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June 28, 2004 |
Baghdad, Iraq Assad the Unseen Von Poppel attempts to lead the crowd in a chant of "Hey! Ho!" moments before the figs began flying ust days before the scheduled transfer of power to Iraqi officials, the U.S. occupation suffered another major blow when radical Shiite head cleric and suspected U.S. puppet Boner Von Poppel was killed during a community uprising in Baghdad. The elderly fig farmers who stoned Von Poppel to death with unripe figs believed the Shiite religious leader has been installed by the United States to manipulate the local population and retain U.S. control of the region beyond the date of Iraqi sovereignty. While the U.S. denies claims that Von Poppel had been inserted into Iraq by the CIA to advance U.S. interests, local residents never completely accepted the cleric as one of their own, due in part to his B-boy style of dress and lack of facility with the Iraqi language.
When confronte...
ust days before the scheduled transfer of power to Iraqi officials, the U.S. occupation suffered another major blow when radical Shiite head cleric and suspected U.S. puppet Boner Von Poppel was killed during a community uprising in Baghdad. The elderly fig farmers who stoned Von Poppel to death with unripe figs believed the Shiite religious leader has been installed by the United States to manipulate the local population and retain U.S. control of the region beyond the date of Iraqi sovereignty. While the U.S. denies claims that Von Poppel had been inserted into Iraq by the CIA to advance U.S. interests, local residents never completely accepted the cleric as one of their own, due in part to his B-boy style of dress and lack of facility with the Iraqi language.
When confronted with these suspicions Saturday in Baghdad, Von Poppel confused the gathered crowd and sealed his fate.
"Yo yo yo, lissen up, cuz I got somethin to say. This be straight from the heart, y'all," Von Poppel told the crowd, pressing 'play' on a nearby boombox for accompaniment before launching into a bizarre marionette dance. "I got no strings, to hold me down, to make me fret, to make me frown! I've got no strings, so I have fun, I'm not tied up to anyone! I got no strings, so you can see, there are no strings on me!"
Shortly after the completion of the song and dance number, Von Poppel was pummeled to death with figs.
While U.S. officials expressed shock at the violence of the uprising, many Iraqis were more surprised Von Poppel had lived as long as he did.
"I almost killed him last week," admitted Baghdad shopkeeper Hashim Ababneh. "There was just something not right about that boy."
Other locals expressed similar sentiments, pointing out that it was unusual for Shiite religious leaders to be completely ignorant as to the particulars of Islam, or to dress like an extra in a Jay-Z video.
"Yo, Iraqis, we gots to increase the peace and respect the police, you know what I'm sayin'?" Von Poppel was quoted as sayin' during a sermon last fall. "The U.S. is the best so don't mess with the rest, y'all."
Experts believe Von Poppel's complete lack of understanding of Iraqi culture or the Muslim religion may have sealed his fate. Earlier this year the cleric had created a stir by appearing on the holy day of Mawlid al-Nabi eating a pulled pork sandwich and talking with his mouth full. When the gathered crowd of Iraqis drew Von Poppel's attention to this grievous misstep in Muslim etiquette, the cleric answered "Yo yo yo, you gotta check yourself before you wreck yourself, Iraqis. We gotta increase the peace, Cochise. You know what I'm sayin'?"
In spite of widespread skepticism among Iraqi citizens, the U.S. has steadfastly denied any attempts to manipulate Muslim religious life, and was happy to announce the rise of Iraqi's newest anti-U.S. radical Shiite cleric Nihad al-Pacino over the weekend. the commune news can't handle the truth, but we're surprisingly resilient after a punch to the abdomen. commune foreign correspondent Ivan Nacutchacokov is hunted for sport throughout the Middle East, and his repeated claims that it's actually wabbit season have done little to change this.
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Iraq blah blah blah Suicide blah blah blah Dead Big Whup: Whale Swims Across the English Channel Heather Graham’s Career Found Dead in Apartment Polish Roof Falls in Following “Drinks Are on the House” Debacle |
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 October 18, 2004
A Vote For Bush is A Vote For Bush! Bush!Never before in the course of history has one nation so collectively possessed a mental deficiency.
How many polls must come out, one after the other, simply to infuriate me with the conflicting information that the president's approval rating lies around 42% or lower, while up to 49% claim they will vote for him again? Can this be accurate? You're telling me, at any time, up to 7% of voting Americans believe George W. Moron is doing a shitty job as president, and yet they plan on sending him back? At least reality TV is explained for me. Seven or more percent of our population can watch horrific behavior and keep watching just to see how bad things will get.
Well, you've done it—Im forced to my knees, hands together in the theistic praying fashion, begging you: Don't re-elect the dumbest man in America.
I suppose you ask me to make a case for voting against Bush. Oh, where to start, where to start? Let's begin with personal insults. He is clearly not done evolving. Since he is among the latest in the Bush line, we have to suppose the devolution is perhaps beginning. And let's not forget his grasp of the English language compares unfavorably to that of Taxi's Latka Gravas. He demonstrates a laughable knowledge of American politics, which is disappointing enough for your average high school graduate, but in a president, it's scrotum-shrink terrifying.
A devastating list of personal indictments of the man, and I...
º Last Column: Just a Minor Setback in the Raoul Dunkin Story º more columns
Never before in the course of history has one nation so collectively possessed a mental deficiency.
How many polls must come out, one after the other, simply to infuriate me with the conflicting information that the president's approval rating lies around 42% or lower, while up to 49% claim they will vote for him again? Can this be accurate? You're telling me, at any time, up to 7% of voting Americans believe George W. Moron is doing a shitty job as president, and yet they plan on sending him back? At least reality TV is explained for me. Seven or more percent of our population can watch horrific behavior and keep watching just to see how bad things will get.
Well, you've done it—Im forced to my knees, hands together in the theistic praying fashion, begging you: Don't re-elect the dumbest man in America.
I suppose you ask me to make a case for voting against Bush. Oh, where to start, where to start? Let's begin with personal insults. He is clearly not done evolving. Since he is among the latest in the Bush line, we have to suppose the devolution is perhaps beginning. And let's not forget his grasp of the English language compares unfavorably to that of Taxi's Latka Gravas. He demonstrates a laughable knowledge of American politics, which is disappointing enough for your average high school graduate, but in a president, it's scrotum-shrink terrifying.
A devastating list of personal indictments of the man, and I haven't even brought up the cocaine or his inability to do simple tasks, like eat food or ride bicycles. But let's assume you're not swayed by personal attacks, that you're an intelligent, balanced Bush-voter who—wait a minute, do you hear how that sounds? Okay, even if we can't assume that, let's make a political case against the president. Ugh.
He comes from a world of corporate cronyism and rich boy back-scratching. In his first year as president he was attached to the corporate president of Enron, discovered to be heading one of the most corrupt companies as corrupt companies run. Before the end of his term he was tied to other ridiculous under-the-table deals, like the no-bid contract to Halliburton that ended up bilking Americans out of (at least) thousands of dollars. Does that convince you? Money talks, right? He's taking the money right out of your pockets, and if nothing else rattles your narrow perspective, that well should.
Military analysts everywhere will tell you he went into Afghanistan under-prepared, and when he failed to nail Osama bin Laden, tried to convince us the footsoldiers in bin Laden's army were enough, or even more brazen, that replacing the Taliban government and disrupting the Al-Qaeda network with a few rude bombs was enough. In case you haven't guessed, a few aimlessly-thrown bombs could have done that, as Clinton previously proved. Come to think of it, the bombing of Al-Qaeda camps was apparently behind the motivation for the 9/11 attacks, wasn't it? That bodes well for a second Bush term.
And then Iraq… well, if I need go on, you're clearly not informed enough to use your vote right. American soldiers are dead, we have failed to set up a proper government or restore order, and at home, gas prices are at all-time highs while we're occupying one of the most oil-rich countries in the world. Oh, and the economy is entirely a bloody turd.
The truth is, the case for electing Bush is so short, I can make it in the remaining space of this column: The small-minded, paranoid, racist, dogmatic inbreds of the nation are finally interested in politics again. º Last Column: Just a Minor Setback in the Raoul Dunkin Storyº more columns
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|  July 12, 2004
Child Star for HireLet the word come down from the Mountaintops, which is Red Bagel's nickname for the commune offices: Clarissa Coleman needs work. Sure, anyone who knows me knows I want work, but now I need work. My legal troubles are finished now, you may have seen the segment on Court TV or read about the out-of-court settlement in the paper, or The Guinness Book of World Records, the page on outrageous payoffs. Damn Jerry Nascar, that's all I'm saying. As for you-know-who, the nice lady who filed the lawsuit, I'm not legally allowed to mention her name ever again. So let's pretend I'm referring to someone else whenever I use the word Skankabitch.
Getting back to work, which is what I'm here for, let's just say the settlement is bad enough, but I've got legal fees by the buttload. Before all this, work was just some way to have fun and a shortcut to fame. Now it's do-or-die. I'm not having luck finding too many high-profile film and television roles to pay the bills—of course, that was the story before Skankabitch sued. So now I have to shorten the list of stuff I won't do even more. It's a talent clearance sale—every one must go.
It's a great sale for producers of weird shows. C.S.I., you listening? I'll even play a dead body. Bullets fly through my head, shatter brain and bone and crap—it looks like it hurts, but I'll try anything once. Any shows where I have to wear a prosthetic piece or a mask or anything, I'll do it. Put me in a...
º Last Column: And Justice for Nothing º more columns
Let the word come down from the Mountaintops, which is Red Bagel's nickname for the commune offices: Clarissa Coleman needs work. Sure, anyone who knows me knows I want work, but now I need work. My legal troubles are finished now, you may have seen the segment on Court TV or read about the out-of-court settlement in the paper, or The Guinness Book of World Records, the page on outrageous payoffs. Damn Jerry Nascar, that's all I'm saying. As for you-know-who, the nice lady who filed the lawsuit, I'm not legally allowed to mention her name ever again. So let's pretend I'm referring to someone else whenever I use the word Skankabitch.
Getting back to work, which is what I'm here for, let's just say the settlement is bad enough, but I've got legal fees by the buttload. Before all this, work was just some way to have fun and a shortcut to fame. Now it's do-or-die. I'm not having luck finding too many high-profile film and television roles to pay the bills—of course, that was the story before Skankabitch sued. So now I have to shorten the list of stuff I won't do even more. It's a talent clearance sale—every one must go.
It's a great sale for producers of weird shows. C.S.I., you listening? I'll even play a dead body. Bullets fly through my head, shatter brain and bone and crap—it looks like it hurts, but I'll try anything once. Any shows where I have to wear a prosthetic piece or a mask or anything, I'll do it. Put me in a gorilla suit, who cares? I don't even need any speaking lines. I'm eager to work. None of it can be any more humiliating than playing the ukelele with Taco on Conan O'Brien.
I turned down a reality series last year, before this bullshit came along. If you're one of those producers of Help! I'm a Celebrity, Don't Give Me a Sexually-Transmitted Disease I'm ready to talk contract terms now. Maybe you'll get on the air this year if you get bigger star power than Willie Tyler and Lester. So put me on the show. I'll call house meetings and everything, pretend like my feelings are hurt and stuff. I watch all those freak shows.
Not everybody's a producer, I know. Some people aren't involved with the wonderland that is television, not officially, but that shouldn't stop you. You want to make a funny home video? Have your kid swing a croquet hammer, hit me in the nuts—I don't have nuts, of course, but for a good-size paycheck I'll act like I have nuts. Rig a house to fall in, I'll make it look like it all happened by accident, I'll even make the funny noise so the video people don't have to do that. Or we'll sing some duet like Barbra Streisand and Neil Diamond, I'll make them really believe you don't bring me flowers no more. Hell, I'm not picky. Don't send the video in, let's just make it for your own entertainment, you and your friends. We'll recreate all your favorite episodes of Who's Your Daddy?.
It's not limited to shows either. I can do the stage. We'll put on a burlesque act, like they used to do in France when it was classy and cool, or like they do now in Alabama. I do tame shit, too. I'll sing the Fabulous Thunderbirds at your daughter's Bat Mitzvah. I can do birthday parties, private Labor Day telethons, whatever your big deal is. Have a friend who's in the hospital and think it would be funny for a celebrity to visit them? Let's do it. Let's make it happen.
What I'm trying to say is, I need money, and I'm not picky. Just in case I didn't make it obvious. And just to save anybody else the troubles I've gone through, don't ever hire Jerry Nascar as an attorney. He knows dick about the law, like the judge says, and his "Thirty Minutes or it's Not Free" offer is trickier than it sounds.
I have to go over to Nascar's office right now. I'm doing a commercial for him to help pay off the legal bills. º Last Column: And Justice for Nothingº more columns
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Quote of the Day“Upon being stopped by the Customs Officer during my trip to America, he asked: 'Have you anything to declare?' I burst forward, telling him, 'Only my genius!' I was promptly beaten to a piteous pulp and subjected to a humiliating search. Needless to say, they found my weed.”
-Wildman Oscar DaviesFortune 500 CookieBy next week you will not believe what passes for a blowjob these days. Guess how many quarters I have in my left pocket and I will be quite surprised. I said don't cauliflower last week? I did? That doesn't sound like something I'd say. Remember, trust no one. Including me. If you believe that, you're a fool.
Try again later.Top 5 commune Features This Week| 1. | Tanks: Why Can't We Drive 'Em? | | 2. | Apples: The Silent Killer | | 3. | Suck It: the commune's Vacuum Cleaner Reviews | | 4. | Uncle Macho's Boat Fire Gumbo | | 5. | Critic's Corner: How You Personally Ruined Western Culture | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Red Bagel 2/21/2005 A Fistful of Tannenbaum, Chapter 10: The World's Biggest PlaneEditor's Note: Jed Foster and frequent houseguest Paulette Standiford made the trip to N.O.R.T.O.N. to discover the Bomb of Ages, a bomb so big it could not be dropped on anybody via conventional planes. Then, just when the threat of characterization might have creeped in, they were captured by Foster's arch-nemesis Professor Hyman von Hufnagel, a German bastard. Incidentally, Paulette's name has been changed to Daisy Pantshappy, on the advice of the author's lawyers.
It was eight miles long, and plenty wide, a sheer black-skinned behemoth with a wingspan so big it passed through your state and probably your pen pal's, too. It was a plane—the world's biggest plane, and was made for the express purpose of dropping the world's biggest bomb. The plane was so big...
Editor's Note: Jed Foster and frequent houseguest Paulette Standiford made the trip to N.O.R.T.O.N. to discover the Bomb of Ages, a bomb so big it could not be dropped on anybody via conventional planes. Then, just when the threat of characterization might have creeped in, they were captured by Foster's arch-nemesis Professor Hyman von Hufnagel, a German bastard. Incidentally, Paulette's name has been changed to Daisy Pantshappy, on the advice of the author's lawyers.
It was eight miles long, and plenty wide, a sheer black-skinned behemoth with a wingspan so big it passed through your state and probably your pen pal's, too. It was a plane—the world's biggest plane, and was made for the express purpose of dropping the world's biggest bomb. The plane was so big normal-sized people had to enter it by helicopter, and the creators also had to build a robot pilot 1,000-feet tall to fly it. Actually, it was flown by computer from a secret bunker, by a normal person, but the 1,000-foot pilot made it look much cooler.
"That son of a bitch is big," said Foster, handcuffed to his seat in the helicopter. He was being taken inside the plane through its giant door. Across from him, in the chopper, Professor von Hufnagel sat with a Dutch revolver pointed at our hero. Daisy Pantshappy had been bound and gagged before being handcuffed to her seat, because von Hufnagel was a perv.
"You state the obvious, Monsieur Foster," said the German. "A nasty habit you will give up once you're firmly strapped in on the world's biggest plane! Coach only—you're lucky we have any seats at all. The bomb is pretty damn huge."
"So what's your plan?" asked Jed, gritting his teeth as if waiting to take a bite out of the German, then wash it down with V8. "You going to simply shoot us, or do something really twisted, like strap us both to this huge bomb before you drop it on its target?"
"Actually, I hadn't thought of it at all, but thanks for the suggestion," said von Hufnagel, who was really quite struck by the idea.
Jed then said, "If you want to do something really evil, really whacked-out and creepy, why don't you let me and Paulette go, to think about what we've done? Let our consciences do the torturing?"
Von Hufnagel considered it, then decided he liked the "drop the captives tied to the bomb" idea better.
Once they were firmly inside the plane and out of the helicopter, von Hufnagel unbound and ungagged Daisy, so that she might contribute some memorable dialogue. Then, the two were strapped to the bomb with heavy chains by nameless, faceless henchmen—guys so forgettable they wouldn't even make a decent page 6 blurb for Drone Magazine. Jed struggled to escape the chains as von Hufnagel laughed himself purple.
"Mother's fleshy titties!" swore Jed, growing frustrated. "Damn your wretched cock, von Hufnagel—just what is your plan for this big, big bomb?"
"I see absolutely no value in telling you my plan," said the German leader of Ostrich, suddenly stroking a cat that had not been mentioned before. "So allow me to tell you the plan…"
"Wait!" shouted Jed. An uncomfortable pause filled the air.
"Wait for what?" asked von Hufnagel.
"Wait," Jed continued, "for the appropriate end of the chapter. I got a feeling this plan is going to take up quite a bit of space."
Next Chapter: Plan Z   |