the commune, 8/25/26: You'll learn to love it or die trying

February 9, 2004

Washington, D.C.

AP/NASA

President Bush (inset) makes eerie noises to underscore the pressing danger of the rogue M64 galaxy

aced with tough questions about the economy and pre-war intelligence failures this week, President Bush interrupted a press conference Thursday with an unusual display of astronomical panic.

â€œLook! Up in the sky!â€ shouted Bush, pointing upward in mock terror. â€œWeâ€™re all going to die!â€

According to White House press secretary Scott McClellan, the airborne terror President Bush cringed beneath before darting out of the room was the â€œEvil Eyeâ€ galaxy, a distant cluster of stars recently photographed by the Hubble space telescope, which according to Bush staffers will soon spell our mortal demise.

â€œThe President cannot stress enough the importance of putting aside divisive squabbling involving lost jobs or unnecessary invasions,â€ explained McClellan. â€œOur very lives may be in his hands this day, and itâ€™s time for the American people to band together with the president, now and through this coming November to repel this terrible threat to the American way of life.â€

All available scientists and high-school educated adults have dismissed the presidentâ€™s claims that the Messier 64 galaxy, known as the â€œEvil Eyeâ€ for an unusual appearance caused by stars and interstellar gas rotating in opposite directions, will within the next ten months attempt to suck the United States of America off the globe like a small child sucking the sticker off an orange. While no scientific evidence exists to suggest this is even the remotest of possibilities, President Bush remains steadfast in his message.

â€œHoly shit, run for your lives!â€ Bush screamed before ducking out of the room during a press conference on Saturday, shortly after being asked to reconcile conflicting statements heâ€™d made about rolling back last yearâ€™s tax cuts.

Political pundits have observed that Bushâ€™s obsession with the M64 galaxy began shortly after the results of a recent AP poll were released, showing the president had taken a sharp nosedive in public opinion after a month of Democratic presidential candidates pointing out his ample flaws. For the first time during Bushâ€™s term, polls showed more Americans likely to vote against the president than for him, and similar polls showed Bush losing to Democratic presidential hopeful and dead man walking John Kerry in head-to-head voting. Bush staffers refute these claims, however, pointing out that Poles are unreliable and often the butt of stereotypical humor.

Other results of the AP polls show Bushâ€™s numbers across the board as down sharply from one month ago, signaling that the presidentâ€™s attempts to distract voters with fantastical tales of moon bases and Mars adventures were largely unsuccessful and kind of silly.

â€œObviously putting a man on Mars didnâ€™t turn peopleâ€™s cranks as much as the president had hoped,â€ commented political strategist Vaughn Casey. â€œSo Bush has wisely returned to his â€˜Greatest Hitsâ€™ playbook in an effort to parlay national paranoia into a second term. Itâ€™s a longshot, sure, but if the president could convince average Americans that Al Qaeda actually posed a serious threat in their everyday lives, then I suppose some kind of sucking space monster isnâ€™t really a giant leap of faith from there.â€

Further requests to question the president as to the scientific basis of his fears were turned down on the grounds that Messier 64 might be listening.

the commune news must admit, weâ€™ve been terrified of galaxies ever since owning a 1961 Ford Galaxie with a bum transmission in the late 80â€™s. Lil Duncan is the communeâ€™s Washington correspondent and resident joie di vie, which we think is French for hose hound.

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The sign doesn't say anything about no pants, fascists

June 23, 2003

You Belittle Us All

º Last Column: Who's Up for a Little Old School Rap?
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Quiet now, George. The whiney nasal voice, the croaking complaining, all of it. You embarrass us both, and I won't stand for it anymore.

So what if you have to go to the bathroom and can't? Nobody cares. Thereâ€”harsh, but high time someone said it. You're at best a spineless jellyfish, George, carrying on about your inconveniences while real suffering abounds in the world. At worst, you're a squirming parasite on the rest of the earth. Don't blame meâ€”you brought it on yourself.

Like the entire town wants to hear about how you can't make water. We all have our crosses to bear, George, and you're no different. Instead of carrying on about how it hurts in your privates and how you fall asleep on the john, why don't you try putting everything in perspective? The War on Terror, the violence in the Middle East, that pregnant lady who was killed by her husband. Did you bother to think about that George? Not being able to drain the vein doesn't sound so bad, does it? You've got it pretty damn easy.

If nothing else, think of me. Me, you're loving wife of however many years. Is it 30 or 50? They blend together with you as a husband, George. You're not so much loving spouse as an unattractive ornament I keep forgetting to get rid of. Years of devoted service to you, for whatever insane reason, and you can't even give me the basic consideration of how ridiculous we look, we, the two of us as a pair, when you carry on about your inability to tinkle.

And if I have to hear one more time about how public restrooms make you queasy, George, well, send for the undertaker, that's all I can say. I put up with so much bullhockey over the years already, that's where I draw the line. It's all I can stands, I can't stands no more, as the amusing cartoon character says. Was it Popeye? He's a little like you, Georgeâ€”bald, squinty, poor diction, bizarre huge forearms from God only knows what kind of hand exercises. The comparison ends there, George, for Popeye is at least amusing while you irritate me to the hairs on my head, and Popeye at least served his country valiantly in the Navy, while no one will claim your work at Denny's has done anyone any good.

Do I hate you, George? Indeed hate is a strong word, but let's not hastily dismiss it. Let's say your appeal diminishes more each year and leave it at that. And yes, I would even say every little utterance about your lazy prostate devalues you even more. I would not push a button and wipe you out in entirety, but the day when I could push such a button is not completely inconceivable. Getting closer each day.

The worst thing about you, George, and I hate to be limited to one thing, but I would say it's the disservice you do to the rest of the world. Even those who do not hate you have to admit they wouldn't be sad if you vanished into thin air, like David Copperfield, only to not return. It's not that you mar the world in an ugly way, like a scar, but you certainly don't add anything to the melting pot. You are much like a tambourine sound in a recording most people barely acknowledge, and certainly wouldn't regret losing if the soundman turned the sound out on it. I can mathematically prove the world would be a better place without you, using fractals and long division.

Still, with all that said, happy anniversary. You did remember, didn't you? Remember, you're on thin ground as it is.

º Last Column: Who's Up for a Little Old School Rap?
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February 4, 2002

Collect and Swap All 36 Rok Finger Trading Cards

º Last Column: I Have Been Certified A Dancing Machine
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Exciting news on the homefront here, people. If you recall my past musings in this column have been concerned with trying to help our boys overseas in the war effort. Those have all met with failing, as I glumly typed. Not anymore! Rok Finger is back in the morale business.

My good friends at Tapps Trading Cards came to me with a high-concept idea to raise money for the troops, and who else but Rok Finger was on their list? I'm not sure since I haven't seen said list, but I'm happy to help. Of course, the Tapps company is basically just my old neighbor Merle working out of his basement, cutting out cereal box squares and pasting pictures over them. But everyone has to start small, and Merle is starting smaller than ever.

Merle's genius idea was for a series of Rok Finger trading cards. Before you think you know where this is going, no, this is not another card-counting scam to bust the Atlantic City casinos. These are the types of trading cards only reserved for major athletic stars and serial killers. Or in some cases, pornographic actors of considerable achievement. That's right. Rok Finger is available in small cereal box squares for you to take wherever you like. Do whatever you want with them. Just don't tell me about it.

It was quite a photo shoot, just me and Merle and his wife Betty, who makes tea beautifully. Exhausting? Indeed. We went through five disposable cameras, but we got a series of shots that were simply incredible. Marilyn Monroe would have JFK put me on his enemies list, she'd be so jealous, if she were not a dusty skeleton by now.

Now, I don't consider myself a pretty boy, and I seem to side with the popular vote in that. But I am patriotic. And that's what I attempt to do, to bring a little bit of patriotism in these dire times to everybody, one and all. Each shot is a special injection of red, white and blue (though other colors are used amply). Costumes galore! Salutes, flags, the glory of America pasted to the back cereal box cardboard. With inspirational sayings like "Never trust a communist"; "America can survive a nuclear winter"; and "Only sissies talk during torture."

Even better for yours truly, I can paste a tiny resume on the back of each one and use it for auditions. Which is nice since I have yet to hear anything more about that small film I did a while back with that liar Piglet. But my first focus is helping, not personal gain. That's gravy.

Where will you be able to buy these exclusive one-of-a-kind Rok Finger trading cards? That's a little difficult to say, which is I can speak perfectly, but I'm not clear on the answer. Merle will be selling them out of his home at first, but hopes to step up production and get them into stores quickly. The manufacturing process has slowed considerably now that Merle is working nights at the lamination plant. But as part of my contract, which is to say the oral agreement we discussed over cigarettes and scotch, for every pack we sell we'll send one to a wounded trooper over in the war territory, as soon as we get a feasible address to work with.

Watch out, enemies of America! Rok Finger is coming for you all. And you'll be able to hear me easily with the loud popping of bicycle spokes that sound like a motorcycle. That's Rok Finger making that noise now.

º Last Column: I Have Been Certified A Dancing Machine
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Milestones

1858: 26th president and idol of Red Bagel Teddy Roosevelt is born, only a month before Bagel's birth. We know technically this is impossible, but we didn't get cushy date-checking jobs by questioning the big man.

Now Hiring

Bounced Czech. Resume and references not necessary, any Czechoslovakian expatriate thrown out of a club will do. True, we don't really have any job for such a person to occupy, but wouldn't it be funny to say we have a bounced Czech on staff? Think about it.

Worst Country Songs Ever

1.	She Left Me for an African-American
2.	I Don't Feel Like Drinkin'
3.	Here's a Quarter, Go Buy Some Bubblegum
4.	What's the Capital of Tennessee Again?
5.	If Anyone Needs Me, I'll be Down at the Nail Salon
6.	Regretfulness is the Hardest Word to Spell
7.	Mama Didn't Raise No Episcopalians
8.	I'm So Lonesome I Could Call an Escort Service
9.	I Got This Hat on Sale
10.	You Mispronounced My Name for the Very Last Time

North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie

BY Harpooner Johnson

8/18/2003

Freak Outs and Head Trips in Atlantic City

Atlantic City is like the orange shag carpet of a ratty first apartment, brilliantly bright and nasty. Filled with cigarette butts and alcohol stains that come out fully visible in the unforgiving glare of fluorescent lights. And there's nothing but fluorescent lights in Atlantic City, flat and neon, gross and putrid.

Intelligent beasts don't go to Atlantic City of their own free will. Neither did I, and would never have set foot in the rectum of America had I not been on assignment for Boner magazine to cover the first of its kind Monty Python Fan Base Convention. Anything better but the scraps of altruistic sex magazines was something I couldn't ask for, troubled and washed out by all major journalistic outlets for my decadent behavior. Decadent by their standards, my own having fallen far beneath normal human radar. I had seen the best and worst in human kind, aspired for the heights of human achievement and rode on waves into the depths of the worst human endeavors. Saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness and plagiarized Ginsberg without second thought. In short, I took what I could get and what I could get was Atlantic City.

On the advice of my accountant, Mr. Bongo, I loaded a suitcase full of the world's most powerful stimulants, depressants, and psychedelic substances. He suggested it was in my best financial interest to buy the drugs in the poorer neighborhoods, rent a car with full insurance coverage, and take him with me so we could buy a matching pair of "I'm with stupid" T-shirts. If the Democrats ever got back into office I could probably write it off on my taxes.

The sniveling bureaucrat at the car rental place appeared to have stepped right out of a training film for the John Birch Society. Short, greasy hair that reflected the gleaming "Rental" sign perfectly, a suit with cuffs and pantlegs both just short of stylish, and the sweaty upper lip of a man who had ridden too far on the inheritance of slave traders. His impudently white skin grew paler by the minute as my accountant and I loaded our things into the rental. We had gotten him out of bed at midnight with the promise a big accountant would fill his fat polyester pockets before daybreak.

"Be careful with the car, or we won't insure it," he warned us with a snide drawl as I drove the car over ten other rentals lined side by side.

"I always test the tires this way," I assured him.

With a flittering, forgetful signing of some red-tape document we were on our way. It was a three- or four-day journey from Los Angeles to Atlantic City, but we were confident we could make it in six hours once the heroin set in. I personally filled the tank with my own mixture of half-gasoline, half-nitrous oxide for better mileage, and it appeared to be paying off as we were in Kansas within the first half hour.

Kansas is flatter than a band majorette's chest and only slightly more alluring, once you're under the influence of Scandinavian mosquito dung. It was a little something my accountant had picked up in a general store in the 1840s during a bad peyote trip. He had had to pay for it with a pocket watch and five consonant sounds during the rush of the drug. But it was worth every syllable as colors drifted between our eyelids and we both felt the wind sliding into our gullets like warm gravy. We decided to stop and pick up a hitchhiker, but it only turned out to be a hitchhiking camel in a bad disguise. He didn't speak English but he smoked feverishly. We didn't bother to ask him where he was going. He was just along for the ride, like we all were.