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 March 28, 2005 |
Los Angeles, CA Junior Bacon District Attorney Steve Cooley, who keeps calling Ramon Nootles to “hang out” but ends up spending the whole time bitching about juries. It’s always about you, isn’t it, Steve?
“This was an open and shut case,” fumed Cooley. “What did they think, that Blake really forgot his gun in that restaurant exactly at the exact same time somebody decided to shoot his batshit grifter wife in the back of the head? I’ve heard little autistic kids come up with better lies than that. I hope none of those jurors have children, s...
alling the jurors who acquitted Robert Blake last week “low-grade retards,” District Attorney Steve Cooley’s post-trial sour grapes rose to a level rarely seen in our modern, politically correct era Thursday during a 40-minute interview with reporters. Cooley delivering a rambling, profanity-laden tirade punctuated by “Fuck Yous” personalized for each member of the twelve-person jury, each one more cutting than the last.
“This was an open and shut case,” fumed Cooley. “What did they think, that Blake really forgot his gun in that restaurant exactly at the exact same time somebody decided to shoot his batshit grifter wife in the back of the head? I’ve heard little autistic kids come up with better lies than that. I hope none of those jurors have children, sheesh.”
“God! I can’t believe how stupid you people are!” Cooley continued, as if the jury was assembled in his presence. “What did I have to do, put a black cowboy hat on the guy? This was one evil, wife-killing dude! Was his wife not pretty enough? Maybe if the papers hadn’t used those pictures of Bonny shoplifting that watermelon we might have got some jury sympathy. I can’t believe they were all huge fans of Our Gang.”
“Did he really say ‘a pack of inbred monkey-fuckers’?” asked legal expert Chelton Baines. “I hadn’t heard that part. Wow, that’s strong language.”
After the formal interview ended, Cooley continued his onslaught over drinks with this reporter at a nearby bar.
“I swear, this human bungwipe made O.J. Simpson look like Tom Selleck in An Innocent Man,” griped Cooley further. “Or if you haven’t seen that, think of the guy from that Harrison Ford movie.”
“Did you see that juror in the first row? Was he actually eating paste during the trial? Somebody told me it was mashed potatoes, but who brings a jar of mashed potatoes for a snack? That guy was four genes short of a wardrobe, no doubt.”
An assortment of legal experts, however, contend that while Blake was definitely guiltier than a morbidly obese fox in a chicken processing plant, attorney Cooley may have, in legal terms, “screwed the pooch” in his handling of the prosecution.
“Aw, settle down, Steve,” countered Blake’s attorney, M. Gerald Schwartzbach, in a separate interview not held in a bar. “The fact of the matter is, Steve bungled this case. Sure, MENSA wasn’t beating down these jurors’ doors, and many of them had to have basic legal terms like ‘trial’ explained to them numerous times, but I don’t think anyone was ‘clinically brain-dead,’ to use Steve’s term. I mean, what did he expect after parading all those junkies, snitches and piles of walking human shit up onto the witness stand? I’m surprised he didn’t subpoena Jose Canseco or Scott Peterson. What, were Benedict Arnold and the boy who cried wolf too busy to drop by?”
“Playing ‘Blame the Jury’ is the oldest cop-out in the Lawyer’s Handbook,” agreed smug attorney Nelson Arbuckle, waving a copy of the Lawyer’s Handbook. “Everybody knows the jury is just a blob of stupid putty that you need to mold into a coherent mass of guilty-voting.”
“Anybody who doesn’t know that doesn’t deserve to wear the Lawyer’s Ring,” concluded Arbuckle, brandishing a gaudy turquoise ring on his pinky finger. the commune news wants to set the record straight that we voted “Guilty” in the Blake trial, however our absentee ballot apparently didn’t make it to the courthouse in time to be counted. Ramon Nootles is the commune’s resident resident resident… Holy fuck, can anybody else hear that echo echo echo? That’s it; this keyboard is going back into the jar of barber shop dip.
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You�ve Got Mail, Iran�s Got Nukes Da Vinci Code Author Found Guilty of Inspiring National Treasure New .eu Domains Popular Among Gross-Out, Childbirth Video Websites Sharon Still in Coma, Phyllis Still Total Slutbag |
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 November 12, 2001
Raindrops Keep Falling on Ned's HeadNot long ago was the day when Ned was quicker than electrical intercourse. Damn the Yankees if Ned wasn't the fastest thing this side of the mongoose races over at Lambert Field, and anyone who says different is trying to sell you a boxcar full of Injun silverware. Ned could skin a rattlesnake in a minute, paint two states in an hour, and make minute rice in 13 seconds. "Hot Damn!" is what they once said about Ned. When it rained, Ned never once got wet since he was ziggin' and zaggin' between those raindrops like a turkey in a pumpkin patch. As a matter of fact, one day Ned drank a pot of hot coffee and was so hyped-up he swam across the Mississippi and back without once getting wet, neither.
But some say Ned got all greedy with his speed, and that might rightly be true. One day, on a lark, Ned stole away the sun into his shoulder-satchel and tucked it behind the moon, just to see the looks on people's faces when they couldn't find the sun that day. Well, it was a powerfully funny scene indeed, as them roosters crowed at all the wrong times, them people were eatin' chocolate tarts when they should have been eatin' their breakfast hams and everyone got all in a huff. Austria invaded Switzerland and all them geese flew straight into the moon, honest to Amos. Nedder laughed until he was horse and his horse laughed until he was Ned and then the horse rode Ned through town, a-yellin' "Otis Redding is Coming! Otis Redding is Coming!" and all the people thought that...
º Last Column: Migglio the Monkey
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Not long ago was the day when Ned was quicker than electrical intercourse. Damn the Yankees if Ned wasn't the fastest thing this side of the mongoose races over at Lambert Field, and anyone who says different is trying to sell you a boxcar full of Injun silverware. Ned could skin a rattlesnake in a minute, paint two states in an hour, and make minute rice in 13 seconds. "Hot Damn!" is what they once said about Ned. When it rained, Ned never once got wet since he was ziggin' and zaggin' between those raindrops like a turkey in a pumpkin patch. As a matter of fact, one day Ned drank a pot of hot coffee and was so hyped-up he swam across the Mississippi and back without once getting wet, neither.
But some say Ned got all greedy with his speed, and that might rightly be true. One day, on a lark, Ned stole away the sun into his shoulder-satchel and tucked it behind the moon, just to see the looks on people's faces when they couldn't find the sun that day. Well, it was a powerfully funny scene indeed, as them roosters crowed at all the wrong times, them people were eatin' chocolate tarts when they should have been eatin' their breakfast hams and everyone got all in a huff. Austria invaded Switzerland and all them geese flew straight into the moon, honest to Amos. Nedder laughed until he was horse and his horse laughed until he was Ned and then the horse rode Ned through town, a-yellin' "Otis Redding is Coming! Otis Redding is Coming!" and all the people thought that was one sour apple indeed.
From that day after not the sun nor the moon, nor the clouds nor the sea, none of them trusted Ned a lick. When it rained it rained sideways and them clouds furrowed up their brows and made sure Nedder got wetter than a seal in a vat of Vaseline. When the moon it did shine, it shined right in Ned's eyes, and the sea lived to make Ned sick.
Ned's refrigerator filled up with fog, and his basement got full of box turtles. All his clocks quit tickin' and went "boink" instead, drivin' Ned to the verge of Virgil. His toilet filled with hair and his hair all fell out and his pogo stick developed a terrible squeak and all his neighbors loved Polka. Them was the worst of times.
So Ned learnt his lesson, that life don't move at the speed of no train, an that a sloth in a grain silo has one hell of a lot of fun, if you believe them ol' stories. Now in these days them raindrops fall on Ned's noggin like that drummer boy gone bad, and Ned likes it this way. The sun does a dance in Nedmiller's pants and the sea rocks Nedrum to sleep. And excepting that hot air balloon incident, Ned and the moon get along just fine, thanks. º Last Column: Migglio the Monkeyº more columns
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|  May 26, 2003
Genuine Draft"I swear, it's just like Herpies Law. Anything can go wrong, you get herpies. Story of my life."
The big problem with going to war is it's all fun until they tell you to go. Kicking ass is easy when you're watching on TV, give me a remote and I'll kick everybody's ass. A whole lot of ass. Guns are heavier and harder to point.
I shot a gun once, at a gun show. Nobody told me that was the secret signal to start a dogpile. Dogpiles are fun only if you're the guy on top, or the one with the video camera.
Really they should call it a manpile, since usually there's no dogs. Then if you were walking down the street and you saw a pile of dogs, you would yell "Manpile!" and the dogs would look at you funny.
Some judge told me I needed a hobby, so I decided my hobby was not going in the army. Whatever you call not going to war and being shot up by the Chinese. That's my hobby.
It's fun to have a hobby and have something to say on the dating service video. I think that's what it was but it was weird because I didn't know the cops taped those. That must be what the only semi-crooked cops do for extra money.
But sometimes a hobby can cramp your style, which in my case is doggystyle. The other day at the gas station I overheard about a party where they were going to have a Miller Genuine Draft. I had to tell those guys thanks, but I couldn't risk going in the army. They were so mad they said I was never...
º Last Column: Grade-B SARS
º more columns
"I swear, it's just like Herpies Law. Anything can go wrong, you get herpies. Story of my life."
The big problem with going to war is it's all fun until they tell you to go. Kicking ass is easy when you're watching on TV, give me a remote and I'll kick everybody's ass. A whole lot of ass. Guns are heavier and harder to point.
I shot a gun once, at a gun show. Nobody told me that was the secret signal to start a dogpile. Dogpiles are fun only if you're the guy on top, or the one with the video camera.
Really they should call it a manpile, since usually there's no dogs. Then if you were walking down the street and you saw a pile of dogs, you would yell "Manpile!" and the dogs would look at you funny.
Some judge told me I needed a hobby, so I decided my hobby was not going in the army. Whatever you call not going to war and being shot up by the Chinese. That's my hobby.
It's fun to have a hobby and have something to say on the dating service video. I think that's what it was but it was weird because I didn't know the cops taped those. That must be what the only semi-crooked cops do for extra money.
But sometimes a hobby can cramp your style, which in my case is doggystyle. The other day at the gas station I overheard about a party where they were going to have a Miller Genuine Draft. I had to tell those guys thanks, but I couldn't risk going in the army. They were so mad they said I was never invited anyway, and who the hell are you? But I said hey, sometimes your hobby comes first. Sometimes the girl comes first, but only when she is really ugly and you are too drunk to think of somebody hotter. º Last Column: Grade-B SARSº more columns
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Milestones1998: Omar Bricks pees off the world's largest man-made waterfall. Not really relevant to anything else, but still pretty cool.Now HiringYes Man. Agreeable sort needed to attend staff meetings and dilute the concentration of "Huh?" Men presently attending.Top-Grossing Documentaries| 1. | Dicking Around on the Set of 'Attack of the Clones' | | 2. | The Making of Anal Armageddon | | 3. | Thomas Kincade: Watch Me Shine | | 4. | The Making of Anal Armageddon 2: The Lost Footage | | 5. | More Kittens Batting at String | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 10/28/2002 Hello hello, America!
Boy have we got some nipples for you this week! I ca- nipples? You know what I mean, America, movies. Weird. Some people think it's significant when you nip out like that, ma- slip up, nip rocks, whatever. It's not like this is a column about taut, hairy man-nipples or anything. Woman! Woman nipples. Hairless and soft. I mean, it's not about that either, but if this column were about nipples, it sure as hell wouldn't be about any tempting, salty, lickable man nipples. Gross.
All right, let's get to the boobies before somebody gets hurt.
In Theaters
Auto Focus
Ford loves to kiss its own ass over the fact that they present the hit drama...
Hello hello, America!
Boy have we got some nipples for you this week! I ca- nipples? You know what I mean, America, movies. Weird. Some people think it's significant when you nip out like that, ma- slip up, nip rocks, whatever. It's not like this is a column about taut, hairy man-nipples or anything. Woman! Woman nipples. Hairless and soft. I mean, it's not about that either, but if this column were about nipples, it sure as hell wouldn't be about any tempting, salty, lickable man nipples. Gross.
All right, let's get to the boobies before somebody gets hurt.
In Theaters
Auto Focus
Ford loves to kiss its own ass over the fact that they present the hit drama 24 without commercial interruption, like Robitussin used to do with Twin Peaks. But then they turn around and flush all of that goodwill right down the crapper by putting out a movie that's one thinly-disguised two hour commercial for their miserable mini-car, the Focus. Sure, there's some porn and scandal and whatnot in there to distract you from this fact, but it's still obviously the opening salvo in the upcoming "Battle of the Shitty Midget Cars" with Ford trying to high-step its way out to an early lead over the Toyota Echo and the Chevy Burp. You might think the Honda Cramp should have a place in the fray, but it's technically in a different car class since you can fit a jug of milk in the trunk.
Formula 51
Leave it to Samuel L. Jackson to bring Heinz founder Mortimer P. Heinz to badass life on the big screen. Sure, Heinz wasn't black, but he sure made catsup like he was. And Jackson brings that tomato-squashing verve to this role so convincingly, you'll almost forget how he tricked you into paying to see that shitty genius shark movie a while back.
Ghost Ship
It sure as hell didn't work for Speed, but the makers of the 2001 Nintendo Pictures hit Ghost World apparently thought two times was a charm when they decided to needlessly recycle their hit film by setting the sequel on a big ol' boat. Sure, Patrick Swayzee gets to hop around some more and shoot fireballs out of his nose at skeleton pirates, and you know the kids love that, but not bringing back Whoopi Goldberg for the sequel was a big mistake, and the picture runs out of gas halfway through because of it. The second half of the film is exactly the same as the first, except now the ghosts are orange instead of blue, which I guess is supposed to mean something.
Jackass: The Movie
The elephant fetishists aren't going to like it, but Michael Moore's latest cannonball into the kiddie pool of conservative life is his funniest film yet. Not that it takes someone with an IQ over 15 to make our president look like a yokel, but Moore does it up right with this hilarious space invasion of all things George W. Bush. It's all here, every time he's made up a word to express his complex feelings during an interview, the notorious "Stuck Inside a Port-a-John" episode from the Republican Primaries, and some jaw-dropping super-8 footage of a teenage George W. being outsmarted by a Chinese finger trap (and tape of the classic 911 call that followed). Sometimes Moore can be too far-reaching in his satire, but this time he hit the nail on the nards.
The Truth About Charlie
Red Bagel's third unpublished book about the Vietnam War finally finds its way to the big screen, credited of course to one of Bagel's many pen names. Always one of the most popular of Bagel's photocopied manuscripts around his favorite local haunts (the Laundromat and the Crazy Crotch Tavern), Charlie uncovers the untold story of the Vietnam conflict, beginning with Grover Cleveland's illegal importation of midgets from the Orient in the 60's and continuing through the mock battles staged on a Hollywood set for the benefit of JFK's private investors. The book, if you can call a ragged stack of Xerox paper binder-clipped together a book, ripped the asshole off the entire cover-up, and changed the way about fifteen people thought about Vietnam forever. The movie, of course, is watered down horseshit with some pretty faces plastered on the package, but that's to be expected. The government hasn't let Hollywood come anywhere near the truth since Benji the Hunted in 1987*.
(*Note: Benji Bones a Bitch, the 1992 home-video hit, was filmed entirely in Vancouver, outside of the Hollywood system.)
Waking Up in Reno with Billy Bob Thornton
You know it's got to be Halloween season when they start putting scary junk in all of the upcoming movie trailers, like Jennifer Love Hewitt or shots of Billy Bob in his bikini briefs. This is what they mean when they call something a "Psychological Thriller," unless it's a movie about a killer psychologist, in which case that's what they mean. I probably should have seen it coming, from the title and all, but I have to admit I jumped halfway out of my pants during the scene when Ashley Judd wakes up and rolls over to find Mr. Slingblade between her sheets. Absolutely the scariest waking up scene since the one where that Canadian chick wakes up to find a moose head in her bed in The Godfather.
Well, it looks like that's that, America. Another two weeks down, another several hundred to go before we can lay down and die. That's how the country song goes, anyway. Old-time country, not this new truck commercial country they play nowadays. I'm talking about back when country was about having your balls chewed off by a thresher and how that means you won't be able to have no two-headed children with your cousin Moline, and how that drove you to drinkin'. These days country music is all about how your agent tricked your dumb country ass out of a million dollars and now you've got to do a Dr. Pepper commercial so the bank doesn't repossess your hideously decorated triple-decker yacht. It's crap, but it still sells since there are plenty of small-town minivan moms out there who need to be sheltered from irony. But listen to me here, you'd think I was trying to make up for not running any album reviews since Clinton was in office. Take it easy, America.    |
