| Loves That Woman ';
$dunkin='2005/0328/';
$dunkintitle='Highway to Hell';
$edit='2003/1222/';
$fanmail='2005/0516/';
$fanmailtitle='Volume 63';
$finger='2005/0822/';
$fingertitle='To Hell With This Desk';
$fortune='2002/020121/';
$goocher='2005/0711/';
$goochertitle='Gwar of the Worlds';
$hanes='2005/0704/';
$hanestitle='Pink is Not for Men';
$hartwig='2005/0606/';
$hartwigtitle='Parade';
$hooper='2005/0228/';
$hoopertitle='Vernon Hooper’s Fifth Syphilis';
$hurley='2005/0404/';
$hurleytitle='Time of Healing';
$kroeger='2005/0822/';
$kroegertitle='Charity Case';
$loser='2005/0822/';
$losertitle='Lost Leavings';
$ned='2003/0818/';
$nedtitle='Cyantology';
$pickle='2002/020513/';
$pickletitle='State of the Art';
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$police='2005/0822/';
$polio='2005/0822/';
$poliotitle='WEASELS-B-GON';
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$renttitle='For the Last Time Deidrebane, Those Aren’t the Feds';
$reynolds='2005/0425/';
$reynoldstitle='A Series of Unfortunate Evans';
$hartwig='2004/1206/';
$hartwigtitle='O Captain!';
$sickhead='2004/0419/';
$sickheadtitle='The Legendary Spot of Coco Hobari McSteve';
$ted='2005/0530/';
$tedtitle='The New War on Poverty';
$vanslyke='2005/0606/';
$vanslyketitle='Health Food is Full of Shit';
$zender='2005/0425/';
$zendertitle='The Sixth commune Enthusiasts Club Meeting';
?> | 
Tiger Woods Thinks He's A Goddamned Writer NowFebruary 4, 2002 |
Pebble Beach, NC Courtesy Warner Books Woods brings to literature what Taco brought to music
Woods, who has no proven talent with words or prose, is the "author" of How I Play Golf, an instructional guide on the overrated game he's famous for playing published by Warner Books at the unrealistic retail price of $34.95.
The book, which is surely hard to drudge through and a perfect gift for people who like shitty reading material, is called by some critics an energetic and enthusiastic guide to golf beginners as well as an insightful study of Woods' own passion for the game. However, the book is actually lame-ass.
olf pro and sports celebrity Tiger Woods, unable to confine himself to every fucking T.V. commercial on the air and sporting event there is, has recently written and published a book, obviously thinking himself a writer now.
Woods, who has no proven talent with words or prose, is the "author" of How I Play Golf, an instructional guide on the overrated game he's famous for playing published by Warner Books at the unrealistic retail price of $34.95.
The book, which is surely hard to drudge through and a perfect gift for people who like shitty reading material, is called by some critics an energetic and enthusiastic guide to golf beginners as well as an insightful study of Woods' own passion for the game. However, the book is actually lame-ass.
At 320 pages, the book stands as the longest publicity ad for a sports figure in quite some time.
Although Woods could not be reached for comment, being such a god among men he doesn't have time to return phone calls to reporters, it is believed he will next try to walk on water or heal the lepers. Good fucking luck to the superman. the commune news has told you "no comment" and they mean "no comment," and don't print that. Ted Ted's golf game is down to 32 strokes, nearly half the number of actual strokes Ted Ted has had due to his huge temper.
 |  War on Terror Finally Focused on Real Threats
Omar Bricks makes self eligible for NFL draft; expected to go in top 300
 High Gas Prices Threaten Tradition of Setting Homeless People on Fire
Father of Chicano music dies refusing to acknowledge bastard child Gerardo
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Chief Justice Rehnquist: Dead as Disco at 80 he world sighed a mournful “Oh” upon hearing of the death of Chief Justice William Rehnquist, who led the U.S. Supreme Court for 19 years and formed the holy conservative trinity of the court. Rehnquist is the second justice to retire from the Supreme Court this year, and never to be outdone, Rehnquist chose the more dramatic exit method of death in office.
The Chief Justice announced his diagnosis of thyroid cancer last year and his refusal to retire from the Supreme Court, angering liberals and conservatives alike by his reluctance to make the playing field more interesting. Never one to quit, Rehnquist had suffered greatly in recent months from radiation for his cancer treatment and a tracheotomy, actually performed by an over-anxious boyscout on a visit to the nation’s capitol. Kansas City Royals Win Little League World Series n the midst of one of the most embarrassing seasons in baseball history, the lowly Kansas City Royals saved some face this week, defeating the defending champions from Willemstad, Curacao in a stunning upset to claim their first Little League World Series title. Kansas City took the game 7-6 on first baseman Matt Stairs’ takeout of Curacao catcher Willie Rifaela during a collision at the plate in the bottom of the 11th inning. Rifaela held onto the ball, but Stairs was ruled safe since Rifaela flew off the playing field at the moment of impact. “Willie gave it a hell of an effort,” praised Curacao manager Vernon Isabella. “Especially considering he was outweighed by nearly 200 pounds in the collision. If he hadn’t come out of his shoes like that when the American hit him, I think we could have held on to win the game.” Alec Baldwin Records Devastating Voice Mail Message for Shooter Sony’s Poorly Timed “PS3 Price Massacre” Backfires |
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 April 22, 2011
Return to ZenderHello, friends, and welcome to my dream. My name is Emil Zender and it is my mission in life to reunite the commune, to bring back together what fire hath torn asunder. What's the commune, you ask? Is it possible you have not lived before today? If it is, click on Archives up above immediately, read every last word, and then return. We'll be waiting for you.
As the non-clueless among you already know, the world's finest online newsmagazette came to a fiery end but a few short years ago, after their palatial Flatbush, New Jersey office building burnt to the ground mid-way through 2007. Urban legend has it that columnist Omar Bricks burnt the building down by setting potatoes on fire and shooting them indiscriminately off the roof using a propane-fueled potato cannon. That urban legend was likely begun by Bricks' own column stating this fact, and the videos of this event he later posted on YouTube.
Either way, after the building burnt down and the commune folded, its staff scattered to the four winds like dandelion spores farted out of God's mustache. For the first couple of years I figured this was just the way of life, everything must die, for each thing a season, turn turn turn. But recently I've realized that is bullshit, and have decided to take it upon myself to reform the commune or herniate myself trying. I vow to track down every last commune employee, dead or alive,...
º Last Column: The National commune Enthusiasts Club
º more columns
Hello, friends, and welcome to my dream. My name is Emil Zender and it is my mission in life to reunite the commune, to bring back together what fire hath torn asunder. What's the commune, you ask? Is it possible you have not lived before today? If it is, click on Archives up above immediately, read every last word, and then return. We'll be waiting for you. As the non-clueless among you already know, the world's finest online newsmagazette came to a fiery end but a few short years ago, after their palatial Flatbush, New Jersey office building burnt to the ground mid-way through 2007. Urban legend has it that columnist Omar Bricks burnt the building down by setting potatoes on fire and shooting them indiscriminately off the roof using a propane-fueled potato cannon. That urban legend was likely begun by Bricks' own column stating this fact, and the videos of this event he later posted on YouTube. Either way, after the building burnt down and the commune folded, its staff scattered to the four winds like dandelion spores farted out of God's mustache. For the first couple of years I figured this was just the way of life, everything must die, for each thing a season, turn turn turn. But recently I've realized that is bullshit, and have decided to take it upon myself to reform the commune or herniate myself trying. I vow to track down every last commune employee, dead or alive, and whine at them until they help me. You heard it here first. My dream is that the commune will ride once again, if at all possible functioning out of my very home. I've literally had this dream hundreds of times. Now before any naysayers get word of this and try to debunk my bona fides, I will freely admit that it is not my house alone. The deed is indeed in my mother's name. But the entire basement level is my sovereign domain, not to be intruded upon even by my mother or her boyfriends. True, they do sometimes invade regardless, when the satellite goes out and they want to watch my wisely redundant cable TV service, or when my mom's main boyfriend Doug wants to have sex in my bathroom. This is because my fuzzy toilet seat cover is quite a bit nicer than theirs upstairs, mostly because I don't have a lot of sex on it. Anyhow, as you've probably noticed, the commune's downstairs neighbors at Crochet! Magazine have persevered and thrived, moving to swank new digs in Asslatch, New Jersey, and continuing to publish their fine periodical. I've been a loyal subscriber for years, if only because their magazine smelled kind of like the commune offices due to their close proximity. That unique cocktail of aromas, one part Boris Utzov's Russian bologna, one part the smell of plastic burning, one part Rok Finger, was an intoxicating brew that made up for the fact that I don't know anything about crocheting. True, their current editions smell nothing at all of the commune, and are much the poorer for this. But I keep up my subscription purely for the memories, thrice-removed as they may be. A special thank you to the folks at Hipsoda.com for providing me with this space to re-launch the site. As you're surely aware, Hipsoda.com was able to archive the contents of the commune in its entirety shortly before the devastating fire, and God bless them for that. I don't know the site's owners well, but I imagine them to be intense commune fans second in their devotion only to yours truly. In the one conversation I've had with these fine gentlemen, they claimed to have archived the site to use as evidence in an upcoming lawsuit. But I'm a commune fan, I know sarcasm when I hear it. The thought has crossed my mind that they may just be allowing me this space in the hopes that I will succeed in tracking down the commune's far-flung prodigal sons and daughters, making the serving of subpoenas all the easier. Actually this thought crossed my mind shortly after one of Hipsoda.com's owners told me this is exactly why they were providing me with this space. But, once again: sarcasm. Sarcasm, you are a wily bitch. Stay tuned to this space for much, much more. Zincerely, Emil Zender º Last Column: The National commune Enthusiasts Clubº more columns
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|  July 22, 2002
Poems"I remember the first poem I ever read. I was maybe six or seven, possibly twelve or thirty-two, sometimes numbers blur together in my head.
It started out something like, 'I think that I shall never see, a poem as lovely as a tree.' Well, needless to say, that turned me off to poetry right away. I have enough nasty thoughts a-tumblin' round in my head without opening my mind to the possibility of sexual congress with a tree. I'm not sure what kind of liberal hoo-hah forced my teachers to include the perverse interest in forestry among my poetic education, but I wanted no part of it.
It was only later, in my college career, that I had a differing point of view put to me. I stopped my English teacher, Gadfly Harpskull, in the hallway and told him I was going to drop out of his class if he kept reading poetry to us, I wanted no part of it. He demanded I explain my disdain for poetry. I did, and he laughed.
'Hartwig, young man,'—he frequently called me Hartwig— 'I'm afraid your understanding of the poem is a little skewed from that of others. Most people interpret Kilmer's poem to be about the loveliness of nature, the inability of creations by man to match the sheer beauty of nature.'
'Most, you say,' I asked him. 'Not all?'
'Well, naturally, any poem is up for a different interpretation. Some of it requires stretching. In fact, it's possible for any poem to be about sex with a tree if your imagination...
º Last Column: Cheese
º more columns
"I remember the first poem I ever read. I was maybe six or seven, possibly twelve or thirty-two, sometimes numbers blur together in my head.
It started out something like, 'I think that I shall never see, a poem as lovely as a tree.' Well, needless to say, that turned me off to poetry right away. I have enough nasty thoughts a-tumblin' round in my head without opening my mind to the possibility of sexual congress with a tree. I'm not sure what kind of liberal hoo-hah forced my teachers to include the perverse interest in forestry among my poetic education, but I wanted no part of it.
It was only later, in my college career, that I had a differing point of view put to me. I stopped my English teacher, Gadfly Harpskull, in the hallway and told him I was going to drop out of his class if he kept reading poetry to us, I wanted no part of it. He demanded I explain my disdain for poetry. I did, and he laughed.
'Hartwig, young man,'—he frequently called me Hartwig— 'I'm afraid your understanding of the poem is a little skewed from that of others. Most people interpret Kilmer's poem to be about the loveliness of nature, the inability of creations by man to match the sheer beauty of nature.'
'Most, you say,' I asked him. 'Not all?'
'Well, naturally, any poem is up for a different interpretation. Some of it requires stretching. In fact, it's possible for any poem to be about sex with a tree if your imagination reaches toward that inclination all the time.'
That was indeed what I had suspected all the time. I dropped the class and never looked back." º Last Column: Cheeseº more columns
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Quote of the Day“Early to bed and early to rise make a man healthy, wealthy, and in total compliance with puritan mores. All others will be stoned to death, just as soon as they wake up.”
-Dan FranklinFortune 500 CookieYou are the jovial type who would gladly eat shit and ask for more, which will serve you well in the coming year, what with the shovel fork you got for Christmas. But for the sake of Buddha, remember to pack a roll of Certs. Lucky numbers 33, 57, 89, 105.
Try again later.Top Things Overheard at Your High School Reunion| 1. | "Oh My God—you haven't changed your clothes a bit!" | | 2. | "I haven't seen you since the date rape." | | 3. | "Man, were you right about Dishwalla. One-hit wonders." | | 4. | "Best friends 4-ever, my ass! Where were you at the trial, motherfucker?!?" | | 5. | "That guy used to be a real dick. Don't let that priest outfit fool you." | | 6. | "You still owe me four push-ups, wiseguy—don't think I've forgotten." | | 7. | "Want to dance with me, Charlie? Or is it Charlene now?" | | 8. | "The old gymnasium still smells like burned flesh—what memories!" | | 9. | "So tell me why we needed to learn proofs again?" | | 10. | "Mr. 'Most Likely to Succeed' came into Denny's last night for an application. Revenge, like our soup, is best served cold." | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 10/14/2002 Come quick, America, you've got to see this. Okay, well, maybe not, but the quicker we get to the movie reviews the quicker Roland McShyster can get back to the high-powered binoculars he picked up for a dollar at a yard sale. These things are great, who knew there was so much going on outside? If you don't already have a pair, I'd highly recommend them. Actually, they're probably pretty expensive, but if you ever find a freshly divorced woman selling all of her ex's stuff for a dollar at a yard sale then I say go for it. I also picked up this incredible sword… I mean, what am I going to do with a sword, right? But at the same time, a sword for a dollar? Don't tell me you'd pass that up. Plus, it looks pretty sharp on the wall and cuts french bread like you wouldn't believe.
Come quick, America, you've got to see this. Okay, well, maybe not, but the quicker we get to the movie reviews the quicker Roland McShyster can get back to the high-powered binoculars he picked up for a dollar at a yard sale. These things are great, who knew there was so much going on outside? If you don't already have a pair, I'd highly recommend them. Actually, they're probably pretty expensive, but if you ever find a freshly divorced woman selling all of her ex's stuff for a dollar at a yard sale then I say go for it. I also picked up this incredible sword… I mean, what am I going to do with a sword, right? But at the same time, a sword for a dollar? Don't tell me you'd pass that up. Plus, it looks pretty sharp on the wall and cuts french bread like you wouldn't believe.
Okay, let's get to the movies before the aerobics class down the street lets out, deal? On to the movies!
In Theaters
Abandon Katie Holmes
Wasn't this a video game first? I seem to remember something like that, one of those wish-fulfillment first-person PC games, like you ditch Katie Holmes while on a hiking trip in Yosemite and some nature freak cuts her head off and blames it on a talking field mouse. A strange game, but undeniably fun. The movie is okay, though I think they could have come up with some more interesting scenarios than leaving Katie at the mall or the hair salon. I know they were trying not to just duplicate the levels from the game, but Death Valley and Heritage, USA still would have been fun to see.
Brown Sugar
Technological advances have certainly improved the quality of our lives over the last several years, doing away with tedious non-electronic pets and allowing us to have phone sex while we drive. But sometimes you really have to wonder about the downside to all of this progress, especially when it only takes them about two days to turn a cell phone commercial into a feature film. They must have been getting some promising Nelson scores from that commercial where Ving Rhames steals the little girl's milk, because before we could turn around to see who's got their hands in our pockets they've brought it to the big screen. Yeah, I know it's cute when little kids who used to play doctor are still friends as adults and they end up getting naked and playing "slutty stewardess and domineering airline pilot" or whatever, but please. If they were going to make a whole movie out of a dumb commercial they at least could have done the one with Donald Trump and that big Wendy's muppet, now that could have been a fun buddy cop picture.
My Big Fat Geek Website
Am I the only one our there who wishes independent films would just go away? Sure, it's great to have fresh ideas bleeding into the mix from the fringes of our culture, but honest to God, usually there's a good reason these guys aren't as well known as Spielberg or the guy who directed Goonies. This gem, which some 28 year-old Kinko's employee wiped on his sleeve and decided to keep, illustrates my point perfectly. It's too long, it has more inside jokes than a conversation with Charlie Manson, and it commits the fatal flaw of assuming anybody gives a hot goddamn about some sci-fi obsessed film nerd who works at a copy shop. There's a reason you're not popular in real life, guy, and it isn't the lack of major studio backing.
The Trainspotter
Buckle up your seat belt, loosely, and slouch your way through a two-hour adventure with the world's first heroin-addicted action hero. It's no well-kept secret that Hollywood has been swinging from the heels this year, trying to breathe new life into the tired action movie genre with startling new innovations, like replacing semi-charismatic fifty year-old meatheads with semi-charismatic twenty year-old meatheads in the starring roles. But a few studios are going even further balls-out over the top, taking a blind-assed stab at substituting an even more motley assortment of wannabe heroes for the ripped Neanderthals of years gone by. Some, like Ben Damon's dentist in The Bourne Dentist, work in a quirky kind of way, while others fall flat on their ill-conceived asses. Which end does The Trainspotter come out of? Try to picture an 84-pound pasty white guy girl-slapping a heavily tattooed Rastafarian bouncer in any kind of convincing way and you tell me.
White Oldtimer
It turns out that Eddie Murphy isn't the only fading 80's star who can strap on a couple tons of latex make-up and play a hilarious old person. Did anybody expect that Michelle Pfeiffer would be the next to machete her way through that path in the Hollywood jungle? No chance, and I give her serious points for seizing the element of surprise. The movie itself is a freeze-dried hunk of alien scat, with a twice-baked plot revolving around one of the girls from B*Witched running around and asking a hound dog and a bulldozer if they're her mother, but Pfeiffer is hilarious as the gassy old curmudgeon who gives the girl advice in her dreams and pulls his own finger. Hopefully for the sequel they'll trim the fat and just have Pfeiffer play several more funny old people.
Well, that's what they're calling a column these days folks. Pretty scary eh? If you want to file a complaint with the Surgeon General or whoever, I wouldn't hold it against you. But when you think about it, really it's all relative like reverse-inflation. Columns aren't what they used to be, sure, but have you turned on the radio lately? Good Goofy Christ, what happened to music? Compared to that kick in the nuts, this column is practically the Bible. So, you know, it's healthy to keep that in mind. If Western Civilization is on a fast track to decline, at least here at the commune we're taking the stairs. Catch up with you again in a few weeks, America!    |
