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President Bush Calls for A "Paranoid, Trigger-Happy America"October 1, 2001 |
Washington, DC Emilio Berternie/AP President Bush: Friggin' losing it
"Now, in this, our greatest moment," the President said Wednesday following the attacks, "it is important that our bloodlust reach critical levels. I'm so fucking angry I could shit a Buick. And I think all of America should follow suit."
Smoking a cigarette with an inch of ash still on the end, nervously loosening his tie and squinting through bloodshot eyes, the president promised swift and "all-out awesome" retaliation against "anybody; make that everybody. They're all going down this time."
"Some Americans have understandably tried to get on with their lives, to grieve for the victims and recapture some s...
rade Center and the Pentagon, President George "Nightmare" Bush has urged for Americans to unite and create a "paranoid, trigger-happy America."
"Now, in this, our greatest moment," the President said Wednesday following the attacks, "it is important that our bloodlust reach critical levels. I'm so fucking angry I could shit a Buick. And I think all of America should follow suit."
Smoking a cigarette with an inch of ash still on the end, nervously loosening his tie and squinting through bloodshot eyes, the president promised swift and "all-out awesome" retaliation against "anybody; make that everybody. They're all going down this time."
"Some Americans have understandably tried to get on with their lives, to grieve for the victims and recapture some sense of normalcy. I urge restraint in this matter at this time. This is not the time to calmly and logically turn to religion, family, or community. Now is the time to pissing apeshit."
Bush finished his press conference by throwing up his desk and punching out a window in the Oval office.
Later, around 4:30 a.m., the president stumbled out onto the lawn with a pistol in hand, firing blindly at the sky and screaming, "I'm right here! I'm right here, you fucking monsters! Come and get it! If you dare!"
A visibly shaken, tearful President Bush was then escorted by Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld back into the White House, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.
President Bush continued to encourage the nation from a small, dimly-lit room in an unreleased location three days later.
"The high demand for guns, firearms, flags, and gas has been spectacular. The call has been made for quick, thoughtless action. For rage and violence. The American people, as always, have answered the call.
"What was that?" the president asked with wide eyes darting about the dank cellar. "Did you hear that?"
He then fired several shots into a nearby secret service agent who reportedly had a "weird glint in his eye." the commune News would like to take this opportunity to express our love for America by flying our Confederate flag at half-mast until further notice. Ivan "Scooter" Nacutchacokov is American as apple pie and has never even been to the Midwest, so you can stop with the dirty looks people.
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Popular TV Clown Robertson Delivers Weekly Outrageous Banter Terrifying children worldwide with his announcement that not all dogs go to heaven, Christian doorknob Pat Robertson reprised his role this week as America’s favorite amusingly religious guy. Nation’s Three Remaining Liberals Turn to Humor to Survive Arizona Border Patrol Installing Landmines Eminem, Ex-Wife Reunite to Work on New Material |
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 March 8, 1999
Burning Down the BauhausIt turned out in the end that the Bauhaus was a terrible place to raise children. First of all, it's more of a loose conglomeration of artistic ideals than it is a freestanding masonry structure or plywood shelter. That's the last time I trust a pink dolphin reading the New York Times. Huh, like the Times knows shit about shit. A mistake I chalk up to chalk and hallucinogenic sweater yarn.
Second of all, which of course is first of the subdivision following the above comment, uhm.... do you smell that? Nevermind. Second of all, them Bauhausers are just wierd goddammned people. I mean, you let loose a monkey in a dress wielding a monkeywrench in to the average person's bathtub and they don't fucking crawl under the sink and hide for three days, humming Wagner under their breath. Society just can't function on that level. You need straight-laced people who know the difference between tinfoil and galvanized tinfoil. Chumps.
So anyway, the third reason is that I never had any kids. I mean, shit, you'd think it wouldn't make much difference where you raise some imaginary kids you don't even have with some hot little dish you saw down at the DQ, but trust me my friends, it matters. See the tinfoil comment above for details. So yeah, if I ever had any kids with a little Latino in hotpants, there's no fucking way I'd raise them at the Bauhaus. That would be right after the frozen foods isle at the Safeway on my list. But that's another story....
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It turned out in the end that the Bauhaus was a terrible place to raise children. First of all, it's more of a loose conglomeration of artistic ideals than it is a freestanding masonry structure or plywood shelter. That's the last time I trust a pink dolphin reading the New York Times. Huh, like the Times knows shit about shit. A mistake I chalk up to chalk and hallucinogenic sweater yarn. Second of all, which of course is first of the subdivision following the above comment, uhm.... do you smell that? Nevermind. Second of all, them Bauhausers are just wierd goddammned people. I mean, you let loose a monkey in a dress wielding a monkeywrench in to the average person's bathtub and they don't fucking crawl under the sink and hide for three days, humming Wagner under their breath. Society just can't function on that level. You need straight-laced people who know the difference between tinfoil and galvanized tinfoil. Chumps. So anyway, the third reason is that I never had any kids. I mean, shit, you'd think it wouldn't make much difference where you raise some imaginary kids you don't even have with some hot little dish you saw down at the DQ, but trust me my friends, it matters. See the tinfoil comment above for details. So yeah, if I ever had any kids with a little Latino in hotpants, there's no fucking way I'd raise them at the Bauhaus. That would be right after the frozen foods isle at the Safeway on my list. But that's another story. And you can quote me on that.º more columns
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|  October 1, 2001
I Have Just Seen American BootyGood people, it is not very often a movie can change your life. That a movie can make you feel good to be alive, and can make you feel, after all, maybe the world is not a heaping pile of dung. I have just seen such a movie. American Booty.
Yes, you may be saying that the movie I speak of is over two years old by now, that it was over-hyped then and why see it now? Or, like the young smarmy film snob who checks me out at Blockbuster phrased it, "Dude, you ain't seen this yet? How weak."
Maybe it takes Rok Finger a little bit longer to catch on to a trend, you always have to beware passing fads like pop music and insulin. But once the hype had died down, I try to check out every meaningful piece of media in our culture. I can say with positive knowledge now that American Booty is among the most meaningful pieces of Americana produced in the past ten years.
For those unfamiliar with the film, I'll describe it briefly. An American Everyman husband, Slam Scrotum (played ably by Jock Large), is having a midlife crisis at twenty-five. His wife, Tits Ahoy (Janet Jackoff), is having an affair with some uncredited black guy, while his daughter (Kris Cum Loudy), who is also blonde and looks about the same age as the mother character, is having an affair with two midgets and their horse. Slam begins to daydream about sleeping with six of his daughter's friends (the Ass Girls of the Pretty Kitty Club, Houston, Texas) in long...
º Last Column: I Will Destroy the People Living in My Trash
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Good people, it is not very often a movie can change your life. That a movie can make you feel good to be alive, and can make you feel, after all, maybe the world is not a heaping pile of dung. I have just seen such a movie. American Booty. Yes, you may be saying that the movie I speak of is over two years old by now, that it was over-hyped then and why see it now? Or, like the young smarmy film snob who checks me out at Blockbuster phrased it, "Dude, you ain't seen this yet? How weak." Maybe it takes Rok Finger a little bit longer to catch on to a trend, you always have to beware passing fads like pop music and insulin. But once the hype had died down, I try to check out every meaningful piece of media in our culture. I can say with positive knowledge now that American Booty is among the most meaningful pieces of Americana produced in the past ten years. For those unfamiliar with the film, I'll describe it briefly. An American Everyman husband, Slam Scrotum (played ably by Jock Large), is having a midlife crisis at twenty-five. His wife, Tits Ahoy (Janet Jackoff), is having an affair with some uncredited black guy, while his daughter (Kris Cum Loudy), who is also blonde and looks about the same age as the mother character, is having an affair with two midgets and their horse. Slam begins to daydream about sleeping with six of his daughter's friends (the Ass Girls of the Pretty Kitty Club, Houston, Texas) in long scenarios throughout the film. As touchy as the subject may be, American Booty doesn't shy away from graphic portrayal of male-female conjugation. It's brutally honest, especially the scenes with the black guy, but if you allow yourself to experience American Booty you'll walk away, after a few minutes, forever changed. Best of all, it doesn't pamper the viewer with a clearly-linear storyline or an explainable resolution. From what I could tell, soon after Slam mates with all his daughter's friends at once, the film fades out, allowing us to draw our own conclusions about morality and what possible repercussions await Slam in the future. I usually don't "get" critically-lauded movies, no sir. Therefore I seldom recommend movies. But I have to urge you to see American Booty as soon as you get the chance. It has amazed audiences and critics everywhere--the box said Cream Machine magazine gave it "four stiffies"--and now I recommend you let it amaze you. º Last Column: I Will Destroy the People Living in My Trashº more columns
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Quote of the Day“Discretion is the better of valor, and the first thirty minutes of Saving Private Ryan much better than any of the rest of it.”
-Crazy Eddie ShakespeareFortune 500 CookieIt's time you leave your job, 'cause they're going to fire you tomorrow. If you're ever cornered by a bear, hang your lunch in the tree and pretend you have Tourette's. She sells seashells by the sea shore, which is an incredibly bad market to unload those things. Duck, duck—goose. Lucky numbers all negative.
Try again later.John McCain's Most Ill-Conceived Jokes| 1. | Trick "Good for One Free House-Cleaning" coupon he gives to homeless that looks like $100 bill | | 2. | Open letter to Crocodile Hunter widow Terri Irwin inviting her to spend the night with a "real man" | | 3. | "I fully and unequivocably support the rights of homosexuals. Nah, just kidding. That shit makes me throw up." | | 4. | Wearing hole-filled NASA sweatshirt to press conference Saturday | | 5. | Big "I have cancer" gag in 2000 election | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Red Bagel 6/13/2005 A Fistful of Tannenbaum, Chapter 14: Foster in Time
Editor's Note: Last time, Jed was blown the fuck up.
After the third biggest explosion he had ever been in the middle of, Jed Foster awoke in the middle of a grassy field. At first he thought it was central park, but there were no dogs shitting on the grass, and no yuppies jogging through effeminately, listening to their MP3 players. He rose to a sitting position, legs crossed Native American style, and held onto his aching head.
"My head!" said Jed.
Looking around, Jed could see the ever-spreading green of grassland, which spread ever outwards until it reached the forests and then abruptly turned into woody trees. It looked like a land untouched by any kind of industry, but you don't know it isn't yet. Jed stood up and...
Editor's Note: Last time, Jed was blown the fuck up.
After the third biggest explosion he had ever been in the middle of, Jed Foster awoke in the middle of a grassy field. At first he thought it was central park, but there were no dogs shitting on the grass, and no yuppies jogging through effeminately, listening to their MP3 players. He rose to a sitting position, legs crossed Native American style, and held onto his aching head.
"My head!" said Jed.
Looking around, Jed could see the ever-spreading green of grassland, which spread ever outwards until it reached the forests and then abruptly turned into woody trees. It looked like a land untouched by any kind of industry, but you don't know it isn't yet. Jed stood up and checked his pocket watch, which had been blown off during the explosion, which made it difficult.
"My head," said Jed, and then worried he had fallen into a time loop, but it was actually just that his head really, really hurt.
Then, out of nowhere, and totally unexpected to the readers, a knight in glistening armor road into the field. He rode on a large roan horse, or possibly the other way around, but he looked very much like a knight from King Arthur's table.
"My word," started the knight, who spoke perfect English, since they invented it, "how did you get here?"
"That depends on where here is," said Foster cleverly. "Where have I landed, good sir knight?"
"You have landed in the year of our lord 20 After Jesus Died," said the knight. "In Yorkshirefilth, England."
"20 A.J.D.!" exclaimed Jed. "I'm shocked! That blast… the one from when I blew up the Bomb of Ages! It must have sent me back in time."
"That seems like pseudoscience," said the knight. "Fortunately, we still believe in pseudoscience here. Since you're a new visitor, I'll be happy to invite you to join the Round Table of the King of England, King Arthur."
"Thank you, sir…?"
"Sir Punkrock," said the knight.
So that must be where the term comes from, said Jed, already learning something new about history. Jed told the knight his name was Sir Gen-General, because he thought it was funny. And the knight told him he was glad to meet him, and would take him to meet the king, and the author saved a few expensive column inches in dialogue.
As they were going into town, they passed a large crowd of rabble—peasants, the filthiest kind of poor people they had in England at the time, and Jed showered pity on them. Not one by one, nobody has that kind of time, but he gave a general feeling of pity in every direction they lay, usually in the form of a pitiful look. Hopefully they understood. The knight pointed to a castle in the distance and said they would soon be at the home of King Arthur.
Before they left town, they came to a small public court where a witch trial was happening. They had already tried the witch and she, with a lousy public defender, had been found guilty. Jed listened for a few minutes as he and the knight continued to pass, then interceded.
"Allow me to offer a fair test for this alleged witch," said Jed. "We all know witches, like firewood, burn. So let me light her on fire, and if she burns, she's obviously a witch."
They agreed, but when Jed took out his pocket lighter and made fire, all eyes, even the pitiful dirty eyes of the rabble, widened in terror.
"He's some sort of bizarre male witch!" said some asshole. "Burn him, too!"
Next Chapter: Knight on Fire   |
