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 August 29, 2005 |
West Bank, Israel Whit Pistol An old-fashioned Palestinian weather vane points north, to what may now be Tehran West.
Sharon balked at such claims, because balking is second-nature to him.
"For years they demand Israel return their stupid little piece of land, well, it’s done," said Sharon, spitting to punctuate his point. "Israeli congress has re-zoned and now all of area is Israel. Why are so many Muslims occup...
sraeli Prime Minister Ariel "Olive Branch" Sharon announced last Wednesday that the disputed Gaza Strip had been returned to Muslims at long last, marking the end of a 38-year call by Middle Eastern countries that the Jewish nation leave the settlement to its Islamic inhabitants. However, Islamic critics complained the Gaza Strip had not actually been released by the occupying Israeli forces, but merely re-zoned so the Strip itself now lay within the Egyptian borders. Sharon balked at such claims, because balking is second-nature to him. "For years they demand Israel return their stupid little piece of land, well, it’s done," said Sharon, spitting to punctuate his point. "Israeli congress has re-zoned and now all of area is Israel. Why are so many Muslims occupying Israeli land? Have they not gotten the memo? But you won’t see us stoning them or setting off bombs in their cafés. Had they any cafés. We merely ask them to leave. Promptly. Within twenty-four hours, or face arrest and devastating loitering charges." Even standard Israel supporter the United States has had a little trouble digesting this latest crafty maneuvering from its World Council ally. U.S. officials have called for a more appropriate fulfillment of the pledge to leave the Gaza Strip, stating that while re-zoning is an effective way to keep minority votes under control in domestic situations, it is unacceptable for solving international land disputes. The re-zoning itself appears to be a response to earlier criticisms that the original disembarkation from the Gaza Strip failed to meet expectations from Israel’s promise, as the country annexed additional land for its own borders to build a demarcation wall around Maaleh Adumim, inside the West Bank, effectively stealing a portion of that area in the name of tightening security. Some of the few sane Middle East analysts left fear the drastic measure by Israel could inspire combative Arabic states to strike back with their own internal ordinances to diminish the effects of the Gaza re-zoning and Israel’s seizure of the West Bank. "Sharon may have opened the door to a new style of war between Israel and the Arabic states," said Professor Udi Al-Batang of Cairo University. "The bombings and military strikes may take a back seat to re-mapping and re-districting. Not that this won’t lead to bombings and military strikes of their own. But justifying what you’re doing with the internal laws of your own country cannot build a lasting peace. People outside your own borders will be outraged, and that outrage will inspire more violence. And I know what I’m talking about. I’m tempted to buy myself a machine gun because I went to bed in Cairo and woke up in the poverty-stricken Gaza Strip this morning. Thank you, Mr. Sharon." Many leaders in the Arabic communities warned Sharon he must comply with the years-old promise to end occupation of the real Gaza Strip. But most likely, Sharon didn’t understand because it was all in the Arabs’ own languages. "If Israel wants to build a 100-foot wall to defend ourselves, we certainly have that right," pledged Sharon. "If we want to control the borders of our country, for security’s sake, and move them wherever and whenever we feel like it, we certainly have that right. Clearly the best way to maintain piece in a region long torn by strife is to build more fences and take all the land we need. Finally… we are safe." Although this reporter rushed to get this story out sooner, its delivery was delayed along the way by the fact that after standing in the middle of Jerusalem one minute, he found himself a minute later standing in New Mesopotamia, by order of the Syrian Rezoning Congress. Whoopsy-doo. the commune news wouldn’t mind redistricting that sweet little area across the street—providing that’s a hot tub we’re seeing with our binoculars, and not actually the broken septic tank someone told us it was. Ivan Nacutchacokov has yet to make it back from New Baghdad or wherever the hell it was he ended up after all that instant traveling.
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Guilty: Libby Takes Blame in Plame Name Game Court Battle Continues as Worms Claim Ownership of Anna Nicole’s Body Finely Aged Winemaker Ernest Gallo Corked Failure of Sirius Radio Blamed on "You Can't be Sirius!" Ad Campaign |
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 June 13, 2005
You Are Cordially Insulted...Every one of you are cordially invited to attend the wedding of Rockwell T. Finger and Rutherford Ginger Baker this Sunday, at the Flatbush Mall of 'Merica. Invited, of course, as long as you actually receive one of those little cardboard notes saying you can come. They all should be in the mail by now, according to Ginger. They are handwritten, so we can save all the money for the honeymoon in Haiti. We are going there to save money for buying something we really want, like solid gold dollar-sign rims for our automobile.
If you haven't received an invitation, it probably means you're shit out of luck. We'll be sending out the shit-out-of-luck cards tomorrow, to verify to everyone. There are a lot of those. But fewer guests mean more catered food for us and our eight or nine close friends we invited.
Unfortunately, someone—I think that no-goodnik Omar Bricks, or probably one of those other many, many no-goodniks who work here, posted our wedding invitation on the commune bulletin board. Ginger doesn't believe many of them will come to the wedding anyway, since I'm generally hated here at the office, but we're serving fried baloney and hosting square dancing (with a real caller!) so you can imagine I'm fearing a rush of uninvited guests. Damn, I didn't want to have the squad dancing caller! Like putting an open bar at a wedding. But an old friend of mine from the Russian mob was available, so we decided to ask him.
It occurs to me...
º Last Column: Abducted by Beatniks
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Every one of you are cordially invited to attend the wedding of Rockwell T. Finger and Rutherford Ginger Baker this Sunday, at the Flatbush Mall of 'Merica. Invited, of course, as long as you actually receive one of those little cardboard notes saying you can come. They all should be in the mail by now, according to Ginger. They are handwritten, so we can save all the money for the honeymoon in Haiti. We are going there to save money for buying something we really want, like solid gold dollar-sign rims for our automobile.
If you haven't received an invitation, it probably means you're shit out of luck. We'll be sending out the shit-out-of-luck cards tomorrow, to verify to everyone. There are a lot of those. But fewer guests mean more catered food for us and our eight or nine close friends we invited.
Unfortunately, someone—I think that no-goodnik Omar Bricks, or probably one of those other many, many no-goodniks who work here, posted our wedding invitation on the commune bulletin board. Ginger doesn't believe many of them will come to the wedding anyway, since I'm generally hated here at the office, but we're serving fried baloney and hosting square dancing (with a real caller!) so you can imagine I'm fearing a rush of uninvited guests. Damn, I didn't want to have the squad dancing caller! Like putting an open bar at a wedding. But an old friend of mine from the Russian mob was available, so we decided to ask him.
It occurs to me only now I probably shouldn't have contacted the Russian mob again at all, given they have tried to kill me in the past for turning state's evidence against them. Let alone invited them to the wedding. I was so excited I didn't think clearly when I made up my list. Oh, well. Hopefully they'll be the sentimental sort and let our murky histories with each other slide. It's a joyous occasion, after all.
My betrothed and I have decided to write our own vows. We got off to a rocky start, but I think it's going exceptionally well now. At first, I admit, I sort of confused the vows with New Year's resolutions, promising her I would cut out chocolate and lose ten pounds by Christmas. But she corrected me, and didn't even use violence—what a woman!
So then I wrote the vows I'm using. I promise to take her in sickness and health, as long as the health outweighs the sickness by an 85% margin. I also promised to buy her a little red wagon for putting things in and dragging them from place to place; I wanted one so badly when I was a kid, and I swore then that no wife of mine would ever do without one when she was hauling groceries home from the store or doing other work-oriented wife things. I also promised her ten cents on the dollar, should we ever divorce, which I think is a pretty fair deal. You try reading that in a mall full of loved ones and see if there's a dry eye in the food court. I doubt you could find one.
Also, she doesn't know this, but I snuck a peek at her vows, too, even though she wanted to keep them secret. If you'll excuse a little bragging, I also edited them pretty cleverly. Hers went on a little too much, talking about searching all her life for a man who really understood her and would treat her like a princess, blah, blah, blah—stuff everyone's heard before, and pretty cliché. I cut a lot of that down, and I also snuck in some sexy rejoinders, just to keep the crowd from falling asleep. Like, "I also pledge to be your eternal love slave, you handsome beefstick. I vow to do the nasty nightly." Not that I want nightly nasty. The wedding's just a show for the audience anyway.
So once again, I hope to see each and everyone of you there, because I love you all like my family. That is, if you're one of the selected few who are related to me. The rest of you just ignore all that, and whatever you do, don't come to the wedding. º Last Column: Abducted by Beatniksº more columns
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|  January 7, 2002
Volume 11Dear commune:
Hey, what up? Long time no see, m’man. How’s shit gone down for ya? What you do for New Year’s and all? I was getting down with some tasty honeys. Nothin’ too drastic, I get enough action I ain’t gonna exaggerate it or nothin’. But it was suh-weet! You KNOW I got their digits.
Where you been? Ain’t nobody seen you at the club since Shorty got that clap. Everything cool?
Dennis Warrell
St. Louis, MO
Dear Dennis:
Everything’s cool. We had nothing going on for New Year’s. Had some friends over, played board games of all things, just downed some cases of beer and a bottle of wine, watched the ball drop on T.V. Dick Clark still looks like he ain’t aged none, something’s going on with that guy.
It’s all good here, we just ain’t been down with the club scene in a while. It’s getting tired, man. We know you’re gonna give us shit for it, but we just can’t keep on doing the same thing anymore. The girls get younger and younger and dumber and dumber, there ain’t no sport in clubbing anymore. the commune would rather just hang out on the weekend with a nice girl, or just relax and watch T.V. or read a book. But you the man! You keep up the hunt, if you got game in ya. I think we’re hanging up the jersey, though.
What’s up with Shorty? Last time I saw that motherfucker he had this fuck-ugly bitch hanging all on his jock and he was...
º Last Column: Volume 10
º more columns
Dear commune: Hey, what up? Long time no see, m’man. How’s shit gone down for ya? What you do for New Year’s and all? I was getting down with some tasty honeys. Nothin’ too drastic, I get enough action I ain’t gonna exaggerate it or nothin’. But it was suh-weet! You KNOW I got their digits. Where you been? Ain’t nobody seen you at the club since Shorty got that clap. Everything cool? Dennis Warrell
St. Louis, MODear Dennis:
Everything’s cool. We had nothing going on for New Year’s. Had some friends over, played board games of all things, just downed some cases of beer and a bottle of wine, watched the ball drop on T.V. Dick Clark still looks like he ain’t aged none, something’s going on with that guy.
It’s all good here, we just ain’t been down with the club scene in a while. It’s getting tired, man. We know you’re gonna give us shit for it, but we just can’t keep on doing the same thing anymore. The girls get younger and younger and dumber and dumber, there ain’t no sport in clubbing anymore. the commune would rather just hang out on the weekend with a nice girl, or just relax and watch T.V. or read a book. But you the man! You keep up the hunt, if you got game in ya. I think we’re hanging up the jersey, though.
What’s up with Shorty? Last time I saw that motherfucker he had this fuck-ugly bitch hanging all on his jock and he was pretending she was fine. I was about ready to swat that bitch, I swear. His standards gone to shit or what? Peace out, man.
the commune
Dear commune: I appreciate the extreme views on your website. Even when I don’t agree with them it’s nice to see people thinking for themselves and asking different questions. It keeps our media fresh and alert, which keeps our system of checks and balances working. I do have one question for the commune: Is all the strong language necessary? It seems to me these are basically public air waves, in a sense, and children and anybody could find the commune and read what’s printed here. I don’t think the essence of what’s being said, the real substance, would change if the language were more fitting for all potential readers. I truly believe that a poor vocabulary is the product of an unimaginative mind. Surely the columnists and feature writers for the commune write better words than the ones they often use? Annette Bustlen
Ontario, CanadaDear Annette:
Fuck a yeti, you rusted old Canuck twat.
the commune
Dear commune: I don’t know why I’m choosing to write to you. I’m at my wit’s end and need help. I have a neighbor who plays his stereo way too loud. I hate to think of myself as an old fuddy-duddy, but it really bothers me. He plays the stereo at top decibels all day long, even as late as 10 p.m. at night. I have to work in the morning! Not right now, it’s Saturday night, I just mean through the week when I usually hear the stereo and get upset. What should I do? I hate to be a jerk about it or anything. Darren Hutchins
Calder, CaliforniaDear Annette:
Usually straightforward honesty is the best policy for dealing with an unpleasant situation. Confront your neighbor, be unrelenting but understanding and explain to him why the loud stereo is a problem for you. It is important you refuse to give any quarter or show any signs of backing down, often people will try to talk their way out of situations or turn the blame on you. By being polite yet forthright, you should alleviate the problem. Failing all else, you must be firm and contact the police or landlord about the problem, anyone who can enforce a stern rule about disturbing the peace. Sooner or later, with your commitment toward solving the problem, your neighbor will concede and turn his stereo down.
Unless it’s Creedence. Crank that shit till the dial breaks! It rocks, it rocks hard.
the commune
Editor’s Note: the commune is not responsible low turn out at American professional soccer events. C’mon—it’s soccer, people. What did you expect?º Last Column: Volume 10º more columns
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Quote of the Day“All the world's a stage, and unfortunately everyone's doing improv and they think they're so fucking funny. But you know what? LAME.”
-Bill ShacksperdFortune 500 CookieTop dentists all agree: You need teeth, so in short, allow the gargantuan redneck arguing over who did that "Life is a Highway" song to win the disagreement. Sometimes life feels like a TV show, and this week it feels like Red Shoe Diaries—the nudity is all too brief and all your sex will be simulated. Taste taser, motherfucker. Lucky moods are alright, not too bad/you?, feelin' frisky, and I seriously can't go on living no more.
Try again later.Top 5 commune Features This Week| 1. | Tokyo Hooker Handjob Reviews | | 2. | Poker Tips for the Illiterate | | 3. | Amish Consumer Electronics Round-Up | | 4. | Uncle Macho's Chocolate Chip Waffles | | 5. | Rice: It's Still Good For You | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 2/18/2002 What it is, America? Welcome back to the long and lonely road of Entertainment Policing. You've probably heard about most of what's gone down since the last installment of this column, including the restraining order placed against yours truly by Saul Worthington of the Bronx, New York. Sometimes the path to the truth can be littered with hardship and legal fees, that's all I have to say about that. But the important thing is that we're back, and ready with another two-weeks' worth of vital editorial nuggets pertaining to the entertainment choices you, the valued reader, must make on a regular basis. But before we get to that, how about we set the mood with a tall, cool glass of Ask Roland? No? Alright, but don't come crying to me when you wake up in the middle of the night hungry for...
What it is, America? Welcome back to the long and lonely road of Entertainment Policing. You've probably heard about most of what's gone down since the last installment of this column, including the restraining order placed against yours truly by Saul Worthington of the Bronx, New York. Sometimes the path to the truth can be littered with hardship and legal fees, that's all I have to say about that. But the important thing is that we're back, and ready with another two-weeks' worth of vital editorial nuggets pertaining to the entertainment choices you, the valued reader, must make on a regular basis. But before we get to that, how about we set the mood with a tall, cool glass of Ask Roland? No? Alright, but don't come crying to me when you wake up in the middle of the night hungry for Ask Roland! You made your bed, now on to the reviews!
In Theaters Now:
Crossroads
As part of the deal that Hollywood struck with a devil on a moonlit night back in 1927, every ten years or so they're required to put out a movie called Crossroads.
And over the years they've delivered, starting with the 1929 French truffle of the same name, continuing with the 1931 Ruskie animated flop, then the 1942 Basil Rathbone picture that succeeded solely on the merits of having an actor with a very cool name on the marquee, then there were the famously forgettable "Crossroads" films of 1955 and 1957, Bruce Conner's revival of the genre in 1976 (notice that there was no "Crossroads" film during the 60's, and look at what happened then), then after that it was ten years on the nose until Ralph Macchio's 1986 film about a blues guitarist who definitely doesn't know karate, and finally the 1996 version about a man tying his shoe that was released to only one theater in Missouri, merely to keep up the bargain.
Well, the Hollywood big-wigs are trying to make sure that doesn't happen again, and are jumping the gun early in releasing this decade's version of a lousy movie called Crossroads. This time it stars Britney Spears, everyone's favorite virgin, who I'm beginning to suspect may have made some kind of deal with the devil herself. How else can you explain the legions of 13 year-old Britney clones that clog our shopping malls and amusement parks like the backwash of brine shrimp out of a whale's ass? Sorry honey, but I think it's time to side-step your creaky old tush out of the limelight to make room for some fresh young talent. I hear there's a singing 10 year-old from West Virginia who can put her legs behind her head, you know.
Big Fat Liar
What's funnier than Jim Carrey running around like he's retarded and not being able to tell a lie? You guessed it, a 300 pound Jim Carrey running around like he's retarded and not being able to tell a lie. They promised the sequel would be bigger than the original, but none of us dared to think they were talking about Carrey's drooping leg fat. And yeah, it's pretty funny, but I have to admit it's the ultimate insult when Hollywood would rather dress up attractive people in fat suits than hire one of the many genuinely fat people available for the role.
Dragonfly
Strange new Kevin Costner flick about a doctor who's wife dies and is reincarnated as a dragonfly. Costner's character tries every kind of new-age chicanery to contact his dead wife, not knowing that she was the slightly greenish discoloration on the windshield of his Beemer all along.
Peter Pan 2: Return to Nevermind
Man, when Disney cuts a budget, they cut a budget. Not only did they shamelessly rehash one of their all-time classics by re-arranging the original footage and inserting a computer-animated wisecracking bedpan, they didn't even spring for an original score for the film. Instead, Disney's latest effort is set to Nirvana's 1991 breakthrough album, Nevermind. A great album, but talk about your bizarre creative choices! You can bet there are going to be some tykes choking on their Cow Tails when they come to the theater expecting to hear "You Can Fly!" and instead they get "Territorial Pissings." It really makes me wonder if there's anyone manning the big magic flying ship over there at Disney. If there is, they must have slept through their alarm because I think the magic boat just crashed into a Kmart.
Queen of the Damned
I've always assumed that when you walk through the gates of Hades, they'll have Queen playing at an uncomfortable volume. Apparently I'm not the only one who felt this way, since the band's first exploitation film has them booked on a sold-out tour of hell. Spankingly gay frontman Freddie Prinz Jr. eats up the screen in his musical film debut, and gets some of it stuck in his mustache. They didn't really say either way in the movie, but I've always imagined Queen would have the Village People opening for them on their tour of hell. Partly because I've long suspected they're actually the same band.
Now on Video:
13 Ghosts
What's scarier than a dozen ghosts but not quite as scary as fourteen? That's right, F. Murray Abraham. Striking the same perfect balance of creepy menace he found in Scarface, without going overboard by being hysterically, pants-shittingly scary, Abraham turns in his best performance since he played himself in The Phantom Emancipation Proclamation.
Bones
Is space-doctor turned gangsta-rapper D-Forest Kelley ready for the transition to big-screen leading man? I don't know, you might have to ask him yourself, but he sucked in this one. Even with Pam "Foxy-Boxing" Grier getting his back, I still wasn't able to believe in him as an action stud, and the attempted turns on his trademark catchphrase ("I'm not a role model, I'm a space-doctor.") ranged from the unintentionally funny to the downright pathetic.
J.Lo and Silent Bob Strike Back
They really need to beef up security on Hollywood movie sets these days, because I'm starting to feel like you can't see a movie anymore that doesn't have some clueless pop star wandering in front of the camera and gumming up the works. Sometimes they even play along like they're actually in the movie, it's pathetic. Here we have what would have been a fun family film that's totally spoiled by J.Lo and her pottymouthed antics. What kind of nickname is J.Lo, anyway? Can I get that with fruit in it?
Television:
It's nice to know even when the movies whip it out and piss all over you there's still trust old television and it's top shows to turn to. Except for the Olympics have taken a dump on my TV. So, covered in every kind of bodily waste, I sum up the highlights of the Olympics.
Marguerita Mixing
Ice sculpting is fun, but what do you do when it's done? A giant ice squirrel is about as useful as... no, stop that snide comment, there's absolutely nothing else more useless. Anyway, the Olympics have done good this year, getting the world's top lushes to come in and see how fast they can pound down the sculptures into a fine drink cooler. Roland M. will be playing along at home.
100-Meter Slip-N-Fall
Usually instead of professional athletes this competition is made up of political prisoners and dissidents. They give them two minutes to get across an icy tundra with greased feet and if they make it, they get a commuted sentence. I watch it not so much for the rousing Olympic spirit and athletic prowess as the funny falling down and busting of asses.
Ice Diving
Anybody can execute a perfect slice into water, but it takes one major bad-ass to cut through solid ice. In fact, it's never actually done. Most countries don't participate in this rare event, but the ones who do definitely have dedicated athletes. The highlight for me was China's Ting Wa Noon, who actually broke the ice. He'll probably be awarded the bronze, posthumously.
Video Games:
Simpson's Road Rage (GC, PS2, XB)
Shows how anything is funny, given a few years. The craziest racing games out there features you as O.J. Simpson circa 1994, running from the law with a gun to your head, driven by loyal buddy A.C. You have to escape the law so you can prove your innocence and catch the real killers.
Jonny Moseley: Bad Trix (GBA)
What luck is that? That stupid rabbit spends years trying to get a hold of the cereal just to find out it's poison for rabbits. Now you've got 24 game hours to find a vet and get fixed. Not a real blast, but it was interesting to find out the rabbit was named Jonny. You think they could've made that more obvious in the commercials.
Drackin' II
Nauseating game about a skateboarder who got a hold of a bad Jack in the Box burger and has his tricks and jumps interrupted by violent bouts of vomiting. Can't decide whether it wants to be a skateboarding or a vomiting game, but neither one is very good. Reminded me of my own visits to Tainted Burger, though.
Well, faithful readers, according to USDA regulations that's all I can give you for this week. Be sure to tune back in a few weeks from now for more of your beloved entertainment vittles. Until then!   |
