|  | 
Voting Mishap Results in Decapitation of Democratic Gubernatorial CandidateNovember 11, 2002 |
Tallahassee, Florida Whit Pistol An unnamed Florida election official examines the machine that killed Bill McBride for error. The machine reportedly had no problem registering the late McBride's vote. hild, like Florida needed another election blunder!
Hot on the heels of Thursday's admission that 100,000 votes in Broward county went uncounted until Wednesday, it was revealed Friday that Democratic gubernatorial candidate Bill McBride was actually killed by a voting booth.
McBride, a lawyer and political novice who ran unsuccessfully against Governor Jeb Bush, was voting in his home county when a reportedly faulty ballot machine handle swung back and beheaded the hopeful Democrat. It was not revealed if the unlucky son of a bitch was voting for himself or his opponent.
"We would have mentioned it sooner," said election official Marjoe Ramsey, "but we figured everyone had bad enough news to deal with, what with the Republicans winning everything....
hild, like Florida needed another election blunder!
Hot on the heels of Thursday's admission that 100,000 votes in Broward county went uncounted until Wednesday, it was revealed Friday that Democratic gubernatorial candidate Bill McBride was actually killed by a voting booth.
McBride, a lawyer and political novice who ran unsuccessfully against Governor Jeb Bush, was voting in his home county when a reportedly faulty ballot machine handle swung back and beheaded the hopeful Democrat. It was not revealed if the unlucky son of a bitch was voting for himself or his opponent.
"We would have mentioned it sooner," said election official Marjoe Ramsey, "but we figured everyone had bad enough news to deal with, what with the Republicans winning everything."
"And…?" said an older woman standing nearby, possibly Ramsey's mother.
Ramsey continued, "And we thought we'd get hollered at."
The dead Democrat fuck-up comes at a particularly bad time for Florida, still the butt of everyone's jokes after being the focus of the 2000 catastrophe that left George W. Bush the "winner" of that election. Florida's problems with computer-based ballots early this year proved voting errors were still possible, and the loss of 100,000 uncounted votes in Broward county was yet another screw-up that resulted in somebody's ass getting fired and leaving Florida unreliable to do in the future what 49 other states (and the District of Columbia) seem to have no problem with.
"Bill McBride was a good Democrat, and probably a good person," said McBride's primary opponent and possible drag queen Janet Reno. "It's a shame this had to happen to him. But if you're not tough enough for the voting booth, maybe you're not tough enough for Florida. I can't believe he ran against me! I could've beaten Jeb Bush. 'Jeb Bush.' Pussy silver spoon-chewing vote-hiding queerbait."
Jeb Bush, Florida governor and presidential brother, was told of the voting irregularities Friday and acted dismayed.
"Damn! Sorry to hear about that. I would have won anyway, you know." Bush shook his head and made a huffing noise. "I suppose now I know why I never got a concession phone call or nothing. Darn shame, folks. My condolences go out to his family, and to anyone else possibly killed voting, not to mention all the Jews and old folks whose votes and stuff got lost or misplaced. I guarantee all of these voting problems in Florida will be taken care of before I become president."
Plans for funeral arrangements for McBride are yet to be made, but expected to be carried out by next weekend. Currently Florida election officials are still searching polling places for the head. If found, please mail it to the Florida Electoral College or take it directly to Governor Jeb Bush. the commune news is all news and lemon-scented. Stigmata Spent is tall, leggy, and all womanly man, baby—cast your vote for strong and sexy.
 |  House Democrats Uneasy During Rare Trip Outside Paxil linked to clinical depression in newborns
Global warming ruse official resigns; tired of "how's the weather" jokes
Steve Jobs' Coffin Has No Handles, Requires Special Proprietary Gravesite
|
Media Plugs CIA Leak ne the most potentially controversial stories in recent years was successfully nipped in the bud by the Bush White House and its ever-faithful assistant, the national news media, as the ongoing story of former Cheney Chief of Staff Lewis Libby’s indictment, the first of a sitting White House official in history, was relegated to page 3 by bored news directors and other major Republican-driven news stories. Libby, called “Scooter” by his many enemies, is the first and likely only casualty of the under-covered story of a White House leak, in which the identity of a working CIA operative, conveniently the wife of Bush opponent Joseph Wilson. Wilson’s wife Valerie Plame was outed as a spy by a conservative columnist, and his source was traced back to the White House. While liberals hoped the 22-month investigation by Special Counsel Patrick Fitzgerald would reveal the dirty tactic came from a source as high as presidential counselor Karl Rove, the most the Democrats could succeed with was a guy named Scooter. And the victory itself was short-lived. French Protestors Politely Riot urious French protestors continued to riot over the weekend, gently overturning traffic cones and unleashing salvos of pithy wit at assembled riot police across some of the roughest neighborhoods in all of Paris. The riots began the previous week in the Seine-Saint-Denis suburb northeast of Paris, sparked by what officials believe was a disagreement over food. “Those incorrigible police buffoons know nothing of fine chocolate!” said impassioned teenage rioter Jean Touloc, only in French. The urbane French police were overwhelmed almost before the rioting even began, requiring the French Army to be brought in last week. The army surrendered four hours later, and plans were being drawn up for a transitional government when some joker switched out the treaty-signing pen with a novelty model that laughs electronically when you try to write with it. The rioters, perhaps correctly believing that they were not being taken seriously, stepped up their boisterous chants of “We beg to differ!” and their disorderly milling-about. Isaac Hayes Recognized on Bad Mother’s Day 'Paris Hilton Autopsy' Sculpture Signed to Three-Picture Deal |
|  |
 | 
 October 1, 2001
An Eye for CatfishHey, Shorty, you got you another one o' them Moon Pies? No? Well, how 'bout you break me off a piece o' that one, then, huh? That looks like a good 'un... you can tell 'cause the chocolate's kinda turned color, like it's been in the wrapper for a couple months. That's when Moon Pies is best. Just like them marshmallow chicks and bunnies you get for Easter. I like to eat them about July or August or so. That's when they's best.
You know what they oughta make, Shorty? Marshmallow frogs and crawdads, is what. I betcha them'd sell real good. You could buy 'em to eat, or you could use 'em for bait. Yessir, I bet them'd be real popular.
You know, speakin' o' bait, d'I ever tell you about that time Jimmy Wayne and Everett was out fishin', and Jimmy Wayne won the Catfish Contest? That was the damnedest thing I ever did hear, and I heard some pretty weird stuff in my time, Shorty, you know I'm tellin' the truth about that. Ask anybody. Like how just the other night, Jimmy Wayne and Everett was out giggin' frogs, and Everett mistook ol' Jimmy Wayne's bare foot in the water for a frog, and he stabbed his gigger clean through it? You hear about that? Everett says it was a pure-dee accident, and that he ain't to blame anyway, on account o' him only havin' one eye and all. 'Course that don't mean much to ol' Jimmy Wayne at the time, 'cause there he is standin' in three feet o' water with a frog gigger stuck through his foot and blood gushin' out of it and all....
º Last Column: The Milkman's Boy º more columns
Hey, Shorty, you got you another one o' them Moon Pies? No? Well, how 'bout you break me off a piece o' that one, then, huh? That looks like a good 'un... you can tell 'cause the chocolate's kinda turned color, like it's been in the wrapper for a couple months. That's when Moon Pies is best. Just like them marshmallow chicks and bunnies you get for Easter. I like to eat them about July or August or so. That's when they's best.
You know what they oughta make, Shorty? Marshmallow frogs and crawdads, is what. I betcha them'd sell real good. You could buy 'em to eat, or you could use 'em for bait. Yessir, I bet them'd be real popular.
You know, speakin' o' bait, d'I ever tell you about that time Jimmy Wayne and Everett was out fishin', and Jimmy Wayne won the Catfish Contest? That was the damnedest thing I ever did hear, and I heard some pretty weird stuff in my time, Shorty, you know I'm tellin' the truth about that. Ask anybody. Like how just the other night, Jimmy Wayne and Everett was out giggin' frogs, and Everett mistook ol' Jimmy Wayne's bare foot in the water for a frog, and he stabbed his gigger clean through it? You hear about that? Everett says it was a pure-dee accident, and that he ain't to blame anyway, on account o' him only havin' one eye and all. 'Course that don't mean much to ol' Jimmy Wayne at the time, 'cause there he is standin' in three feet o' water with a frog gigger stuck through his foot and blood gushin' out of it and all. Jiminy Christmas, he was mad. He was so mad he was vivid. I guess once they got that gigger out o' his foot, he was hoppin' mad.
But it ain't like he can say much to ol' Everett, after what happened in the Catfish Contest a few years back. You never heard about that, huh? Oh yeah. That's why ol' Everett wears that eyepatch, the one that makes him look like Blackboard the pirate.
See, they was fishin' in Jimmy Wayne's secret spot, but they wasn't havin' much luck. It was the last day o' the contest, and neither one o' them had anything worth throwin' on a scale. They was tryin' every kind o' bait they was; stink bait, chicken livers that sat in the sun too long, mackerel, nightcrawlers, doughballs and corn, everything, and they wasn't havin' much success. Ol' Jimmy Wayne was gettin' pretty frustrated, it bein' his lucky secret spot and all, and he was just about to give it all up and throw his whole rig in the water and go home. He figured he'd give it one more shot, though, and he loaded up his hook with a big ol' chicken liver. Only thing was, that chicken liver had sat too long, and had got kinda runny, so when he flipped his line back, it just went sailin' off his hook. He didn't even notice that, he just whipped his line around and cast it out as far as he could. Well, ol' Everett was sittin' right there, and that hook caught him square in the eyeball. Just ripped his whole eyeball right outta his head, clean as you could pull it out with a pair o' pliers.
Jimmy Wayne still didn't notice what had happened, so he just let that line fly, with ol' Everett's eyeball hangin' off his hook and everything. The line hit the water, and just as fast as a ol' jackrabbit humps his second cousin, the biggest catfish in the river swallows up ol' Everett's eyeball and is hooked but good. Everett stars screamin', on account o' all of a sudden he ain't got but one eye, and there's blood all over his face, and Jimmy Wayne starts screamin' 'cause he's just hooked into the biggest catfish this side o' the one that swallowed Jonah, and so there they was, both standin' there screamin' their fool heads off, with Jimmy Wayne thinkin' that Everett's screamin' about the fish and Everett thinkin' Jimmy Wayne's screamin' about his lost eyeball.
Well, it was a mess, but Jimmy Wayne was able to bring that fish in, and that's how he won the Catfish Contest. He used some o' the money he won to buy Everett that eyepatch, and he threw in a case o' Dixie beer on top of it, just 'cause he felt so bad. They was able to get ol' Everett's eyeball outta the catfish once Jimmy Wayne brought it down to the bait shop and weighed it, but by then it wasn't much good to Everett. Hell, it wasn't much good to the catfish by then, neither. Ol' Jimmy Wayne wanted to take it and use it for bait again, but Everett didn't much appreciate that idea.
That's why we always tell ol' Everett to keep a eye out for a nice catfish. You heard me say that to him before, right Shorty?
You know what they oughta make, Shorty? Marshmallow eyeballs. I bet them'd sell real good down at the bait shop. I betcha Jimmy Wayne'd buy 'em by the dozen. º Last Column: The Milkman's Boyº more columns
| 
|  September 20, 2004
All She Wants to Do is DanceExhibit A:
Don Henley's 1984 hit "All She Wants to Do Is Dance"
Alternate-Universe Song Titles:
"The Way," "She's Oblivious to Her Surroundings," or "Bitch Snorted All My Traveler's Cheques Up Her Nose"
Separated at Birth:
Gary US Bonds, "She Just Wants to Dance"
Verdict:
All Don Henley wants to do is teach.
Lyric Sample:
And all she wants to do is dance
and make romance
She can't feel the heat comin' off the street
She wants to party (oooo)
She wants to get down (oooo)
And all she wants to do is-
And all she wants to do is dance
Analysis:
To the listener of average intelligence, and by average I mean low, and by low I mean lower than a hummingbird zipping under a snake's anus, this song's lyrics make not one iota of rational sense. Where does this narrator go for a vacation, Beirut? And who'd he bring with him, Jennifer Beals? Though the close proximity of this album's debut and the release of the Beals epic Flashdance makes this one of a handful of intriguing possibilities, one oughtn't mistake serendipity for kismet in this instance. So then, what? Is dancing just a metaphor for something else in this song's supposititious world? Sex? Drugs? Who is this woman, a hooker? A dope addict? A hooking dope addict? A doping hook ad- you get my point. "Dance" could mean...
º Last Column: Your Candor is Sickening º more columns
Exhibit A:
Don Henley's 1984 hit "All She Wants to Do Is Dance"
Alternate-Universe Song Titles:
"The Way," "She's Oblivious to Her Surroundings," or "Bitch Snorted All My Traveler's Cheques Up Her Nose"
Separated at Birth:
Gary US Bonds, "She Just Wants to Dance"
Verdict:
All Don Henley wants to do is teach.
Lyric Sample:
And all she wants to do is dance
and make romance
She can't feel the heat comin' off the street
She wants to party (oooo)
She wants to get down (oooo)
And all she wants to do is-
And all she wants to do is dance
Analysis:
To the listener of average intelligence, and by average I mean low, and by low I mean lower than a hummingbird zipping under a snake's anus, this song's lyrics make not one iota of rational sense. Where does this narrator go for a vacation, Beirut? And who'd he bring with him, Jennifer Beals? Though the close proximity of this album's debut and the release of the Beals epic Flashdance makes this one of a handful of intriguing possibilities, one oughtn't mistake serendipity for kismet in this instance. So then, what? Is dancing just a metaphor for something else in this song's supposititious world? Sex? Drugs? Who is this woman, a hooker? A dope addict? A hooking dope addict? A doping hook ad- you get my point. "Dance" could mean anything in this context, except of course for actual dancing. Because if that were case, then the song would just be stupid. Beefheaded. Duncical. And this is coming from the man who wrote "Take it Easy," so I'm disinclined to take that exegetical leap of faith.
But then, the question lingers. Why the gun-running theme? Did Don Henley get a little too wrapped up in the fact that the only job available to former members of the Eagles in the 80's was writing songs for Eddie Murphy movies? Sad this, if true.
Some believe the song to be written in protest of the U.S. government's involvement with the Contras in Nicaragua, and the dolorous popular American apathy to the government's actions and the plight of those wretched souls sucking up oxygen in the less-fortunate corners of our rondure. Could this hold the song's true meaning? Sure, if you only want to listen to the song on its most obvious, cursory level. If that be your wont, I'm not one to stop you. Assuming I could. You go ahead and have fun with your bubble gum and NASCAR, little soul. For discerning listeners, however, the song has a deeper hidden message.
They're pickin' up the prisoners and puttin' 'em in the pen
And all she wants to do is dance, dance
Rebels been rebels since I don't know when
And all she wants to do is dance
It has always seemed to me that this single verse of Henley's effectively serves to sweep away much of the nonsense that passes for "Western Thought," a thought that one is sometimes tempted to feel has always been in fundamental error about almost everything.
Molotov cocktail-the local drink
And all she wants to do is dance, dance, dance
They mix 'em up right in the kitchen sink
And all she wants to do is dance
Leave it to Henley to show us the simple, unvarnished truth about modern life. There are two kinds of people: those able to face the truth and those who prefer comforting illusions. The second group, which is by far the largest, will surely not like this verse at all, for it brings the very unwelcome news that man is merely an accidental product of evolution and that the only thing special about him is an explosive tenor for violence, for he is the Molotov cocktail of the evolutionary broth, hardwired with a destructiveness which will soon lead to his extinction.
Crazy people walkin' round with blood in their eyes
And all she wants to do is dance, dance
Wild-eyed pistol wavers who ain't afraid to die
And all she wants to do is dance
More of the same from the West's answer to Confusious and Mai Bop. Truly a verse to which to listen, ponder, rewind, and relisten. A suppressed masterpiece.
Well, the government bugged the men's room
in the local disco lounge
And all she wants to do is dance, dance
To keep the boys from sellin' all the weapons they could scrounge
And all she wants to do is dance
Readers should be aware that there have been several editions of this verse. In its original form, documented in several early bootleg recordings and Henley's own personal notes, the word "selling" was spelled out in its entirety, with the subtle truncation that would follow in the studio version shifting the crux of this song on its very axis, presumably the result of Henley bowing to lamentable commercial pressures. I've always preferred the purity of the song's original construction and meaning, as I'm sure have others.
But that don't keep the boys from makin' a buck or two
And all she wants to do is dance, dance
They still can sell the army all the drugs that they can do
And all she wants to do is dance
Here Henley pulls off the deft trick of turning around the looking glass, flipping the perspective and making the listener aware that they are, in fact, peering into the unfathomable depths of their own soul. After all, who has never compromised the very pillars of his humanity for a buck or two? We are, in other words, given not only text but context, that living context without some knowledge of which we will never be able to fully appreciate the brilliancies of these lyrics. One is left wondering just who is keeping this masterpiece off the airwaves. And why...?
Well, we barely made the airport for the last plane out
As we taxied down the runway I could hear the people shout
They said, "Don't come back here Yankee!"
But if I ever do- I'll bring more money
'Cause all she wants to do is dance
So puffed up are we with arrogance, so obsessed with the illusion that we are at the tip of a mythical 'evolutionary tree', so proud of our technical achievements (airplanes) and contemptuous of life forms which seem to get along without the aid of technology (non-Americans), it has become almost impossible for the average person to accept the fact that foreigners, far from being wholly other than us, are our fellows. What is required, then, is not knowledge but something far more difficult for us moderns - what is required is a shift of attitude, and a great deal of patience.
Ah, and finally the chorus! That beautiful thing, I can hardly bring myself to discuss the chorus as I've only heard it all too recently and haven't had time to recover my measured poise. Unfortunately I've also just been informed by the commune that I'll be unable to make this column any longer, as it has reportedly clogged their servers and has already run at greater length than some entire previous issues. Ingrateful wombats. Dr. Joyce Pickles, M.D.P.S.T., received her degree in psychology from U.S. Zoological College in Burnt Harbor, Maine. She contributes to the commune from time to time for the perverse, kinky thrill of slumming.º Last Column: Your Candor is Sickeningº more columns
|

|  |
Quote of the Day“Na-na-na-na-ne-neh-neh-na-neh-neh-neh-neh-va-va-va-va-va-neh-na-neh-neh-va-va-va-va-va-va-va-neh-va-neh-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma—nevermind.”
-Stutterin' Tom TulaneFortune 500 CookieEight is enough: time to face the fact that you're wearing too many cock rings. Try watching where you vomit this week: it never hurts to make a nice first impression. It says here that once word gets out you ate all those locusts, you'll be beloved in Kansas, and unwelcome everywhere else. This week's lucky germs: floor-funk, spazzolycene3, urinalia-hangaroundicus, wheat, Pat Smear.
Try again later.Top-Selling commune Paraphernalia| 1. | the commune's Book on Tape: Everyone's favorite verbose classic War & Peace printed in tiny type on the non-sticky side of a roll of Scotch tap | | 2. | The "I Sued the commune for Libel and All I Got Was This Lousy Mug" Mug | | 3. | "Pin the Paternity Suit on Lil Duncan's Babydaddy" Home Game | | 4. | Boris Utzov Guide of English Slang | | 5. | Ivana Folger-Balzac. Please, somebody take Ivana Folger-Balzac. | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Red Bagel 10/4/2004 A Fistful of Tannenbaum Chapter 7: Bomb of AgesEditor's Note: Cornered by Surprise Truck, and put to a moment of truth, intrepid hero Jed Foster experiences guilt when his longtime non-gay friend, Reilly, volunteers for the suicide mission of trying to shut down the truck, while love interest Paulette Standiford and Foster escape on motorcycleback.
Wham-Bash! Before they knew it, Reilly had managed to climb into the truck's cab and pulled the emergency brake. He had said it would be certain suicide, and it certainly was; the truck flipped over, rolled a couple dozen times, exploded into fire, and then landed on a facility where the small pox virus was stored. In the mix of smoke, flames, and airborn infections, Jed and Paulette couldn't make out anything.
"Shit in a windtunnel!" exclaimed Paulette....
Editor's Note: Cornered by Surprise Truck, and put to a moment of truth, intrepid hero Jed Foster experiences guilt when his longtime non-gay friend, Reilly, volunteers for the suicide mission of trying to shut down the truck, while love interest Paulette Standiford and Foster escape on motorcycleback.
Wham-Bash! Before they knew it, Reilly had managed to climb into the truck's cab and pulled the emergency brake. He had said it would be certain suicide, and it certainly was; the truck flipped over, rolled a couple dozen times, exploded into fire, and then landed on a facility where the small pox virus was stored. In the mix of smoke, flames, and airborn infections, Jed and Paulette couldn't make out anything.
"Shit in a windtunnel!" exclaimed Paulette. "That was the bravest thing I've ever seen outside of a bravery convention—Bravexpo '99."
Jed shed a manly tear for his lost friend, and reserved some little regret that would plague him throughout the book. "It should have been me."
"Which one? The truck or Reilly? Because it would be weird if you were the truck—"
"Reilly," said Jed. "This is my adventure. I should have been the one under that monstrous flatbed."
"We don't have time for 'shouldas,' Jed," snorted Paulette. "We've got to get to N.O.R.T.O.N."
"Great balls of inflammation!" Jed shouted. "Are you saying N.O.R.T.O.N. is behind this?"
"Yeah, like we should be so lucky!" said Paulette. "No, in this case, N.O.R.T.O.N. is the victim. The real culprit is Ostrich."
"Now that I think about it, I knew that all along. I don't know why it didn't come back to me sooner."
"Ostrich," continued Paulette, "is working to get their hands on the nuclear detonation device that N.O.R.T.O.N. is developing. If they do, they could hold the nations of the world hostage in exchange for anything they demand. They could call for environmental laws to be eliminated, they could stage fake elections, they could replace any leader in the world and no one would be able to stop them."
"Are we still talking about Ostrich, or is this the Republican party?"
"Either or. But Ostrich is after the bomb. So we've got to stop them."
"I don't get it," said Jed, the same as when he read "Doonesbury." "If Ostrich is the most powerful secret organization in the world already, why would they have to steal the mega-bomb?"
"Bomb of Ages."
"What?"
"I've been calling it 'Bomb of Ages,'" said Paulette. "Not mega-bomb."
"Oh, sorry."
"S'alright."
"Jesus," said Jed, "I don't even remember what my original question was now."
"That's probably for the best."
So, with the plot hole forgotten, Jed and Paulette jumped on her motorcycle again and took off for the secret N.O.R.T.O.N. headquarters in Wad, Nebraska. It was an underground facility with the most up-to-date targeting equipment and a storage facility and launch pad for the world's foremost long- and short-range nuclear weapons. Normally it would take two or three days to drive to Nebraska by motorcycle, but fortunately we novelists can do it in a mere chapter.
Next Chapter: Unpleasant Entry   |