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 March 21, 2005 |
Washington, D.C. Junior Bacon Bush confronts his robot tormentors, from about as close as our wussy photographers were willing to get for fear of being Hurkled
According to confidential information from our office copier Xero, these robot invaders come to us from the planet Shmoob, orbiting a distant star in the left-hand part of the sky. After landing in a huge crater that flattened the entire state of Wyoming, the robots apparently were disappointed that their arrival garnered no attention whatsoever and proceeded to destroy major American cities ou...
isaster and certain robot servitude were averted earlier this week when a summit between U.S. President Bush and our soon-to-be robot overlords ended in an embarrassing technical glitch, with all seven of the gigantic city-destroying machines freezing in place simultaneously, each displaying a perplexing message of “LOAD PLAIN LETTER” on their ominously glowing LCD display panels. According to confidential information from our office copier Xero, these robot invaders come to us from the planet Shmoob, orbiting a distant star in the left-hand part of the sky. After landing in a huge crater that flattened the entire state of Wyoming, the robots apparently were disappointed that their arrival garnered no attention whatsoever and proceeded to destroy major American cities outside Wyoming as a means of getting the nation’s attention. The first of the robots was spotted Saturday in Illinois, devouring railroad tracks and downing entire rivers like they were rivers of cola. Another was spotted bathing in Lake Mead later that day, and yet another reportedly took a dump in the Nelson Aquifer. By day’s end all seven robots had made their presence known in various humorously destructive ways. After our robot guests completely razed Chicago, destroyed Miami, and in a strange twist, took time out of their busy schedules to stomp the small town of Hurkle, Iowa into the dust, they made their way en masse to Washington D.C. to demand the immediate surrender of our tiny, flesh-based government. At first, Bush administration officials believed they could fool the robots by turning out all the lights in the White House and hiding behind couches and other furniture, believing the robots would take the bait and assume that no one was home. Unfortunately for the White House strategists, however, these weren’t your run-of-the-mill stupid killer robots, and their highly advanced neural mesh quad-processors made short work of the administration’s subterfuge. After the robots had torn the roof off of the Oval Office, and one of the invaders began wearing it comically as a hat, it became clear that our leaders would have to address this crisis in a more adult fashion. But first, President Bush reportedly resorted to his time-honored “What in the hell is THAT!” running away ploy, which ended quickly when the president ate shit into a ditch and cracked his safety helmet. Early hopes that the robots just wanted to use the White House john were dashed when the machines issued their ultimatum on weird stock-market ticker tape that issued forth from the smallest robot’s crotch. Regardless of the hilarious means by which they issued their demands, the robots earned the respect of all present after engaging in a rousing game of hacky sack with the corpse of the late Vice President, Dickson Cheney. Following the unexpected freezing of the robot invaders, President Bush and what remained of his top administration officials sat in silence for several minutes, until Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice took the cue to approach one of the robots and start jiggering with various hatches and levers, trying to find the source of the error. In the days since, the White House has had technicians working on the downed bots day and night to correct this strange malfunction, a circumstance that many have complained is anticlimactic, to say the least. “We’ll get these gigantic, thundering beasts back on their feet in no time,” promised a confident Rice. “And then we’ll finally answer the mystery of where they came from and what they did with Ed Begley Jr. I for one am dying to find out what their deal is.” the commune news itself has been invaded by robots several times in the last few years, but most of them turned out to be Furbies after closer inspection. Word to the wise, though: don’t get those motherfuckers wet if you know what’s good for you. Boner Cunningham is the commune’s crackest reporter, a self-applied distinction we only repeat because it’s so embarrassing.
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God joins War on Terror in Pakistan
Electric car record-breaking run scrubbed for lack of D-cell batteries
Al Davis' Shard Reinserted Into the Dark Crystal
Detroit rolls out "Come, Survive Detroit" campaign
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American Idol Finale Results: America Loses Memorial Day Celebrated With More Memorials in Iraq Congress Lobbied for More Material to Complete Brando Memorial Impotent Landslide in China Kills Only Micro-Fraction of Glorious Population |
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 April 1, 2002
Swimming in a Lake of LungsThere are three tricks you never want to teach a dog, and one of them is to explode. I'll let that sink in before I get to the other two.
Here's a question for all you full-fledged (have you ever seen someone half-fledged? I'm telling you, make sure you've already eaten) students out there, the explorers in the mountains of knowledge, the Camrys in the parking lot of wisdom, I know that you can answer this question for me: If Magellan was so goddamned great, how come everyone calls it margarine? Chew on that while your jerky is drying.
Interesting, eh? But should you feel compelled to weep with fascination, remember: tears are high in salt content and can stain some delicate fabrics, it's better to weep over a saltwater aquarium or a very bland soup.
Keeping in line with an ancient tradition it was not until now convenient for me to follow, we're going to be incorporating some reader emails into the column. Check your shorts. In regards to the email I received from Ethel Barngraves of Elkin, TN about the proposed barn dance and love-in, I have this response:
"Well sheeeeeit, I haven't been me to no barn dance in some helluva dang long acre! Whassat? Acre's um measure-ah land distance fur purposes of ownership, notta way to tell time? Well shit my britches and call me-ah teen idol, I never did trust them porpoises. Gal-dang, damn near bit my granny on that one! A hu-yep! I'd feel steeee-yoopid if I weren't asa pig...
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There are three tricks you never want to teach a dog, and one of them is to explode. I'll let that sink in before I get to the other two.
Here's a question for all you full-fledged (have you ever seen someone half-fledged? I'm telling you, make sure you've already eaten) students out there, the explorers in the mountains of knowledge, the Camrys in the parking lot of wisdom, I know that you can answer this question for me: If Magellan was so goddamned great, how come everyone calls it margarine? Chew on that while your jerky is drying.
Interesting, eh? But should you feel compelled to weep with fascination, remember: tears are high in salt content and can stain some delicate fabrics, it's better to weep over a saltwater aquarium or a very bland soup.
Keeping in line with an ancient tradition it was not until now convenient for me to follow, we're going to be incorporating some reader emails into the column. Check your shorts. In regards to the email I received from Ethel Barngraves of Elkin, TN about the proposed barn dance and love-in, I have this response:
"Well sheeeeeit, I haven't been me to no barn dance in some helluva dang long acre! Whassat? Acre's um measure-ah land distance fur purposes of ownership, notta way to tell time? Well shit my britches and call me-ah teen idol, I never did trust them porpoises. Gal-dang, damn near bit my granny on that one! A hu-yep! I'd feel steeee-yoopid if I weren't asa pig drunk asa pill-bug in a Kentuckian's bathtub, I tell you that! Barn dancin' an romancin, I'm up fer that boonwaddle! Besta make myself representable, gunna go comb my hat! BARN DANCE! -heart explodes-"
So, as is obvious to see, it's a good thing you didn't mention barn dancing.
Waaaaait a minute.... -brain falls apart like a sloppy joe-
We never looked at MC Scat Cat quite the same after we learned that "scat" is another word for "shit". Not to mention Scatman Crowthers. Ick.
In other news, thanks to Chuck Rooster of New Turk, MA for the informative lesson on scat and other vocab words for the week. Turns out it also means "leave at once." Now that I know this, I think I'm going to go reclaim that copy of Scattergories that I returned to Toys-R-Us in a huff yesterday, and take back what I said about the manager's daughter. If only you could take back a kick in the kidneys, this would be an easier life.
-convulses, bangs head on counter-
Woah, just got another email. The barn dance has been revoked! -collects manwich-like brain material, puts it back on bun- Riot in the streets children! Let the gutters clog up good with the blood of those who know not the beauty of the Electric Cousin or the Incest Slide! Barn dancing shall live on!
Seriously, though, pigs sound like midget laughter when you try to cram one down a functional modern toilet.
Oh wait, that wasn't serious at all. Let me check in my bag. Oh, okay, here we go... -riiiip- aw, crap. Okay, you're only gonna get half a thought here because the other half got caught in the zipper. And it might smell a little like Open Pit. Them's the breaks. º Last Column: Camp with Me, Only Separatelyº more columns
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|  November 12, 2001
A Blow Has Been Struck to the Nards of JusticeLast week "Dandy" Kent Weedman walked free. A jury of twelve of his peers, similar besides all the criminal charges against him, found him not guilty. A practiced American judge presided over this court case, and either he was asleep at the gavel, good people, or the dad-blamed thing was broken and he didn't overturn the not guilty decision.
Either way, a blow has been struck against justice, and justice took this one right in the nards.
Yes, the swollen testicular area of justice is feelin' it now, buddies. Clutching its throbbing scrotum with its eyes rolling, justice can only recollect similar painful strikes it has suffered in the past. But even as those past instances of injustice come back to it, justice shakes its red-flushed head and swears, with a tear leaking from the corner of its eye, this is the worst knocking around of its knobs ever. A nut-splitter from which American justice may never recover.
Much like the average America's Funniest Home Video clip victim, justice stood in khaki shorts and T-shirt over the bat-swinging blindfolded child "Dandy" Kent Weedman, as Weedman viciously swatted at an unseen piñata called the American dream, missed, and smacked with vigor the danglies of justice, as a resounding comical doing! sounded in the background. But Rok Finger wasn't laughing.
Justice, friend to every decent American, was metaphorically standing around on a street corner, minding its own...
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Last week "Dandy" Kent Weedman walked free. A jury of twelve of his peers, similar besides all the criminal charges against him, found him not guilty. A practiced American judge presided over this court case, and either he was asleep at the gavel, good people, or the dad-blamed thing was broken and he didn't overturn the not guilty decision.
Either way, a blow has been struck against justice, and justice took this one right in the nards.
Yes, the swollen testicular area of justice is feelin' it now, buddies. Clutching its throbbing scrotum with its eyes rolling, justice can only recollect similar painful strikes it has suffered in the past. But even as those past instances of injustice come back to it, justice shakes its red-flushed head and swears, with a tear leaking from the corner of its eye, this is the worst knocking around of its knobs ever. A nut-splitter from which American justice may never recover.
Much like the average America's Funniest Home Video clip victim, justice stood in khaki shorts and T-shirt over the bat-swinging blindfolded child "Dandy" Kent Weedman, as Weedman viciously swatted at an unseen piñata called the American dream, missed, and smacked with vigor the danglies of justice, as a resounding comical doing! sounded in the background. But Rok Finger wasn't laughing.
Justice, friend to every decent American, was metaphorically standing around on a street corner, minding its own busines, maybe checking out the hair in a reflective shop window. When "Dandy" Kent Weedman, armed with a crowbar of legal technicalities, sneaks up on it, and when justice turns around to say, "Yo, friend, what up?" Weedman swung the iron bar and justice took it hard in the sweet spot. "Jesus Christ!" justice screams, curling into a ball and clutching its goodies, murmuring "Shit!" repeatedly in a weak, babyish voice.
Who will stand up? If you've ever seen the statue of justice that represents our legal system, the statue, although incorrectly female, is blindfolded and holding a scale in one hand and a book, probably a legal book, in its hands. Its hands are full. How the hell is justice supposed to protect itself? Unh-uh. We must protect the delicates of justice. We, fellow Americans, must be justice's cup.
Though the misled jurors and incoherent doddering judge may think "Dandy" Kent Weedman has learned his lesson, has been rehabilitated, or is no longer a threat to society, I assure you he is. Or hasn't, wasn't, is, answering those questions all in order. Weedman will defecate in another mailbox in the future, just as I assured the jury. Rok Finger speaks from experience. I'm not sure how he picks his target, and even less sure how he manages to get fecal matter into a mailbox--does he squat over it at an angle? Does he catapult it in from some device a distance away? Can you mail excrement? Because I saw no stamps or envelopes on the horrible package left in my mailbox. Regardless, when Weedman strikes again, and he will, I can only pray you are not the next victim.
Meanwhile, justice will pant heavily, hunched over and actively weeping, waving away friends who try to help and declaring it'll be fine in a minute or two. Rok Finger prays it will. º Last Column: I Am A Failure As A Physical Trainerº more columns
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Quote of the Day“Be always on the phone, so that when the devil calls, he will get your voicemail.”
-St. JerryFortune 500 CookieJust because you don't like the message, don't waste your time killing the messenger. John of Lancaster already took care of that for you 500 years ago. New scientific breakthroughs now make it possible to wash your hair while it's still attached to your head: no more tedious cutting and re-attaching with naval knots. Try to remember: Chex are for breakfast, checks are for paying bills. You will mix those up again this week. This week's lucky dogs: Lassie's offspring still living off residuals, all Irish breeds, and the two-legged one-balled variety.
Try again later.Top 5 Ways Bush Could Raise Approval Rating| 1. | Replace Hugh Jackman in next X-Men sequel | | 2. | Give out free abortion to pro-choicers on Roe v. Wade anniversary; for pro-lifers, kill convicted criminal | | 3. | Be seen everywhere with new wheelchair-bound friend | | 4. | Go on Leno, punch Tom Cruise right in sack | | 5. | Win war on terrorism, declare war on disagreement next | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 11/29/2004 Well fancy that, America. If I've ever seen anything fancier, I failed to be adequately impressed and eventually forgot that I saw it. Maybe I have a problem. But there's no time for that right now, Hollywood's been cranking out the skank while we were chatting it up, and if we're not careful they're going to squeeze some of that beef on by, unreviewed. Not on my watch, America.
In Theaters Now:
Alexander
Finally, the controversial story of Alexander Hamilton is coming to the big screen. Did you know he wasn't even a president, yet he still got on our money? Crazy shit. Turns out he was banging the printer's daughter and managed to get his face printed on some test money as a joke, only the money got out and people started spending it, so the...
Well fancy that, America. If I've ever seen anything fancier, I failed to be adequately impressed and eventually forgot that I saw it. Maybe I have a problem. But there's no time for that right now, Hollywood's been cranking out the skank while we were chatting it up, and if we're not careful they're going to squeeze some of that beef on by, unreviewed. Not on my watch, America.
In Theaters Now:
Alexander
Finally, the controversial story of Alexander Hamilton is coming to the big screen. Did you know he wasn't even a president, yet he still got on our money? Crazy shit. Turns out he was banging the printer's daughter and managed to get his face printed on some test money as a joke, only the money got out and people started spending it, so the government had to leave it that way.
The movie does a great job telling Hamilton's tale, and portraying the disbelief among his friends when they go to spend a $10 and see the face of their shiftless, no-account buddy grinning back up at them. And try to tell me that CGI hasn't made movies better after you see Hamilton's half-brother Jake drive an entire horse carriage into a lake from surprise when he gets the news. In the past, we had to just imagine what a scene like that would have looked like, since in reality horses dissolve upon contact with water. But not anymore. I'd comment on the acting in the film, but since I wasn't around 200 years ago to say what these people were really like, I have no idea if the actors did a good job or not. They could be way off for all I know. But I will say that Colin Farrell looks like about ten bucks, so I'm pretty sure he did a good job as Hamilton.
Christmas with the Crack
Tim Allen shocks us again with another bold choice, this time a weird turn as a crack-addicted dad who sells his family Christmas, and his family, in exchange for some sweet, sweet rock. Though the trailer made the movie seem more like Home Improvement by way of Requiem for a Dream, the only really funny scene is when Allen burns his face on a hot crack pipe and has to fake like he hasn't been horribly disfigured. So be warned that while the slapstick plays funny in the trailer, it's actually kind of sad in the context of Allen's self-destructive downward spiral in the film. Except when he's trying to smoke a loaf of crack out of the chimney and he falls off the roof, that shit is funny in any context.
National Treasure
Is anybody else getting sick of these goddamned Olsen twins? I don't even think they look that much alike. If I were buying the pair, I'd ask for a discount on the one on the left. She looks like she's been around the block a few times. But whether you think they're the worst thing to come out of Hollywood since the Asian restaurant bird flu, or just a Nazi plot, all would have to agree it's going a little far to call these two robo-skanks a National Treasure. That's the kind of bullshit treasure you throw back before checking to make sure you weren't holding the map upside down. This movie's got no stars, and I'm not about to give it any.
The SpongeBob Squarepants Movie
Forgive me for being out of the political loop lately, I have to admit I stopped paying attention after Ronald Reagan won Idaho in 1980, and ever since then I've kept abreast of politics solely through the text on the back of boxes of children's breakfast cereal. So I may be the last person on earth to realize there's been a hit cartoon parody of Bob Dole (a Fruit Loops man, by the way) running for years, which has finally Doled its way onto the big screen.
SpongeBob Squarepants hits the former Senator hard where he lives, slamming Dole's love of taking a bath, his proudly uncool nature, and his trademark nasally voice to equally devastating effect. Some might consider the political commentary too harsh, portraying current Vice President Dick Cheney as a bumbling, overweight starfish, and former President George H.W. Bush as a weird hooked-nosed underwater Gonzo-type thing. But I've always preferred my political potshots hard and straight, like a Republican in a titty bar or a shot of whiskey on ice cubes made from whiskey. Can they do that? I mean, does whiskey freeze? I can't believe nobody's ever thought of that before. I'll be right back.
That's the end, America. Get out if you don't like it. And if you do like it, but still want to stick around for some reason, tough tits. I'm not running a youth hostel here. But one of you should stick around to hold the fire extinguisher; I'm not going to be able to sleep until I find out if frozen whiskey can still catch on fire.   |
