|  | 
 July 11, 2005 |
London, Jolly Olde England Junior Bacon London commuter and mylar balloon enthusiast Roary Tubbs wonders aloud why the subway’s so bloody late today
“Oh yes, it was quite a mess,” explained commuter Harold Alburn, who was aboard one of the bombed subway trains and only survived due to being caked in a human cocoon formed by the flaming remains of his fellow passengers. “That rail line’s going to be down for weeks, you have to assume.”
“This is to be expected of the British,” explained psychologist/ historian hybrid Dennis Mugrew. “I mean, what did you expect? Wild, hyperbolic shows of emotion? These people didn’t even have their...
ith their famously stoic façade put to the ultimate test, Londoners came through with flying colors this week, failing to register the slightest emotion in the face of stunning terror attacks on the city’s mass transit system that left 50 dead and over 700 wounded. “Oh yes, it was quite a mess,” explained commuter Harold Alburn, who was aboard one of the bombed subway trains and only survived due to being caked in a human cocoon formed by the flaming remains of his fellow passengers. “That rail line’s going to be down for weeks, you have to assume.” “This is to be expected of the British,” explained psychologist/ historian hybrid Dennis Mugrew. “I mean, what did you expect? Wild, hyperbolic shows of emotion? These people didn’t even have their pulses raised by WWII. Even when London itself was being bombed in 1940, people were still going out to the pubs and leading their lives as if there weren’t giant bomb craters in the street, and acting as if the pub itself was not on fire. Frankly, I don’t think total thermonuclear annihilation would have much of an effect on the English disposition.” “Yes yes, bloody terrible,” mumbled carpet-layer Damon Brink semi-intelligibly, hoisting his customary 7am pint. “This resolute façade of dour, dutiful melancholy has served the English well through eons of adversity and truly shitty weather,” explained England expert and grinder-sandwich-eating champion Maxwell Tuft. “It’s like American optimism or weird Japanese cartoon sex fetishes. You don’t mess with success.” “It’s a bloody shame about those people,” sighed stockbroker Theodore McCartney, who lost his entire family in the blasts. “You certainly feel for their loved ones. But, you know, life must go on.” “Nope, sorry, I’m afraid I’ve had my humanity bred out of me, perhaps eons ago,” explained tailor Nigel Ruffalo when asked about the attacks, with an upper lip so stiff he could be mistaken for a duck. Authorities believe the attacks to be the work of a terrorist cell with the inappropriately-hilarious name of “The Secret Organization of al-Qaeda in Europe,” which, as the name describes, is thought to be both secret and organized, and reportedly allows only cell members into its tree fort. The British have saved their strongest displays of emotion for these alleged terrorists. “That’s just not playing cricket,” complained Londoner Angie Lowell, the most enraged person in all of England. “Them bad sorts ought to be put to for what they done, had a real talking-to, you know. Can’t have this sort of thing going on, mucking about on the trains when we’ve got places to be.” Meanwhile, the reporting of this story was complicated by confusion over interview subjects who claimed to have been on the tube at the time of the attacks, which this American reporter assumed to mean the television, leading to a mistaken belief that everyone in England gets to be on TV. This reporter’s intense jealousy, however, soon abated as soon as he learned that “the tube” is a quaint British euphemism for the toilet. the commune news sends their deepest condolences to everyone who suffered through last week’s terrible tragedy, by which we mean of course the season finale of Dancing with the Stars. Ivan Nacutchacokov was disappointed by the lack of visceral tragedy and worldwide attention existing in the commune offices upon his return from London to report this story, and we were equally disappointed to have him back.
 |
Britney Spears Three Pounds Overweight, Gripes Fat Asshole
Wal-Mart, NetFlix join forces to wipe out small mail-order businesses
Enron lawsuit settled for 3,000,000 ohms of free energy
 Sharon Still in Coma, Phyllis Still Total Slutbag |
Controversial Rockwell Painting Found in Collection of War Criminal Spielberg Giuliani Woos Conservative Base By Killing Arab Bush Admonishes Tornado’s Cut and Run Policy |
| |
| 
 September 16, 2002
Lawsuit Settled, Advantage: BagelThe good news here in the commune offices is my court case has resulted in a nice out-of-court settlement. The bad news is… well, I'll get to the bad news in due course.
Frequent readers of my column, or actually anyone who read the last one, will remember that I was taking legal action against the author of the play based on my life, without my authorization, Ching! Ching! I Owe Fred Scarsdale A Lot of Money. My lawsuit was on the fasttrack toward a big fat payoff for the commune, and me in particular, when we found out the author of the play was none other than black sheep of the commune family Raoul Dunkin. Now, insiders and outsiders with insider contacts know that Raoul Dunkin was the first reporter hired when the commune made the jump from publishing on the back of pre-published pamphlets to the internet, where the overhead was considerably lower and the journalistic standards likewise lower. Which made it all the harder when he and his money-hungry blade backstabbed me and his brethren by running off to become a hot-to-trot M-TV veejay.
Apparently, M-TV and Dunkin were a poor match from the get-go and even the coveted 3-5 a.m. timeslot couldn't make him a star. He pink-slipped that job and ended up writing plays off-off-Broadway, specifically the Vlanch Community Theater in Vlanch, Pennsylvania. Which is where I saw the Fred Scarsdale bit. Cut to September of 2002, and a very pissed-off Red Bagel demanding compensation. Now...
º Last Column: I Want Compensation for the Play Based on My Life
º more columns
The good news here in the commune offices is my court case has resulted in a nice out-of-court settlement. The bad news is… well, I'll get to the bad news in due course.
Frequent readers of my column, or actually anyone who read the last one, will remember that I was taking legal action against the author of the play based on my life, without my authorization, Ching! Ching! I Owe Fred Scarsdale A Lot of Money. My lawsuit was on the fasttrack toward a big fat payoff for the commune, and me in particular, when we found out the author of the play was none other than black sheep of the commune family Raoul Dunkin. Now, insiders and outsiders with insider contacts know that Raoul Dunkin was the first reporter hired when the commune made the jump from publishing on the back of pre-published pamphlets to the internet, where the overhead was considerably lower and the journalistic standards likewise lower. Which made it all the harder when he and his money-hungry blade backstabbed me and his brethren by running off to become a hot-to-trot M-TV veejay.
Apparently, M-TV and Dunkin were a poor match from the get-go and even the coveted 3-5 a.m. timeslot couldn't make him a star. He pink-slipped that job and ended up writing plays off-off-Broadway, specifically the Vlanch Community Theater in Vlanch, Pennsylvania. Which is where I saw the Fred Scarsdale bit. Cut to September of 2002, and a very pissed-off Red Bagel demanding compensation. Now we're talking settlement.
Dunkin always was bad at numbers. Would you believe over 30 people saw his play and he still ended up deep in debt? If over 30 people ever read an edition of the commune, I, Red Bagel, would be rolling in money like a pig in shit. Instead of rolling in shit like a pig in shit. Dunkin's big mistake, as far as I can tell, was paying all collaborators involved in real money instead of skeeball tickets and coupons. He also doesn't seem to have heard of government loans and frivolous lawsuits.
Needless to say, Dunkin could not pay the compensation I demanded, and in fact ran up even more bills thanks to hiring that pricey Bar association-approved "lawyer". Way to go, A-hole. All that money flushed down the drain and you still settled the case with yours truly, the lawyerless commune's fearless editor-in-chief.
All that said and done, as part of the settlement Dunkin is coming back to work for the commune for a while. You tell me who the real loser is! Bludney Plud? I suppose we can all agree on that.
So welcome, dear reader, to a bold new era for the commune. Well, not really. Welcome to an era that reeks of a bold old era. Dunkin is back with his passable news coverage, and yet I'm not firing Ramon Nootles, his replacement I took on staff when the extra coupons I saved allowed me to expand the workforce. At least not yet—he's the kind of reporter who seems to benefit from a healthy fear of the guillotine.
Nobody could be happier about Dunkin's return to the staff, at least I've decreed that nobody can be happier. Dunkin, to his credit, is putting up the appearance that he's not totally miserable, and that's appreciated.
By the way, we have no plans of removing the "Let's Promote Raoul Dunkin!" game as of yet. Let's just see where this is going for a while. The numbnuts does have a history of abandonment, and we may forgive, but we never forget. º Last Column: I Want Compensation for the Play Based on My Lifeº more columns
| 
|  December 9, 2002
What the Hell Are Muppets?Jim Henson, an unemployed sock factory worker with delusions that would make Mark David Chapman roll his eyes, titter, and run off to the closet to masturbate feverishly into a tea cozy, did not create the Muppets. Popular assumption is the asshole on that one. Nor did he even discover them, as several Kings of England before him had conferred with the strange beings on matters of state politics and interior decorating for hundreds of years. Rather, Henson's genius lay in using felt puppet totems to channel the beings from their Muppet-realm during hour-long televised séances that he would pass off as children's entertainment. How would America's parents feel if they knew the secret behind this children's television mainstay? It's a trick question, America doesn't have parents. It's a country, stupid.
Many parents would shrivel and dry up like a baked turnip to learn that they subjected their children to this brand of pagan daycare for years, parking their drooling tots in front of the one-eyed monster for hours of seemingly free babysitting. Of course, they'd crap out their own appendix if they knew that Mr. Rogers had to do his show to fulfill the community service portion of his probation. As much should have been obvious since he spent half the damn show changing clothes in order to dodge his parole officer.
Henson wasn't an ex-con himself, but he did have more issues than National Geographic. Regardless, he will always be remembered as...
º Last Column: Michael Jackson Has Always Existed
º more columns
Jim Henson, an unemployed sock factory worker with delusions that would make Mark David Chapman roll his eyes, titter, and run off to the closet to masturbate feverishly into a tea cozy, did not create the Muppets. Popular assumption is the asshole on that one. Nor did he even discover them, as several Kings of England before him had conferred with the strange beings on matters of state politics and interior decorating for hundreds of years. Rather, Henson's genius lay in using felt puppet totems to channel the beings from their Muppet-realm during hour-long televised séances that he would pass off as children's entertainment. How would America's parents feel if they knew the secret behind this children's television mainstay? It's a trick question, America doesn't have parents. It's a country, stupid.
Many parents would shrivel and dry up like a baked turnip to learn that they subjected their children to this brand of pagan daycare for years, parking their drooling tots in front of the one-eyed monster for hours of seemingly free babysitting. Of course, they'd crap out their own appendix if they knew that Mr. Rogers had to do his show to fulfill the community service portion of his probation. As much should have been obvious since he spent half the damn show changing clothes in order to dodge his parole officer.
Henson wasn't an ex-con himself, but he did have more issues than National Geographic. Regardless, he will always be remembered as a great American because he found a way to work through his demons and bring us all a dog that played the piano.
The real question is who in the hell was making these Muppets move, since back then they didn't have computer animation or midgets small enough to fit in a Gonzo suit. It wasn't until Chernobyl that this was possible. The evidence suggests that even Henson himself didn't know. He was primarily into the puppets, and some have suggested that his entire knowledge of the occult came from a supernatural joke book he found in his aunt's sock drawer. No one knows which joke it was that brought the Muppets to life, but my money's on:
Q. Why didn't the ghost have fun at the ball?
A. He didn't have any body to dance with.
That one's a classic.
Regardless of which joke it was that did the trick, before he knew it Henson's puppets were all possessed by former heads of state and card sharks who had got themselves on some kind of shit list in the afterlife where they always had to be on call in case somebody dug up a dusty old book of spells and read off an incantation in a fake English accent on a lark.
There are whole clubs of weird people who get together and debate over who each of the Muppets really was, but nobody can really ever say for sure. Though I challenge anyone to provide any compelling evidence that Winston Churchill wasn't the Swedish chef. It's just too perfect. And though some have argued that he's already been reincarnated as a diaper lining in dysentery country, I'll always believe that Hitler came back as Beaker. I mean, Christ, just look at the guy. They even have the same voice. I've watched some old documentary footage of Hitler and it's uncanny, "Meep-meep-meep-meep-meep."
It's shocking news for most of you, I know. But in the big picture it hardly matters, as kids still learned to count and that aliens are agreeable. Nobody got hurt, except for the days when Dr. Teeth had his pimp shirt on or that time Sweetums went apeshit and ate some of the singing pigs. But, all in all, a small price to pay for years of free babysitting, and it was still the most wholesome thing on television after the cast of Pinwheel found out about cocaine. º Last Column: Michael Jackson Has Always Existedº more columns
|
| |
Quote of the Day“A man cannot serve two masters. Unless they are both kung fu masters, in which case he'd better do his damned best. At least until they kill each other in a spectacular bloody finale.”
-Rod GoddFortune 500 CookieFine, the stars won't kill you with cancer like they previously promised… big baby. Time to face facts: Those laser discs you socked away are never going to go up in value. Sorry, girlfriend, no visit from the stork for you, but you will get a postcard from a half-crazed seagull. Lucky Sean Penn films: Hurly Burly, Dead Man Walking, I Am Sam, and Supreme Blow-Jobs XXVI.
Try again later.Most-Dreaded Christmas Gifts| 1. | Gift certificate from Bedwetters' Depot | | 2. | Fine pewter anything | | 3. | Lapdance from Rhonda | | 4. | Red Commie Hilfiger jacket | | 5. | Love | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Orson Welch 9/15/2003 Hello commune readers, and welcome to mile three of the Orson Welch movie-review marathon. Can we make it to the finish line? Nobody knows, and even fewer care, but still we trek bravely onward. Not even the howls of derisive mockery, nor the constant flood of hateful emails can get us down. Nor being refused entry to the commune's main offices for not "feeling like a nut" and then returning to our mother's car to find it literally wallpapered with parking tickets, as if parking on top of the median is on par with a serious act of terrorism. Nay, commune readers, we shant be dissuaded, so stop trying to dissuade us… meaning yourselves… okay, meaning me. Quit fucking with me. I'm just trying to do my job here, and your precious idiot-savant Roland McShyster isn't back yet, so just step...
Hello commune readers, and welcome to mile three of the Orson Welch movie-review marathon. Can we make it to the finish line? Nobody knows, and even fewer care, but still we trek bravely onward. Not even the howls of derisive mockery, nor the constant flood of hateful emails can get us down. Nor being refused entry to the commune's main offices for not "feeling like a nut" and then returning to our mother's car to find it literally wallpapered with parking tickets, as if parking on top of the median is on par with a serious act of terrorism. Nay, commune readers, we shant be dissuaded, so stop trying to dissuade us… meaning yourselves… okay, meaning me. Quit fucking with me. I'm just trying to do my job here, and your precious idiot-savant Roland McShyster isn't back yet, so just step off my jock and let's be civil about this, okay? Great. Now for the movies.
In Theaters
Cabin Fever
According to the note Roland McShyster left on my windshield, Cabin Fever is "The taxi-cab industry's winningly botched attempt at creating a new cultural fad, making kids think it's cool to take a cab absolutely everywhere, even to cross the street to get a newspaper." Right. I can see why you people love this guy so much. Morons.
In actuality, Cabin Fever is a bastardized cross between The Blair Witch Project and 28 Days Later, two bastards who certainly didn't need to cross-breed. Look, any time a movie's selling point is "at least it didn't cost much to make," you know you're in trouble. See Robert Rodriguez, below.
Matchstick Men
So Ted Griffin wakes up one morning, and realizes "Oh shit, I wrote Ravenous!" Thank God nobody noticed. But just to be on the safe side, he hurries up and writes Best Laid Plans and Ocean's Eleven to cover his tracks. Good move. Keep 'em laughing about that Ted Nugent's shirt joke and nobody will bother to ask where exactly you came from. And now you can stop padding your resume by pointing out that your grandma was in Jazz Mad back in 1928. Bonus.
But then Ted finally breaks down and listens to his brother Nick's stupid idea for a movie called Matchbox Men about some little tiny guys who drive those die-cast toy cars, which he's been going on about for years. And in a moment of fraternal weakness, Ted actually agrees to co-write the movie with his brother, on the condition that they drop the stupid slot-car angle. Bad move. I mean, good that they dropped the slot cars, bad that they wrote the movie at all. How either of these guys is related to Ridley Scott is anybody's guess, but he must've got too comfortable thinking people had finally forgotten about Legend and he could safely squeak out another turd here. Look for all these guys to do some great work in the near future to try and cover up this burnt spot on the rug.
Once Upon a Time in Mexico
Here's an interesting question: How do you follow up a movie that's famous for being made on a shoestring budget of $7,000 you earned by selling your body to science? If you're Robert Rodriguez and the movie is 1992's El Mariachi, you spend another $7,000 on a mediocre sequel and save the rest of your Hollywood budget to secretly make a bizarre spy movie starring your neighbor's kids. Hollywood caught on, of course, and as punishment made Rodriguez direct The Faculty in 1998, even sneaking Bebe Neuwirth into the cast as a not-so-subtle "fuck you" to Rodriguez. The director got the last laugh however, when his spy movie hit a Teletubbied nerve and Spy Kids was a hit, spawning two sequels. And as the final cumshot in Hollywood's marmalade, Rodriguez has made another El Mariachi sequel, yet again for $7,000, and has spent the rest of the budget fixing up his house. Now I'm not saying you should go see the movie, but you've got to admire those balls.
Secondhand Lions
Okay, first off: Contrary to the message Roland McShyster has been leaving on various office voice mails, this picture is not a pathetic biopic of pathetic film critic Jeffrey Lyons. Though, admittedly, it would probably have been better if it were. Instead, it's a piece of hilarious shit that tries to pass off the anthropologically old Robert Duvall and Michael Caine as endearing elderly gay curmudgeons charged with raising a precocious young tyke played with Haley Joel Osment. Thanks to the combined age and lifeless performance of his co-stars, I think it's safe to say that Osment is, yet again, seeing dead people. About as likeable as someone else's anal cavity, Secondhand Lions will leave you wanting more, more reasons to live and for the love of God keep 'em coming fast.
Underworld
Here's a "chicken-or-the-egg?" riddle for you: Did the fact that Len Wiseman is engaged to Kate Beckinsale get the former prop-lackey his first real gig, writing and directing the bad rubber-werewolf opus Underworld? Or was it Wiseman's involvement that dragged actress Beckinsale into the project and Ike Turnered her into accepting the lead role? If the later is true, we can only imagine what Wiseman talks Beckinsale into in bed, good gravy! The formerly sort of respectable cockney chick-flick queen takes a running broad jump into poop with this ill-advised comic book romp, based on somebody's stoned idea of what a comic book about Halloween would be like. Cross The Matrix with Dark City and Bram Stoker's Dracula, then have somebody with a serious head injury try to tell you about all three of them at once, and you'll have something close to Underworld. Only that would be better since it probably wouldn't take two hours or cost eight bucks. The choice is yours.
That's all we've got to sink our fangs into this week, commune readers. Here's hoping you find something tangy to suck on until next issue's column. Until then, I'll be keeping my fingertips peeled bringing you the sad, sad best Hollywood has to offer. Take care!    |
