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 January 10, 2005 |
Flatbush, NJ Mrs. Bird, Graphics A podge of the hodge that made 2004 so yearish
2004 dazzled us like strange, incomprehensible kabuki theater, in which a talking gonad was somehow re-elected president and the biggest group of losers this side of Color Me Badd accidentally won the World Series. Martha Stewart went to jail and Kobe Bryant didn’t, teaching America’s children a v...
oodbye, 2004. Thanks so much for biting the dong and hanging around for at least eleven months too long, until it finally took a forty-story tall wall of hauling ass saltwater to wash your taste out of our mouths. Thanks for finally dragging your skanky, broken ass off our calendar at last, and don’t think we won’t be calling the Goodwill in the morning to come pick up what’s left of your shit. The new year is here, and it doesn’t stink quite so strongly of Jovan Musk.
2004 dazzled us like strange, incomprehensible kabuki theater, in which a talking gonad was somehow re-elected president and the biggest group of losers this side of Color Me Badd accidentally won the World Series. Martha Stewart went to jail and Kobe Bryant didn’t, teaching America’s children a valuable lesson about the horrors of overly tasteful home décor. The country had to grow up fast with the revelation that Janet Jackson has breasts, while her brother Michael strangely has no interest in the same. Americans everywhere were up in arms about an unjustified war in Iraq… no wait, sorry. Americans everywhere were up in arms about a fertilizer salesman who snuffed his wife, vigilantly demanding to see justice done before more Modesto singles could be put in harm’s way.
Meanwhile, on the bright side of political news, Ronald Reagan and Yasser Arafat both died in “unrelated” incidents, leaving more Ben Gay for the rest of us.
There were also the usual run of celebrity mercy killings, though 2004 couldn’t even get those right, as nobody was especially eager to see Ray Charles, Marlon Brando, Rodney Dangerfield or Christopher Reeve go. Though the thought of the four of them all on the same bus to the afterlife offers many amusing possibilities, which isn’t a half-bad idea for a sitcom or at least a winning bar joke. Note to self: write down this million-dollar idea!
2004 was the year gays started getting married, Britney Spears couldn’t stay married, and somebody accidentally married J-Lo. Though thanks to a timely UN intervention, Ben Affleck remained single at year’s end.
But mostly, 2004 felt like a dead hooker rolled up in a carpet, which shrinks mercifully in the rearview mirror by the minute as we peel out bravely into the future. Both of the top grossing films of the year were sequels, which seems like a golden treat when you realize the third-place film was about Jesus getting the holy shit beaten out of him. And the top-selling album of the year was by some kind of disgruntled movie theater employee, likely having had to sit through one too many screenings of The Passion of the Christ or, even worse, Catwoman.
However, movies couldn’t sate our thirst for horribleness in 2004, so the real world had to oblige us with the Madrid train attacks, ethnic cleansing in Sudan, and the tragic first-ever meeting of the Russian PTA. By the time the south Asian tsunami rinsed what was left of 2004 down the crapper, few were sad to see it go. Unless they were wealthy, horny Republican NBA stars with points on The Passion.
We’ll miss you, 2004. Like we miss polyester underwear. Don’t let history hit you in the ass on your way out. the commune news remembers 2004 only as a big, gray blur, thanks to the magic of our break room microwave with the missing front door. Red Bagel is the commune’s fearless editor, not to be confused with the commune’s beardless predator, Ramon Nootles.
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 June 23, 2003
SARS: Our Middle Finger to ChinaImagine my disappointment to be on the road, without access to my column, when all the news about SARS was thick in the air. There's nothing worse for a conspiracy theorist than to be stuck in the middle of nowhere without a soapbox when a new disease breaks out.
A lot of people were talking about the WHERE with SARS: Hong Kong, Singapore, Canada. But no one bothered asking WHY—well, obviously I did, but it didn't do me very much good in the Motel 6 off Hwy 29. The cleaning lady only spoke Russian, or was having a religious experience, either is a plausible answer.
Yes, Americans—always ask why? Why SARS? Why China? Why? Because we like you.
A lot of you will probably say that a new strain of flu is not surprising. You say continual adaptations in flu viruses happens all the time. You say in a country of however many-billion people the spread of a new strain of flu is reasonable to occur in such conditions. Well, quit saying that. You're stomping all over my reasoning.
The truth is, SARS is no accident, and it's no naturally-occurring flu. SARS is, frankly, a big fuck you to the Chinese, courtesy of the U.S. All courtesy of President Bush. No, not the second Iraq war Bush, the first one, the one who was elected.
President "Wimp" Bush, former head of the CIA, America's crippling virus factory. Give him credit for thinking of the future—when Clinton was busy planning a strategy for the 1992 election,...
º Last Column: Bagel's Back
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Imagine my disappointment to be on the road, without access to my column, when all the news about SARS was thick in the air. There's nothing worse for a conspiracy theorist than to be stuck in the middle of nowhere without a soapbox when a new disease breaks out.
A lot of people were talking about the WHERE with SARS: Hong Kong, Singapore, Canada. But no one bothered asking WHY—well, obviously I did, but it didn't do me very much good in the Motel 6 off Hwy 29. The cleaning lady only spoke Russian, or was having a religious experience, either is a plausible answer.
Yes, Americans—always ask why? Why SARS? Why China? Why? Because we like you.
A lot of you will probably say that a new strain of flu is not surprising. You say continual adaptations in flu viruses happens all the time. You say in a country of however many-billion people the spread of a new strain of flu is reasonable to occur in such conditions. Well, quit saying that. You're stomping all over my reasoning.
The truth is, SARS is no accident, and it's no naturally-occurring flu. SARS is, frankly, a big fuck you to the Chinese, courtesy of the U.S. All courtesy of President Bush. No, not the second Iraq war Bush, the first one, the one who was elected.
President "Wimp" Bush, former head of the CIA, America's crippling virus factory. Give him credit for thinking of the future—when Clinton was busy planning a strategy for the 1992 election, Bush had already put the Gulf War behind him and was aiming for the 1997 return of Hong Kong to China. Nothing burns a presidential ass more than having to give up territory that rightfully belongs to them, so Bush wanted to make sure China got both barrels of Hong Kong when they got it. That's when they developed SARS in the CIA labs.
As military men know, SARS is code for "Served the Asshole Right, Sarge"—lingo for when a guy tries to sneak away from battle and steps on a landmine, or any sort of similar scenario when you can say the same phrase. Bush himself picked the name for the virus, that's how hands-on he was.
Things got bungled up when Clinton got into office, however, since he was always too busy scouting poontang to worry about all the little time-relevant traps the previous Bush had set up. Bush had even set up a plan to turn Bosnia into the world's biggest Wal-Mart, but Clinton spilled some Big Mac sauce on it and forever ruined the project.
So while Jackie Chan and Chow Yun-Fat were all getting the hell out of dodge in time for the "big Chinese handover," as I just phrased it, the SARS plan was lapsing dramatically. All the chemical agents were in place, they just hadn't been activated by magic button. Bush planned to have his predecessor in place to set off the disease, but hadn't planned on becoming immensely unpopular.
Then, late last year, with his alleged son in the White House, old Bush takes a break out from dog track betting to call up his boy and asks him to push the big green button under the desk—explaining any of the details would have confused the pseudo-president, as all of his aids have come to realize. But the junior Bush made the button go push-push and—bazoom!—China's got the fever for the flavor of surgical masks. º Last Column: Bagel's Backº more columns
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|  August 9, 2004
Fourth and ForwardIt's that time of year again—the anniversary of this time last year. What have you been doing with yourself in all that time? I sure do have some stories to tell. But not for today.
Those Olsen Twins are national treasures. And like other treasures, I say we bury them in a secret, unmarked location and make a handwritten map to remember where it is. Come back in a hundred years, see if they're still there.
If I have two hundred dollars, and you give me thirty-five more dollars, how much money do I now have? And why did you give it to me? Just being generous, or trying to curry favor? Because I'm not for sale, you soulless jester.
I finally saw that Titanic movie from a few years back. Let me get this straight—did the boat sink or what? I wish they could have spent a little more time explaining that, I got lost between all the subplots.
These are the times that try men's souls. And if you haven't tried soul before, I would suggest trying a man's Marvin Gaye collection first. Nobody sounds quite like Marvin Gaye.
Have you ever eaten a cauliflower? Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever seen anyone actually eat one. Where do they all go?
When I was younger, I wanted to be a train conductor. I'm not sure what one does, but I thought it a wide-open field with room for advancement and a place where I could really bullshit my way through the job. Good security, too, an industry with a proven...
º Last Column: Third Time's Alarm
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It's that time of year again—the anniversary of this time last year. What have you been doing with yourself in all that time? I sure do have some stories to tell. But not for today.
Those Olsen Twins are national treasures. And like other treasures, I say we bury them in a secret, unmarked location and make a handwritten map to remember where it is. Come back in a hundred years, see if they're still there.
If I have two hundred dollars, and you give me thirty-five more dollars, how much money do I now have? And why did you give it to me? Just being generous, or trying to curry favor? Because I'm not for sale, you soulless jester.
I finally saw that Titanic movie from a few years back. Let me get this straight—did the boat sink or what? I wish they could have spent a little more time explaining that, I got lost between all the subplots.
These are the times that try men's souls. And if you haven't tried soul before, I would suggest trying a man's Marvin Gaye collection first. Nobody sounds quite like Marvin Gaye.
Have you ever eaten a cauliflower? Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever seen anyone actually eat one. Where do they all go?
When I was younger, I wanted to be a train conductor. I'm not sure what one does, but I thought it a wide-open field with room for advancement and a place where I could really bullshit my way through the job. Good security, too, an industry with a proven record for bouncing back from recessions. But I had to give up those boyish dreams and take a job climbing flagpoles, of course. Some flags don't come down without my help. I make a difference.
Why is it, in hardcore pornographic movies, you always see erect penises, and in softcore pornographic movies, you sometimes see flaccid penises? Now that's ironic.
If I had a dog, I would name him Amberson—no! Clayton. Or Rags. That's a good, solid dog name. I need more time to hash this one out. Sorry for bringing you an incomplete thought.
If you died tomorrow, how many lives do you think you would have affected? How many of those were positive effects, and how many negative? Could I have your bicycle? Seriously, you're not going to need it where you're going. Heaven has a hell of a public transportation network.
Pardon me—just making room for a fresh beer.
There's another thing I've always wondered about, but it escapes me at the moment. I'll leave this space right here, so I can come back to it.
As a little boy, my father always thought I would grow up to be president some day. But I showed him! Try to tell me what to do.
I have never danced with the devil in the pale moonlight, but I did once have sex with a young woman dressed as a witch in a real dark room, at a Halloween party. That has to count for something.
Why do they call it root beer, when normal beer is made from—shit. That's a total misfire. Forgive my clumsiness. This just isn't working out. How about I get my act together so I don't embarrass the both of us in this fashion, and come back next edition? Sounds good to me as well. Good day. º Last Column: Third Time's Alarmº more columns
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Quote of the Day“Communication leads to community, that is, to understanding, intimacy and mutual valuing.”
-Free-Rome Cell Phone AdvertisementFortune 500 CookieTurns out you should have shot the deputy, too. This week will seem a lot like last week, only with less scabies. Remember, no good deed goes unpunished, and dirty deeds are done dirt cheap. Paulie? Fuck Paulie.
Try again later.Top 5 commune Features This Week| 1. | Test the Durability of Your Training Bra | | 2. | Music Piracy: Are You a Fucking Thief? | | 3. | Uncle Macho's Pure Gristle Hamburgers | | 4. | A Preview of Elton John's Autobiography:
A Dick in the Wind | | 5. | Critics' Corner: You Suck, My Battleship, a Review of U-571 | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Red Bagel 6/13/2005 A Fistful of Tannenbaum, Chapter 14: Foster in Time
Editor's Note: Last time, Jed was blown the fuck up.
After the third biggest explosion he had ever been in the middle of, Jed Foster awoke in the middle of a grassy field. At first he thought it was central park, but there were no dogs shitting on the grass, and no yuppies jogging through effeminately, listening to their MP3 players. He rose to a sitting position, legs crossed Native American style, and held onto his aching head.
"My head!" said Jed.
Looking around, Jed could see the ever-spreading green of grassland, which spread ever outwards until it reached the forests and then abruptly turned into woody trees. It looked like a land untouched by any kind of industry, but you don't know it isn't yet. Jed stood up and...
Editor's Note: Last time, Jed was blown the fuck up.
After the third biggest explosion he had ever been in the middle of, Jed Foster awoke in the middle of a grassy field. At first he thought it was central park, but there were no dogs shitting on the grass, and no yuppies jogging through effeminately, listening to their MP3 players. He rose to a sitting position, legs crossed Native American style, and held onto his aching head.
"My head!" said Jed.
Looking around, Jed could see the ever-spreading green of grassland, which spread ever outwards until it reached the forests and then abruptly turned into woody trees. It looked like a land untouched by any kind of industry, but you don't know it isn't yet. Jed stood up and checked his pocket watch, which had been blown off during the explosion, which made it difficult.
"My head," said Jed, and then worried he had fallen into a time loop, but it was actually just that his head really, really hurt.
Then, out of nowhere, and totally unexpected to the readers, a knight in glistening armor road into the field. He rode on a large roan horse, or possibly the other way around, but he looked very much like a knight from King Arthur's table.
"My word," started the knight, who spoke perfect English, since they invented it, "how did you get here?"
"That depends on where here is," said Foster cleverly. "Where have I landed, good sir knight?"
"You have landed in the year of our lord 20 After Jesus Died," said the knight. "In Yorkshirefilth, England."
"20 A.J.D.!" exclaimed Jed. "I'm shocked! That blast… the one from when I blew up the Bomb of Ages! It must have sent me back in time."
"That seems like pseudoscience," said the knight. "Fortunately, we still believe in pseudoscience here. Since you're a new visitor, I'll be happy to invite you to join the Round Table of the King of England, King Arthur."
"Thank you, sir…?"
"Sir Punkrock," said the knight.
So that must be where the term comes from, said Jed, already learning something new about history. Jed told the knight his name was Sir Gen-General, because he thought it was funny. And the knight told him he was glad to meet him, and would take him to meet the king, and the author saved a few expensive column inches in dialogue.
As they were going into town, they passed a large crowd of rabble—peasants, the filthiest kind of poor people they had in England at the time, and Jed showered pity on them. Not one by one, nobody has that kind of time, but he gave a general feeling of pity in every direction they lay, usually in the form of a pitiful look. Hopefully they understood. The knight pointed to a castle in the distance and said they would soon be at the home of King Arthur.
Before they left town, they came to a small public court where a witch trial was happening. They had already tried the witch and she, with a lousy public defender, had been found guilty. Jed listened for a few minutes as he and the knight continued to pass, then interceded.
"Allow me to offer a fair test for this alleged witch," said Jed. "We all know witches, like firewood, burn. So let me light her on fire, and if she burns, she's obviously a witch."
They agreed, but when Jed took out his pocket lighter and made fire, all eyes, even the pitiful dirty eyes of the rabble, widened in terror.
"He's some sort of bizarre male witch!" said some asshole. "Burn him, too!"
Next Chapter: Knight on Fire   |
