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 May 16, 2011 |
Washington, D.C. Courtesy Orion Pictures Breaking news suggests that bin Laden may not have been blown to shit by Burt Reynolds in a hail of glorious retribution, as originally reported.
"I may have gotten carried away in my initial statements about the raid," explained White House counterterrorism head John Brennan, source of many of the erroneous stories. "It turns out that bin Laden wasn’t actually killed by Matt Damon and Christian Bale, as I originally indicated, although that would have been awesome, but rather by faceless Special Forces goons you wouldn’t know if you were drinking right next to them in a bar. Sorry. ...
fter thrilling America with exciting, action-packed tales in the hours after the May 1st raid that took Osama bin Laden’s life, White House officials have issued a series of statements gradually correcting and de-awesomeing their story as additional details have arisen from talking to people who actually know what the fuck happened.
"I may have gotten carried away in my initial statements about the raid," explained White House counterterrorism head John Brennan, source of many of the erroneous stories. "It turns out that bin Laden wasn’t actually killed by Matt Damon and Christian Bale, as I originally indicated, although that would have been awesome, but rather by faceless Special Forces goons you wouldn’t know if you were drinking right next to them in a bar. Sorry. Also, the Black Hawk helicopter that crashed during the raid was not brought down by an awe-inspiring salvo of RPG rockets as I first stated, I think I was thinking of that Ridley Scott movie on that one, but anyway, a five cent nut snapped and that piece of shit came down like a Chevy the day after your warranty expires. I know, I know. Reality is boring."
Brennan’s corrections were accompanied by noticeably fewer sound effects and animated hand gestures than his initial statements had been.
"I know I also said bin Laden was holed up in a mansion on a million-dollar compound like the drug kingpin in Commando, but yeah, it was actually a shithole. That place had like two windows and there were stray dogs all over the place. C’mon, it’s Pakistan, you guys should have called bullshit on that one yourselves. If I’d known you were all writing down everything I said I might have dialed back the pizazz a bit, you know? But whatever. Anyway, what else? Hold on, I’ve got a whole list here. Whooboy."
"Uhm, yeah we shot bin Laden’s son and his wife, but there was a guy down the street with a machine gun… pretty sure on that part… President Obama did not watch the raid live on TV, that photo I referenced was actually the president and his cabinet watching The Human Centipede and I think you’ll all agree that’s some sick shit… And no, we didn’t bury bin Laden at sea to prevent his gravesite from becoming a shrine for terrorists, actually this is kind of funny, but apparently when they were flying back over the sea, the guys in the chopper got in an argument about Lost and they wanted to re-create the scene in season 4 where the chopper’s running out of gas and Sawyer jumps out into the ocean to save everyone else… anyway, they said it was pretty awesome… uhm… Look, did you guys hear bin Laden had like 100 gigs of porn on his laptop? Holy shit, right? Let’s talk about that."
After original reports from White House officials indicated that bin Laden was shot while charging Navy SEALs with a blazing Uzi sub-machinegun in each hand, using his own wife as a human shield, this story was later amended to remove the wife and arm Bin Laden with a sack of poisonous vipers instead. After several subsequent corrections, the sack of vipers became a little girly derringer pistol, then stack of tax audit paperwork, and finally a really snotty Kleenex. Later in the week, the story was further amended when White House officials admitted that bin Laden was actually unarmed and in his pajamas at the time of the killing, and may or may not have been playing with a newborn kitten. Just before press time, the story was again corrected to indicate that bin Laden died of a head cold in 2003. the commune news is proud to point out that we never reported that bullshit story about bin Laden bringing down the U.S. chopper single-handedly, after dropping his Zippo lighter on a trail of leaking gasoline that led up to the crippled warbird, but admittedly this was partially because nobody told us the story until like five minutes ago. Raoul Dunkin is the commune’s best reporter, and will continue to be so until we hire a second.
 |  Constipation Drug Pulled; Results Not Shitty Enough
Baghdad restaurant bombing spoils all-you-can-eat buffet
$27 million Halliburton meals included extra tater tots
Karl Rove implicated in CIA link; Tom Cruise cleared
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Cheney Comrade Injured During Hunt for Bin Laden Arizona Border Patrol Installing Landmines Serial Killer’s Neighbor: “He just wouldn’t shut up about serial killing.” Heather Graham’s Career Found Dead in Apartment |
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 October 1, 2001
ROK FINGER'S DESK IS NOT PUBLIC PROPERTYIf there were only one message I could have emblazoned onto a tee-shirt that I would be required to wear from that day forward, like an albatross around the proverbial sailor's neck, it would be this: "ROK FINGER'S DESK IS NOT PUBLIC PROPERTY". I'm not exactly sure how this scenario might one day come to be, but for this and a thousand other contingencies Rok Finger is prepared.
This choice of messages would be a timely one, as the world is obviously in the dark on this subject. Countless times I have come into the office in the morning to find multiple staples gone missing from my stapler, alarmingly thinned rolls of Scotch tape, and once even a hoagie stain on my desk in the shape of South Dakota governor William J. Janklow. But the most gruesome violation was saved for today, when my defenses were lowered by a freak elevator mishap at the commune's West 194th Street offices.
I began this day, as many others, with a quick bath of mineral salts and baking soda. After a breakfast of frozen pot pies and coffee, and taking a few minutes to enter a submission in Swanson's "Ultimate Pot Pie Ingredients" mail-in contest, I drove to the commune's offices. Leaving my car with the gang of slouchers on the street who pass for parking valets these days, I steeled myself for another rigorous day of columnisting. I entered the elevator and reached up to depress the button for my floor, proud that thanks to the new lifts in my Floorsheims, I no longer needed...
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If there were only one message I could have emblazoned onto a tee-shirt that I would be required to wear from that day forward, like an albatross around the proverbial sailor's neck, it would be this: "ROK FINGER'S DESK IS NOT PUBLIC PROPERTY". I'm not exactly sure how this scenario might one day come to be, but for this and a thousand other contingencies Rok Finger is prepared.
This choice of messages would be a timely one, as the world is obviously in the dark on this subject. Countless times I have come into the office in the morning to find multiple staples gone missing from my stapler, alarmingly thinned rolls of Scotch tape, and once even a hoagie stain on my desk in the shape of South Dakota governor William J. Janklow. But the most gruesome violation was saved for today, when my defenses were lowered by a freak elevator mishap at the commune's West 194th Street offices.
I began this day, as many others, with a quick bath of mineral salts and baking soda. After a breakfast of frozen pot pies and coffee, and taking a few minutes to enter a submission in Swanson's "Ultimate Pot Pie Ingredients" mail-in contest, I drove to the commune's offices. Leaving my car with the gang of slouchers on the street who pass for parking valets these days, I steeled myself for another rigorous day of columnisting. I entered the elevator and reached up to depress the button for my floor, proud that thanks to the new lifts in my Floorsheims, I no longer needed assistance in selecting the higher floors. But right as I was about to press the button I experienced a sudden blinding flash of light, and the next thing I knew I was laying on the floor of the elevator, groggy and disoriented. I'd had an experience that can most easily be explained in two words: alien abduction.
Where the aliens took me and what they did to Rok Finger's anus are anyone's guess, but no other scenario explains the blinding light, lost time, and the clearly disoriented witnesses who shared the elevator with me this morning. As they stood and gaped, gasping non-sequitors like "Rok Finger's had a stroke!" and "Somebody get the paramedics, we've got a dying midget in here!", the signs of alien skullduggery were unmistakable.
I took leave of my fellow abductees when the elevator reached my floor, and quickly made my way to my office, eager to take refuge in the soothing hues of it's simulated wood paneling. But believe me people, refuge was not to be mine this morning: some nogoodnik has befouled my office! Gone are the framed pictures of Arvelyn, my wife of thirty years, and Checkers, the horse I once rode at the State Fair. What kind of soulless being would make off with my Successories desk calendar, leaving this half-empty can of bull semen in it's place? And what of these countless BMX posters that mar the walls, are they the work of a God-fearing man? Are these Jennifer Connelly pin-ups supposed to be a reference to my alleged marital infidelities with the Mount View girls' soccer team? And what to make of the cheesecake photos with Hugh Downs' face taped over them? A possible affront to my sexuality and the Finger bloodline?
Whoever committed this outrage, they were highly fond of basset hounds, that much is clear. There are enough porcelain basset hounds in this office to open a gift shop at the mall, should a basset hound-themed mall ever be erected.
The more I sift through the detritus left in my office, the more puzzled I become. Why leave months of dirty laundry on my office floor? Who would etch "SLAYER" into the armrest of my chair? And what could the six-foot cardboard cutout of Sonny Bono possibly mean?
Looking out my office window, it seems that even the view has changed. The pleasant panorama of the aggregate dredging facility has been swapped with this pedestrian vista of a girl's dormitory shower and sunbathing roof. It seems that scofflaws spare no expense when pulling a jape on Rokwe- hold the phone! Someone suffering from this obvious level of mental disorganization couldn't possibly have had the building rotated in one night's time! I'm on the wrong floor! Good God people, in all of the pot-pie-themed excitement this morning, I must have forgotten to put the new lifts in my shoes!
Happy day, faithful reader! Happy day! To the ninth floor! º Last Column: CUIDADO: PISO MOJADOº more columns
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|  March 26, 2012
Return to Zender (Week 50)Greetings, communistas. First and foremost, I must apologize for my absence and the hellish disrepair this site has fallen into in said absence. I had an unfortunate run-in with a Taco Bell Volcano Box and have spent the past few months in the loving care of the Shanesly/Rupert Valley Regional Memorial Hospital. Some might argue that four months is a longer than necessary stay for a common case of food poisoning, but just like the anti-drowning safety labels on all the bottled water sold in town say, we like to be careful here in Shanesly. And really there was no harm done, as I’m sure my birthday party magician’s guild insurance will more than cover the expenses.
The story of how all of this happened is far too graphic for young and impressionable readers, but suffice it to say that Volcano box lived up to its name and turned my box into a veritable volcano, overflowing with flaming human effluvia, if by box you understand I mean my asshole. I realize the term is usually reserved for a woman’s vaginal area, but I imagine gay guys or somebody somewhere calls a man’s ass a box as well, so there you go. Here at the commune headquarters, the inmates were left to run the asylum while I was gone, and I suppose it comes as no great shock that the inmates did a real half-assed job of asylum running. It doesn’t look like we’ve published much, but the staff somewhat made up for that by adding a wet, rotting Nerf refrigerator to my back yard, which apparently...
º Last Column: Return to Zender (Week 24)
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Greetings, communistas. First and foremost, I must apologize for my absence and the hellish disrepair this site has fallen into in said absence. I had an unfortunate run-in with a Taco Bell Volcano Box and have spent the past few months in the loving care of the Shanesly/Rupert Valley Regional Memorial Hospital. Some might argue that four months is a longer than necessary stay for a common case of food poisoning, but just like the anti-drowning safety labels on all the bottled water sold in town say, we like to be careful here in Shanesly. And really there was no harm done, as I’m sure my birthday party magician’s guild insurance will more than cover the expenses.
The story of how all of this happened is far too graphic for young and impressionable readers, but suffice it to say that Volcano box lived up to its name and turned my box into a veritable volcano, overflowing with flaming human effluvia, if by box you understand I mean my asshole. I realize the term is usually reserved for a woman’s vaginal area, but I imagine gay guys or somebody somewhere calls a man’s ass a box as well, so there you go. Here at the commune headquarters, the inmates were left to run the asylum while I was gone, and I suppose it comes as no great shock that the inmates did a real half-assed job of asylum running. It doesn’t look like we’ve published much, but the staff somewhat made up for that by adding a wet, rotting Nerf refrigerator to my back yard, which apparently has a pack of ferrets living inside of it. I’m afraid to ask where that thing came from, or why Nerf ever made flexible, spongy refrigerators. Whatever the reason, now it’s a collapsed floppy mess in the back yard that squeaks menacingly whenever you walk near it.
On the bright side, several more commune regulars wandered blindly back into the fray during my absence. Vernon Hooper accosted Raoul Dunkin at a local Denny’s, mistaking him inexplicably for Rick Santorum. Freelance freeballers Ella Dipthong and Chals Woodland both sent in columns via the teletype system for deaf people that Mitch Kroeger stole from the old folks’ home he had been pretending to be old to live in, rent-free, for the last few years. In other words, we’ve got all your old non-favorites. When it comes to re-configuring the commune, corralling the old staff has proved to be much easier than expected, since they all seem to be drawn to no pay and ill repute like fat, juicy moths to a house-sized bug zapper. Getting them to do their goddamned moth jobs once they’re incapacitated and twitching on the ground is another story entirely. But at least they’re fumbling their way through the door, even when I’m not here to explain that the doggie door is for dogs only and that Mountain Dew Code Red in the fridge is most certainly not for the dog, as evidenced by the jittery red sprays of dog urine everywhere.
I even received a telegram from Red Bagel the other day, which simply read "HE’S COMING." That’s literally what it said, apparently Red still believes in the power of referring to himself in the third person. The telegram was most impressive for the fact that no telegraph services exist any more in modern times, apparently Bagel had to email the message to some local chunkhead, who then typed it out on some telegraph paper he bought at a garage sale.
The excitement around here would be even more palpable if I wasn’t the only one who remembers who Red Bagel is.
Anyway, it’s great to be back. I’d love to say this will never happen again, but Taco Bell has recently added a Dorito-shell taco to their menu, and we both know it’s only a matter of time before that thing is making babies in my stomach. Until then, we here at the commune will endeavor to provide the high degree of timely journalism you are in no way accustomed to from the commune. Set your eyeballs to "stunned"!
Zincerely,
Emil Zender º Last Column: Return to Zender (Week 24)º more columns
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Quote of the Day“I am the very model of a modern major general. Perhaps this explains my inability to move my limbs and the pungent smell of airplane glue.”
-Gilgamesh SullivanFortune 500 CookieYou will get kicked in the balls for a good cause this week. Expect a telephone call from a long forgotten friend today—your split personality from Belgium. Lose the mustache, that "Hitler" look is so 1997. This week's stomach-pump jackpot: $20 in loose change, long-lost stash, grandma's favorite knitting needles, Nerds.
Try again later.Ill-Conceived Vacation Getaways| 1. | Locked in steamer trunk with mother-in-law. | | 2. | North Platte, Nebraska. Was thinking of a different North Platte. | | 3. | The hottest part of the sun. In July. | | 4. | Feral Monkey Zone Theme Park. Provo, Utah. | | 5. | The sweet release of death. | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 5/27/2002 Hey there America, thanks for showing up for yet another dose of Entertainment Police magic. It looks like summer snuck up on us while we were passed out in the hammock, and that can only mean one thing: vaguely justified bikini features on Entertainment Tonight! Actually, that's a lie, summer probably means more than that to certain types of people, like the blind and sheepfuckers. And for the intents and purposes of this column it means summer blockbuster season! In case you've been out on the range a little bit too long, this is the time of year when Hollywood rolls out its big guns in an all-out war to gouge those greenbacks out of our tight little wallets. Who's got the biggest guns, besides that chick from The Skulls II? Roll your eyes over part one of our Summer Preview to...
Hey there America, thanks for showing up for yet another dose of Entertainment Police magic. It looks like summer snuck up on us while we were passed out in the hammock, and that can only mean one thing: vaguely justified bikini features on Entertainment Tonight! Actually, that's a lie, summer probably means more than that to certain types of people, like the blind and sheepfuckers. And for the intents and purposes of this column it means summer blockbuster season! In case you've been out on the range a little bit too long, this is the time of year when Hollywood rolls out its big guns in an all-out war to gouge those greenbacks out of our tight little wallets. Who's got the biggest guns, besides that chick from The Skulls II? Roll your eyes over part one of our Summer Preview to find out:
In Theaters
Bad Company
I suppose it was only a matter of time before we saw Steven Seagal ass-kicking his way through the hallways at Enron, but I was still surprised at how fast they turned this one out. They must have these scripts sitting around in Mad-lib form somewhere.
The Bourne Dentist
Matt Damon is Richard Bourne, a man who was born (get it?) to scrape plaque off of molars, but highly secretive government agents are out to stop him for reasons that only the screenwriter understands. Pretty good as far as dentist-thrillers go, and I liked Damon's Bond-like use of dental apparatus to get him out of tight jams. Kind of like Bond himself in It's Never Too Late to Die and Fancypants. The best thing about the movie, however, was the fact that they vetoed the original title at the last minute: Rinse, Spit or Die. Hallelujah. That would have been the worst title since James Bond in… Overkill.
Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood
Talk about some divine Ya-Yas. This would qualify as must-see TV if it were on television and television showed knockers. Yeah.
Enough
Those Hollywood big-shots were apparently as fed up with all of this Jennifer Lopez bullshit as you and me, so they finally decided to lay the franchise to rest with one gonzo exploding-building, axe-in-the-skull, flaming-motor-home "the bitch ain't comin' back" finale. Very satisfying for those of us who thought they should have killed her off after The Wedding Planter.
Harvard Man
Sarah Michelle Gellar, the curvy bass player for heavy-metal sloths Slayer, dons the press-on mustache for some cross-dressing Just One of the Guys mayhem at America's favorite party school. Probably the best metal band date movie since Ministry's Sorority Girls.
The Importance of Being Ernest
Hell yeah. It's about time Hollywood laugh machine Ernest P. Worrel returned to the big screen, I was beginning to think he'd died or something. Some might argue that all of Ernest's movies are the same, and on the surface that may appear to be true. Boy meets girl, boy drops girl into a vat of raw sewage, boy falls off ladder and boy saves a bunch of little kids from some kind of snot-covered goblin.
But it's in the subtle undertones that the differences are found, and this soul-searching epic about a septic-tank scrubber who is mistaken for the president is clearly Ernest's strongest work to date.
Insomnia
Can't sleep? Then maybe you should move to Alaska or Norweg or some place like that. I hear it never gets dark there, so you can stay up all night cleaning your gun or whatever they do up there all night. Maybe watching polar bears tear into the soda machines, something. I'm not sure, I fell asleep during the movie.
Scooby, Don't!
Everyone's favorite cartoon leg-humping machine is back in his big-screen debut. Unless you've ever watched the cartoon on one of those huge projection televisions, that's admittedly a pretty big screen right there. But for the rest of us with shitty 10" Sanyo TV/VCR combos, this is our first chance to see Scooby humping the president's leg all larger than lifelike.
Spirit: Stallion of the Cinnamon
I almost choked on a licorice whip when I saw the trailer for this one. Could this be for real? I thought horse pictures died with The Black Stallion and Return of the Bride of the Black Stallion 2. And not only was this a horse picture, but an ANIMATED horse picture to boot. And not only an animated horse picture, but an animated horse picture with a name that sounded like the title of a Jewel song. Holy shit! This could be worse than Glitter! Thankfully for everyone implicated in the credits, this turned out to be another great Mel Brooks spoof, with a clever red salmon of a trailer that should trick more than a few ten year-old girls into paying to see a movie about debutants having sex with horses.
The Sumbitch on All Fours
Ben Affleck takes a turn for the wolf in this poorly-timed "Werewolf in the South" picture. Believe me, I'm as excited as the next guy about the prospect of seeing some nutfuck werewolf with poofed-up hair taking a bite out of some saggy good-old-boy behind, but in the current national climate, are we really ready to laugh about bloodthirsty man-wolves again? As Teen Wolf, Too, Wolf, and Airwolf all proved, a novel spin isn't always enough to keep the public coming back for more man-dog mayhem. Having Ben Affleck being torn from ass to appetite by berzerk werewolves, now that's an idea that could have drawn a crowd. Or perhaps a movie about the same.
Undercover Brother
If you've ever told a younger sibling so many monster stories that they were afraid to come out from under the covers at night, then snuck under their covers while they were sleeping, farted, and then left, this is the movie for you. You know who you are.
Windtalkers
Though some may lament the trend, with more and more movies being packed with fart jokes these days it was all but inevitable that someone would eventually make a movie that was all fart jokes. And who better to do it than John Woo, director of such foreign fart classics as Con Air and Hard Boiled Eggs? The film starts out by showing the members of the Windtalker family coming to grips with their exceptional flatulent skills in a hilarious montage. Carl Windtalker's accidental ass-blasted recital of Sweet Child O' Mine at a baseball game will separate the snobs from the slobs in the audience, but if you make the cut you should have a good time. It's hard not to smile at the family's internal communication through a rudimentary language of intestinal blurts, and uncle Frank's scented Moose call will delight audiences, though it may scare children under the age of four. Coincidentally, some guy sitting in front of me added to the realism by cutting one loose during the film, making for a full sensory movie experience. I'll never eat Jujubees again, but I can't say that it didn't add to the film. I'm a little worried about Taco Bell's plans for a Windtaco tie-in, since I don't want to be caught in one of those places the first time somebody needs to make a run for the border after downing a sack full of those things.
That's it for now, folks. Tune your browsers this way in a month's time to take a gander at the other half of the skinny on what'll be crawling up your local theater's ass and dying this summer. Until then, this has been Entertainment Police, and you've been reading.   |
