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Sharon Plans to Build Personal Walls Around PalestiniansDecember 22, 2003 |
Jerusalem, Israel Whit Pistol A press conference slideshow by the Sharon administration shows the inadequacy of current "town-sized" barriers as Palestinians freely pass back and forth what could be food, diapers, or dirty bombs.  
"This is, how you say, horseshit," grunted the frustrated P.M. at a press conference Friday. "For too long Palestinians have turned a blind eye to terrorists and terrorist collaborators, and they must be held responsible for the actions of those who commit these acts. Israelis are a peace-loving people and we’re going to bomb terrorist states into oblivion if that’s what it takes to get pe...
aking a page from the Bush playbook, Israeli Prime Minister Ariel "The Little Mermaid" Sharon promised unilateral action against Palestine if any more Israeli civilians were victims of terrorism. Among plans proposed by the angry, vodka-swilling P.M., severe financial sanctions, cutting off all contact with the Arab state, and building individual "people-sized" walls around its citizens.
"This is, how you say, horseshit," grunted the frustrated P.M. at a press conference Friday. "For too long Palestinians have turned a blind eye to terrorists and terrorist collaborators, and they must be held responsible for the actions of those who commit these acts. Israelis are a peace-loving people and we’re going to bomb terrorist states into oblivion if that’s what it takes to get peace."
Released to the press at the time were drawings of several plans Sharon had reportedly stayed up all night making in a drunken stupor. When asked if one of the pictures of a monstrous tank rolling over a tiny Palestine was drawn to scale, Sharon retorted, "What do you think?"
In addition to the world’s biggest M-1, other administration plans displayed in bright 64 Crayola colors included stick figures, presumably inhabitants of Palestine, with individual walls around each one. Sharon refused to answer many more questions on the individual plans, and kept nodding off with persistent inquiries. Others in the administration offered to explain proposed ideas as best they could.
According to Homeland Security Advisor Yuri Gatoton, each individual walled cell would contain a hole that attached to a refrigerator, not pictured in the drawings, as well as separate buckets for poop and pee. The design was presented by Sharon as the best way to assure against terrorists connecting with residents of Palestine to form larger terrorist networks. Gatoton also explained some of the other plans Sharon drew.
"That’s a horse, that’s an A-bomb, that’s a man with a football helmet. I imagine the man with the helmet is provided protection when the A-bomb is set off over Palestine. The horse, as you can see, will have to be able to jump clear over the Palestinian borders without setting foot in the actual state—keep in mind these are rough sketches, and hopefully we’ll never need to test these in real life if Palestine cooperates in efforts to stem terrorism."
Nine out of every 10 individuals in the world condemned Sharon’s plans and questioned his stability, even longtime Israel buddy the United States. In a press statement, president Bush stressed Israel should avoid taking unilateral action until all other measures have been explored, and professed "extreme disappointment" Sharon so frequently colored outside the lines in his drawings.
Even the usual critics of the president agreed with his assessment of the Israel situation. Vermont Governor Howard Dean, the leading Democratic candidate for the 2004 presidential nomination, expressed his opposition to Israeli action.
"We all sympathize with Mr. Sharon’s struggles against terrorism, for they are our own. But a country not the United States cannot act on its own authority against another country without providing any sort of proof or going through all options first. Also, Bush is a moron." the commune news is taking unilateral action against the staff of Crochet! magazine this Sunday when we smoke them out of their offices for our annual post-Christmas smoked ham cook-a-thon. We don’t even like ham that much, truthfully, but it keeps them on their toes. Ramon Nootles rode a unicycle to work, if that helps end this bit any sooner.
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‘Black Friday’ Sales Slow; Black People Blamed he nation’s African-American community had to bear another injustice over the weekend as it was revealed the sales on their own personal super-saving shopping event, “Black Friday,” were moderate at best. Undoubtedly, the responsibility for the lower-than-projected sales will fall squarely on the shoulders of the black community. “Sales were not as high as initially expected,” announced economical tool and white person spokesperson Neil Van Hurst of Columbia University’s School of Business. “This is owed mostly to continuing downward spending trends in recent holiday seasons.” And its all the fault of black people, Van Hurst all but said. Child Left Behind recent round of standardized DMAS testing in America’s elementary schools has revealed that in spite of President Bush’s ambitious “No Child Left Behind” education policy, at least one American child has been left way the fuck behind. “I don’t like schoolin’,” explained eight-year-old Topeka, Kansas boy Rodney Camaro, exhibiting numerous symptoms of left-behindedness, including messy, uncombed hair, untied shoelaces, a poor vocabulary and a fondness for pro wrestling. Camaro was brought to the attention of education officials earlier this week when test results revealed that someone had actually scored a zero on last month’s DMAS, a feat previously thought mathematically impossible. Merck: “Crazy-Ass Brazil Giving AIDS Drugs to People With No Money” Poison Probe Reveals 90% of Packaged Foods Actually Dog Food |
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 November 25, 2002
Let My Love Open the DoorBrace yourselves for nonsense, good people. Once again my column has to take a backseat to the ridiculous happenings in my personal life. I can't blame you for outrage, if I were my boss I'd have to seriously question my dedication to writing this column at this point. My private life has to stay private. In fact, I may suggest to Acting-Editor Ramrod Hurley that he lecture me using a speech I've penned myself.
In the meantime, I must use this column to convince Lee and Camembert to let me back into the apartment. As you may know, my visit to Gracieland in New Hampshire didn't pan out as a truly fulfilling trip, but went into Rok's bag of "life experiences" where I invariably end up the wiser about something—in this case, George and Gracie Burns. But after last week's column, I returned home to find the door locked, bolted, and adorned with a sign that read, "Fuck off, Finger."
So… Lee, Camembert. Is this how the Rok Finger housing experiment ends? For whatever reason, I go away and come back to find I've been banned from my own Camembert's apartment? This is the sort of mutiny that is unforgivable, but if I ever get back in, I will forgive you. Once I change the locks and make sure I have the only key.
Camembert: You're the last one I would have expected this from. Not that you like me enough not to do such a thing, or had any honor, but your sheer cowardice and fear of confrontation should have clipped your babymakers before...
º Last Column: Greetings from Gracieland
º more columns
Brace yourselves for nonsense, good people. Once again my column has to take a backseat to the ridiculous happenings in my personal life. I can't blame you for outrage, if I were my boss I'd have to seriously question my dedication to writing this column at this point. My private life has to stay private. In fact, I may suggest to Acting-Editor Ramrod Hurley that he lecture me using a speech I've penned myself.
In the meantime, I must use this column to convince Lee and Camembert to let me back into the apartment. As you may know, my visit to Gracieland in New Hampshire didn't pan out as a truly fulfilling trip, but went into Rok's bag of "life experiences" where I invariably end up the wiser about something—in this case, George and Gracie Burns. But after last week's column, I returned home to find the door locked, bolted, and adorned with a sign that read, "Fuck off, Finger."
So… Lee, Camembert. Is this how the Rok Finger housing experiment ends? For whatever reason, I go away and come back to find I've been banned from my own Camembert's apartment? This is the sort of mutiny that is unforgivable, but if I ever get back in, I will forgive you. Once I change the locks and make sure I have the only key.
Camembert: You're the last one I would have expected this from. Not that you like me enough not to do such a thing, or had any honor, but your sheer cowardice and fear of confrontation should have clipped your babymakers before you gathered the courage to join such a conspiracy. If Lee is forcing you to do this, I completely understand. I fear him as well. But I need an inside man, let's just say you fit both bills, to unlock the doors and let me back in. Once we're both in there, we'll fight for our rights to party. Lee is big and burly, but with my brains and your upper-brawn we can oust him from the seat of power, and we'd better hurry because I've been holding in a crap for two days now.
Lee: I know how it is. You're a little directionless with me missing, still a little disoriented from your lingering head injury. Camembert has some ideas that sound good on paper, or failing that, since you can't read, he says them in a real friendly voice. But following him in his betrayal is something I wouldn't expect from you, Lee—that's more of a cowardly Camembert thing to do. Please, don't let his miniature tank scare you, as I've said before, it's just a wheelchair. His power is in spokes and pulley systems, gears and cogs. Unbolt the door and let me in and together we'll reinstate the old Rok Finger: Unquestioned Ruler administration.
Assuming this is some kind of punishment from the both of you for some imagined wrong, real as it might be, please forgive my mistakes. I'm only human, no matter what the scientists say, and have my weaknesses like anybody else. Allow me a second chance and I will return and we'll all work things out. Repercussions will be swift and brutal, or none at all, if that's preferable. All is forgiven. Rok Finger is nothing but heart, four feet of pure, loving heart. Let my love open the door.
Or, failing that, I do have a key, you know. I can tell you haven't changed the locks and that lousy deadbolt won't hold forever. You have to leave the apartment sometime, at least Lee does, and Camembert is too scared to stay by himself. All of this is futile rebellion, and you know it. Lee's fondness for Little Caesar's pizza will lead to the door opening again sometime in the future, and when it does, Rok Finger will spring like a slinky back into the apartment and into your lives. I have an elephant's memory and a wooden bat, so think about how you want this to end before it's too late. º Last Column: Greetings from Gracielandº more columns
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|  December 9, 2002
Sports"No one within shouting distance of the Hartwig home will ever forget the year dad got in trouble with the Olympic Committee for claiming that he invented tennis. It turned out that the game had been around for hundreds of years and bore only a passing resemblance to the game dad had invented at home with a couple of picture frames and a tomato. We went through the whole thing all over again a few years later with table tennis, but the Chinese had dad beat on that one, too. He tried to argue that they'd stolen the tomato part from him, but in the end dad was never able to prove that a tomato had ever been used in a regulation tournament.
The whole tennis debacle soured dad on inventing sports for several years, until Uncle Otto sold him the rights to his idea for a no-holds-barred fighting tournament. Dad worked out the kinks using my brother Goose and I as human guinea pigs, as per our usual role in the family. This lasted until the school counselor suggested to my dad that the ongoing 'Fight for Your Supper' tournament might be affecting Goose's scholastic performance. Few believed that Goose's grades could have possibly sunk below their customary level, so it was widely assumed that Goose had been caught stealing food from the cafeteria. This made sense, since he had gone 0 –for-17 so far in the tournament, even losing to Stephanie on several occasions.
Some in the neighborhood blamed me, and suggested that I could have let him win every once...
º Last Column: Uncle Bing
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"No one within shouting distance of the Hartwig home will ever forget the year dad got in trouble with the Olympic Committee for claiming that he invented tennis. It turned out that the game had been around for hundreds of years and bore only a passing resemblance to the game dad had invented at home with a couple of picture frames and a tomato. We went through the whole thing all over again a few years later with table tennis, but the Chinese had dad beat on that one, too. He tried to argue that they'd stolen the tomato part from him, but in the end dad was never able to prove that a tomato had ever been used in a regulation tournament.
The whole tennis debacle soured dad on inventing sports for several years, until Uncle Otto sold him the rights to his idea for a no-holds-barred fighting tournament. Dad worked out the kinks using my brother Goose and I as human guinea pigs, as per our usual role in the family. This lasted until the school counselor suggested to my dad that the ongoing 'Fight for Your Supper' tournament might be affecting Goose's scholastic performance. Few believed that Goose's grades could have possibly sunk below their customary level, so it was widely assumed that Goose had been caught stealing food from the cafeteria. This made sense, since he had gone 0 –for-17 so far in the tournament, even losing to Stephanie on several occasions.
Some in the neighborhood blamed me, and suggested that I could have let him win every once in a while. But until Goose figured out how to cut eyeholes into his mask, there wasn't much I could do to keep him from coldcocking himself on the banister and missing dinner every night.
Eventually dad sold the idea to another entrepreneur who had more resilient kids, and he reluctantly moved on to other pursuits. It was probably for the best, though, since Mom was getting tired of sanding teeth marks out of the banister every year." º Last Column: Uncle Bingº more columns
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Quote of the Day“The day destroys the night, the night divides the day, carry the four, times the weekend, round up from seven, and: Presto! 14. Not sure what that means, I'll get back to you next album.”
-Gin OrbisonFortune 500 CookieMonkeys and live electrical wire are a bad combo for you this week. Try combing your hair with a rake—hey, maybe those jokers were right. You will quit smoking this week, and upgrade to the syringe. Don't take any shit from the crippled, elderly, or the extremely weak: pretty much anybody you can get your girlfriend to beat up. This week's lucky burritos: Refried Revenge, Chock-Full- O-Olives, The Grand Mal, Nuthin-But-Sour- Cream, El Sleeping Bag, Someone Beaned My Ass Tonight.
Try again later.Top Worst Opening Lines to Novels| 1. | It was the best of times, no question about it. | | 2. | Call me Crenshaw, Ishmael's brother. | | 3. | I had been up for three days doing coke, paranoid they were going to catch me after I sunk the company with my idiotic business practices; then, my fa | | 4. | I have only eaten three people in my life—this is that story. | | 5. | So I said to my friend Charlie, "Hey, I'm going to write a novel where nothing at all happens," so welcome to it. | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Pat Cheeks 5/2/2005 The King’s LookalikeIt was upon looking into the mirror the King noticed the most startling thing about him and his economically-deprived guest, Tim O’Pisspotless.
"’Tis most astonishing," exclaimed the queer King, "but you and myself, would not that I knew I were me, I would’st be mistaken on which is whom."
"…the fuck?" asked Tim, then doffed his cap and clutched it to his chest in respect. "What I mean, m’liege, is that I got no idea what the fuck ’tis you’re saying. But I would guess we look just alike, judging by the two fruitcakes staring back at us from the shiny-glass."
"’Tis precisely what I mean!" burst the King, too happy for anybody’s good. He started to undress. "I bid you, remove your encroachments, my good man!"
Tim...
It was upon looking into the mirror the King noticed the most startling thing about him and his economically-deprived guest, Tim O’Pisspotless.
"’Tis most astonishing," exclaimed the queer King, "but you and myself, would not that I knew I were me, I would’st be mistaken on which is whom."
"…the fuck?" asked Tim, then doffed his cap and clutched it to his chest in respect. "What I mean, m’liege, is that I got no idea what the fuck ’tis you’re saying. But I would guess we look just alike, judging by the two fruitcakes staring back at us from the shiny-glass."
"’Tis precisely what I mean!" burst the King, too happy for anybody’s good. He started to undress. "I bid you, remove your encroachments, my good man!"
Tim O’Pisspotless sighed heavily. He had heard such rumors about the King. For God and country, thought Tim, and began to strip. Once undressed, however, he was happily surprised when the King put on his, Tom’s, clothes, and bid Tom to put on his fancy silk danskins.
"Oh, joy!" fluttered the fey King. "I ’twas right! You and I are indistinguishable! Truly—you resemble mine self, and I’m but the spitting image of ’tyourself!"
Tim’s heart grew heavy, for it sounded as if the King’s accent was getting worse, a sure sign his lordship was losing his mind. But he decided to play along with the King’s wishes, as long as it didn’t involve animal costumes and blunt objects meant to penetrate.
"The resemblance is but skin deep, m’liege," said Tim. "I could never be mistaken for your rich, effeminate, royal persons, not with my brutish nature and my career in logjamming."
"Pish!" announced his light-footedness, then smiled brightly as a thought struck him. "I bet’st I could pull the wool over my beard, er, wife’s eyes herself! But a better thought comest to mind. Bid you, wait here and spy discreetly, whilst I fuckest around with the palace guard!"
Tim wasn’t sure how much of that was literal or slang, but he had orders to watch the King do whatever he planned to do with the palace guard, so Tim bowed behind a nearby gold chest (hundreds of them littered the King’s room) as he, the King, scampered off in Tim’s impoverished rags.
"Oh, guard!" cried the fey King, feigning a mock poor person’s walk that was really rather insulting to the destitute, but it was the 16th century, so you had to forgive their politically-incorrect mockery of the poor. "Guard, I say!"
Immediately, the guard spun to see the visage of the poor scamp he had reluctantly escorted into the palace, upon the King’s request. The guard wasn’t quite sure why the King insisted on bringing attractive young boys into the palace at odd hours, and the less he knew about it, frankly, the better he slept when his shift was over. But here, he thought, was his chance to deal out some slightly-higher-up-the-social-ladder justice.
"Be gone, insolent dicksucker!" shouted the guard, inventing the latter word. "Drag your filthy feet across these shining palace floors no more!"
The King was so surprised he had time to say nothing as the guard picked him and tossed him into the angry mob outside. The mob berated and spat upon him for daring to disgrace the King’s castle with his presence, thinking him not the King himself, but shameful little Tom O’Pisspotless! The King was mighty surprised, and spit-covered, as he was carried away by a legion of his most hideous subjects and thrown right into the mud! O, his troubled majesty!
In truth, the palace guard had some clue right away it might be the King, just by the way the little serf walked so girlishly. But one never gets the chance to toss the King out on his ass, so he jumped on it.
For more of this great story, buy Pat Cheeks’ rollicking yarn
The King’s Lookalike   |
