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"The Truth" Goes Unrecognized at White HouseFebruary 4, 2002 |
Washington, DC Rico Pollico/the Commune Many are disoriented when faced with "The Truth"
White House spokesman Ari Fleischer said "The Truth" looked very much a like "a guy I once hired to put up some sheet rock in my basement, and a couple times we would go off into the little closet down there to smoke crack and give each other handjobs, but other than that, I can't place him."
The president himself was similarly disinclined to speculate on ...
ormer heavyweight champion Carl "The Truth" Williams visited the Bush White House recently, at the invitation of Secretary of State Colin Powell, and no one there seemed to have a clue as to who he actually was. "The Truth" got the grand tour, meeting with the president, the vice president and many members of their respective staffs, yet all expressed puzzlement as to who he might really be or why he was there.
White House spokesman Ari Fleischer said "The Truth" looked very much a like "a guy I once hired to put up some sheet rock in my basement, and a couple times we would go off into the little closet down there to smoke crack and give each other handjobs, but other than that, I can't place him."
The president himself was similarly disinclined to speculate on the identity of his guest. "How the hell should I know?" he asked. "All them fellas look alike to me. He's not the guy who delivers the pretzels, is he? Because if he is, I got a few words of ornerification for him."
Vice president Dick Cheney, when asked if he recognized "The Truth," responded by saying that it was possible that he did, but that it would endanger national security and the ability of future vice presidents to effectively do their job if he admitted it. He went on to say that if "The Truth" were to accompany him to an undisclosed location, perhaps they could discuss the matter further by the side of a warm fireplace full of shredded documents.
Mary Matalin, Cheney's spokesperson, came closest to recognizing "The Truth" when she admitted that, "after studying him closely, he does look very much like that guy that fisted me and my serpentine husband up the ass without Vaseline one afternoon last November, but I can't be positive without James here."
Mr. Williams said that, despite the lack of recognition, he very much enjoyed his tour of the First Residence. "Muthafuckahs be livin' large here, y'all!" he was quoted as saying when the Secret Service escorted him out by way of the South Lawn. "Word, dawg, place be almost as happenin' as George Foreman's crib. Sheee-it." the commune news is proud to say that it always recognizes The Truth when it is accompanied by a valid picture ID and a short bio. Bludney Plud, desperate for a little recognition himself, has been
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 May 13, 2002
Welcome to the Monkey HouseWhenever visitors come to the commune offices, and one day I'm optimistic there will be visitors who are not merely there to take the furniture away, I smile brightly and yell out, "Welcome to the monkey house!"
Many think it is a colorful, humorous thing to say. It is, in fact, a warning. An attempt to keep visitors away. To save them from the horrors inside, even if they are here to repossess our materials. For the commune has become a house of horrors in recent weeks, and I owe it all to monkeys.
Yes, some well-intentioned individual, let's just say for example it's me though I'm not actually stating I did do it. But this person, this Red Bagel, supposed he could save a lot of money on cleaning people and certain money-grubbing reporters by bringing in monkeys who work for peanuts (or actually bananas, the elephants were the ones who wanted expensive peanuts) and slowly replace the entire staff in the hopes eventually the entire staff would be made up of banana-earning monkeys. Sometimes in the six-bunch range, but most in the one-bunch and under category.
Continuing with our hypothesis, let's suppose that monkeys, while the smartest of all earth-walking non-dolphin mammals, still require a great deal of training, even more so than money-grubbing reporters and foreign cleaning people. Let's say such a fact escaped our hypothetical Red Bagel person who, in perfectly innocent intentions, released wild, untrained monkeys into the...
º Last Column: Puppets Are Hollywood's Best-Kept Secret
º more columns
Whenever visitors come to the commune offices, and one day I'm optimistic there will be visitors who are not merely there to take the furniture away, I smile brightly and yell out, "Welcome to the monkey house!"
Many think it is a colorful, humorous thing to say. It is, in fact, a warning. An attempt to keep visitors away. To save them from the horrors inside, even if they are here to repossess our materials. For the commune has become a house of horrors in recent weeks, and I owe it all to monkeys.
Yes, some well-intentioned individual, let's just say for example it's me though I'm not actually stating I did do it. But this person, this Red Bagel, supposed he could save a lot of money on cleaning people and certain money-grubbing reporters by bringing in monkeys who work for peanuts (or actually bananas, the elephants were the ones who wanted expensive peanuts) and slowly replace the entire staff in the hopes eventually the entire staff would be made up of banana-earning monkeys. Sometimes in the six-bunch range, but most in the one-bunch and under category.
Continuing with our hypothesis, let's suppose that monkeys, while the smartest of all earth-walking non-dolphin mammals, still require a great deal of training, even more so than money-grubbing reporters and foreign cleaning people. Let's say such a fact escaped our hypothetical Red Bagel person who, in perfectly innocent intentions, released wild, untrained monkeys into the commune offices assuming they would imitate the behavior of columnists, reporters, and cleaning people. While instead they have been content to scream loudly, jump on unrepossessed property until it smashes, climb walls, and hurl their eliminations at every non-monkey personnel on staff.
Now let's suppose, for the sake of this discussion, that all of this is exactly what happened and this is where we're at.
I have gotten to the end of my rope, loyal readers, and I've found a monkey swinging on it. I suggest monkeys are not smart, lovable, cute or cuddly, but in fact are wild animals with minor humanlike behaviors, but any of that humanlike behavior is usually hidden under the hideous crap-throwing creature behavior they have more fun exhibiting. We have been lied to by countless Clint Eastwood movies and Saturday morning live-action television series.
Needless to say, the commune is not functioning as it normally should this week. Most columnists and reporters are operating outside the office, from their homes or covering their stories in the field and submitting them to the printers outside. While I am trapped in my office, afraid to step outside where I'll be pounded by less-than-attractive monkeys. It could be worse, I could be like Ramrod Hurley, whom they have dressed as one of their own and are apparently performing some kind of mating ritual with.
This should be taken care of within a short amount of time. I've hired some friends of mine, call them "cleaners," and they'll be taking care of these monkeys soon enough, no questions asked. I will be alright, assuming I can keep my office barricaded and avoid the mating ritual.
Until then, I hope you can continue to enjoy the commune as monkey-free as you can. Do not visit the offices, if I need remind you, and please excuse any feces on or in this column. º Last Column: Puppets Are Hollywood's Best-Kept Secretº more columns
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|  January 6, 2003
A High-Resolution New YearMany readers have an unshakeable image of me from reading my column. They see Rok Finger as a cool, collective individual with a good head on his shoulders, by way of a stodgy little neck. A tough-as-nails, yet sensitive and insightful observer of human nature, in the least effeminate way possible. A creature of perfection, who could not get any better. But you could not be further from the truth.
Like anybody else, I try for improvement. New Year's is a time for me, like everybody else, to look within using my mind's eye, which has X-ray vision, and ask myself, "What would Rok Finger do?" Meaning to make himself better. Me better. I speak of New Year's resolutions. Let's make them together, shall we?
Chief among my New Year's resolutions is to cut down on use of the third person when I speak. It just gets too damn confusing. Maybe in return I could increase my use of the second person. You can do it, Rok! There. That sounds more supportive already.
Camembert and Lee have suggested that maybe I'm a bit aggressive as a roommate. Well, Lee said it. Camembert couldn't look me in the eye when I was told this, so that's as good a sign as any that he agrees. Is it possible? Are you too strong a personality for weasly jelly-spined lifeforms like Camembert? Not everybody has your self-confidence and dynamic personality, some are overwhelmed. And people don't need to be overwhelmed, they need to be encouraged. So I say, way to go! I will see...
º Last Column: 'Tis the Season for Gifts with No Pleasin'
º more columns
Many readers have an unshakeable image of me from reading my column. They see Rok Finger as a cool, collective individual with a good head on his shoulders, by way of a stodgy little neck. A tough-as-nails, yet sensitive and insightful observer of human nature, in the least effeminate way possible. A creature of perfection, who could not get any better. But you could not be further from the truth.
Like anybody else, I try for improvement. New Year's is a time for me, like everybody else, to look within using my mind's eye, which has X-ray vision, and ask myself, "What would Rok Finger do?" Meaning to make himself better. Me better. I speak of New Year's resolutions. Let's make them together, shall we?
Chief among my New Year's resolutions is to cut down on use of the third person when I speak. It just gets too damn confusing. Maybe in return I could increase my use of the second person. You can do it, Rok! There. That sounds more supportive already.
Camembert and Lee have suggested that maybe I'm a bit aggressive as a roommate. Well, Lee said it. Camembert couldn't look me in the eye when I was told this, so that's as good a sign as any that he agrees. Is it possible? Are you too strong a personality for weasly jelly-spined lifeforms like Camembert? Not everybody has your self-confidence and dynamic personality, some are overwhelmed. And people don't need to be overwhelmed, they need to be encouraged. So I say, way to go! I will see to it this year that Camembert is much more encouraged to speak his mind. We will begin rigorous training in that department at 0200 hours tonight, right after V.I.P. is over. I'll make it a surprise.
I was talking with my ex-wife Arvelyn the other day—I came down her chimney dressed as Santa Claus as a Christmas surprise, and we had a happy reunion after the pepper spray's effects faded. She confessed to me that, on some level, right below the fear and indescribable rage at my behavior, she still loves me. She even wishes we could reconcile, but she said I'm far too paranoid and snap at the least little thing. I denied it, of course, but after setting fire to the Christmas tree in retaliation I didn't have much of a leg to stand on. I conceded that maybe she had a point, and I would try to improve that in the future—at least until I can find out what her ulterior motive is in this game.
In fact, you could even say that my cat Makeshift is the only one who has no problem with me. Which is why I kidnapped him. Such a good friend and ally should live with me rather than my arch-enemy/ex-wife. "Kidnapping" might be a misrepresentation. Catnapping is probably more accurate, as well as more adorable.
I'm not even getting into what my office mates think of me. So many emotionally-troubled people in one place shouldn't be given consideration, which is the logic I've been using for the Israel-Palestine conflict for years. But each of them is angry with me about something—whether it's my on-target advice on how they handle their personal lives, my complaints about their distracting breathing noises, or my wearing a wire during personal conversations (again, Mr. Bricks, nothing personal, just doing my civic duty), they all have a bone to pick with me. A bunch of lousy bone pickers.
To study myself in this context, this barrage of complaints, you'd think I needed more than a tweak here or there in the Rok Finger personality matrix. I needed a dad-blamed reconstruction. Which makes my New Year's resolutions completely clear, at least.
I resolve, first and foremost, to not let the opinions of others bother me. I must be more sure of myself, I must defy criticism in every form, and I must be steadfast against the corruption of others.
And I'm going back to the third person. Rok Finger was much closer to perfect before this mess started. º Last Column: 'Tis the Season for Gifts with No Pleasin'º more columns
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Quote of the Day“'Tis a far, far better thing I do today than I have ever done… in fact, where I'm from, I'm kind of known as an asshole.”
-Cute Little DickensFortune 500 CookieRemember to clean your ears—a friend of ours died from not doing that, no shit. What time is it? Half-past beer-thirty. Always never forget to quit being scared to not ask questions.
Try again later.5 Spin-Offs That Died in Production| 1. | Star Trek: Klingon Roommate | | 2. | Law & Order/C.S.I.: Shitloads of Corpses | | 3. | Enemies of Friends | | 4. | King of Queens' Fat Neighbor | | 5. | Wheel of Fortune: Vowels Only | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Orson Welch 11/18/2011 I will not let that scourge Zender mar my column with an explanation. Suffice to say I have taken to writing professionally, though I am as yet unpaid in that endeavor, I think I give tough but fair critiques of all the latest in lingerie, and it’s far more enjoyable than reviewing worthless films. Aside from that I maintain my Assistant Manager’s position at Hardee’s for income. When the self-proclaimed resurrector of the commune invited me back to review films for another edition of Entertainment Police, I was resistant, but as that well-named McShyster was not on hand to crowd my thunder, I determined it was a good way to get my name out there and stoke interest in my feminine sleepwear reviews. So let’s get the ball rolling in the most venomous way I know how: Shaming you for...
I will not let that scourge Zender mar my column with an explanation. Suffice to say I have taken to writing professionally, though I am as yet unpaid in that endeavor, I think I give tough but fair critiques of all the latest in lingerie, and it’s far more enjoyable than reviewing worthless films. Aside from that I maintain my Assistant Manager’s position at Hardee’s for income. When the self-proclaimed resurrector of the commune invited me back to review films for another edition of Entertainment Police, I was resistant, but as that well-named McShyster was not on hand to crowd my thunder, I determined it was a good way to get my name out there and stoke interest in my feminine sleepwear reviews. So let’s get the ball rolling in the most venomous way I know how: Shaming you for all the movies you made hits in the years since I last wrote.
Transformers (2007)
In the words of the great John F. Kennedy: Come on, America. We can do better than this. The Hollywood blockbuster has been boiled down to its basics, and its shiny robots, automatons, beating the shit out of each other in the middle of a city. Director of Godzilla, Roland Emmerich, reportedly watched this film and apologized to the world. There is not a single human anywhere on screen in this entire film. That Megan Fox Real Doll is not even convincing, though yes, I would strangle the fleshy giraffe watching her bend and writhe around a hot rod, if only I could stomach cars and my movie-viewing room at work had a lock on it. The only thing more nauseating than the dialogue is seeing an animatronic Pirate of the Caribbean feature that looks uncannily like talented actor John Turturro speaking it. I don’t know what he got paid to license his image to this cinematic holocaust, but I’m sure dignity cannot be bought with the fee. Did I mention they made two more of them? If my will was law, everyone leaving the theater would have been sterilized and the films would have at least done some good to the world.
The Dark Knight (2008)
After Batman Began, he decided to start talking like the world’s worst Fat Albert impression. Christian "Bail Me Out, You Fucking Bitch, Mom" stars as the titular hero, who either has throat cancer or has trouble speaking plainly with tight leather wrapped around his throat. If I remember correctly, Heath Ledger acted so well in this film it killed him, but most of it amounts to wisecracks and doing a McLovin voice all the way through the film. The plot is convoluted and involves more characters than a season of Deadwood, and the action sequences would have been far more enjoyable if they had decided to light them. But in the end, the film makes a great statement: Sequels work best when they raise expectations to unrealistic degrees, making the third film an inevitable stinkbomb.
Avatar (2009)
I don’t go to see 3D films. I’m less worried about the damage to the eyes or the high cost of tickets and more frightened that it’s all a ruse to take pictures of an audience full of idiots sitting in the dark and watching a $12 movie while wearing sunglasses. Has the wonder of 3D ever lasted past the 20-minute mark? I wouldn’t know. Thankfully, Titanic auteur James Cameron squeezed every drop of wonder out of this film in the script stage. A paralyzed Kevin Costner finds a tribe of very tall Smurfs and becomes one of them, and though he’s pulled by conflicting loyalties for a solid three minutes of screen time, he sides with the primitive but lovable Land Gungans and Wesa all happy by the end of this tired yarn. Cameron thought about removing all the people in this one, they didn’t quite look real next to the CGI animation, but he remembered the last time a director did that they called it Transformers, and the critics burned it to send it to hell. This one was a bigger success, despite its lack of sinking ships and a dastardly lifeboat-stealing Billy Zane. Spoiler alert: Everybody wins and is happy in the end. Oops, gave away the ending.
Inception (2010)
Based on the novel Huh? by WTF. Batmastermind Christopher Nolan takes on the world of dreams in a fast-paced mind-blowing adventure epic that wowed critics and audiences alike. The only problem is it seems Nolan has never had a dream and never bothered to write a plot anyone could understand. What might have been a daring, big-budget exploration of dreamscapes and the psyche boils down to a bunch of car chases and people getting shot. I have always prided myself on telling when the Emperor has no clothes, and this one’s sack is dangling in the wind, people. Dreams are not as depicted in the movie, these vast landscapes where you’re chased by organized subconscious thoughts and doing gravity-free Kung Fu on other badasses. If Nolan had been honest, the plot would have been Di Caprio driving a Hyundai around inside a Home Depot looking for a place that’s open to buy French fries, and then they stop at a P.F. Chiang’s, which doesn’t normally serve French fries but for some reason they have them, only the French fries turn into hush puppies halfway through eating them, and Avery Brooks is a sukiyaki chef, then before he’s finished cooking Di Caprio finds they’re all on Deep Space 9 and the Crest Cavity Creeps are attacking. Then he wakes up. That would have gotten you the Oscar, Mr. Nolan, instead of losing to some stuttering fey king.
Those were the biggest moneymakers since I last wrote. Don’t blame me, America—blame yourselves. If you don’t apologize before I write again, I may decide to take on your Oscar winners. I dare you to give me a shot at Slumdog Millionaire. I dare you.   |
