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Liberals Struggle for Nice Things to Say About ReaganJune 14, 2004 |
Americans, liberal, conservative, and regular, join together in a show of solidarity to visit Reagan’s casket, as long as they don’t have to say something nice about him.
The normal mixed feelings of seeing a longtime political adversary take a dirt nap were compounded by the unrelenting, merciless coverage of sunny-side up Reagan throughout the week since his death on June 5. For liberals, who had previously been pouring on the rancor against two-dimensional Reaganite George W. Bush and his re-election campaign, the "sudden" death of the 93-year-old ex-president and conservative icon created an uncomfortable air for expressing their views of the modern political climate, and the right-...
he death of former president Ronald Reagan was followed by a week-long awkwardness as non-conservatives, especially the left-leaning and liberal-slanted individuals across the nation, searched for something socially acceptable to say about the late Californian.
The normal mixed feelings of seeing a longtime political adversary take a dirt nap were compounded by the unrelenting, merciless coverage of sunny-side up Reagan throughout the week since his death on June 5. For liberals, who had previously been pouring on the rancor against two-dimensional Reaganite George W. Bush and his re-election campaign, the "sudden" death of the 93-year-old ex-president and conservative icon created an uncomfortable air for expressing their views of the modern political climate, and the right-wing politics inherited from Reagan’s administration.
Daniel Kirkland, a talk show on the left-wing radio network Air America, summed up the difficulty of liberal commentary in the past week.
"You hate to see anybody die, regardless of their politics," said Kirkland, "but if Muhammad Ali died, and everyone was going around pretending he won every boxing match when he stepped into the ring, you’d start to feel the urge to remind everyone about the losses. Why does someone have to all of a sudden be perfect just because they died?"
Even the usual safe-havens for liberal free speech have felt the pressure to be nice during the funeral hoopla, and the pressure has begun to show.
"You’d think God himself died," grumbled Tina Crowley, a Green Party campaign organizer in Trenton, New Jersey. "Nobody here has even wanted to talk about politics all this week. And we’re the friggin’ Green Party. Some people were even saying some nice things about Reagan here, it was enough to drive you batshit. Like ’Maybe James Watt didn’t intend to do all that environmental damage.’ Yeah, that’s possible."
Professor of Sociology Deatria Lumley experienced the same difficulties with the ex-president’s death.
"Separating a man from his work is easy outside politics, but becomes all the more impossible when that man was a president," said Lumley. "He may have been a nice guy in his private life, but as someone who works with deteriorating underclasses and witnessing first hand the cuts to social programs and the damage it does, myself and people in my profession find it difficult to conform to social expectations of funeral etiquette."
Adding her own thoughts on Reagan, Lumley complimented him, "The man didn’t blow us up, no matter how close we might have come. It keeps me up at night thinking about just how close."
Other liberal mourners included public defender Jacob Howitzer: "He always gave us a lot of laughs. Not directly, or at least I guess he didn’t realize it was funny. Phil Hartman, he did a cool Reagan impression on Saturday Night Live." Howitzer added: "I miss him, I really do. Hartman was a genius."
Another mourner, leaflet distributor Bryan Forbes: "He had nice hair."
Folk concert organizer and self-described "Earth Mother" Loretta Melbourne: "Fuck it. He was a prick. Call me a cold bitch, I just plain didn’t like him." the commune news hopes that when we go, we have warm and inspiring words crafted as an epitaph—we don’t know any ourselves, but we should have plenty of time to think them up. Ivana Folger-Balzac will be lucky to keep her headstone urine-free.
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 April 5, 2004
Full RetreatAstute commune readers or other mythological creatures might have noticed the long sustained absence of new material over the past couple of weeks. It was the first time since 2001, the year I got my first checkbook and rented commune office space, that we've taken an extended absence from news reportage. I apologize, but it couldn't be helped, as everyone here had lost their minds.
That might be a possible exaggeration. Lefty the commune mail clerk seemed perfectly within her normal rationale, but she was particularly grumpy on the ride to the Funsational Summer Corporate Retreat and Motivational Seminar, on the commune bus, also known as the Damned Bus. Everyone was in a not so good mood, which is to say no one was in a good mood, but it was yet another of my kind concessions to brother Gay to make the commune a more profitable experience over the long haul.
Despite the silly name, Gay did NOT have fun at the Retreat. Sure, he had a ball when the clowns were doing their thing, and the white college Republican rap troupe broke it down for us, and I could see him really moved by motivational speaker Slick Hodges. But then came the group therapy session, where we attempted to learn about our own personalities in the work place, outside of the actual work place, and the hard bitter truth ran right into his sweet spots.
We tried a dandy trust exercise, where we split into groups and, blindfolded, had to put up a tent. It ended in a lot...
º Last Column: I Have Caught the CIA's Latest Death Virus
º more columns
Astute commune readers or other mythological creatures might have noticed the long sustained absence of new material over the past couple of weeks. It was the first time since 2001, the year I got my first checkbook and rented commune office space, that we've taken an extended absence from news reportage. I apologize, but it couldn't be helped, as everyone here had lost their minds.
That might be a possible exaggeration. Lefty the commune mail clerk seemed perfectly within her normal rationale, but she was particularly grumpy on the ride to the Funsational Summer Corporate Retreat and Motivational Seminar, on the commune bus, also known as the Damned Bus. Everyone was in a not so good mood, which is to say no one was in a good mood, but it was yet another of my kind concessions to brother Gay to make the commune a more profitable experience over the long haul.
Despite the silly name, Gay did NOT have fun at the Retreat. Sure, he had a ball when the clowns were doing their thing, and the white college Republican rap troupe broke it down for us, and I could see him really moved by motivational speaker Slick Hodges. But then came the group therapy session, where we attempted to learn about our own personalities in the work place, outside of the actual work place, and the hard bitter truth ran right into his sweet spots.
We tried a dandy trust exercise, where we split into groups and, blindfolded, had to put up a tent. It ended in a lot of pain for Gay, who found a tent post painfully inserted somewhere, only partially, thank God, by one or more of his teammates. Ted Ted is the angriest and most outspoken, so the obvious suspect, but he lacks the physical strength to force a tent post into the human body, while Stigmata Spent had the sheer muscle to do it—but still, someone had to hold him down. Despite the animosity toward my brother, and the fact they didn't get the tent set up, the session leader still had to admit they showed impressive teamwork in the endeavor.
As always, role-playing followed, and without going into much detail, let's just say it soon degenerated into everyone doing their Gay Bagel impersonations. My favorite was Ivana Folger-Balzac's, which consists of wagging a finger and yelling gibberish like "Habba habba habba! Habba ha!" Which is not to discredit humorless Shabozz Wertham, who puts on a pointy white hat and straightens his tie while saying, in a very Gay voice, "About time for my weekly cross-burning!" That brings down the house. Oh, and then there's—well, perhaps I should return to my earlier policy of less description. Gay wasn't very happy with this therapy, and the session leader scolded us, saying we should role-play more than one person to do it right.
To our great surprise, it did help us realize our problems—Gay. The unlicensed psychology student conducting the therapy sessions suggested we feel pressure from Gay to do well, and Gay confirmed it, interrupting the student and making her cry. Many of the staffers complained about the new weekly schedule, saying it was more work than they were used to—one story or column a week is taxing the talents of my crew, and they long for the old days of the semi-weekly schedule. Actually, they long for the days of childhood when they could eat popsicles and screw around all summer, but I'm powerless about that. But the semi-weekly thing I could do something about.
So the rift is wider and more pissed-off-filled than ever between Gay and I, since I broke our deal and put the commune back on its semi-weekly format. But anything to make my staff happier. It is important I mention that, in the end, I'm glad Gay came aboard here at the commune. Before they hated me, or Raoul Dunkin, or Ramrod Hurley, and all the back-stabbing, bad-mouthing, and vandalism really started to pull our family apart. But now I'm on the inside with it all—we've united against a common enemy, my brother. And they've got a point, of course, he really is a dick. º Last Column: I Have Caught the CIA's Latest Death Virusº more columns
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|  August 16, 2000
Don't Be So Hard-On the PresidentI'm sure there's many a people thinking "Our president should step down! It's better to resign than face an impeachment trial." I happen to disagree vehemently. I know in times past I've stated how much I disagree with things vehemently and it was apparent my only reason for disagreeing was to use the word "vehemently" with frequency, but this time, I most certainly disagree vehemently for other reasons.
It is certainly not conceivable to me that our President lied or obstructed justice. I've read and reread all the transcripts in that Ken Starr report. It was everyone who had President under oath who failed the American people. If they thought President should not be given blow jobs, it should be more specifically stated in the Constitution. Is it in there? Take a moment to go read it. I'll wait here.
President never once lied. When all these boneheads asked about "sexual relations" and "improper relationships" with that Monica Lewinsky girl he told them "No" in all honesty. How could anyone call a few dozen blow-jobs a "relationship"? And we all know blow-jobs aren't sex. Hell, if they were, that would mean I've cheated on my wife approximately three hundred sixty-two times in my marriage of three decades to my beloved wife, Arvelyn. With everyone from pizza delivery girls to the President of the Loyal Order Water Buffalo.
Why must people be such moral bores? If we didn't want a rowdy hillbilly to get his li'l Congress "approved"...
º Last Column: Your Trash Is Now My Problem
º more columns
I'm sure there's many a people thinking "Our president should step down! It's better to resign than face an impeachment trial." I happen to disagree vehemently. I know in times past I've stated how much I disagree with things vehemently and it was apparent my only reason for disagreeing was to use the word "vehemently" with frequency, but this time, I most certainly disagree vehemently for other reasons.
It is certainly not conceivable to me that our President lied or obstructed justice. I've read and reread all the transcripts in that Ken Starr report. It was everyone who had President under oath who failed the American people. If they thought President should not be given blow jobs, it should be more specifically stated in the Constitution. Is it in there? Take a moment to go read it. I'll wait here.
President never once lied. When all these boneheads asked about "sexual relations" and "improper relationships" with that Monica Lewinsky girl he told them "No" in all honesty. How could anyone call a few dozen blow-jobs a "relationship"? And we all know blow-jobs aren't sex. Hell, if they were, that would mean I've cheated on my wife approximately three hundred sixty-two times in my marriage of three decades to my beloved wife, Arvelyn. With everyone from pizza delivery girls to the President of the Loyal Order Water Buffalo.
Why must people be such moral bores? If we didn't want a rowdy hillbilly to get his li'l Congress "approved" in the White House, we shouldn't have gotten rid of our king. º Last Column: Your Trash Is Now My Problemº more columns
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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.Least Effective Protest Signs| 1. | Stop Iraq War and Tooth Decay | | 2. | France is Against It! | | 3. | Smooth Move, Ex-Lax | | 4. | Prevent Tyrannical Military Action and Stop U.S. Globaliz— (see other side) | | 5. | Bush is Just Lame Nirvana Wanna-Be | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Turner Volst 2/14/2005 A Time for DeadHis pants were too tight, Spencer Chowheim thought as he attempted to get comfortable in his sniper perch. Should've bought a 33 waist. Harder to find, sure, and seldom available on the discount rack. But at moments like this, the moment of truth, the difference made a difference. Chowheim squirmed inside his slightly-too-tight trousers.
"Maybe I'm getting fat?" he thought to himself and others. Hmm. An intriguing notion. Chowheim quickly calculated his up-to-the-minute Body Mass Index, based on his internal sense of blood pressure and the level of resistance he felt from the roof's granulated concrete surface. 28.4, same as always. It had to be the pants. A shame too, since historically, 34% of failed missions turned on ill-fitting couture. He sucked it in, vowing to himself...
His pants were too tight, Spencer Chowheim thought as he attempted to get comfortable in his sniper perch. Should've bought a 33 waist. Harder to find, sure, and seldom available on the discount rack. But at moments like this, the moment of truth, the difference made a difference. Chowheim squirmed inside his slightly-too-tight trousers. "Maybe I'm getting fat?" he thought to himself and others. Hmm. An intriguing notion. Chowheim quickly calculated his up-to-the-minute Body Mass Index, based on his internal sense of blood pressure and the level of resistance he felt from the roof's granulated concrete surface. 28.4, same as always. It had to be the pants. A shame too, since historically, 34% of failed missions turned on ill-fitting couture. He sucked it in, vowing to himself to be the exception. He would admit to friends, if he'd had any, that this was an unusual mission. He thought he'd seen it all during his eight year tenure as a highly in-demand rogue double agent, and one so skilled he'd been able to skip the normal single agent phase entirely, shooting straight into the big time of espionage. But he'd never been asked to shoot a deer before. At first he thought it must be a typo, written with a finger in the dust on his car's passenger side window, the way he always received his top secret missions. He'd figured Deer must be the last name of some deadly ex-KGB killing machine proficient in seventeen languages and Russo-karate. But over his customary eighteen months of research and preparation, Chowheim realized how wrong he had been. This was no ordinary deer. This deer had vital information about nukes in the former Eskimo stronghold of Newfoundland, Canada. A mole deer, a triple agent. A triple agent was the most impressive and complicated thing a spy could be, man or beast, since anyone who attempted to make the leap to quadruple agent invariably got confused and ended up just becoming the regular plain vanilla agent they were pretending to be during the course of their subterfuge times four. When Chowheim thought about it, he realized how perfect the plan had been. Nobody ever expects a deer. National reaction to the Disney film Bambi had been overwhelmingly positive ever since it opened on 1,517 screens in 1942. Entire generations of Americans were ripe for this con. And with a deer's average lifespan of 17.4 years in the Northern hemisphere, there was plenty of time for ample training and invaluable field experience before the serious missions began. Plus, he'd heard deer could run pretty fast. Always a handy trick to have up one's triple-agenting sleeve when in a pinch. Chowheim calibrated his sights again to compensate for the warming early-morning air. It was an odd place to expect a deer, a busy Manhattan street on a Tuesday morning, but double agents thrive on expecting the unexpected, and triple agents thrive on hiding in plain sight. This deer was good. Then he appeared. Casually, by a newspaper stand. Chowheim aimed for the pulmonary aortal junction, the surest kill spot for a male buck deer without rolling the dice on a dicey skull shot. Remembering his months spent in veterinary school and the additional weeks he spent wearing a deer suit in the wild, Chowheim aimed just below the junction, allowing gravity to do some of the bleeding work for him. It was no use taking his chances creating a geyser of deer blood squirting up into the air, which some passing Good Samaritan might catch in a bucket and use to save the rogue deer's life. Chowheim squeezed off a silent round without needing to look, and quickly broke down his rifle. After changing his clothes, facial hair and blood type on his way down the stairwell, Chowheim made a point of weaving into the crowd gathering around the ex-triple agent deer's now-lifeless body. Market research had shown that the last person anyone suspects is the guy with the handlebar mustache walking towards the action. Chowheim cast a quick glance streetward to admire his handiwork as he passed, then froze in his tracks like a glacier hitting a landmine. Something wasn't right. Something very wasn't right. Just then Chowheim realized he'd shot a dog. Not even a particularly deer-like dog, either, it was a French poodle. Shit, Chowheim thought. Then he thought shit again. After a quick calculation of odds, counter-odds, and evens in his head, he realized it was time for Plan D. Quadruple-agency, here he came. For more of this great story, buy Turner Volst's
A Time for Dead   |
