New Osama bin Laden Video Shooting Up Charts

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."

Popular TV Clown Robertson Delivers Weekly Outrageous Banter

Nation’s Three Remaining Liberals Turn to Humor to Survive

Arizona Border Patrol Installing Landmines

Eminem, Ex-Wife Reunite to Work on New Material

Few would deny we're living in troubled times: gas is really expensive, the air is polluted and you can't sleep with a hippie these days without hearing about alternative energy. Though most still tune out at the mention of windmills or crystal meth, others are fed up with shelling out at the pump or dealing with a collapsed lung on their morning run. And many are starting to think this alternative energy talk might be more than just the price you pay for a night of free love. So what the hell is it, and why hasn't Ben Affleck been in a movie about it yet? Good question.

Contrary to popular belief, the world hasn't always run on gasoline and Mini Thins. A countless array of fuels have gone in and out of favor over the course of history. Early man preferred to use dirt as fuel, even though it wouldn't burn, because he liked that it was soft and brown. With advances in science, humanity moved on to wood, coal, and witches for its energy-burning needs.

Eventually, man discovered that he was crapping up the planet by running around and burning things in hopes of making his life easier. This didn't concern man much, he actually thought it was kind of cool, but woman was pretty pissed about it and nagged man into searching for alternative non-polluting energy sources. And by this she didn't mean that smelly old donkey he'd had since he was a kid and wouldn't get rid of because it had hilariously large nuts.

In the fourteenth century, Dutchman Happy Goetner made a name for himself as a major proponent of "rainbow power" and was soon after stoned to death for being silly. This setback to the cause of alternative energy was only temporary, however, and Goetner became a martyr for generations of quasi-scientific flaky dreamers everywhere.

The first windmills were built solely to lure in monsters, who could then be burnt to death in a dramatic fashion by bored villagers, and they served this purpose well for hundreds of years. Then, in 1681, townsfolk chased a monster to his supposed doom only to discover that it was just "Big Ed" Chuntrock, the ugliest man in five counties but a hell of a nice guy and pretty decent at horseshoes. After the misunderstanding was straightened out, and Ed forgave the townsfolk for burning down his house, hanging his wife, raping his cat and cutting off one of Ed's own ears with a six-foot-long saw, the village was stuck with a windmill and nobody to burn to death inside it. Thankfully for all, it was soon after discovered that the windmill was also useful for grinding corn and beans, and fans of bean-powder sandwiches danced the night away.

Bean-powder sandwiches fell out of popularity along with farting in the 1930's, and today windmills are used primarily to generate electricity. The machinations of this process are highly complex, with local residents pledging a certain dollar amount for each time the windmill's blades go around, much like a charity AIDS walk, and these funds are used to buy coal to generate electricity. While windmills are considered by some to be an inefficient source of energy, others love to watch the blades spin when they're drunk.

The 1960's saw a rising public interest in flower power and pyramid power, neither of which turned out to be a feasible energy source on a national scale. A scientist from Berkeley named Johan Bertelbong did develop a car that ran off flower combustion, but the thing took so many flowers to run it was like some kind of Dr. Seuss nightmare, and Bertelbong was soon kicked out of Northern California for fucking up the scenery. He was last scene driving slowly out of the region in his flower car, followed by an enormous swarm of bees.

In the 1970's, many pinned their hopes on solar power, until it was discovered that a square mile of solar panels in the Mojave Desert only produced enough electricity to run a small handheld calculator for four minutes. Solar panels are still in use as a fashion statement on the roofs of many flaky liberal dwellings, and proponents argue that they can still be used to heat a small home if you take the metal parts out and use them as skylights.

Many consider hydrogen to be the fuel of the future, and doubters should remember that hydrogen is the magic fuel that made the Hindenburg burn so brightly. Most agree that it'll only be a matter of time before our cars are hydrogen-powered, which will go a long way toward making every day like an exciting video game, with cars blowing up all around you because a leaf landed on somebody's hood or a careless motorist ran over a lollipop stick. Could this really be the future? Shit yes.

But until that day, it's up to us to keep the planet clean. So the next time you're thinking of burning a big, smelly stack of coal to meet your energy needs, remember alternative energy and see if you can get a non-polluting hippie to do the work for you instead.

º Last Column: The Most Embarrassing Celebrity Scandal Ever
º more columns

I don’t even know where to start, bizarrely loyal commune fans.

Much like when you attempt to make a casserole, it’s tempting to try and trace the thread back and discover where exactly you went wrong. Was it when you added the pickles? Was it when you had the idea to make a casserole in the first place? Was it when the NSA kicked your front door down and dragged Ivan Nacutchacokov screaming and flailing out into the night?

Some pundits would surely argue that inviting Crochet! magazine to set up shop in my mother’s attic was asking for trouble. Due to simultaneous downturns in the publishing and Kleenex box cozy industries as well as rising insurance premiums, Crochet had lost their lease on their Assflush, New Jersey offices, which they’d moved to a few years ago without leaving a forwarding address after Omar Bricks somehow burnt down their office in Asslatch. Some mom’s-basement-dwelling conspiracy theorists (I don’t mean that as a dig, I mean they literally live in my mom’s basement and work for the commune) argued that Bricks couldn’t have burnt down the Asslatch offices since he was in jail in Panama at the time.

But all reliable witnesses tell the same story, that Crochet! received an anonymous package in the mail that turned out to be a huge box of annoying glitter that got absolutely everywhere, and that the glitter somehow combined with the seven gallons of elephant shit Bricks had previously mailed to Crochet!, forming some kind of prank napalm. All it took was a spark from the teddy bear Omar had delivered a week later that sang Happy Birthday to You in a loud, high pitched voice over and over nonstop for a week before melting down and catching on fire, igniting the napalm and Crochet!’s huge stash of crocheted shawls, baby hats, coasters and old lady slippers they were holding onto in case of a governmental crackdown or the endtimes. Needless to say, the resulting fire was huge and weird and didn’t smell very good.

As possibly the world’s only commune/Crochet! fandom dual-citizen, I couldn’t pass on the once-in-anyone’s-lifetime-ever chance to rescue both of my favorite publications and quickly dispatched a singing telegram to invite the Crochet! staffers to share space with my mom’s horrific doll collection in the attic. No one was more surprised than I was when they accepted, especially since it violated several restraining orders Crochet! themselves had filed. But the promise of free rent and Raoul Dunkin’s lawn pit BBQ proved to be too much to resist.

Some opinionated commenters have suggested that I upset the natural balance of things by having Crochet! in the attic and the commune in the basement, reversing the long-standing tradition of Crochet! being the commune’s "asshole downstairs neighbors" as the entire commune staff continued to call them even after months of them living and working two floors above. And I was constantly reminded of how this messed up Griswald Dreck’s famous rhyme "Crochet! on bottom and commune on top, fuck you Aesop!" which everyone loved even though nobody was sure which fable he was referencing. But, frankly this arrangement just made more sense since the commune staff were constantly burying their various mistakes in the crawlspace under my basement and I knew if I put the commune in the attic, all of those mail-order brides and dead Pomeranians would just get shoved out the window and end up on my lawn.

And besides, there was always the buffer of the main floor of the house between the two staffs, an air gap full of my mom and Doug having sex that even I hated to cross. I figured that would be enough, but of course it’s obvious now this was like stuffing a wolverine and a Kardashian in a sack and expecting things to work themselves out.

Honestly, things did go pretty smoothly for the first few months, a few driveway knife fights notwithstanding. It took a little while to get the Crochet! folks up to speed on how to deal with Ivana Folger-Balzac since they weren’t used to dealing with psychopaths, but before long they were dropping into the fetal position on the ground like pros the second she pulled into the driveway on one of her frequent visits in hopes of getting someone to slip up and give up Ivan’s whereabouts. They also adjusted well to the conga line of bill collectors and process servers constantly flowing up the front steps all day, and if you ask me in their time here they published some of their strongest special issues on potholders and cat diapers ever.

But then, of course, Omar Bricks found us. Say what you will about him, but that guy’s Crochet!-dar is impeccable. He never actually finished a column while he was here, I think mostly because he was so busy making Crochet!’s life completely miserable, to the glee of the rest of the commune staff. Those few weeks are kind of a blur in my memory, I remember Omar replacing all the fruit roll-ups with fly paper, and replacing their toilet seat with a thin paper replica. At some point he’d got a whole case of tiny walkie talkies at Costco and proceeded to install them in all of my mom’s horrific dolls in the attic. You haven’t been woken up until you’ve been woken up by 57 deeply disturbing porcelain dolls singing Sex Dwarf at 4 in the morning. But the last straw was when Omar asked the Crochet! staffers to watch his dog Foghat while he went to Burning Man. I know that sounds kind of anti-climactic but trust me, that attic was uninhabitable within 48 hours and I had to call FEMA after the hardiest survivors from the Crochet! staff had cleared out.

I must apologize commune readers, but the thought of all those Crochet! staffers flocking to the bus stop with their little crocheted suitcases and beanies is a little too much for one Emil Zender to bear just this moment. Check back in next week, brave friends, and we’ll bring the rest of this tale home.

Zincerely,
Emil Zender

º Last Column: Return to Zender (Week 50)
º more columns