostensibly nothing has changed, things have changed considerably. In addition to trying to find a way out of new mob family and still keep my new wife, I now have my latest worst enemy breathing down my neck.

Boguslaw is unattractive—large and burly, a pock-marked face, iron jaw, slick jet-black hair parted down the middle and a nose worn away by years of fisticuffs. The same features I found so attractive when I thought him a woman are now reprehensible and threatening. He is what the ancient Greeks meant when they coined the phrase, "a man not to be fucked with."

I wish I had that luxury. And a speedboat. But time is slippin' into the future and I'm running short on ideas. As if things weren't bad enough, now in addition to finding a way to take out Yogi and the rest of the ambiguously Russian mafia, I must contend with the world's most intimidating 5-foot noseless mobster.

I sought out Omar Bricks' advice, being something of a young ruffian himself, and I believe what he said was quite true: "A man can only be pushed so far until he explodes like a mailbox full of gunpowder." That wasn't so much his advice to me on the situation as it was a warning of what would happen if I kept bothering him for advice. But it's as true in our time as it was in his, yesterday afternoon just before happy hour.

It's clear I will have to act, and with extreme prejudice and racial epithets. But like a thick scab, I must pick my moment. Camembert is already on board, and has guaranteed he will "fight like a crazed rabbit if you drag me into this." Whether he was directing the fighting at me or our common enemy, I'm not sure, but when push comes to shove, Camembert will roll in on my side, if I push him in that direction.

My current thought is to make allies with the, let's say, "Russian" mafia while awaiting Lee's return. When Lee comes back, with his kung-fu grip and sizzling bass lines, I will finally have the backup I need to challenge Yogi for leadership of the mob. Not that I necessarily want to be a mob leader, but I've heard stories like this before—hearty and sincere white people forcing their way into gangs, taking them over, and using them as a tool for good. And if I had a Coolio song to back me up, I could even make it into a box office hit. But first thing's first.

Step one: Bide my time. Step two: Gather a bad-ass army. Step three: Challenge for leadership of the tribe. Step four: Make a hit motion picture with a best-selling soundtrack. Step five: Stop telling all my secret plans in my nationally web-published column. But that's a consideration for a more peaceful time.

º Last Column: Not My Bag, Man
º more columns