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Australian Hijacker Thwarted, Drained of BloodJune 9, 2003 |
Melbourne, Australia Junior Bacon The plane in question, which this photographer ain't coming anywhere near man attacked two flight attendants with wooden stakes on a Qantas airlines flight between Melbourne and Tasmania Thursday, in an apparent attempt to storm the cockpit and crash the plane. The man was subdued by the flight crew and passengers, and subdued so violently that the entire cabin was drenched in vivid red gore after the incident.
According to reports, shortly after the flight took off from Melbourne the man stood, brandished both the wooden stakes and a large antique crucifix, and began to chant in an unknown tongue. When two flight attendants, a man in his 30s and a woman in her 20s, tried to explain to the man that the lavatory would be unoccupied shortly, he attacked both with the wooden stakes. Before he could drive the stakes through their breastplates and into ...
man attacked two flight attendants with wooden stakes on a Qantas airlines flight between Melbourne and Tasmania Thursday, in an apparent attempt to storm the cockpit and crash the plane. The man was subdued by the flight crew and passengers, and subdued so violently that the entire cabin was drenched in vivid red gore after the incident.
According to reports, shortly after the flight took off from Melbourne the man stood, brandished both the wooden stakes and a large antique crucifix, and began to chant in an unknown tongue. When two flight attendants, a man in his 30s and a woman in her 20s, tried to explain to the man that the lavatory would be unoccupied shortly, he attacked both with the wooden stakes. Before he could drive the stakes through their breastplates and into their cold flight-attending hearts, the assailant was quickly overwhelmed by passengers and crew, and according to some reports, drained of all his blood.
"This appears to be a premeditated attack, though not an act of terrorism," stated Transportation Minister John Anderson, a man so uptight his pants were almost sucked into his body by the vacuum created inside his ass.
"The assailant was one and the same, quite an unstable man of not-sane proclivities, given to unprovoked violence," continued Anderson at the half-assed press conference in Melbourne. "Though little is known now and it is far too early to determine his motivations, I think it is safe to say this incident had absolutely nothing to do with vampires."
The minister's comments were met with a confused silence, at which point he walked away from the podium with a seat cushion humorously stuck to his posterior.
Eyewitnesses reported seeing the assailant being led away by the authorities in Melbourne, appearing dazed and a ghostly pale white, yet strangely unweakened by the severe blood loss. His only comments to the press involved a mumbled desire to join the Qantas flight team in the future.
Qantas head Geoff Dixon explained how it was determined that the man planned on crashing the plane despite the fact that he never even made it into the cockpit. "It's simple, really. I mean, what the hell else was he going to do? Ask them to fly over his house and wave to the wife? I think not. The next thing I know you're going to be suggesting the entire Qantas crew are undead Nosferatu-types who sucked this chap dry like a juice box. Ha. Then you'd start insinuating all of Australia has been overrun by vampires, wouldn't you? That's a laugh. What a silly thing you could have said."
"It's clear this bloke was a, a what have you, an Alzheimers, you know, the terrorists, that bunch," said pilot Brett Myers, wiping a dribble of blood off his chin.
Once the flight turned around and landed back in Melbourne, outsiders to Australia were shocked by the violence with which the assailant had been subdued. However, such incidents are not uncommon in the nation, as last year on a Qantas flight an unruly passenger was kicked and stomped by fellow passengers and crew members for over 45 minutes after suggesting a cabin-wide sing along of tunes from Mary Poppins.
"We here in Australia look out for our own," said Dixon, allegedly referring to the passenger uprising but also eyeing this reporter's neck in a thoroughly creepy fashion. the commune news may not be undead, but we're untrained, unpaid and untrustworthy, and that's got to count for something. Ivan Nacutchacokov is the commune's foreign correspondent and had better get his ass into a tanning bed if he expects us to let him back in the building again.
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Drunk U.S. pilot still flies better than terrorists
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 October 13, 2003
A Shot to the Sweet SpotYou're reading a man who, by all rights, should be dead, good people. And I don't just mean according to the doctors who do my physical. A few days ago I came this close (indicate approximately a foot and a half) to death. So close I could smell its breath, and let's just say death could use a Certs.
The hand-indicated distance is a fair estimate of how close the bullet of Boguslaw Sadowski came to killing me. I shit you not, good people. Apparently the mad "Russian" misjudged my height by just enough, not doubt thanks to the cowboy boots I had been wearing all last week prior to the duel.
Luck alone should not get all the credit, my lack of modesty prohibits. I was somewhat of a tactical genius in the art of dueling, extremely good for my first time out. One brilliant tactical maneuver was using the slap with the dueling glove to put one of Boguslaw's eyes out of commission for the duration of the duel. As I predicted, it went to my benefit. Let's just say I planned it that way and avoid further examination.
And never let it be said the Moonwalk is good for nothing. I knew my weeks spent learning to dance would eventually come in handy, and Moonwalking during a duel is a very handy way to close the distance between you and an opponent. Bigmouth Camembert may have insisted it was cheating, in the interest of fair play, but Boguslaw's English is not the best, and I believe he thinks "cheating" is the fastest of the earth-bound...
º Last Column: Dueling Bandits º more columns
You're reading a man who, by all rights, should be dead, good people. And I don't just mean according to the doctors who do my physical. A few days ago I came this close (indicate approximately a foot and a half) to death. So close I could smell its breath, and let's just say death could use a Certs.
The hand-indicated distance is a fair estimate of how close the bullet of Boguslaw Sadowski came to killing me. I shit you not, good people. Apparently the mad "Russian" misjudged my height by just enough, not doubt thanks to the cowboy boots I had been wearing all last week prior to the duel.
Luck alone should not get all the credit, my lack of modesty prohibits. I was somewhat of a tactical genius in the art of dueling, extremely good for my first time out. One brilliant tactical maneuver was using the slap with the dueling glove to put one of Boguslaw's eyes out of commission for the duration of the duel. As I predicted, it went to my benefit. Let's just say I planned it that way and avoid further examination.
And never let it be said the Moonwalk is good for nothing. I knew my weeks spent learning to dance would eventually come in handy, and Moonwalking during a duel is a very handy way to close the distance between you and an opponent. Bigmouth Camembert may have insisted it was cheating, in the interest of fair play, but Boguslaw's English is not the best, and I believe he thinks "cheating" is the fastest of the earth-bound animals. In a way, that helped, too, because he was looking over his shoulders frantically when I fired my shot.
Never let it be said Rok Finger has no mercy, though. I would also appreciate it if you would make them quit calling me "queerbait." However, when it comes to the mercy, I had it in spades, as I only wounded Boguslaw with my shot. I attempted to aim for his heart, not because I'm such a bad shot, but because I knew it was the smallest target in the cruel bastard and I would most likely miss. Unfortunately, when I brought my gun up in my quick dueling manner, I did not realize how close in proximity we were, and fired my gun into his lower waist area. I believe "the goodies" is the medical term.
Well, let's just say he's not going to insult Rok Finger anymore. Not as a man, anyway. I even offered to go halfsies on his Swedish surgery, but he was too busy cursing in that Slavic language of his to appreciate it. Which is fine, more surgery for me.
The best part of all this was the respect I earned from Yogi, my whatever-in-law, Felchyana's cousin, and head of the vaguely-Russian mob. He complimented my unusual dueling tactics and said I fight like a Nazi, which is a good thing to them, I suppose. He slapped me on the back, and then when I tried to shoot him in the crotch, disarmed me, telling me he wanted me to save my strength to be a new lieutenant in his mob. Which is no small feat, as I did not know how to spell lieutenant before the promotion and had to look it up. I told him I would think it over, and promptly accepted, just to let him know who was boss. I'm not sure the point of it all, but it did keep him on his toes.
I know what you're thinking, good people: "But, Rok, how can you join the mob?" To which I say, fuck you. You've always been trying to keep me down. However, if you then said, "But, Rok, I mean, isn't it a moral quagmire at best? How do you feel about the idea of committing crimes after years of being an establishment tool?"
I respond, first, what's a quagmire? Then I thank you for your backhanded compliment, and admit I agree with you. What to do, good people? I have no doubt the mob is up to some less-than-legal activities. Now that I consider it, I'm not sure shooting a man in the jewels is completely on the up-and-up. I may already be on the slip-and-slide to hell. It is a question.
But don't give up on me yet, good people. I won the duel against all odds, maybe I'll be able to come out on top in the end after all. By the way, thanks all the same for all the funeral flowers and condolences sent to my home. I'll donate them to some dead people's charity. º Last Column: Dueling Banditsº more columns
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|  March 17, 2003
le bottom eyesTruth be told, I've never had any sexual dreams of any kind involving Prince. I know that's kind of surprising, since you assume most people have, but not me. Not that I think I'm above it or anything, or like I'd freak out and join the Marines or something if I did have one. I'd be cool with it. Just never had one.
I did once have a pretty crazy dream involving the B-52's and the cast of Sledge Hammer! in Waikiki. I wasn't in Waikiki at the time, but the dream was. That was pretty hot, in a vaguely disturbing kind of way. Weird to think I'm probably the only person on earth who gets aroused at the sight of David Rasche. Luckily it doesn't really come up that often.
Whenever you tell someone something like that (and if you haven't already, I'd probably recommend not telling anyone and avoiding the problem all together) usually they think that you're either (A) a pathological liar or (B) a pervert.
(A) Those are some mighty strong words for a guy wearing a fanny pack, compadre. If you're not careful, someone's going to stuff you into that thing and feed it to an elephant. Then you won't seem so smart. Not me, mind you. But most likely someone with access to elephants.
(B) Fuck you! Who are you calling a pervert? I've made much straighter guys than you look like pervs in comparison to me, dickcheese. And who printed you up a license to inflict your uptight sexual repressions on...  º Last Column: Farewell My Concubinesº more columnsTruth be told, I've never had any sexual dreams of any kind involving Prince. I know that's kind of surprising, since you assume most people have, but not me. Not that I think I'm above it or anything, or like I'd freak out and join the Marines or something if I did have one. I'd be cool with it. Just never had one.
I did once have a pretty crazy dream involving the B-52's and the cast of Sledge Hammer! in Waikiki. I wasn't in Waikiki at the time, but the dream was. That was pretty hot, in a vaguely disturbing kind of way. Weird to think I'm probably the only person on earth who gets aroused at the sight of David Rasche. Luckily it doesn't really come up that often.
Whenever you tell someone something like that (and if you haven't already, I'd probably recommend not telling anyone and avoiding the problem all together) usually they think that you're either (A) a pathological liar or (B) a pervert.
(A) Those are some mighty strong words for a guy wearing a fanny pack, compadre. If you're not careful, someone's going to stuff you into that thing and feed it to an elephant. Then you won't seem so smart. Not me, mind you. But most likely someone with access to elephants.
(B) Fuck you! Who are you calling a pervert? I've made much straighter guys than you look like pervs in comparison to me, dickcheese. And who printed you up a license to inflict your uptight sexual repressions on the rest of the world? You make me sick. People like you come across all high and mighty until it comes out that you either (a) like to dress up like giant stuffed animals or (b) masturbate to cooking shows.
(a) Ew is all I've got to say about that. I just hope you work for Disneyland or something because otherwise, Ew.
(b) What the fuck is up with the cooking shows? I mean, yeah, I understand about wanting to learn to make delicious shit, but when did it occur to you to take your pants off? Were you already jerking off when one came on and it just became a force of habit? I guess I could understand that, but it seems pretty unlikely. You'd have to be jerking off to whatever was on before the cooking show and that was most likely (I) a travel show about Syria or (II) a commercial for some kind of microwave bacon-cooking rack.
(I) Syria, really? Whatever floats your goat, man. Last time I checked there weren't any National Geographic chicks there walking around with their mama-mias hanging out, but I'll give you the benefit of the doubt that they were having some crazy fashion show or bikini calendar shoot there or something.
(II) Okay, you're either (i) fucking with me, or (ii) some special kind of "miracle of evolution" freak-ass.
(i) Good one.
(ii) I'd give you a medal, but you'd probably get it stuck up your ass. Stay the hell away from me.
º Last Column: Farewell My Concubinesº more columns
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Milestones1999: Raoul Dunkin's first play, The Touch of Love, is put on in the commune break room by giggling staff reporters who find it unguarded in Dunkin's desk.Now HiringPark Ranger. Duties include curtailing activities of bears, from large-haired picnic-basket stealing fun-lovin' bears to savage, towering vicious grizzly bears. Encountering bears is unlikely within the office, but your presence should finally shut up bear-phobic Ivana Folger-Balzac.Five Worst Blues Musicians Ever| 1. | Blind, Deaf, and Handless Lemon Jefferson | | 2. | Bi-Curious Wolf | | 3. | Nude Québec Joe | | 4. | Roberta "Can't Sing Worth a Shit" Jackson | | 5. | Lightnin' Lawrence Welk | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Orson Welch 3/12/2007 It’s a new year, and I’m proud to inform you I’m no longer bagging groceries at the Safeway. They wanted to go in another direction, whatever that means. So now I volunteer at the local library, but I also help my mom with a lot of home repair, which I might not get paid for, but I assure you is work. Of course, in my spare time, I review movies accurately (even superiorly) for the commune. Oh, look—I have the spare time now.
Ghost Rider
It’s about time somebody recognized the link between carnival people and demons of the underworld; unfortunately, this movie seems to make it out to be a good thing. Nicolas Cage, America’s first entirely comic book actor, has found a medium well-suited for him, as a scenery-chewing, Elvis-imitating,...
It’s a new year, and I’m proud to inform you I’m no longer bagging groceries at the Safeway. They wanted to go in another direction, whatever that means. So now I volunteer at the local library, but I also help my mom with a lot of home repair, which I might not get paid for, but I assure you is work. Of course, in my spare time, I review movies accurately (even superiorly) for the commune. Oh, look—I have the spare time now.
Ghost Rider
It’s about time somebody recognized the link between carnival people and demons of the underworld; unfortunately, this movie seems to make it out to be a good thing. Nicolas Cage, America’s first entirely comic book actor, has found a medium well-suited for him, as a scenery-chewing, Elvis-imitating, flaming-motorcycle-riding stunt driver who occasionally bursts into flames, laughs like a player in Reefer Madness, and beats the hell out of demons. Wait—demons are subject to earthly laws? Wow, the devil sucks. And so does director Mark Steven Johnson. The difference is, the devil knows the meaning of the word "subtlety."
The Number 23
Speaking of His Satanic Majesty, he appears as beloved actor Jim Carrey in this film. If you detest conspiracy movies, go and see this one and feel justified in your hatred. The most abstract and ridiculous coincidences become testament to Carrey’s insane number-counting obsession. Carrey worked for reduced pay because he really wanted to make this film, and no one wanted to pay him his usual salary; turns out he really believes in this stuff, but what can you expect of someone being actively courted by the Church of Scientology? They’ve got to be asking themselves how they let this guy slip by during his multi-million dollar heyday. Joel Schumacher, Satan’s personal foreskin, brings his personal touch of evil to a motion picture already headed toward a Wal-Mart 2-for-1 DVD pack.
Zodiac
Everyone has been begging David Fincher to show restraint in his filmmaking for ten years, and this is how he proves everyone wrong. Zodiac is dreary where the usual Fincher film is disgusting, methodical where Fincher is usually flashy, and ambiguous where all other Fincher movies are resolved. The wisdom of making a true-life drama of an unsolved case aside, I would say movies of unanswered questions only have any importance to us when they impact us all or remain unanswerable—but let’s face it: If they bag this guy tomorrow on some DNA evidence, this movie doesn’t even get a DVD release. It becomes an extra on an edition of American Justice you can order directly from A&E. For just once in my life I wish I was Roland McShyster, only so that I could tell you with clear conscience they catch the guy in the end of the movie and his name is Bob Zodiac. Being ethically retarded would certainly have its advantages, but no. *Sigh*
Wild Hogs
Another excellent mystery: What devious fiend in Hollywood thought John Travolta could again carry a movie, if only we hooked him up with three additional stooges? This is exactly the kind of movie that, ten years ago, would have been sent directly to Burt Reynolds or Clint Eastwood to star in; but nowadays Clint’s an auteur more than an actor, and Reynolds only answers the door when it smells like alcohol waiting. So Travolta quickly volunteered to play the role of the aging dullard going through a mid-life crisis, and he takes his other friends along, since they can no longer carry a movie by themselves either. Martin Lawrence is considerably less crazy in this movie, and as a result considerably less interesting, while William H. Macy defies the rumors about himself and proves he will take a movie role even without a good script or any complexity of character. Tim Allen is inexplicably present.
I’ve over-critiqued my welcome, no doubt the Hollywood elite would agree. But with a shovel this loaded, they couldn’t really expect me not to wallow in their mud. The studios do tend to dump a lot of sub-par movies in our theaters between January and May, "dump" being far too accurate a term. Enjoy their droppings.   |