BENSON WINS!

t long last the recount is over, and former Lt. Governor Benson DuBois has been named Governor of the state in which he resides, which could not be ascertained at press time.

Patient voters in the state have waited since 1986 for the new Governor to be named, when Benson DuBois, former Lt. Governor of the state, ran a "very close race" against the state's incumbent Governor James Gatling, whom he had worked under since fall of 1979. The two were very close friends over the years, which made the race very comedic for all, with moments of poignant drama.

"This has been a long, trying time for us all," DuBois said in a press conference in the state capitol yesterday. "Fortunately, before the results were announced, the Governor and I reflected fondly on all the capers we've had since our debut in politics and have pledged to support the winner, who we can now safely say is me. Now if that lunkhead Clayton and the people will agree to do the same, we can move this great state forward into the next millenium."

Benson, as he is commonly known, has delighted audiences of political candidacies everywhere with his rags-to-riches tale that is almost too lucky to be believed. Starting off as the Governor's butler in 1979, he is frequently suspected to have played a major role in all aspects of state policy and concerns. Eventually Benson was appointed Lt. Governor, where his role in politics increased even as situations became even wackier. Benson has also given back to the community, teaching his illiterate basketball star nephew how to read and educating the Governor's daughter on the dangers of sneaking out to go to a rock concert.

The new Governor-Elect is expected to appoint major state positions in the next few weeks, including Gretchen Krause as the Secretary of Staying the Hell Out of My Face. When pressed for comment, the Governor-Elect would not disclose what state he presides over.

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Dear commune:

Aren’t you just tired of all this bullshit?

Reggie Shaw
Dove Plains, GA


Dear Reggie:

We know exactly what you’re talking about. Those fussy pricks downstairs at Crochet! magazine need to be put in their goddamned place. First they have the gall to involve the police in our staff’s hallowed Annual Pogo Stick Race semifinals. We here at the commune may be a passionate bunch, given to boisterous arguments and cataclysmic displays of machismo, but we’ve never been unable to resolve our own pogo race photo finish disputes among ourselves. Sure, small-arms fire is sometimes involved, but cooler heads and Russian Roulette always prevail.

And speaking of meddling, who are they to say who can and who can’t keep livestock in the building’s common areas? They automatically assume it’s the commune’s goats that have been shitting in the elevator. As if their staff is above suspicion. The pricks.

Anyway, thanks for understanding. Sometimes the commune just needs to vent.

the commune

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Editor’s Note: the commune is not responsible for those embarrassing Capri pants all the girls are wearing these days. We’re guessing a sauna mishap was responsible for those ridiculous things. But we do look forward to making snide remarks when we’re looking at photo albums ten years from now, just for the record.

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The first tornado, or "dizzy wind," was reported in ancient Sumer in 4914 B.C.. The Sumerian king returned home from an afternoon pillage one day to find his castle in total disarray, with royal garments strewn everywhere and the court musicians stuck up in a tree. He called upon the court scientists, who declared it the work of an ungodly natural phenomena caused by God's drunken uncle Blitzen. Later it was discovered that the king's ex-wife had been over that day and had caused the whole thing as usual, so the king had the court scientists tarred, feathered and cooked in a terrible big pot pie. And while he was at it he had the royal ex-wife beheaded again, since it apparently didn't take the first time.

When the Renaissance came along and slept on the world's couch longer than anyone would have liked, all sorts of half-assed thinkers came out of the woodwork to declare that they had the answers to all of nature's mysteries, like why sticks are pointy and why a dropped donut always falls in poop. For a while it was funny, but before too long people were longing for the Dark Ages again, when you could be ostracized, killed and buggered (in that order) for talking about anything other than how nice the weather was.

But unfortunately for fans of involuntary necrophilia, the Renaissance eventually led to the modern age, with its own host of superstitions and scientific old wives' tales. Modern scientists explained that twisters were actually caused when high-powered attorneys ran into the front of low-pressure salesmen, resulting in a fun party game with a spinner. People never really believed that, but the spinner was so much fun that few saw fit to question the philosophy behind it.

To this day, a goodly proportion of the superstitious masses still believe in the tornado, this mythical "wind beast" that can pick up an entire trailer park at once and deposit it in a better part of town with no warning, even if they're just about to say who gets to marry the millionaire. Wild-eyed true believers tell fantastic tales of tornadoes that can blow a piece of straw through an oak tree or even drag a needle through Tipper Gore's ass.

Hollywood has done much to play into the public's ignorant fears, creating computer-generated tornadoes so real you'd swear they really were the bane of hayseeds from Kansas to Oklahoma. The Helen Hunt drama Twister won many a convert to the cult of the tornado, even though the film's credits spell out exactly who was responsible for the digital sleight-of-hand in large font. Many remember seeing the foam-rubber tornado in 1939's The Wizard of Oz as a child and have simply always assumed they were real. Others should know better, but there is little hope in arguing with someone who has a deep-seated need to believe in tornadoes.

Sadder still are the so-called tornado victims, who grab for headlines with vivid tales of the twister that took their truck, their house and their hometown. A sparse few have any kind of hard evidence, beyond some twisted wreckage and a town-shaped hole in the ground. Tornado hoaxes such as these have proliferated in recent years, as a deep need for contact with the supernatural has pushed many desperate people to the edge. A hilarious few claim to have been "taken" by the twister, up into its spinning winds, presumably to a magical land of merry-go-rounds, spinning tops and ice skaters twirling around perpetually like Lazy Susans.

Eventually there will come an enlightened age when we are free from such inane superstitions, but unfortunately it's not likely to happen until our alien creators come back and anal probe us into being smart.

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