Comedian Andy Dick Arrested for Exposing Name

omedian Andy Dick was arrested last Tuesday night while applying for a membership card in a local Blockbuster Video retail location. Dick was asked to display his driver's license during the application process, at which time the cashier, Miss Trudy Watts of North Las Vegas, read his name, fainted, and hit her head on the counter. Dick was apprehended by an off-duty police officer who was in the store at the time.

"I was there to rent Lethal Weapon 4 when I saw what happened. So I did what I thought Riggs & Murtaw would do. I went to the payphone outside and called for backup," said Vegas police officer Harold Turnbill, recounting his harrowing experience.

Luckily for the people of Las Vegas, Dick was still at the scene when crews arrived. An arrest was made, and the 137 pound Dick was stuffed into a police cruiser through an open window. Authorities are uncertain as of yet whether this was an isolated incident or rather part of a wanton crime spree, though they fear the latter.

"I remember I was scared. Scared and uncomfortable, and then painful because of the counter hitting my head," said Watts shortly after the incident.

Dick was also booked on charges of impersonating a celebrity. "He claimed to be on some kind of TV show, but I ain't never seen him on ER," stated Turnbill, visibly shaken by the experience. Dick is being held at the Las Vegas City Correctional Facility on $80,000 bail.

Santa Claus on Trial: Week Three

Unknown American Philosopher Dead

Oasis, Killers Combine Forces to Ruin Sgt. Pepper’s for Everyone

Global Warming Poses Threat to National Parks, Says WWF’s “Machoman” Savage

Once upon a time there was an ecstatically happy couple named Bitrate and Sorma, who lived in the town of Ringbear near Norma. The town made a sound like a hub cap going round and round a banister not far from the stairs. Everyone who lived there was ecstatically happy, except for one young man, who was positively orgasmic.

The townspeople had been
so unbearably happy for so incredibly long
that they had literally forgotten
what it was like for life to go wrong.
They had completely forgotten what it was like
to eat too much ice cream too fast, or to crash on a bike.
To hit your funny bone on the oven, or to end up with a scar,
or to slam your tongue in the trunk of a car.
But unlike those ungrateful bastards over in Karam,
who forgot they were happy until snails ate the dam,
and the people were eaten by goats who came down from the hills,
and instead of water it rained three-dollar bills,
the people of Ringbear fully appreciated how good they had it.
That's why they were especially displeased
with Bitrate and Sorma
when everything went to shit.

One bright autumn day, on the sixth of September,
almost two months before the sixth of November,
Bitrate and Sorma had the wonderful idea.

The only way, they figured, that they could be merrier,
was if there were more of them (and not just the terrier).
So they set out to have a child.
They tried many ways, would attempt many angles,
until the winner one night was "The Swedish Dangle",
a position which yielded six kings and a pope,
and the man who invented soap on a rope.
This was in the past, of course, not in Sorma's womb,
for in there grew only a small boy named Joom,
and needless to say he quite liked the room.

On the day Joom was born, Bitrate gave him flowers,
which he'd been arranging for seventeen hours.
"Welcome, my son!" he shouted and then,
brandished the bouquet like a cornish game hen.
But the boy did not smile, the boy did not laugh,
the boy did not call for a doctor on staff,
the boy merely cried a quite Joom-like cry,
while flailing his feetlings and rubbing his eyes.

I think I need not tell you Bitrate was taken aback,
not unlike an explorer-cum-alligator-snack,
to have the bouquet he'd so nicely erected,
to have it so coldly and flatly rejected.

That's when he shouted: "You ungrateful young shit!
While I am out working, in diapers you sit!
You could have at least practiced, in all those wombed hours,
pretending just once that you liked my flowers!"
Bitrate stormed out and he made quite a scene,
vowing to speak not to Joom 'til he was seventeen.

And would you believe for a second, if I were to tell,
that Joom grew up to be… The Boy Who Could Not Smell?
I didn't think so, but check the records, it's true.
Shitting is not what I'm doing to you.

Joom was normal sized (this is not that old story),
and I assure you quite frankly the ending's less gory.
He just couldn't smell, couldn't sniff, couldn't snort,
any fine odors of any old sort.
Not roses, not coffee, not sail boats, not skunks.
Joom would pass over an army of drunks,
untouched by their stench, and he needed a tutor
to even turn on the smell-o-computer.

The townsfolk, once kind, were helplessly amused,
they often dropped Joom in manure while he snoozed.
They really got mean, some would call it cruel,
and that's not even counting the kids at the school.
They were the meanest by far,
it was really no contest, they locked him in a car.
They filled it with sauerkraut, and stinkbombs and fish,
they topped it with sulphur and said "Mmmm… delish!"
They tortured him in math class, and English and Arts.
They locked him in the coat closet with the fat boy who farts.
But even through all this, Joom could not smell.
This egged them on further, they threw him down a well
filled with pickles and pillbugs and rot,
they even threw down one burnt tater tot.
But was no use, Joom's nose was no tool,
and this just made the townsfolk more evil and cruel.

And this was their downfall, the town fell to waste,
as the people grew bitter and ate nothing but paste
and stale Easter eggs and mountains of beans,
and more nasty things than you've ever seen.
They seldom went out, and none went to work,
they sat at home and cursed that little no-smelling jerk
and plotted at ways of making a stench so thick,
that Joom would smell it at last, and it would make him sick.

They never got their chance. In a happier story,
one that was all filled up with morals and glory,
Joom would make friends and prove he could do other things well,
even if he was The Boy Who Could Not Smell.
That people are people, regardless of beauty or girth,
and that one's nose is hardly the extent of one's worth.
But there was a gas leak in the classroom one bright autumn day,
and all the children who smelled it ran so far away,
except for small Joom who just withered away.

Sorry.

º Last Column: The Boy No Bigger Than a Claritin Pill
º more columns

"I've got the keys to the kingdom, if the kingdom is a '73 Dodge Dart."

I'd like to get a motorcycle but I'm just not the "motorcycle type." At least that's what the guy at the motorcycle shop told me. He said if he saw me riding around on a motorcycle him and his friends would personally see to it I got my ass kicked. So that was enough to put me off motorcycles. Maybe if I hear he's moved or something I'll look at getting one again. One of those ninja motorcycles, but I can't remember what they're called.

I've been a proud Dodge Dart owner since 1995. I've owned the car 25 years, but I just figured it was time to be proud of it around '95. It wasn't going to change anything to pretend I didn't own it when it was parked out front and all the yelling and shouting of obscenities toward it only worked in reverse and people were sure it was mine.

It's cool, though, because sometimes I find things in between the seats when I go looking. I found a Playboy issue with a Jimmy Carter interview with all the good parts edited out. There was a pro-union button which means maybe that guy who sold it to me was telling me the truth about Jimmy Hoffa owning the car before. Or maybe the guy said the car was so dirty Jimmy Hoffa was probably inside somewhere. It was something to do with Jimmy Hoffa, or Jimmy Walker. Whichever was on Good Times.

Have you ever gotten your dick stuck in a car's exhaust pipe? Me neither, of course, but it would be funny to see. I don't think it will ever happen, not as long as they keep making these modern cars with huge exhaust pipes.

If I were to ever sell the Dart, I don't know what I'd like to get. Everybody's getting these SUVs, but I don't want to get a car I have to spell out everytime I'm telling the guy at the impound lot which one I came to pick up. It sounds dumb, but at first I thought they were Spanish cars by the way they're pronounced. I wonder if there is a word in Spanish that sounds like SUV. It would be funny if the Mexicans thought all these yuppies were talking about driving douches to work or something.

I suppose I don't care what kind of car I got as long it had power steering and doors. The doors especially would be a necessary 'cause I hate the way I keep flying out of the Dodge whenever I make sharp turns. The cops tell me I should wear my seatbelt and I tell them I don't live in Afghanistan, Joe Friday.

Did you know there's a homepage for Dodge Darts? It's at www.dodgedart.org. This is why it's so hard to find porn on the internet—the place is glutted with useless crap.

º Last Column: Duck's Ass
º more columns