| 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';
?> | 
Officials Report Ass-Rape of Iraq Going WellMarch 31, 2003 |
Washington, DC Cody 'Deathwish' Weisbaum No worries, phallic attack is thrusting forward as planned
"U.S. Forces have penetrated Iraq's supple, moist labia of forces and are thrusting toward Baghdad as we speak," confided a disturbingly lusty Gen. Harold Jonas. "We're confident we'll have this bitch putting out by the end of the month."
However, critics of U.S. military planning, including several Gulf War veterans, have suggested that ground forces should have been fortified with at least one more big-dicked Army division before the attacks began.
"The U.S. is coming in like Frasier's wimpy brother Niles, when we should be coming in like Ron fuckin' ...
mid reports of increasing U.S. casualties and slowed progress against Iraqi military targets, U.S. officials have made public assurances that the ass-rape of Iraq is proceeding according to schedule.
"U.S. Forces have penetrated Iraq's supple, moist labia of forces and are thrusting toward Baghdad as we speak," confided a disturbingly lusty Gen. Harold Jonas. "We're confident we'll have this bitch putting out by the end of the month."
However, critics of U.S. military planning, including several Gulf War veterans, have suggested that ground forces should have been fortified with at least one more big-dicked Army division before the attacks began.
"The U.S. is coming in like Frasier's wimpy brother Niles, when we should be coming in like Ron fuckin' Jeremy," confided retired Army Gen. Barry R. Wade, wearing a Fuck 'em all and let God sort 'em out tee shirt purchased at a recent gun show. "Frankly, I just don't see how this limp, flaccid attack force is going to strike ass-raping terror into the hearts of the Iraqis. The Iraqis should be wet with fear at the awe-inspiring sight of our throbbing, gargantuan member. Forces. Member forces."
When asked what in the hell he was talking about, Gen. Wade accused this reporter of being unpatriotic, and possibly homosexual. A long, uncomfortable silence followed.
Army Maj. Gen. Stanley McChrystal, vice chief of operations for the Joint Chiefs of Staff, assured reporters that the U.S. forces were doing fine as presently configured. "You'd be surprised, our boys are doing alright. We've presently got Iraq's skirt up around its waist, with some early reports of penetration. There's been heavy breathing around Nasiriyah and Basra. Iraq's firm, luscious tits have been thoroughly felt-up and it's only a matter of time before she's screaming 'America! America!' at the top of her lungs."
Asked to explain the situation without all of the dense military jargon, McChrystal looked confused for a second then made a vague "humping" motion with his hands and pelvis for the benefit of reporters.
"Besides," McChrystal added nervously, "the current U.S. forces aren't that small."
"The simple fact of the matter is, bigger is always better when it comes to the American military package," countered Gen. Wade with a slightly crazed look in his eye. "The military's current 'Motion of the Ocean' attack plan, based on superior training and battlefield intelligence, can never substitute for an all-out full frontal double-penetration. The whole works: Longjohn helicopter gunships, B12 Cockshocker missiles, Bradley Cherrypoppers… with that overwhelming military girth, Iraq would have no choice but to surrender to our rhythmic military maneuvers. Then that teasing bitch nation would get what's coming to it. Sure, there might be collateral damage to the panties of the region, but that's to be expected. As presently configured, we run the serious risk of prematurely ejaculating, militarily, before reaching Baghdad."
Before being allowed to leave his basement rec room, this reporter was obligated to bear witness to Gen. Wade's private collection of "military training" videos, which included brightly colored covers and titles like Bunker Busters, Operation Desert Sodomy and The Sexual Liberation of Kuwait. the commune news, twelve times more likely to be part of the story than the average news source. Truman Prudy is the commune's prodigal reporter, back from a recent kidnapping and the general uninvestigated assumption that he was dead. the commune news would welcome Prudy back, but he'll probably have disappeared again by the time anyone reads this, so nevermind.
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Wal-Mart reports low Black Friday sales, record high human misery
Wi-Fi Tech being offered in few cities that know what wi-fi tech is
Woman killed by alligator survives
 OH MY GOD SNOW |
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. Arizona Border Patrol Installing Landmines Eminem, Ex-Wife Reunite to Work on New Material |
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 June 18, 2007
The Roof is on FireThe most important thing we need to get clear right now is that Omar Bricks did not set the commune's roof on fire. When historians tell the story of the commune and why the whole goddamned building probably burnt down, they'd better not turn to the Bricks Excuse as a convenient solution to their own damned laziness. This has happened all too often already. Every last piece of furniture from the offices of our downstairs neighbors at Crochet! magazine goes missing one day, then turns up on eBay being sold in a "Readymade Office" auction by somebody called chxdigbrx, and all of a sudden I'm a prime suspect. Or somebody takes apart Red Bagel's new car, piece by piece, rebuilds it in his office, then wipes out into the hallway tearing mid-office donuts in the middle of the night and nobody bothers to look beyond the suspect whose wallet was found on the floorboards. Do you have any idea how many wallets I have? I can't keep track of that shit. It was probably still there from the time I tried to fit Bagel's car in the elevator as a surprise birthday present. Use your heads, people.
Any armchair Columbo worth his weight in assfat can see that the roof fire was obviously the work of Crochet! operatives. Do you think it's any coincidence that the fire was started on the roof, insuring that it'll hit our floor first, long before it ever gets to those Crochet! bastards and their precious fire-fuel-free empty offices? I think not. And who but those...
º Last Column: Kibbles 'n Shit
º more columns
The most important thing we need to get clear right now is that Omar Bricks did not set the commune's roof on fire. When historians tell the story of the commune and why the whole goddamned building probably burnt down, they'd better not turn to the Bricks Excuse as a convenient solution to their own damned laziness. This has happened all too often already. Every last piece of furniture from the offices of our downstairs neighbors at Crochet! magazine goes missing one day, then turns up on eBay being sold in a "Readymade Office" auction by somebody called chxdigbrx, and all of a sudden I'm a prime suspect. Or somebody takes apart Red Bagel's new car, piece by piece, rebuilds it in his office, then wipes out into the hallway tearing mid-office donuts in the middle of the night and nobody bothers to look beyond the suspect whose wallet was found on the floorboards. Do you have any idea how many wallets I have? I can't keep track of that shit. It was probably still there from the time I tried to fit Bagel's car in the elevator as a surprise birthday present. Use your heads, people.
Any armchair Columbo worth his weight in assfat can see that the roof fire was obviously the work of Crochet! operatives. Do you think it's any coincidence that the fire was started on the roof, insuring that it'll hit our floor first, long before it ever gets to those Crochet! bastards and their precious fire-fuel-free empty offices? I think not. And who but those diabolical Crochet! skunks would think to plan it so deviously and so perfectly, to make it look like my roof-mounted potato cannon and homemade generator were the culprits? Hell, they almost had me convinced, that's how good they are. When I was up there last night, shooting potatoes out into the Flatbush night and reveling in the sweet music of airborne, starchy chaos, at first I thought it was cool as hell when the cannon started shooting those flaming spuds. Hell yeah! It wasn't part of the design, no, but some of life's greatest gifts are happy accidents like that, like the time I figured out you can sharpen your knives just by tying them to shoelaces and dragging them behind your bumper while tearing ass around the neighborhood.
But I hadn't shot more than seven or eight beautifully flammable taters arching out into the night sky before I realized those Crochet! bastards had somehow snuck in behind me, probably while I was trying to hit that hot air balloon, and had set the whole goddamned roof on fire. I got a few more shots off, no use in wasting a perfectly good potato cannon that wasn't likely to survive the fire, before I discovered the much more important fact that my shoes were on fire. Time to go.
I didn't sleep all that well last night, since I'd really liked those shoes. But the day just went from bad to worse when I got to work this morning and noticed that the building was still on fire. Everyone at the commune offices was still going about business as usual, and nobody had called the fire department because we aint a bunch of lousy snitches. The Crochet! staff was gone, big surprise there. Funny how they always seem to know when the building's on fire or dangerously brimming over with asbestos and radon.
I imagine we're going to have to evacuate at some point, once the fire sprinklers run out of water. They can't last too much longer, since we turn them on all the time when it's hot. I can't say I'll be sad to go, all those gay-assed solar panels Ramrod Hurley had installed on the roof smell like tofu when they burn, so it smells like healthy death in here. I've spent most of the morning throwing shit out the windows to save it from the fire. Okay, I've been throwing shit at the people below evacuating the building, but you can bet your ass none of those computers or fax machines or things are going to burn up in the fire, either. That's called multi-tasking.
Hold up, the rest of the staff has been playing hide-and-seek in the smoke and apparently I'm it now. I want to see how long they'll hide if I just leave and don't tell anybody. Wish me luck. Bricks out. º Last Column: Kibbles 'n Shitº more columns
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|  February 23, 2004
Work SucksIt is high time, as a teller of uncomfortable truths, I admitted one of the most obvious: the commune sucks. Or perhaps I should clarify that working at the commune sucks. The distinction might be thought important by some.
Shit you I do not, as Yoda might say. I admit my role in working at the commune has changed several times over the years, and more often than not I am a background character, like the old man who hung out at Cheers, but when brother Gay loomed his large, smarmy head in a few months ago and made a play to take over the publication, I put my nose to the grindstone and basically skinned the hell out of my nose. I worked extra hard, 24-7, 24 minutes of every hour, 7 hours a day, and this shit was not for me, sir. I am not made for a 7-hour work day. I don't know how everyone else here manages the five they do.
I will accept I perhaps have it better than some others, since I own the whole shebang, at least if I can keep Gay at bay, and I receive all the profits, should we ever make any. But it does not change the fact work completely sucks. The severe sucking nature of work cannot even be disputed at this point.
When I started the commune, or changed it from a quarterly Indian reservation newsletter to an alternative news publication, I only wanted to spread as much of the truth as I saw it as I could fit onto the back of pamphlets lifted from teen centers and free clinics. It was fun then, before I had a staff,...
º Last Column: Working on Commission
º more columns
It is high time, as a teller of uncomfortable truths, I admitted one of the most obvious: the commune sucks. Or perhaps I should clarify that working at the commune sucks. The distinction might be thought important by some.
Shit you I do not, as Yoda might say. I admit my role in working at the commune has changed several times over the years, and more often than not I am a background character, like the old man who hung out at Cheers, but when brother Gay loomed his large, smarmy head in a few months ago and made a play to take over the publication, I put my nose to the grindstone and basically skinned the hell out of my nose. I worked extra hard, 24-7, 24 minutes of every hour, 7 hours a day, and this shit was not for me, sir. I am not made for a 7-hour work day. I don't know how everyone else here manages the five they do.
I will accept I perhaps have it better than some others, since I own the whole shebang, at least if I can keep Gay at bay, and I receive all the profits, should we ever make any. But it does not change the fact work completely sucks. The severe sucking nature of work cannot even be disputed at this point.
When I started the commune, or changed it from a quarterly Indian reservation newsletter to an alternative news publication, I only wanted to spread as much of the truth as I saw it as I could fit onto the back of pamphlets lifted from teen centers and free clinics. It was fun then, before I had a staff, a budget to be concerned with, and deadlines to heed. I sometimes wish I could go back to those days. Me and Sully, experimenting with mind-expanding medicinal herbs while I wrote my first column about how the 1969 moon landing was just an elaborate Tonight Show sketch aired out of context. Before I had snippy copy-editors knocking on my door to tell me I misspelled simple words and spilled bongwater on all my pages.
Gay Bagel, of course, challenged the commune to show profit as part of his new job as Ulterior Motive Manager, Class VII, and I thought the natural solution was to do what we do that wasn't showing a profit more often and at greater expense. So I took the commune to a weekly schedule and included extra pairs of irregular-fitting jeans as an pay incentive every week. All that has done, it seems, is give me more work to do. Gay doesn't know the first thing about publishing an alternative news website—have fun! The second thing being, of course, never malign Carol Burnett without ample photo evidence to back you up. But the first thing has been completely lost under Herr Bagel. Herr Bagel being Gay, instead of me, for once.
These days I'm in the office up to six days a week, instead of six times a month with the old commune management style. In a way, I suppose I feel I have to answer to Gay now when before I had no boss, I was able to just hang out in my office whenever I felt like it, pants or no pants. After all, if I don't show a major increase in profits, meaning make a profit of any type soon, he'll resume his legal battle to take over the commune again.
Bah. If I had half a brain in my head, which my staff is quick to assure me I do, I would let him have the damn commune. Dig Sully out of those boxes I packed him up in and light up the peace pipe once more. Go back to the old desktop publishing guerilla-style journalism I started with.
Still, I suppose things aren't all that bad. After all, if I can reach one reader, inform him of the deadly conspiracies and hidden injustices of this world, all my work has been worth it. And according to last month's website statistics, we finally successfully reached that one reader. º Last Column: Working on Commissionº more columns
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Quote of the Day“I never met a man I didn't like, want to kill.”
-Dill "California Angst" WongersFortune 500 CookieYou will fall in love with a new douche this week, a fact that unfortunately has nothing at all to do with feminine hygiene. Try to pay more attention to your figure: word on the street is you're upgrading from "pear-shaped" to "sack of shit-y." You will finally come to understand the phrase "fifteen men on a dead man's chest" this week, thanks to an unfortunate dogpile mishap. Your lucky perfumes: Colonic for Men, Goat's Dong, Eau Du Crapper.
Try again later.Top 5 Saddam Hussein Defenses| 1. | Play ol' Islamic Jihad card | | 2. | Cast suspicion on Burt Reynolds, give jury reasonable doubt | | 3. | Surprise witnesses: Several Kurds he didn't condemn to death | | 4. | Present several bags of children's letters he received | | 5. | Comical "I have good news—I just saved a bunch of money on my car insurance" gag defense | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 1/1/2000 Hey troops, welcome back to Entertainment Police! Sorry for the gap in my columns, but apparently DUI stands for Don't Underestimate Interpol! Goodness me, well needless to say it's great to get back onto Yankee soil and back to the hunt for worthwhile Entertainment. A lot's happened since our last EP: the Oscars, the Golden Globes, the Peabody... and somebody told me Carmen Electra got married! Bless her heart. I asked around, but nobody seems to think Harry Connick Jr was the lucky guy... poor Harry. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. It's useless to dwell on the disappointments and massive cocaine busts of our past though, so let's get on with the show!
In Theaters Now:
Being John Malkovich
Hey troops, welcome back to Entertainment Police! Sorry for the gap in my columns, but apparently DUI stands for Don't Underestimate Interpol! Goodness me, well needless to say it's great to get back onto Yankee soil and back to the hunt for worthwhile Entertainment. A lot's happened since our last EP: the Oscars, the Golden Globes, the Peabody... and somebody told me Carmen Electra got married! Bless her heart. I asked around, but nobody seems to think Harry Connick Jr was the lucky guy... poor Harry. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. It's useless to dwell on the disappointments and massive cocaine busts of our past though, so let's get on with the show!
In Theaters Now:
Being John Malkovich
Daring use of the helmet cam demonstrates the multitude of possible ways people on the street can say "What the fuck is that on John Malkovich's head??".
Bicentennial Man
Robin Williams stars as a Tennessee-native traveling soap salesman who won't shut up about his state's 200th anniversary. A chilling portrait of state pride. Eventually he's killed in Harlem. Watch for the surprise ending.
Man on the Moon
Hearing Neil Armstrong's boozy rant about how he's the "Greatest goddamn thing to ever happen to this planet" is amusing for maybe the first ten minutes, but this documentary has long dry spells between the magical moments. Moments like when Armstrong demonstrates that he can still urinate without getting up out of his recliner, or when he shows how he can take his dentures out and watch them float around the room in zero gravity. It's touching though when he begins to cry and explains that the dentures only float when no-one's watching, and now he's got carpet fuzz on his teeth. The last twenty minutes of the film show Armstrong snoring in his recliner, a daring artistic move that challenges the way we think about on-screen napping.
My Dog Skips
A fierce argument for child-safe windows is made in this film about a schnauzer who tries to chase cars, from the back seat of his family's Suburban.
Sweet and Lowdown
A deadly terrorist who leaves packets of America's favorite coffee-sugar substitute as his calling card is blowing up all of Seattle's great coffeehouses? Who do you call when the odds are long and the stakes are this high? Wesley Snipes, motherfucker. Always bet on black, and hold the cream!
The Talented Mr Ripley
An exciting but altogether bullshit-packed biopic of the late Robert Ripley, collector of oddities and the human bizarre. Nunchucks in one hand, highball in the other, this film paints Ripley as one bad, kung-fu motherfucker who had a soft spot for little kids with brass rings around their necks and guys who could eat shopping carts. But when he trounces an entire school of expert ninjas using only his gargantuan member, one is left to wonder: Believe it... or Not?
Now on Video:
American Pie
The touching story of an alcoholic from Wisconsin who wants nothing more than to be a chef at Baker's Square, this documentary documents his struggles through at-home, Thanksgiving and bake sale pie-making attempts and leaves you hanging with the final question: Will he ever earn that poofy hat?
The Iron Giant
This rote sequel to The Giant Iron isn't nearly as scary and didn't once keep me up at night, wondering if I heard a mister button clicking out in the hall.
The Red Violin
Seeking to snatch the inanimate-object leading man kudos from Disney's Brave Little Toaster, this is one communist-sympathizing musical instrument that's going to tickle your animated fancy. When he teams up with The Fascist Bathtub and the Socialist Salad Shooter, you know the fun's not going to stop until the capitalist pigs are dead.
T with Mussolini
Look out, action fans! Fresh off his Oscar-winning turn in Life is Beautiful, Benito Mussolini is back and this time he's left the pacifism at home! Mussolini teams up with American acting institution Mr T for this high-octane tale of Harleys, shotguns, and shit blowing up all over the place.
Wild Wild West
Adam West is back as a hard drinking, hard-loving two-fisted bar-brawling motorcycle-racing crazy man in a film that practically blows out it's own intestines in an effort to introduce West as an action hero for the new generation. West's credibility in this role is marred slightly by his paunch, thinning hair and the Ben Gay tie-ins throughout the film. Also destined to miss it's mark is his questionable catch-phrase of "That was so dangerous, I think I need to change my adult diapers."   |
