|
$abernathie='2005/0530/';
$abernathietitle='Legends of Suck';
$bagel='2005/0829/';
$bageltitle='Taking Back the commune';
$book='2005/0829/';
$boris='2005/0509/';
$boristitle='Boris Does Love Jehoma';
$childstar='2005/0829/';
$childstartitle='The End of an Error';
$dreck='2005/0829/';
$drecktitle='First Griswald Dreck Chat Transcript';
$dickman='2005/0718/';
$dickmantitle='Tom Cruise Loves That Woman ';
$dunkin='2005/0905/';
$dunkintitle='The New Anne Frank Diary';
$edit='2003/1222/';
$fanmail='2005/0516/';
$fanmailtitle='Volume 63';
$finger='2005/0905/';
$fingertitle='I’m Fresh Out of Haitian Cigarettes';
$fortune='2002/020121/';
$goocher='2005/0711/';
$goochertitle='Gwar of the Worlds';
$hanes='2005/0704/';
$hanestitle='Pink is Not for Men';
$hartwig='2005/0606/';
$hartwigtitle='Parade';
$hooper='2005/0228/';
$hoopertitle='Vernon Hooper’s Fifth Syphilis';
$hurley='2005/0404/';
$hurleytitle='Time of Healing';
$kroeger='2005/0822/';
$kroegertitle='Charity Case';
$loser='2005/0822/';
$losertitle='Lost Leavings';
$ned='2003/0818/';
$nedtitle='Cyantology';
$pickle='2002/020513/';
$pickletitle='State of the Art';
$poet='2005/0905/';
$police='2005/0905/';
$polio='2005/0905/';
$poliotitle='Omarelief';
$rent='2005/0829/';
$renttitle='I’m Not that Big a Fan of Talking';
$reynolds='2005/0425/';
$reynoldstitle='A Series of Unfortunate Evans';
$hartwig='2004/1206/';
$hartwigtitle='O Captain!';
$sickhead='2004/0419/';
$sickheadtitle='The Legendary Spot of Coco Hobari McSteve';
$ted='2005/0530/';
$tedtitle='The New War on Poverty';
$vanslyke='2005/0606/';
$vanslyketitle='Health Food is Full of Shit';
$zender='2005/0425/';
$zendertitle='The Sixth commune Enthusiasts Club Meeting';
?> | 
August 22, 2005 |
New York City Sloe Lorenzo Thanks to Merck’s decision, a two-day supply of Vioxx (as pictured) can now command up to $500 on the black market n the wake of a landmark $253 million lawsuit that found the company liable for heart damage caused by its arthritis painkiller Vioxx, things went from bad to shitty bad for drug giant Merck this week, as a group of prescription drug abusers announced they were suing the company for taking Vioxx off the market during the shitstorm of controversy last year.
“We were all hooked on Vioxx, and Merck left us high and dry,” sobbed prescription painkiller addict and group spokesperson Beth Simmons of Noodle Cove, Maine. “Somebody needs to pay for all the bedspreads I shit while I was detoxing after Merck’s short-sighted decision to yank Vioxx off the market.”
“Just because a few pussies had heart attacks is no reason to put good people through the hell we...
n the wake of a landmark $253 million lawsuit that found the company liable for heart damage caused by its arthritis painkiller Vioxx, things went from bad to shitty bad for drug giant Merck this week, as a group of prescription drug abusers announced they were suing the company for taking Vioxx off the market during the shitstorm of controversy last year.
“We were all hooked on Vioxx, and Merck left us high and dry,” sobbed prescription painkiller addict and group spokesperson Beth Simmons of Noodle Cove, Maine. “Somebody needs to pay for all the bedspreads I shit while I was detoxing after Merck’s short-sighted decision to yank Vioxx off the market.”
“Just because a few pussies had heart attacks is no reason to put good people through the hell we’ve all been through,” added group member Tom Cripe. “Shame on you, Merck.”
“Vioxx got you high as shit,” agreed fellow abuser Dennis Melvin, staring off into space.
Though unusual, the lawsuit is not as revolutionary as many might assume. It follows in the footsteps of last year’s landmark State of Louisiana Vs. BDI Pharmaceuticals settlement, which found manufacturer BDI liable for the productivity lost and emotional damage caused when they reformulated their Mini Thins ephedrine tablets under the new name Mini Two-Way Action, to prevent abuse by truckers and to boost sales among rhinoceros horn-grinding aphrodisiac freaks.
“Merck formed a good-faith pact with their customers,” explained prosecuting attorney Ray Longam. “An implicit agreement that said: you get hooked on our pills, crushing them up and snorting them up your nose, or shooting a solution into your ass fat, scamming your insurance company out of thousands to feed your addiction, or turning to the black market to buy Vioxx pills stolen out of the medicine cabinets of old ladies, you hold up your end of the bargain, and we’ll keep you high as fuck all the time. Only Merck didn’t live up to their end of the bargain. And that’s just not right. Somebody’s got to stand up for the little guy.”
Joe Borchard, a little guy who estimates he snorted over $10,000 in powdered Vioxx pills during the painkiller’s short reign, is happy to know his voice will finally be heard. “I had to switch to OxyContin after they took Vioxx off the market. And that was a major pain in the ass. I could never remember how to spell it. One time I snorted a whole bottle of pimple cream on accident, and that shit dried out my brain for like three weeks.”
A Merck spokesperson, however, finds the lawsuit to be absurd.
“These people are clearly stupid,” explained Merck spokesperson Charles Ludlow. “Vicodin will get you so high you shit your pants and don’t even know it. So what were these people doing messing around with Vioxx? If we give these people a few million dollars in a settlement, they’re probably just going to blow it trying to get high off asthma medicine or something.”
Legal experts contend that an unfavorable judgment could cost Merck millions in expired Vioxx tablets, rumored to be buried in bunkers in the New Mexico desert. Industry insiders suggest that the pharmaceutical giant would be better served by paying off the plaintiffs before the trial even begins with free samples of Arcoxia, the company’s Vioxx replacement, which is twice as addictive as Vioxx and gets you so high there’s no way you’d get to the courthouse on time. the commune news knows that drug abuse is no laughing matter, unless you order two junkies to play ping pong on roller skates, then it’s funny as fuck. Ivana Folger-Balzac didn’t make any friends during the reporting of this story, but she didn’t kill any endangered species either, and we think that’s a step in the right direction. Way to go Ivana!
 |  'Paris Hilton Autopsy' Sculpture Signed to Three-Picture Deal Christ, you're 30 years old, get your finger out of your nose
Rock and roll hits China
Cat hunting legalized in Madison, WI; dog insulting still morally nebulous
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Officials to Celebrities: Please Get Out of New Orleans isaster-relief officials in New Orleans made a stern announcement today to the thousands of celebrities descending upon the devastated city in hopes of providing humanitarian aid in exchange for career-boosting photo ops: We’re serious; you really need to leave now. “We’ve got to get these fucking celebrities out of New Orleans,” sighed an exasperated Lt. Mark Bolio of the Army’s 92nd Airborne. “They’re drinking up all our bottled water and bitching about the catering all day.” The influx of famous faces has weighed as a heavy burden on officials who have spent the last week scrambling to get everyone out of the city-shaped deathtrap. Receding water levels have exposed a nightmare world of toxic contamination, with nearly the entire city soaking in deadly levels of E. coli bacteria, lead, crude oil, PCBs, asbestos, leptospirosis, battery acid, herbicides, raw sewage, DDT, snakes, and according to at least one local, cooties. After busting a nut trying to remove the bulk of New Orleans’ stubbornly entrenched locals, many of whom refused to leave their pets or belongings, the Army was not prepared to deal with the celebrity occupation. Wisconsin Man Takes in Jazz Band he whole nation wants to do their part to help the victims of Hurricane Katrina, but a Madison, Wisconsin man is doing so much he makes all the other volunteers and charity donors look like dried puke. For Albert Pohl Martinson hasn’t merely taken in three or four family members or refugees from New Orleans: He’s taken in a whole jazz band. “I just wanted to do what I could,” Martinson told a deluge of fawning media standing on his front lawn. “So I said I would take in the first group of refugees I could. I sent them bus tickets and had them carted up here immediately. And then, being a good citizen, I called the local news to make sure they were informed.” However, Martinson didn’t stop and giving the 5-man combo all the food, shelter, and clean water they needed; he also bought them sparkling fresh instruments so they could take their mind off their troubles. Australian Al-Qaeda’s Accent Makes “Osama Bin Laden” Sound Hilarious Use of Term “Gaydar” Most Effective Means of Telling Someone’s Gay |
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 December 23, 2002
Farewell My ConcubinesWell, I've officially drank enough eggnog to kill a goat, resulting last night in a terrifying vision of Christmas Future. Either that or I was at a U2 concert. Any way you slice it, I'm running out after work to buy the biggest chicken I can find and give it to some Cuban refugee children to use as a boat, or something.
It's clear as fish's piss that the time has come for Stu Umbrage to change his ways, I've been wind sprinting down the wrong path for far too long. I don't know if it's going to entail doing some charity work, or maybe just dating a girl named Charity, frankly if that second option counts I'm tending to lean that way. Not that I've got any problem with wiping barf off the chins of little alcoholic kids or whatever you're supposed to do to get in good with the lord or other assorted deities these days. But if I can earn some equivalency points by hot-tubbing with some aerobics instructor who had hippie parents, well, sorry little lushes. I don't know if I could live with myself if I took the "high road" on that one. Also known as "Sucker Street".
Whatever it is, I've got to do something quick, though. The last thing I want is to wake up one morning with one of those gigantic Mardi Gras heads. Don't ask, it was a dream I had. At first I was wanting to write it off as some bad clams ate after dark, like "That shit doesn't happen," but then I started to think about it, and what if it does? What if some poor sucker has the dream, ignores...
º Last Column: One Household Please, and Hold the Kids º more columns
Well, I've officially drank enough eggnog to kill a goat, resulting last night in a terrifying vision of Christmas Future. Either that or I was at a U2 concert. Any way you slice it, I'm running out after work to buy the biggest chicken I can find and give it to some Cuban refugee children to use as a boat, or something.
It's clear as fish's piss that the time has come for Stu Umbrage to change his ways, I've been wind sprinting down the wrong path for far too long. I don't know if it's going to entail doing some charity work, or maybe just dating a girl named Charity, frankly if that second option counts I'm tending to lean that way. Not that I've got any problem with wiping barf off the chins of little alcoholic kids or whatever you're supposed to do to get in good with the lord or other assorted deities these days. But if I can earn some equivalency points by hot-tubbing with some aerobics instructor who had hippie parents, well, sorry little lushes. I don't know if I could live with myself if I took the "high road" on that one. Also known as "Sucker Street".
Whatever it is, I've got to do something quick, though. The last thing I want is to wake up one morning with one of those gigantic Mardi Gras heads. Don't ask, it was a dream I had. At first I was wanting to write it off as some bad clams ate after dark, like "That shit doesn't happen," but then I started to think about it, and what if it does? What if some poor sucker has the dream, ignores it and then wakes up with his gourd taking up the whole bed? There could be hundreds of guys like that out there, you'd never know because it's not like they'd ever leave the house looking like that. Christ, you'd get laughed out of the hat store. Nobody needs that.
It's not like I've been a terrible guy, but I won't argue that my life hasn't been misspent thus far. Hell, my pocket money is misspent, why should my life be any different? I still have craploads of Furbies left over from when those things were popular. I'm not kidding, I have a whole closet full of them. You open the door and it sounds like end of the world. My neighbors called the cops once because they thought I was smuggling illegal immigrants into the country, but then the cops wouldn't come in because they were afraid my apartment was possessed by Satan. I tried to explain, but it's hard to present a lucid narrative when you're constantly being interrupted by "Oooooh! Dark! Brrrrrum-ruum-ruum!"
Those little Mogwai fuckers have cost me more than one girlfriend, believe me.
For that reason and a laundry-list of others, it's time to make some changes. Not quite head-shaving, pimp-shooting changes, but serious nonetheless. First, it's time to admit that my five-year plan to become Bjork has been a dismal failure. I blame neither myself nor the lack of support from Bjork's family, it's clear this whole thing was just not meant to happen. It's time to move on.
Second, it's becoming painfully, ass-numbingly obvious that the move to New York was a mistake. For some reason I thought it would be the land of milk and honey, I'm not sure what I was thinking. It should have been obvious, Wisconsin is where milk comes from. I don't know about honey. But New York is the land of shit and money, which is close but not the same thing. Between the commune's base pay of "good friends, good times and some magic beans" and the rising price of pay toilets in the city, something's going to go Chernobyl in the near future.
Which is why it's high time for Stu Umbrage to get back to his roots. No, not Wisconsin. Jesus. Those roots can stay there. I'm thinking more the open road, the wind in my hair, and the desert stretching out before me. I'm thinking cheap rent and an alcoholic workforce that puts me at the top of headhunting lists just for showing up. I'm thinking New Mexico. I'm in the mood for a place where you can buy Peyote at the supermarket. That's the kind of state where a man can get some soul-searching done, and crap for free. Sign me up.
So, although I've had a good run here at the commune in the last ten months, I think it's time to ramble on. Don't tell Bagel though, I plan on leaving a mannequin in my chair and am paying Rok Finger to turn in one column from my backlog every couple weeks just in case nobody notices I'm gone and they keep paying me. After all, beans can come in handy on a road trip, and all it'll cost me is a couple bottles of Old Spice. I told Finger they stopped making the stuff but that I had the last few bottles stashed away, I'm not sure if he believed me but he didn't want to risk it.
Wish me luck, commune readers. If and when I get to a state of Zen I'll send you a postcard, though I warn you now that it'll probably have no words and just a pear on it or something. You know how that Zen shit is. º Last Column: One Household Please, and Hold the Kidsº more columns
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|  July 3, 2012
Brush With Death, Floss With DangerFinger fans, I'm delighted to be writing you again sooner than anticipated. As I last said, I did not believe there was enough of interest to me to warrant continued commune writing, but we both lucked out, for since those premature words, I have discovered my dentist is a secret agent.
It must seem like I've gone mad, and I have—mad with international intrigue. I'm not at liberty to say too much, and of course I can't use his last name, but I am permitted to use his first, so we'll call him "Doctor." No one was more surprised than me at my last visit for a regular teeth cleaning, although the hygienist did seem shocked and dismayed when I elected to change into a hospital gown. I am not going home with a drool-drenched shirt again, I'm adamant on that point, and she's a dental assistant, she should be accustomed to a little nudity by now.
I would not have even found out this sizzling bit of news if it were not for a slip of the tongue. We were discussing film and I asked Doctor if he had seen that new James Bond film from three years ago. He said yes, and he enjoyed it very much, being a spy himself.
The secret was out! I asked him what kind of spy he was, he told me he would have to kill me if he told me, or if I laid a finger on his girlfriend. I of course promised I would tell no one, and would not touch the girlfriend, having not yet seen her or found out she was a model. Reluctantly, Doctor confided his history in his majesty's...
º Last Column: Ventriloquism For Dummies º more columns
Finger fans, I'm delighted to be writing you again sooner than anticipated. As I last said, I did not believe there was enough of interest to me to warrant continued commune writing, but we both lucked out, for since those premature words, I have discovered my dentist is a secret agent.
It must seem like I've gone mad, and I have—mad with international intrigue. I'm not at liberty to say too much, and of course I can't use his last name, but I am permitted to use his first, so we'll call him "Doctor." No one was more surprised than me at my last visit for a regular teeth cleaning, although the hygienist did seem shocked and dismayed when I elected to change into a hospital gown. I am not going home with a drool-drenched shirt again, I'm adamant on that point, and she's a dental assistant, she should be accustomed to a little nudity by now.
I would not have even found out this sizzling bit of news if it were not for a slip of the tongue. We were discussing film and I asked Doctor if he had seen that new James Bond film from three years ago. He said yes, and he enjoyed it very much, being a spy himself.
The secret was out! I asked him what kind of spy he was, he told me he would have to kill me if he told me, or if I laid a finger on his girlfriend. I of course promised I would tell no one, and would not touch the girlfriend, having not yet seen her or found out she was a model. Reluctantly, Doctor confided his history in his majesty's secret service. Bet you didn't know we were a monarchy-democracy, did you? Neither did I, until Doctor straightened me out. My grill as well.
Good people, I'm a simple ventriloquil stage performer, I'm not used to the fast-paced life of spydom, or even dentistry. I lived a quiet life, immune to all the intrigue just hanging in the air around me like humidity. Now my eyes are opened, the little crusty booger things cleared out by the truth. We are surrounded on all sides by spies.
I asked Doctor how he got into the spy game, he said it's all who you know, and he's good friends with the secret king. I'm not supposed to use his full name outside the Circle of Mystery, which I'm not allowed to be a part of unless they don't have enough people to make a circle present. But I guess I can give you something to call him, differentiate from everyone else in this story, so call him King Steve.
The secret monarchy ruling our country and the plethora of spies disguised as every day members of the service industry has provided me with some distraction from the humdrum routine of entertaining people by pretending to speak. If you're wondering who are the enemies of the Circle of Mystery, you're not alone, but Doctor won't tell me anything more unless King Steve grants me full access. That will cost $40, and I don't get that kind of money in my line of work, not until my crimson tuxedo is paid for. Yes, I am on the waiting list to be inducted into this hidden world, so wish me luck. Rok Finger may be protecting you from the most evil and insidious threat to this nation neither of us has ever heard of. So sleep well, once I get forty bucks.
I learned all this from a night of fascinating conversation with Doctor. After my cleaning and semi-annual uvula scraping, I invited Doctor out for a night on the town, but when we realized the cost of drinks would add up, we instead decided to share a mask of nitrous for a few hours. What amazing secrets were revealed, probably a lot more than I can remember since I think I forgot to switch off the tank just before I passed out. Did you know our spies go on vacation twice a year to stunning locations like Fort Lauderdale to monitor the international diamond trade? Of course you didn't. You don't have $40 and you're not in the Circle of Mystery. As soon as they get a few dozen more membership fees added to the Circle, a sweepstakes will decide who is the best spy, and that candidate will travel to romantic Monte Carlo to enter a high-stakes poker competition and thwart the evil Professor Glove. He's not the most terrible criminal mastermind of our age, but he's the equivalent of a comptroller for said most terrible criminal mind. I can't wait to get my $40 and find out who it is! My money is on Red Bagel, who ironically owes me $40 in unpaid commune checks.
Doctor was quick to remind me this is all fantasy, insisted that I remember that when I left and promised to dig up the money for the entry fee into the Circle. Of course it's fantasy. It's been my boyhood dream to defend the country and the western world from the unimaginable despotism of a villain whose name I don't know. And I didn't even have a boyhood.
I do hope they give me bullets with my membership kit. I already have a gun and an ankle holster. º Last Column: Ventriloquism For Dummiesº more columns
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Quote of the Day“I have not yet begun to finish my senten…”
-John Paul JonesFortune 500 CookieEverything’s looking up this week, to avoid making eye contact with you. At long last it has become clear that your master’s degree in goat teasing was a total waste of time. Everyone knows sneezing into your sleeve is just good manners, you should try the same when you break wind. On the bright side, we showed a picture of you to a time-traveler who stopped by the office last week, and he said "Oh Jesus, that guy?" so apparently you’re well-known in the future. This week’s lucky gadgets: HP iPlaid (launching next week on clearance), Samsung MySlate laptop-sized smartphone, iRobot Chippy: Autonomous Quadrotor Personal Killdrone, Sonicareless dental apathy kit, Windows 7 Phone in Bluescreen Blue.
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 Roland McShyster 10/27/2003 Hello America, how've you been? Those shingles clearing up all right? Solid. As you might have guessed, we're back for another installment of the column that cares, Entertainment Police. Prepare to have your heart and other tender anatomical portions touched, buffed and spit-shone! If you're like me, you're ready for Hollywood to cough up another weekend's worth of movies, and as usual they haven't disappointed. Meaning they put out some movies, I'm not crazy enough to suggest the movies aren't disappointing. So let's take a gander at the who's, what's, and why's of this weekend's letdown.
In Theaters
In the Cute
Meg Ryan and Mark "Buffalo 66" Ruffalo shed their cute puppy-dog images for...
Hello America, how've you been? Those shingles clearing up all right? Solid. As you might have guessed, we're back for another installment of the column that cares, Entertainment Police. Prepare to have your heart and other tender anatomical portions touched, buffed and spit-shone! If you're like me, you're ready for Hollywood to cough up another weekend's worth of movies, and as usual they haven't disappointed. Meaning they put out some movies, I'm not crazy enough to suggest the movies aren't disappointing. So let's take a gander at the who's, what's, and why's of this weekend's letdown.
In Theaters
In the Cute
Meg Ryan and Mark "Buffalo 66" Ruffalo shed their cute puppy-dog images for this light serial killer comedy. Taking the romantic comedy "Will they do it?" conceit a step farther to "Will they do it before the dude cuts her head off?" In the Cute ratchets up the fluffy tension notch by notch with every dismembered corpse and bit of funny first-date hijinks. While the obvious question is "Does it work?" and the obvious answer is "Who kicked your pregnant mother down the stairs, doofus?" the more compelling point to ponder is really "When is the right time to tell the girl you're dating that you're a serial-killing detective madman? Before you meet her parents? Or after the wedding?" Director and athletic sock magnate Kate Champion does an admirable job of keeping the two plates spinning at once, even if it does mean that nothing in the film is ever the slightest bit in focus, figuratively nor in the fuzzy-eyed literal sense.
The Human Stain
I got excited when I first heard this movie was coming out because I thought it was going to be about my brother, since that was his unfortunate nickname in High School. No such luck however, as it's just another potboiler about the extreme inconvenience of a hit-and-run accident. Anthony "Psycho" Hopkins stars as the inattentive driver who spends two hours going from body shop to body shop in a vain attempt to get the weird purple butt-cheek marks out of the hood of his Audi. Extreme tedium can be a powerful motivator, and I doubt anyone will be talking on his or her cell phone while jerking off a transvestite on the way home from the theater after seeing this cautionary tale.
Radio
According to commune fact-machine Griswald Dreck, the radio was actually invented by Italian racecar genius Macaroni Vivaldi, not some retarded black guy from Alabama. As the story goes, Vivaldi got tired of not having any music to listen to while he was driving endlessly in circles, and he thought it also might be fun for when he was racing. So Vivaldi developed the world's first radio, which he installed in the dash of his racecar. A few months later he followed this up with the crucial invention of the world's first radio station, which not-surprisingly played only Vivaldi's favorite Chechnyan oompa music. You'd think this story would be compelling enough to make into a hit movie, but apparently Hollywood thought Cuba Gooding Jr. would have a hard time passing for Italian, so they rewrote Vivaldi's story as Forrest Gump meets Rudy and slopped it onto our plates with a ladle. Sorry Hollywood, but even we're not that stupid.
Scary Movie 3
Looks like the poofs at Merchant Ivory are at it again, trying to deceive the American moviegoing public with yet another misleading movie title. Anyone who went to Howard's End expecting a classy gay porno or walked out of Remains of the Day after a pulse-pounding slasher flick never materialized can feel my pain here. After The Golden Bowl failed to live up to its billing as the second coming of Cheech & Chong, I gave up on these guys for good. Scary Movie 3 is indeed scary, if the thought of paying nine bucks to sit through a long, boring chick flick terrifies you as much as it should. Though if seeing nerds dress up in period costumes and act boring does it for you, and the Renaissance Fair isn't in town, then this should be right up your twisted alley.
The Swinging Detective
Hollywood's latest ploy to squeeze every last drop of spunk out of the lousy turnips they've been producing (spunk's turnip juice, right?) is the highly-dubious practice of releasing the same film twice under two different names. Sometimes they score the doublecross of getting people to pay to see the same film twice (i.e. Jurassic Park and Godzilla or Under Pressure and Vanilla Sky), but the strategy is mainly employed so they can market one film to two wildly different audiences. That's the case here with The Swinging Detective, released simultaneously with In the Cute and raising some suspicions by being exactly the same movie. But while trailers for In the Cute play up the film's grisly serial-killer elements, The Swinging Detective looks like a straight-ahead romantic comedy that just happens to be going on around the same time the cops are trying to find a serial killer who cuts women's heads off and balances them on his shoulders so he can re-enact his favorite scenes from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Some might find these marketing tactics deceptive, mainly because they are, but the studio may have hit just the right balance this time around since romantic comedy and serial killer audiences rarely overlap. Plus it's funny to envision the scenario where some guy drags his wife to see In the Cute and she tolerates it so she can drag him to see The Swinging Detective the following weekend, neither of them ever the wiser.
That's all America. Even if there were more movies out this week, we wouldn't have reviewed them, because enough is enough. Knowing when to quit has never been a Hollywood strong point, so the discerning consumer has to know when to yank the gin tap out of their puckered maws and kick the rascals curbward. Join us again next issue when we answer the eternal question: "Yuck! What?"    |