| Loves That Woman ';
$dunkin='2005/0905/';
$dunkintitle='The New Anne Frank Diary';
$edit='2003/1222/';
$fanmail='2005/0516/';
$fanmailtitle='Volume 63';
$finger='2005/0905/';
$fingertitle='I’m Fresh Out of Haitian Cigarettes';
$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='2005/0912/';
$hoopertitle='Seventh Heaven';
$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';
$poet='2005/0905/';
$police='2005/0912/';
$polio='2005/0905/';
$poliotitle='Omarelief';
$rent='2005/0912/';
$renttitle='Way Inside Jokes';
$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';
?> | 
 May 9, 2005 |
Chicago, Illinois VARIOUS NUMBSKULLS
In the first such incident, officials claim the asshole struck in Illinois, defacing the hallowed image of the Virgin Mary formed by salt run-off and pigeon shit on the underpass of an interstate expressway near Chicago. The emergency turnoff area and impromptu holy shrine had become an instant tourist attraction almost overnight, drawing the devout and bored from miles around ever since a homeless man was spotted trying to piss a complete manger scene onto the underpass last week. The holiness would prove short...
uthorities were just plain pissed off with the news that America's "Runaway Asshole" had struck twice more this week, further eroding the nation's confidence in the common decency of man, while thrilling asshole fans and vindicating the merely inconsiderate nationwide.
In the first such incident, officials claim the asshole struck in Illinois, defacing the hallowed image of the Virgin Mary formed by salt run-off and pigeon shit on the underpass of an interstate expressway near Chicago. The emergency turnoff area and impromptu holy shrine had become an instant tourist attraction almost overnight, drawing the devout and bored from miles around ever since a homeless man was spotted trying to piss a complete manger scene onto the underpass last week. The holiness would prove short-lived, however, when the "Runaway Asshole" allegedly spray painted the word "bullshit" over the apparition and drew a Fu Manchu mustache on the Virgin Mary with a Sharpie marker.
Authorities believe this to be the work of the same asshole that destroyed the Virgin Mary image appearing in the window of a Clearwater, Florida office building in 1996. Before the window was destroyed, thousands of hoopleheads had gathered to gawk at the colorful apparition, which scientists claimed to be caused by extreme maintenance neglect, and a nearby Target store had begun to sell special bottles of Windex adorned with apparitions of the holy virgin. Authorities later retrieved the slingshot round that had destroyed the window, but apparently some asshole had coated the ball bearing with grease, making fingerprint identification impossible.
Mere days after the Chicago incident, the asshole appeared again in Wilmington, North Carolina, ordering a pint of frozen custard from Kohl's Frozen Custard, which is in no way affiliated with the Kohl's chain of department stores known for their lousy custard. Only minutes later, custard worker Brandon Fizer, distracted by some asshole in line yelling for him to "hurry it up with the custard, dickless," somehow managed to chop the end of his index finger off in the custard machine. Authorities remain uncertain about how this is even possible, considering that the machine consists of little more than a lever and a custard nozzle, but few deny that Fizer somehow miraculously found a way.
According to witnesses, upon finding Fizer's digit in his mouthful of custard, the asshole spit the fingertip into a nearby baby's eye, then snatched it up off the floor and ran straight to his lawyer's office. Numerous attempts to recover the tip so it could be surgically reattached to the rest of Fizer proved unsuccessful, as the asshole claimed to need it for evidence of emotional suffering in the upcoming civil suit.
Extremely amateur detectives have questioned whether there could be a connection between America's "Runaway Asshole" and Georgia's recently-famous "Runaway Bride," either by blood or through a marriage in the family. Some have even gone so far as to infer that the asshole may have talked the bride into buying her infamous bus ticket, or maybe he was even the one driving the bus, you never know. Others are intrigued by the possibility that the two could get together to record a cover of Soul Asylum's 1992 hit "Runaway Train" for charity.
Though the identity of the "Runaway Asshole" remains unknown, authorities claim to have several compelling asshole leads, and are currently seeking out both Donald Trump and the commune's own Omar Bricks for questioning. the commune news learned long ago that you can't run away from your problems, unless you're American track star Michael Johnson. That dude is wicked fast. Ivana Folger-Balzac is the commune's go-to reporter whenever a story requires a biting wit, biting cynicism, or just plain biting.
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Report: Guns inappropriately classified as food by oil-for-food program
Playstation 2 now portable; many Playstation 2 players not
Some queer wins Wimbledon, says NASCAR fan
 Entwistle Pleads Not Guilty of Murder, Last Several Who Albums |
Venezuela Adds Itself to ‘Axis of Evil’ he so-called ‘Axis of Evil,’ which now has more points than a pinwheel, took on another member when the forgettable South American country of Venezuela added itself to the roster of anti-U.S. countries this week. The announcement was made in the most awkward fashion, when President Victor Chavez made allegations that the United States has made plans to invade Venezuela soon. How soon? Chavez didn’t pinpoint a date, but said the invasion would happen imminently. According to Chavez, the U.S. has been planning to invade his country for some time, and he has proof, although he didn’t exactly present it to anybody. The most precise allegation made by Chavez cited “invasion training maneuvers” being made in his country by CIA operatives, who apparently weren’t in Venezuela for one of their thousands of monthly beauty pageants. Orleans Refugees at Home in Disneyland’s French Quarter efugees from the New Orleans disaster were thrilled this week by the news that Mayor Ray Nagin plans to re-open large parts of the city as early as today, allowing the many refugees spread across the American South like spilled milk to finally return home. The decision to return, however, is not so easy for the small number of lucky refugees who were relocated to the French Quarter section of the Disneyland theme park in Anaheim, California during the first days of flooding. “This is great, it’s like being back home, except Disneyer!” gushed socialite Anita Bomes, thrilled with her new New Orleans, a quaint miniature version of the city located near a fake lake that, to date, has never flooded. Sanjaya Unites Indian Fans, People Who Hate American Idol IRS: Excessively Needy Girlfriends Can’t Be Declared “Dependents” |
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 November 24, 2003
Don't Believe the HypeDon't soil your couch or anything, but I've officially been banned from the Saturn dealership. Actually, technically I think I'm banned from all Saturn dealerships worldwide, but I don't believe for a second they're so organized I couldn't walk into a showroom in Iraq someplace with a fake beard and test out a car or make off with an armload of donuts if I wanted. At best I think the overseas dealerships have a vague description of me and some trademark sayings, but that shit's easy enough to fake. I've already got some hilarious platform shoes saved up and I've been itching to use that accent from Scarface for something for a while anyway, so I'd like to see those Iraqi bastards try to keep me out of one of their gay little toy cars.
Not that I was really sold on the idea of buying a Saturn, mind you. Where I'm from, that shit'll get you bitchslapped like you were carrying around a book. "Nice car, Oppenheimer." Right, like I need that noise. But the thing is, I was watching TV the other day, trying to find that channel with the temperature on it to see if it was cold outside, when I spied that ad about how Saturns are made out of some insane Klingon plastic where you can hit that shit with a golf club and the dent pops right out like superman's balls.
So right away the gears start turning and I'm thinking about the advantages to having a car made out of that stuff, gay little shitbox or not. Like what if that shit is bulletproof? Holy God...
º Last Column: They Don't Call it a Blood Drive for Nothing
º more columns
Don't soil your couch or anything, but I've officially been banned from the Saturn dealership. Actually, technically I think I'm banned from all Saturn dealerships worldwide, but I don't believe for a second they're so organized I couldn't walk into a showroom in Iraq someplace with a fake beard and test out a car or make off with an armload of donuts if I wanted. At best I think the overseas dealerships have a vague description of me and some trademark sayings, but that shit's easy enough to fake. I've already got some hilarious platform shoes saved up and I've been itching to use that accent from Scarface for something for a while anyway, so I'd like to see those Iraqi bastards try to keep me out of one of their gay little toy cars. Not that I was really sold on the idea of buying a Saturn, mind you. Where I'm from, that shit'll get you bitchslapped like you were carrying around a book. "Nice car, Oppenheimer." Right, like I need that noise. But the thing is, I was watching TV the other day, trying to find that channel with the temperature on it to see if it was cold outside, when I spied that ad about how Saturns are made out of some insane Klingon plastic where you can hit that shit with a golf club and the dent pops right out like superman's balls. So right away the gears start turning and I'm thinking about the advantages to having a car made out of that stuff, gay little shitbox or not. Like what if that shit is bulletproof? Holy God would that be sweet. Then I could finally go to that Taco Bell on the bad side of town that has the bitchin' nachos without worrying about getting a Gunshot Bell Grande. Sure, I might catch some flak over the squaremobile every once in a while, but kiss my ass man, have you tried these nachos? So I head on down to the Saturn dealership, and I'm not there for five minutes before the guy is getting all in my business about how you've got to be wearing shoes to test drive a car, like he was listening when I said "test" and then just tuned out and assumed that I added the "drive" part. As if I was going to waste my time driving the piece of shit, I already know it's a Saturn. Maybe he figured I was some hillrod who thought they had a bunch of Ferraris in the back or something, I don't know what his problem was. But the guy's trouble from the start, and two minutes later he goes all psycho and starts yelling about how he's gonna call the cops, even though I kept explaining that they were going to tell him the same thing, that there's only one way to test if a car is bulletproof. Cops know about that kind of shit, that's why they're cops and not working at a Saturn dealership someplace. But he didn't want to hear about it; he was all hung up on "You shot my car! You shot my car!" so finally I had to agree to disagree with the dude and just slip out the back while he was looking up the number for 911. Needless to say, the damn thing wasn't even bulletproof. And that was the last straw, really, because I can't think of any other reason people would even buy one of those things. Maybe they just assume from the commercial and can't borrow a gun to test it out. Or maybe Saturns work underwater or something crazy like that, maybe that's the angle and I just haven't seen that commercial yet. If that turns out to be the case, I may have to brush up on my Tony Montana accent. Bricks out. º Last Column: They Don't Call it a Blood Drive for Nothingº more columns
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|  September 1, 2003
Not My Bag, ManI have never had my fingers pulled off one by one through my asshole. My wife Arvelyn used to tell me I should not knock things until I have tried them at least once, but I dare to say the experience is one I would not like even without trying it.
To avoid such an unwelcome new experience I have agreed to occasionally drop off packages for my new in-laws, i.e. the mob, to cohorts of theirs. Their reasoning was quite sound, even complimentary: "Rok, you are such a square as would not bat the eye of a policeman or G-man like Eliot the Ness, eh?" That's how my new cousin-in-law Yogi put it, and I agree. The police have no reason to suspect me for being a bagman for the vaguely-Russian mob. But it is exactly the case now.
The shame of it all! And imminent danger. Me, Rok Finger, champion of all things stodgy and establishment, delivering goofballs for no-goodniks! As I've made implicitly clear, the possible involvement in the Eurasian mafia by my wife Felchyana in no way diminished my love for her, but I cannot stomach doing wrong to the law. Unless I personally profit from it, for that's the American way, but being threatened into dishonesty, that's just plain… well, dishonest.
It's too bad to be forced to do favors for the mob in such a reprehensible way. Their might be some charm in robbing an armored truck or something fanciful like that. There might be a smidgen of honor in doing something like the old fashioned,...
º Last Column: The Honeymoon is Over
º more columns
I have never had my fingers pulled off one by one through my asshole. My wife Arvelyn used to tell me I should not knock things until I have tried them at least once, but I dare to say the experience is one I would not like even without trying it.
To avoid such an unwelcome new experience I have agreed to occasionally drop off packages for my new in-laws, i.e. the mob, to cohorts of theirs. Their reasoning was quite sound, even complimentary: "Rok, you are such a square as would not bat the eye of a policeman or G-man like Eliot the Ness, eh?" That's how my new cousin-in-law Yogi put it, and I agree. The police have no reason to suspect me for being a bagman for the vaguely-Russian mob. But it is exactly the case now.
The shame of it all! And imminent danger. Me, Rok Finger, champion of all things stodgy and establishment, delivering goofballs for no-goodniks! As I've made implicitly clear, the possible involvement in the Eurasian mafia by my wife Felchyana in no way diminished my love for her, but I cannot stomach doing wrong to the law. Unless I personally profit from it, for that's the American way, but being threatened into dishonesty, that's just plain… well, dishonest.
It's too bad to be forced to do favors for the mob in such a reprehensible way. Their might be some charm in robbing an armored truck or something fanciful like that. There might be a smidgen of honor in doing something like the old fashioned, pre- GoodFellas gangsters would have taken part in. Rolling in barrel after barrel of illegal Canadian booze and firing a tommy gun at thick packs of Irish cops. Who would object to that? If only those damned teetotalers hadn't lost all their power in Congress.
But there's nothing respectable about hard drugs, like marijuana. Pot kills brain cells and makes people act like complete assholes. It has none of the charm of hard liquor. Plus, it's frequently used by hippies—if you need a bigger case than that against it, I don't know where you're coming from. Hippie-lover. So, in addition to threatening to de-finger me and making my new marriage more complicated than it had originally been, these mob thugs have put me on a pro-hippie bandwagon. That I will not tolerate.
With all doors closed to me, some slammed violently on my feet, I have turned back to my reliable old friends Lee and Camembert. Well, I've turned to Camembert—Lee was busy with another tour date for his new book, written under the pen name of Daili Lama. All of Camembert's suggestions were lame, of course, such as contacting the FBI or telling the local police force, but it was good to have someone I could boss around again, even for a little while. I would probably ask him to move in with Felchyana and I, but Yogi might take a liking to him and make him capo or something. That's the last thing I need.
So right now, in this little mob war I'm going through, Camembert is my secret weapon. The secret being what he's capable of doing against the mob, and I wish I was in on that secret. But it's good to have an ace in the hole, and Camembert can be a huge ace-hole when called upon. My plan as for right now is to play along with Yogi and the gang, deliver the packages and betray no disloyalty, while figuratively hiding Camembert up my sleeve. We tried it literally and even without the wheelchair there's no way he'll fit. º Last Column: The Honeymoon is Overº more columns
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Quote of the Day“the commune is back? All right! Wait, what the fuck is the commune? What? Now I’m going to kick your ass for getting me excited for nothing.”
-Ron TangleyFortune 500 CookieThis is the week everything changes for you. Yep, even those underwear. Go get a spatula. We all agree that your breasts are attractive, but usually a guy needs a follow-up act to really reel in the ladies. Try learning to play the lute this week, just carrying it around isn’t impressing anyone. This week’s lucky fuckers: Fucker G. Robinson (the world’s second-richest and seventh-most-unfortunately-named man), mother, Megan Fox’s boyfriend, and whoever’s sleeping with that hot girl on the Morton’s Salt container (oh get over it, she’s totally grown up by now).
Try again later.Top Nonsensical Curses| 1. | Motherbumper Fannyfuck | | 2. | Shitwheeler | | 3. | Short-Handled Ass Tank | | 4. | Mop-Handle Michelangelo | | 5. | Pelé! | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Dick Charleston 12/23/2002 A Christmas CardEverywhere in London during that cold December morn of Christmas Eve, every man and woman, large and small and even the exceptionally large, were filled with Christmas cheer. Everyone, that is, except for one man—Phineas Miser, the un-Christmasiest son of a bitch in all of London.
Once Miser had been full of Christmas cheer, and rum, but that had been a long time ago; the pursuit of gold and capitalist success had tainted him, along with having a terribly on-the-nose name that defined his destiny. No, Miser no longer had any Christmas cheer, unless you count the Christmas cheer in the body of his wage slaves, which technically he owned through wicked and brilliant contract negotiations.
Miser was the proprietor of the most despicable business in all London—a...
Everywhere in London during that cold December morn of Christmas Eve, every man and woman, large and small and even the exceptionally large, were filled with Christmas cheer. Everyone, that is, except for one man—Phineas Miser, the un-Christmasiest son of a bitch in all of London.
Once Miser had been full of Christmas cheer, and rum, but that had been a long time ago; the pursuit of gold and capitalist success had tainted him, along with having a terribly on-the-nose name that defined his destiny. No, Miser no longer had any Christmas cheer, unless you count the Christmas cheer in the body of his wage slaves, which technically he owned through wicked and brilliant contract negotiations.
Miser was the proprietor of the most despicable business in all London—a consulting firm that trained business work forces in the ways of Japanese-style management. And chief among his wretched little workers was middle-manager and frequent doorstop replacement Bob Rottencrotch.
"Please, Mr. Miser, may I have the day off?" Rottencrotch asked on this cold December morn of Christmas Eve, though to be fair to Miser, the slacker bastard did ask the same thing virtually every day. "It is Christmas Eve, Mr. Miser, and we're having a jolly good evening planned. We're going to gather 'round our dung-filled stockings and chant slogans from commercials and drink until we've pissed ourselves. Well, all except Wee Willie—he's too small to drink, of course."
"Rottencrotch, I told you never to talk about your penis at work again!" shouted Miser, tossing a humidor shaped like Dolly Parton's breasts at his employee. "Of course you can't have the day off. It's Christmas Eve. We spend 365 days a year working toward the company goal, remember? It's part of pro-improvement empowerment. Now back to your work station!"
Rottencrotch, wounded both by Mr. Miser's crushing words and the sharp-ended nipples on the humidor, dabbed his ratty tie against his bleeding cut and wobbled out of the office. When he was gone, Miser sat back, self-satisfied.
Miser stared into the seemingly-ancient photo of himself and his old business partner, Ziggy Marley, when they had both worked at a pirate-themed fast food restaurant years before. It was right before they had gathered the capital to start their consulting firm, Positive Improvement: A Pro-Action Empowerment Concept, and they both had worked so hard their hands had curved up inside the fake pirate hook prop gloves and their depth perception was suffering from excessive eye patch-wearing. They had been youthful and idealistic in those days—well, Ziggy was always sort of a dick, but he could be alright as well.
"Ziggy, my friend," the insane old coot said to the picture, "these employees today, they lack what we had back then. And I mean not the velvet pants and puffy white shirts. I mean gumption! Why, in my day, remember when we worked through all holidays just to build our pro-positive action plan? We knew the secret to success and happiness, we did."
"Miser!" shouted the picture in response, only dragging it out a very long time in a ghostly fashion. Miser was shocked to see the picture was moving, and he messed the chair. In the frame, Ziggy Marley lifted his eye patch, brushed his dreadlocks aside, and aged incredibly into what he must have looked like since dying, complete with holes in the face and eyeballs falling out.
"Phineas Miser, you crusty old queer! Beware your greed! You have forgotten the true meaning of positive pro-active reinforcement! Or Christmas, actually, yeah, Christmas. And tonight you will be visited by three spirits who will show you what Christmas means—it means creepy-ass ghosts and guilt, to cut to the chase, but I'll let them elaborate. So stay sober! For tonight you will see highly-edited clips from your past, present, and future!"   |
