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 September 16, 2011 |
(Top) Media demands answers as Weiner comes up short; (Bottom) Bob Turner fans clash with electorate who can’t get enough Weiner
Rep. Weiner, a U.S. Congressman with a strong Democratic record since 1998, was the subject of a scandal in May 2011 for sending women illicit pictures of his namesake via Twitter. The accusation proved disastrous for the New York Representative and Democratic Party, and a windfall for bored and humorless newspaper publishers who were thrilled to be writing about naughty bits at long last. Boldface text announcing "Weiner Hanging Out on Twitter" and "Weiner Exposed Online" besieg...
ollowing the September special election of Republican Bob Turner to fill the Congressional seat disgraced by Democratic Rep. Anthony Weiner, newspaper headline writers are entering into a devastating period of depression as they face the prospect of never again writing a Weiner-centric news headline.
Rep. Weiner, a U.S. Congressman with a strong Democratic record since 1998, was the subject of a scandal in May 2011 for sending women illicit pictures of his namesake via Twitter. The accusation proved disastrous for the New York Representative and Democratic Party, and a windfall for bored and humorless newspaper publishers who were thrilled to be writing about naughty bits at long last. Boldface text announcing "Weiner Hanging Out on Twitter" and "Weiner Exposed Online" besieged the sleepy culture of America, increasing newspaper sales for people who found it funnier to read than just listen to a description of the disappointing sex scandal on CNN.
A little more than a week after the incident, the Congressman admitted to emailing links to women he was interested in polling, and by the end of June, the 9th District Representative resigned his seat. Headlines continued to roll, tongues firmly in cheek among the newspaper industry, proclaiming, "Weiner Loses Standing," "Weiner Ejected From Seat," and the timeless classic "Weiner Suddenly Pulls Out." Bad times for the sexually mischievous Congressman, great times for headline writers; although the news cut short some of the fun of the journalism industry, they were still guaranteed months of fun as a special election seemed some months off to fill the vacated position.
A confidential source from the New York Daily News, whose name simply isn’t as funny as Tony Weiner, remembered the past four months as if they were last year.
"As a copy editor whose only functions are to proofread stories and write headlines, let me just state for the record you’re lucky if you get big news story in your lifetime—think about it. A big-time politician exposing himself on the internet? That it in itself is gold. But the guy is named Weiner. Jesus H. Christ, that’s better than Cox. You gotta savor it," said the anonymous dude. "Even after he resigned we spent days writing headlines about him, just because dammit, we earned the right. I think we left three serial killings without coverage while we came up with ’Who Will Replace Weiner’? That was my favorite. Man, we’ll never get those days back."
This reporter reminded the confidential informant of the now classic, "No One Big Enough to Fill Weiner’s Slot," then we laughed ourselves stupid.
The halcyon days of headline writing seemed to fade as the date of the special election approached, and dull-as-dishwater Republican Bob Turner defeated the even-less-spectacularly-named Assemblyman David Weprin. The Republican election not only means a big GOP win in a district they haven’t held since 1923, but a promise that future Weiner-related headlines will only seem a desperate play for attention by print tabloids and newspapers.
At the New York Post, there was a somber feeling in the air on election night, and boos went around as a Republican victory was announced. All eyes were misty, and the feeling was best exemplified by copy editor Dawn Draper.
"Gentlemen… that’s our last Weiner." Half-hearted chuckles were all that met the dour atmosphere.
Draper spoke further on the subject as deadline approached, the staff rushing about us like mad men.
"Of course we’ll miss the chance to make Weiner-related headlines, and not just because it sold more papers," Draper said. "We at the Post have been doing Weiner write-ups before anyone else. I myself am responsible for our coverage of the firing of his Chief of Staff in 2006, which spawned the immortal headlines ’Weiner Loses Head of Staff’ and ’Behind Weiner’s Big Sack.’ But it’s never going to be enough for us again to write more Weiner coverage, to give the full skinny on Weiner—sorry, hard to stop doing that. For a while, it was a perfect storm of scandal and ’you’ve got to be shitting me’ names—everyone was game, we were all on board. Oh, the nights we sat here, giggling like school girls over Chinese take-out and writing up new Weiner coverage. We’ll never have that again."
Despite the morbid pessimism of some, others in the industry hold out some hope for the future. The New York Times, famous for its conservative coverage of news and events, has already announced their support for a fresh batch of congressional candidates in 2012, among them 8th District contender Penny Dick, 12th District candidate Patrick Dong, and 2nd District dark horse Mike Dixon-Kuntz. the commune news prefers to rise above getting a cheap laugh out of uncommonly silly names, and anyone who doesn’t believe us can ask former Breaking News Correspondent Ivana Folger-Balzac, or Gay Bagel, if you ever find him. Raoul Dunkin is no stranger to cheap laughs, or Weiner jokes. Sorry, un-capitalize that.
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Iraqi extremists boast killing 15 policemen, all ten-foot tall ninjas
Iraqi prison abuses allegedly part of inter-prison frat initiations
Customers win $8.5 mil lawsuit with McDonald's, spend it all on cheeseburgers
South Korea as unruly, embarrassing as South U.S.
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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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 June 23, 2003
A Moll Married to the MobHot shit on a roll! I've been living in sin for weeks and didn't even know it!
As astounding as that may sound to you, good people, it came as even more of a shock to yours truly. And when I found out about it, an even bigger shock. It turns out Felchyana, the kindly Russian toothpick whose apartment I've been staying in is not married at all. Not technically, anyway, her husband having died recently. Not too recently, mind you, the coroner is estimating about two or three months gone by, I imagine they do that mostly by the kind of smell he makes.
The details are hard to glean, since Felchyana's English is a little shabby and I have a poor ear for details, but as near as I can figure it he was involved with a non-Italian mafia in some fashion and it did not lead to the expected 40-years-then-retirement. They found him in the shape of an ottoman in a warehouse down by the waterfront. Apparently a lot of mob enemies have been made into furniture and stored there, or sold to black market furniture buyers who have had the savings passed on to them. I was half intrigued to get a stool pigeon recliner, but I can't even afford my own place right now, so where would I put it?
This is all a side dish of the story, of course, the real issue being that I've been living in sin with an unmarried woman for weeks now. It was all innocent when I was a homeless vagrant living in the house of a Russian mob wife, but now people are going to think...
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Hot shit on a roll! I've been living in sin for weeks and didn't even know it!
As astounding as that may sound to you, good people, it came as even more of a shock to yours truly. And when I found out about it, an even bigger shock. It turns out Felchyana, the kindly Russian toothpick whose apartment I've been staying in is not married at all. Not technically, anyway, her husband having died recently. Not too recently, mind you, the coroner is estimating about two or three months gone by, I imagine they do that mostly by the kind of smell he makes.
The details are hard to glean, since Felchyana's English is a little shabby and I have a poor ear for details, but as near as I can figure it he was involved with a non-Italian mafia in some fashion and it did not lead to the expected 40-years-then-retirement. They found him in the shape of an ottoman in a warehouse down by the waterfront. Apparently a lot of mob enemies have been made into furniture and stored there, or sold to black market furniture buyers who have had the savings passed on to them. I was half intrigued to get a stool pigeon recliner, but I can't even afford my own place right now, so where would I put it?
This is all a side dish of the story, of course, the real issue being that I've been living in sin with an unmarried woman for weeks now. It was all innocent when I was a homeless vagrant living in the house of a Russian mob wife, but now people are going to think something fishy is going on. I won't have that, I tell you.
So I proposed to Felchyana yesterday, and her response was to bring me a jar of mustard. We will need work on that communication gap. After I broke it down with graphs, crude pictures, and a viewing of The Wedding Singer, she nodded, which I assume means we'll be getting married.
I should be the happiest man on the face of the earth. As you may know, Felchyana is a beautiful rose, not like Rose Kennedy in the later days, and as kind and loving a woman as anyone could ask for. She would easily be the most attractive and least mouthy of any Rok Finger wife, and more than a penniless shmoe like me could even hope for. But I can't stop to congratulate myself, and it looks stupid when you try to shake your own hand anyway. I have to decide when we're going to get married, how to pay for all of it, where I will live in the meantime, and how to communicate all this to her without making her run away.
Still, if I may take a minute of time to bask in the glow of love, it is probably the happiest day of my life. Well, there's been a lot of upheaval and nervousness, worry about what people are saying behind my back, and I tripped going up the steps into work this morning and busted my lip open. That all puts a bit of a damper on it. The happiest day, no, but it ranks very high. The fifth—no, too high. The ninth or tenth happiest day of my life. Let me do some quick calculations…
I have determined it is between the fourteenth and twenty-sixth happiest day of my life, with a margin of error of four days. We'll estimate a mean happiest day of my life at twenty-and-a-halfth day.
Once the plans are firmly locked into place, paid for, and living accommodations are covered, I will probably start into dreamy lighter-than-air feeling of love. But first there's a lot of toiling ahead. I suppose explaining this to Felchyana will require at least one more viewing of The Wedding Singer as well. º Last Column: The True Meaning of Glasnostº more columns
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|  May 26, 2003
Little Deuce CoupTo those of you out there who think you can bust down my heavily barricaded office door with your flimsy limbs and pathetic, jerryrigged battering devices, I say bring it on. Unless you happen to be a huge and well-built muscleman, in which case I say don't come in here, I'm naked. And if you'd like to pick up some spare change for your supplements and muscle fuel, kindly pound the rest of my staff into quivering, mutinous jelly while you're out there.
Welcome to day two of the commune staff's soon-to-be-unsuccessful coup against yours truly, Acting-Editor Ramrod Hurley. They may think they can outlast me out there, what with their access to the outside world and all, but I have a secret weapon those dolts don't even know about: a case of army rations from WWII that Red Bagel had stashed away under the suspicion that they contained alien fetuses. Whatever kind of fetuses they have in them, they're delicious.
So don't expect me to crawl out of this office on my hands and knees waving a white flag any time soon, communers. Sure, I could use some medical attention for a gangrenous paper cut on my ankle, and using the windowsill for a toilet got old about 30 hours ago, but they can have this office when they pry my stiff, emaciated corpse out from behind the file cabinet, where I've built a makeshift fort in case the outer wall is breached.
It all started last week, when I found the office staff gathered around a television set playing...
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To those of you out there who think you can bust down my heavily barricaded office door with your flimsy limbs and pathetic, jerryrigged battering devices, I say bring it on. Unless you happen to be a huge and well-built muscleman, in which case I say don't come in here, I'm naked. And if you'd like to pick up some spare change for your supplements and muscle fuel, kindly pound the rest of my staff into quivering, mutinous jelly while you're out there.
Welcome to day two of the commune staff's soon-to-be-unsuccessful coup against yours truly, Acting-Editor Ramrod Hurley. They may think they can outlast me out there, what with their access to the outside world and all, but I have a secret weapon those dolts don't even know about: a case of army rations from WWII that Red Bagel had stashed away under the suspicion that they contained alien fetuses. Whatever kind of fetuses they have in them, they're delicious.
So don't expect me to crawl out of this office on my hands and knees waving a white flag any time soon, communers. Sure, I could use some medical attention for a gangrenous paper cut on my ankle, and using the windowsill for a toilet got old about 30 hours ago, but they can have this office when they pry my stiff, emaciated corpse out from behind the file cabinet, where I've built a makeshift fort in case the outer wall is breached.
It all started last week, when I found the office staff gathered around a television set playing grainy home-video footage of a mysterious figure striding across a street in some unnamed US city. Nobody wanted to say anything while I was in the room, but it was obvious everyone knew what this was.
Red Bagel. Alive.
It was then that I began to feel my igloo of lies collapsing in around me. Sure, I'll admit it, I'd been telling the staff Bagel died within a month of his disappearance, in a gas station bathroom during a botched abortion attempt. It was the only way I could demand the respect and obedience of the staff, get them to stop calling me "dickface" and end the childish outbursts of "You're not my real editor! I'll stay up as late as I want!" all the time. And now my roosters had come home to roost. Proof of Bagel's survival, writ large on the small screen.
Leave it to the commune staff to get all up in my head with mind games, like pretending there hasn't been a coup at all. That the coffee has always been this bad and that the staff was just watching Signs last week, the creature seen waltzing across the street on TV just some bugged-out space alien from the film. Nice try, commune staff. But anyone who's sat a mile in Red Bagel's office chair knows that he would never risk techno-viral infection by setting foot on a Hollywood movie set. Hurley: 1, Coupers: 0.
Besides, I've seen the effigy of my likeness they had strung up in the office last week, and I don't buy the claims that it was just a piñata. I know a piñata when I see one, and that thing was clearly a jackass, an obvious reference to the staff's term of endearment for me, Acting-Editor Ramrod Hurley.
So let's drop the charade and bring the noise, commune staff. I'm stocked to weather this storm. And I'll be here waiting to accept your unconditional surrender once you realize the hopelessness of your situation, on one condition: That you bring pizza, beer and toilet paper with you. And don't forget the TP. º Last Column: The President Needs a Wingmanº more columns
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Quote of the Day“How does it feel? To be on your own? With no direction home? Not even an amber alert? And nobody's bound to look in this van, so keep quiet and just try to enjoy yourself.”
-Bobby Molesterman, now doing 15-25Fortune 500 CookieNobody thought it was funny when you said you snorted your dad's ashes, so it's best not to mention going bowling with your mom's skill—your first instinct was right, nobody gets your sense of humor. Tough love is not the only kind of love, except in prison, so you'd better learn to like it. Lucky Strikes—smoke 'em if you got 'em.
Try again later.Top Signs You May Be Obese| 1. | File footage of your last beach trip keeps turning up on evening news "Obesity in America" segments | | 2. | Telemarketers disgusted by sounds of your constant eating | | 3. | Farm animals instinctively panic in your presence | | 4. | Buffet mysteriously closed no matter when you arrive | | 5. | You stopped for a snack in the middle of reading this list | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 7/1/2001 What's the haps, America? Well, you can forget about all of that crap because it's Oscar time! It's that magical time of year when the Academy tells us what's the best of the best, and we cry "Bullshit! What about Blue Streak?". I'm here, as always, to help you sift through the nominees to find the golden nougat hidden within. And just in case you're worried that your Uncle Roland might be a little off his John Rocker, I'm well aware that the actual Oscar ceremony took place a few months ago. I've been pretty busy running a rotisserie bocciball league this spring and justhaven't had much time. But never fear, though I taped the show I haven't got around to watching it yet, so rest assured that these picks and pans are fresh as a newborn can of Bud Light.
As always, some of...
What's the haps, America? Well, you can forget about all of that crap because it's Oscar time! It's that magical time of year when the Academy tells us what's the best of the best, and we cry "Bullshit! What about Blue Streak?". I'm here, as always, to help you sift through the nominees to find the golden nougat hidden within. And just in case you're worried that your Uncle Roland might be a little off his John Rocker, I'm well aware that the actual Oscar ceremony took place a few months ago. I've been pretty busy running a rotisserie bocciball league this spring and justhaven't had much time. But never fear, though I taped the show I haven't got around to watching it yet, so rest assured that these picks and pans are fresh as a newborn can of Bud Light.
As always, some of the best films to come out in the last year weren't even nominated, providing ample proof of the academy's blind-spot for instant classics like "O Brother, Where's My Car?" and "The Big Kahuna's House". But, we've got to make the best of what we're given here. On to the nominees:
Best Picture
Chocotaco
These things are awesome. I didn't even know they were based on a movie.
Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon
The Sports Star/Asskicker buddy picture concept that didn't work for Dennis Rodman and Jacques Costeau in "Double Team" somehow comes up big for man-boy golf sensation Tiger Woods and spasmatic Chinaman Jackie Chan in this butt-rocking gem. It's Chan's talent that carries the film, however, as the screenwriters have to keep inventing ways to showcase Woods' abilities in the context of fight sequences. Some are more plausible than others. There are a lot of shots of Chan chasing an entertainment lawyer down an alleyway so Woods can hit him with a golf ball or Chan wrestling a ninja-thug onto the beach so Woods can utilize his sand wedge. Despite these rough edges, this is a stellar film that will make you want to either practice your putting or learn to kick ass with a flag pin.
Erin Brockovich
Erin won some serious kudos this year for her role as a chick playing a movie star playing a book store owner playing a wedding planner playing footsie with Hugh Grant. As far as I'm concerned, she deserves the "Best Actress" plaque just for keeping all that straight. Not to be confused with 70's folksinger Edwin Broncobitch.
Gladiator
Proving that they know their classic Beatles movies like "A Hard Day's Night", "SHIT!" and "Goldfinger", the Black Crowes embark on this cinematic romp through the Roman Empire that can't help but entertain. Rome will never be the same after the Crows are done trying to save Ringo from the rehab clinic, becoming bumbling slaves and slapstick coliseum stars along the way.
Terminator 2: Judgement Day
Arnie's back and this time he's got "Oscar" written all over his meaty ass. Guys loved it because shit got killed, girls loved it because in the jacuzzi scene, you can almost see his Schwartzenegger. That's what I hear anyway. I wasn't looking.
Traffic
Like the saying goes: when it rains classic-rock band-movies, it pours. Steve Winwood and crew reunite and prove they're "Feelin' Alright" in this adaptation of the Toni Morrison novel "Black Rain". Much running around and silly hats ensues.
Best Director
Stephen Soderbergh, Traffic
Coming a long way from his immature early period (E.T., Glenn Close Encounters Her Third Kid, Stark Raving Sharks), Soderbergh finally hits his stride and rolls with it in this fable about higher love and those magical things that the night can do.
Stephen Soderbergh, Erin Brockovich
Proving that he can not only direct a great film, but also sneak into the theater twice wearing a phoney mustache, Soderbergh pulls a fast one on the academy with his second nominated film of the year. Here Soderbergh finally realizes the unfulfilled promise of his earlier films, such as "Gremlins", "Hookin'" and "Polacks in Space".
Ripley Scott, Gladiator
As host of one of the most outrageous game shows of the 70's, "Ripley's Believe it or Scott!", Scott Ripley saw more larval aliens burst out of contestant's chests than many people have seen non alien-bursting chests to begin with. This experience helped Ripley bring an unflinching realism to this sometimes-troubling tale of a rock band running around ancient Rome to xylophone music.
Ang Lee, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon
Another hilarious joke-name nomination this year, I can just hear those Academy numbskulls yukking it up over Evian martinis and cracking wise: "I'm velly Ang Lee I didn't win! Velly Ang Lee!". Those guys are cards.
Stephen Daldry, Billy Elliot
If there are two things I love, they're two-man directing teams and the Who. 'Nuff said.
Best Actor
Russell Crowe, Gladiator
One of the classiest cameos of the year had this dude from that Led Zeppelin movie play onstage with the old guy from the Black Crowes, who incidentally is married to Frances McDormand.
Javier Bardem, Before Night Falls
No no no, I ordered the tacquitos, senior.
Tom Hanks, Castaway
Proving that being typecast isn't always a bad thing, last year's turn in Saving Pirate Ryan prepared Hanks perfectly for this salty salute to shanghai-ed summer lovin'. I once declared that I'd never let a movie about gay pirate sex make me cry again, but Castaway done made a liar out of your old friend Roland McShyster.
Ed Harris, Pollack
Another academy gag name, everybody knows Ed's German. Second only to his gag co-star, Martian Gay Hard-on.
Geoffrey Rush, Quills
Who?
Best Actress
Joan Allen, The Contender
I love when she does that grunting thing. Chicks and their power tools, I tell ya.
Juliette Binoche, Chocotaco
Weight watchers, Juliette Binoche. Now that everyone's met, we're going to be spending some time together. Ha ha! This is fun!
Ellen Burstyn, Requiem for a Dreamcast
So believable as one of those moms who hates video games that I got half way to the park before I realized I don't like being outside.
Laura Croft, You Can Count on Me
She can kick ass, do back flips, and raise a kid without a father around. I'd be all over her like OJ on a white chick if it weren't for the fact that I need a stepkid like Dick Cheney and his pig-heart need a bacon-grease sandwich. That, and she's a video game character. I learned my lesson with Ms Pacman on that one.
Jason Robards, Erin Brockovich
Pretty funny guys, Jason may have tits and he plays a great lawyer, but I'd have to do some pretty intense penitentiary time before I nominated him for Best Actress.
Well folks, I'm Roland McShyster, you're America, and that was the Oscars Roundup! I hope it was one of the defining experiences of our generation.   |
