| Loves That Woman ';
$dunkin='2005/0905/';
$dunkintitle='The New Anne Frank Diary';
$edit='2003/1222/';
$fanmail='2005/1010/';
$fanmailtitle='Volume 64';
$finger='2005/1107/';
$fingertitle='Little Man with a Gun in His Hand';
$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='2005/0912/';
$hoopertitle='Seventh Heaven';
$hurley='2005/0404/';
$hurleytitle='Time of Healing';
$kroeger='2005/0822/';
$kroegertitle='Charity Case';
$loser='2005/1107/';
$losertitle='Paging Doctor Van';
$ned='2003/0818/';
$nedtitle='Cyantology';
$pickle='2002/020513/';
$pickletitle='State of the Art';
$poet='2005/1107/';
$police='2005/1128/';
$polio='2005/1107/';
$poliotitle='God’s Hands';
$rent='2005/1107/';
$renttitle='I’m Straight!';
$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='2005/1128/';
$zendertitle='The Seventh commune Enthusiasts Club Meeting';
?> | 
 April 11, 2005 |
Ames, IA Bolchek University Microscope Weirdo foreign virus responsible for Marburg haemorrhagic fever, too much of a scaredy puss to butt heads with corn-fed U.S.A. DNA.
The news comes as a great relief to weary earth-dwellers in the United States, as word came of a deadly Ebola-like virus continuing its rampage through Angola, some country most Americans aren't familiar with in Africa. The World Health Organization (WHO, sometimes known as the Teenage Wasteland Group) announced shortly before the Bolchek press release that 173 people in Angola have died from the viru...
report released Friday disclosed that savage viruses that shred most human flesh and destroy normal mortal bodies will not even mess with people on American soil. The study, researched at Bolchek University in Ames, Iowa, and financed by the American Family First organization, had been going on for more than five weeks when it made its findings public in Friday's press release.
The news comes as a great relief to weary earth-dwellers in the United States, as word came of a deadly Ebola-like virus continuing its rampage through Angola, some country most Americans aren't familiar with in Africa. The World Health Organization (WHO, sometimes known as the Teenage Wasteland Group) announced shortly before the Bolchek press release that 173 people in Angola have died from the virus known as Marburg, and four more non-U.S. countries have been placed on the warning list.
News media assured American citizens the country will be alright, since they have something of a track record for surviving problems without U.S. intervention, and have even survived some caused by them.
The Bolchek study findings, however, provided a large relief from worry about viral invasions by other dangerous contagions such as Marberg and Ebola, including CCHF, Dengue, SARS, Lassa fever, and the Kinks. According to research, done in Bolchek's famous $3 million Sid Caesar Facility, virus cells, when given the choice between healthy cells of different nationalities, will always shy away from American DNA.
"It's totally awesome," said project head, 18-year-old super-genius Nills Van Raftan. "We stumbled on it a bit by accident. We were testing the effect of Ebola on the blood cells of African mice—since we wanted to save the American mice for better experiments—when one of the team members had a nosebleed and accidentally contaminated the sample. Imagine our surprise when we saw the Ebola contagions were scared shitless of messing with the American cells. And who can blame 'em?"
If the results are verified, and frankly nobody's doubting the outcome of a second test much, it answers a great number of questions for the world's nerdy virus-following community. Such as why have SARS and Mad Cow and other disease variants been too chickenshit to mess with the U.S. of A.?
"For any number of reasons," posited spindly weakling Van Raftan, "virus cells simply will not infect American cells, at least those of the United States. It could be because U.S. cells don't brook backtalk from foreign viruses. But, if my personification of American cells is way off, it might also be because viruses know that if they mess with American cells, they're risking a massive investment of money in destroying their asses. They can work their way through Africa, Asia, and even Eastern Europe for years, and we'll leave them alone—but first time they start infecting Americans on American soil, they're on our list. Companies even drop all the new dick pill technology they're working on and concentrate on the hot new market for pharmaceuticals to keep Americans healthier than foreigners."
When asked about AIDS, a virus long plaguing even American citizens, Van Raftan made a squeal, smiled sheepishly with his braces on display, and shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe some viruses are retarded. But it does give us something to work on when we get frustrated with erection research." the commune news owes its exceptional health to a lifetime of jogging, swimming, and eating right, as well as refusing to drink unknown substances from petri dishes. Mordecai "Three-Finger" Brown owes his long afterlife to the fact he died years ago.
 |  Bush's MySpace Page Traffic Way Down
Long National Nightmare Finally Over: Andy Griffith Dead
Iraqi prison abuses allegedly part of inter-prison frat initiations
DVD sales in Afghanistan hit record $22
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Santa Claus on Trial: Week Three ensions ran high in the world court this week as prosecutors continued what will undoubtedly be the greatest trial of the century, at least for a long time: The world vs. Kris Kringle, also known as Santa Claus, also known as Father Christmas, et al. It was a trial marked by emotional outbursts and brutal accusations of crimes against humanity. Kringle, led into the courtroom with his ankles shackled together and a series of elaborate handcuffs binding his hands, sat quiet through most of the prosecution’s presentation of evidence. For the defense was world-famous Swedish lawyer Jorgen Fiord, who successfully defended Argentine dentist Emilio Rodriguez in 1996 against charges he was the infamous “Tooth Fairy.” Unknown American Philosopher Dead illions of Americans failed to mourn this week at the death of Baltimore-area rug salesman and unknown modern American philosopher Phillip Flaggart, originator of numerous lite-philosophical sayings such as “A picture’s worth a thousand words,” and “Why buy milk when you have a cow at home?” “A picture’s worth a thousand words,” repeated sayings fan Dennis Tudd, shaking his head in wonderment. “That kind of says it all, though a picture would say it all even better. You know.” Even within the sayings-geek community, Flaggart remained the enduring subject of controversy, with factions split between those who believed the man a humble genius, and those convinced Flaggart was a lucky moron. Flaggart himself fanned the flames in a 1987 interview, explaining that he was drunk at the time he first said “A picture’s worth a thousand words” and didn’t know what he was talking about. Stealers Wheel Win Super Bowl, Says Heavily Accented Man Colin Farrell Claims Responsibility for Groin Injury That Sidelined Kwan |
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 January 6, 2003
The AuditionWish me luck, keep your fingers crossed, and break both your legs. Clarissa Coleman is all lined up for a big audition.
I don't usually tell you about auditions, I know. I like to keep some secrecy, some little things private to myself. That and I forget about them until the last minute most of the time. But this is different. This is no piddlin' "Hey, Remember the Songs of the '80s?" infomercial audition. This is a series television audition, no kidding. Real network TV! Well, UPN, and that counts as network TV in a few circles outside of Hollywood. But I'm excited all the same.
I was sitting around on New Year's Day, trying to figure out whose underwear I was wearing and how I got a hold of them, when my agent Dusty called. Usually it's not good news, he just wants to talk about the World's Fair of 1967 and what a grand time it was, that or how I still owe dues from 1989 to the SAG, but today was different. He had a part for me to read, a real live part!
I was skeptical, at first, who wouldn't be? But I checked, and the phone was indeed plugged in, and none of my commune office mates was hiding in the room. Not a camera in sight even. It really was Dusty, and once I verified he wasn't having another "living flashback" to the '80s, I would be on cloud nine.
Sure enough, the audition was real. It turns out a sitcom producer named Matt Viggoschultz was a big fan of my Court-TV appearances where I denied knowing anything...
º Last Column: I Want to Be a Cartoon
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Wish me luck, keep your fingers crossed, and break both your legs. Clarissa Coleman is all lined up for a big audition.
I don't usually tell you about auditions, I know. I like to keep some secrecy, some little things private to myself. That and I forget about them until the last minute most of the time. But this is different. This is no piddlin' "Hey, Remember the Songs of the '80s?" infomercial audition. This is a series television audition, no kidding. Real network TV! Well, UPN, and that counts as network TV in a few circles outside of Hollywood. But I'm excited all the same.
I was sitting around on New Year's Day, trying to figure out whose underwear I was wearing and how I got a hold of them, when my agent Dusty called. Usually it's not good news, he just wants to talk about the World's Fair of 1967 and what a grand time it was, that or how I still owe dues from 1989 to the SAG, but today was different. He had a part for me to read, a real live part!
I was skeptical, at first, who wouldn't be? But I checked, and the phone was indeed plugged in, and none of my commune office mates was hiding in the room. Not a camera in sight even. It really was Dusty, and once I verified he wasn't having another "living flashback" to the '80s, I would be on cloud nine.
Sure enough, the audition was real. It turns out a sitcom producer named Matt Viggoschultz was a big fan of my Court-TV appearances where I denied knowing anything about those injuries related to the Waffle Messiah, and wanted to know if I was working. Well, sure, if you count picketing E!'s Star Dates show with a sign that says, "First Date Action Guaranteed," but nothing that couldn't be dropped quickly for a rebound shot at television! He mailed (industry term for sending through the postal service) a copy of the pilot script for his show and I loved it! The binding was shiny and the font they used was original and clever. After I read it, it got even better.
It's a Friends-style show, with a little bit of Survivor mixed in, with a touch of Dragnet to make it work. In the pilot episode, a group of chums get shipwrecked on a desert island paradise, where they have to overcome their differences and learn to trust each other to survive the harsh environment. One of them is voted in as the tribal lawman, and when one of the buddies is murdered, the lawman has to solve the murder.
I knew it would be an effort to play this kind of role each week and make it believable, having never been stranded on a desert island where I played the role of law enforcer before, but I was determined to be a part of this project, no matter what I had to do. Producer Viggoschultz then informed me he wanted me for the lawman's sidekick, his girl Friday Shelly, which is a smaller role, yeah, but one I'm definitely more fit for. It's a shame, though, that beard was starting to come in pretty nice before he told me.
I was meant to play this role of Shelly, and nothing will stop me from playing her, short of not getting the part. Which is why I've been rehearsing my monologue all week. In the past I've always used the same piece for auditions, but it's never worked out for me—I think I'm just getting too old to do the "I want a give the world a gweat big hug!" bit from Who's Your Daddy? that I used for years. This year I'm using Susan Sarandon's "boycott G.E." Oscar speech, and if they look like an apolitical crowd I'll just use Halle Berry's three minutes of crying Oscar speech. Either way, I'm getting this role. 2003 is going to be the year of the comeback for Clarissa Coleman. º Last Column: I Want to Be a Cartoonº more columns
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|  March 4, 2002
Volume 15Dear commune:
My name is Ronnie Boyd and I am 13 years old. I'm in the hospital right now and very sick.
I have a rare disease that I can't even pronounce. I need a genitals transplant or the doctors say I won't live very long at all. I probably won't get it, as the doctors say genitals transplanting is very rare and most doctors can't do it without laughing so it's a very risky procedure. My doctor says things look pretty bad and I might not live six months, even if I pay the bill.
I am writing because I am trying to get into the Guinness Book of World Records before I die. Since I am sick and my genitals don't even work I can't do all that much, but the Guinness people said my best bet is to get as many "get well" cards as possible and maybe I can set the record for that. So if you could spread the word that the sick boy with the bad genitals needs cards maybe I can do it before I die.
Thank you very much. It means a lot to me.
Ronnie Boyd
Kingstown, DE
Dear Ronnie:
We were very moved by your story, at least some of us at the commune, and we would like to help you. We would like to, but due to recent events it's not going to happen. Read on:
Dear commune:
This is Patrick Molton and I'm 11. Just to cut to the chase, I have a rare bone disease that makes my bones pop out through the skin and it's really gross. I need a really...
º Last Column: Volume 14
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Dear commune: My name is Ronnie Boyd and I am 13 years old. I'm in the hospital right now and very sick. I have a rare disease that I can't even pronounce. I need a genitals transplant or the doctors say I won't live very long at all. I probably won't get it, as the doctors say genitals transplanting is very rare and most doctors can't do it without laughing so it's a very risky procedure. My doctor says things look pretty bad and I might not live six months, even if I pay the bill. I am writing because I am trying to get into the Guinness Book of World Records before I die. Since I am sick and my genitals don't even work I can't do all that much, but the Guinness people said my best bet is to get as many "get well" cards as possible and maybe I can set the record for that. So if you could spread the word that the sick boy with the bad genitals needs cards maybe I can do it before I die. Thank you very much. It means a lot to me. Ronnie Boyd
Kingstown, DEDear Ronnie:
We were very moved by your story, at least some of us at the commune, and we would like to help you. We would like to, but due to recent events it's not going to happen. Read on:
Dear commune: This is Patrick Molton and I'm 11. Just to cut to the chase, I have a rare bone disease that makes my bones pop out through the skin and it's really gross. I need a really obscure type of bone marrow to transplant or I'll die. I probably won't get it as I'm not very well liked and, well, that whole "waiting list" thing is just a popularity contest. I'm trying to get into the Guinness Book of World Records for the most "get well" cards sent to a dying sick kid and I'm doing pretty well, off to a nice start. I'd appreciate if you could let everybody know what I'm doing and where they can send cards and stuff. Also, watch out for that asshole Ronnie Boyd. He's beat me to the New York Times and Washington Post both, and the New York Times wouldn't even publish my letter afterwards, they said I wasn't cute enough and they had some kind of limit on the number of dying kid letters they could run. It's enough to really piss someone off. We even both promised, Ronnie Boyd and I, we wouldn't try overseas outlets and then that prick writes to BBC and he's all over the news and radio over there, it's a shitbag. British folks everywhere babbling on about Ronnie Boyd, Ronnie Boyd—do they give a fuck who Patrick Molton is? No. I might as well just be some nobody from Canada. Ronnie Boyd is a complete asshole. Sure, he comes off a like a perfect bed-ridden sick kid, but it's just a big fat lie. He has this big awful dick-rotting-off disease but he never mentions he got it from sleeping with pigs. Makes a difference, doesn't it? Do you really want to send your "get well" cards to a pigfucker? Think carefully. I'm the real deal, people. Real good kid, no false pretenses, certainly no animal fucking. I may be a little rough around the edges but that's just because I'm so damn straight with you, I ain't going to lie like some pigfuckers I could mention. So you search your souls or whatever you need to do and before you send out a "get well" card, just be sure if you want a pigfucker in the Guinness Book of World Records or a straight-shooting good American kid. Thanks. Patrick Molton
Meelay, NJDear Patrick, Ronnie:
As you can see, this has become a much stickier issue than we're prepared to get into. All we can say is good luck trying to get into the Guinness Book, but we're not getting involved.
Pigfucker.
the commune
Dear commune: Why didn't you tell anyone the commune was going to be on 60 Minutes? Being both a regular 60 Minutes viewer and loyal commune reader, I was happily surprised to see Ed Bradley leading a camera team into the offices of the commune last Sunday. I'm not sure why they blurred Rok Finger's face and not everybody else, but it was very cool to see all the famous commune writers and columnists and personalities (Mazie the Chicken is a lot shorter in person) in moving pictures for the first time. It's a shame they spent so much time on the unhealthy working conditions of the office and the questionable bookkeeping in the advertising department and didn't cover the great reporting and on-target editorials the commune has always presented. If you're going to be on television again, let me know so I can tape it. Mitch Weaver
Mullasky, VADear Cary:
Our lawyers suggest we answer your letter carefully and neither confirm nor deny the
60 Minutes piece you mentioned. We can safely say, however, that Rok Finger's face was not blurred by any technological means. It just takes some getting used to.
the commune
Editor's Note: the commune is not responsible for however many seashells she sells by the sea shore when she sells seashells. That's one of our favorites. That and holding your tongue and telling everyone you were born on a pirate ship.º Last Column: Volume 14º more columns
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Quote of the Day“If you love someone, set them free. If they do not return, then you were stupid for following my advice.”
-Bachard RichmanFortune 500 CookieDon't blame anyone else for your own problems, blame EVERYONE else. Try a new deodorant this week, your friends agree the theoretical kind hasn't been cutting it. You will meet a small armadillo that will teach you arithmetic, but few will buy that story at the trial. This week's lucky karate moves: The Iron Ostrich, Yun-Wi's Forceful Throat Massage, Western Ballsack Slap, and The Forbidden Tongue Stomp of Zi-Zi Tohp.
Try again later.Least-Watched Holiday Specials| 1. | A Bush Family Christmas | | 2. | I'm Dreaming of a White Krishna | | 3. | VH1 Behind the Music: That Guy Who Sang Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer | | 4. | Christopher Walken in a Winter Wonderland | | 5. | Gerald Ford Reads "Twas the Night Before…" Oh Shit | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Stanford Romald Brown 8/5/2002 Dr. Niceguy & Mr. DribblesMr. Butterbaum was sitting by his fireside one evening after dinner, well after lunch but still a long ways before the breakfast of the following day, when he was surprised to receive a visit from Poont.
"Bless me, Poont, what brings you here?" he cried, sneezing first before he cried, which is to say he spoke loudly with a desperate lilt to his voice, not actually involving tears or the tantrum of a child. Then, taking a second look at Poont, then a third, then getting around to taking his first look quite belatedly, "What ails you?" he added. "Is Dr. Niceguy ill, or acting in such a strange manner as to suggest a physiological split personality brought on by the horrible side-effects of an experimental elixir designed to stave off the sniffles?"
"Mr....
Mr. Butterbaum was sitting by his fireside one evening after dinner, well after lunch but still a long ways before the breakfast of the following day, when he was surprised to receive a visit from Poont.
"Bless me, Poont, what brings you here?" he cried, sneezing first before he cried, which is to say he spoke loudly with a desperate lilt to his voice, not actually involving tears or the tantrum of a child. Then, taking a second look at Poont, then a third, then getting around to taking his first look quite belatedly, "What ails you?" he added. "Is Dr. Niceguy ill, or acting in such a strange manner as to suggest a physiological split personality brought on by the horrible side-effects of an experimental elixir designed to stave off the sniffles?"
"Mr. Butterbaum," said the man, who this time is Poont, the one speaking, "there is something wrong." Poont left it at that for the sake of drama and making the chapter longer.
"Take a seat, and here is a glass of wine and a pair of novelty glasses for you," said the lawyer, who was Mr. Butterbaum, who was also a lawyer. "Now, take your time, put on those googly glasses and tell me plainly what you want. But don't forget to drink your wine, as it doesn't grown on trees, but rather vines, in a manner of speaking."
"You know the doctor's ways, sir," replied Poont, possibly referring to Dr. Niceguy's abject gayness. "And how he shuts himself up in cabinets when threatened, much like a ringtail lemur. Well, he's done it again; and I don't like it, sir. May my entrails be stomped out by cattle if I like it," Poont continued, quite nastily. "Mr. Butterbaum, sir, I'm afraid."
"Alright," said the lawyer, Butterbaum. "This chapter's long enough. Get to the point."
"I think there's been foul play," said Poont, mumbling and talking into his hand.
"Foul play!" cried the lawyer, startling poor Poont to his very bejesus. "My God, foul play, foul play," Butterbaum mulled the words as if tasting them in his mouth, like chicken. "Nope! The term has no meaning to me. Of what do you speak?"
"Know not I, neither do, sir," was his answer in the English of the day; "but will you come along with me and see for yourself, so as to avoid my further lengthy explanation?"
Mr. Butterbaum's only answer was to rise, belch wetly and with an embarrassed glance aside get his hat and great coat, the coat which had fathered his previous coat and grandfathered his current one; but as he did so he observed with wonder the greatness of the relief that appeared upon the butler's face like a rash, as Poont was a butler, which may or may not have been mentioned before. And also wonderful was his realization that when Poont followed, he set his glass of wine down untasted, which meant more for him, meaning Butterbaum.
It was a wild, cold, ricockulous night of March, with a pale moon, lying on her back as though she'd indulged in too much boiled cabbage and was afflicted with the westerly winds. The night also featured a flying gazebo, which was all the rage in that day. The wind made talking, not to mention kite sailing, difficult, and also flecked the blood into the face. Which is to say it made one blush, not that there was actually blood in the wind caused by the terrible misdeeds of Mr. Dribbles, which come later.
The wind seemed to have swept the streets unusually bare of garbage, streetwalkers and carneys, who were all paper-light and heavily influenced by the wind. Mr. Butterbaum for once wished for streets not so deserted; never in his life had he been conscious of so sharp a wish to see and touch his fellow-creatures; to purse upon them his manhood and laugh as their cries for help were drowned out by the cruel winds. This thought, however, he deigned to keep from Poont until such a moment when the subject of manhood pursing came up.
The square, when they got there, was all full of wind and dust, and nighttime. Poont stopped short in his tracks, turned back toward Butterbaum, and nervously removed his hat.
"Well, sir," he said, "here we are. Let me know how it all turns out."
Poont then lit out quite unexpectedly, like a ferret from a foxhole, scurrying off toward a better-lit part of town.
"Ah, shit," said the lawyer.   |
