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 November 28, 2005 |
Camaro, seen here attempting to form rain clouds in reverse using a backyard garden hose
"I don't like schoolin'," explained eight-year-old Topeka, Kansas boy Rodney Camaro, exhibiting numerous symptoms of left-behindedness, including messy, uncombed hair, untied shoelaces, a poor vocabulary and a fondness for pro wrestling.
Camaro was brought to the attention of education officials earlier this week when test results revealed that someone had actually scored a zero on last month's DMAS, a feat previously thought mathematically impossible.
"You get twenty-five points for just making a pencil mark on the page," ex...
recent round of standardized DMAS testing in America's elementary schools has revealed that in spite of President Bush's ambitious "No Child Left Behind" education policy, at least one American child has been left way the fuck behind. "I don't like schoolin'," explained eight-year-old Topeka, Kansas boy Rodney Camaro, exhibiting numerous symptoms of left-behindedness, including messy, uncombed hair, untied shoelaces, a poor vocabulary and a fondness for pro wrestling. Camaro was brought to the attention of education officials earlier this week when test results revealed that someone had actually scored a zero on last month's DMAS, a feat previously thought mathematically impossible. "You get twenty-five points for just making a pencil mark on the page," explained testing director Earl Winters. "Fifty for writing your name. Ten for turning in your pencil at the end of the test. This kid must have eaten his pencil, he's a miracle." So what happened to Rodney? According to the boy's family, Rodney's father's wages from his job at a local rubber vagina factory have been insufficient for the family to afford a professional tutor to help Rodney learn his ABCs and lefts from rights. But many argue that the local schools have failed Camaro, as evidenced by his vague concept that North is "up" and only a dim awareness that money comes in various denominations. Camaro is often swindled in cash exchanges with his fellow students, however, due to his fondness for nickels. "Ain't nothin' better than a nickel," Rodney explained, proudly holding up a 1997 nickel the boy paid $5 for last month. Rodney also displays an appalling lack of knowledge about nutrition, history and math. According to the boy, a balanced diet includes the food groups of chocolate, milk chocolate, and Nerds. Rodney's teachers also detailed the boy's unique mathematical techniques, which include performing subtraction by running all the numbers in the equation together and adding a negative symbol, as in 4-3=-43. All reports indicate that Camaro is equally inept at science, and reads at a pre-natal level. School officials insist that Rodney's the one who has let them down, refusing to get smart and clean up his act in spite of a generous grading curve that somehow has enabled Camaro to advance to the third grade, singularly on the merit of getting older. When asked about the major players during WWII, the eight-year-old replied simply "Nutsies." Camaro was unable to elaborate with any more hilarious details. America's schools have also failed to teach Rodney a single thing about politics, as well, given the boy's inability to name the current U.S. president, or, as he is known to Rodney, the "Karate King." "Karate King don't want no name, Karate King don't need no name," the boy explained patiently in the face of this reporter's adult ignorance. Despite Camaro's lack of awareness of the president's existence, President Bush already has plans for the boy, hoping sweep Camaro under the rug by offering Rodney an appointment to one of the government's major science posts, just as soon as he gets over his weakness for public urination. Though as of press time, it was still unclear which of the two, Bush or Camaro, would have to stop peeing in public. the commune news finds it terribly sad whenever a child is left behind, unless it's at Disneyland, which we think sounds kind of fun. Ivana Folger-Balzac can't stand Republicans, or any other people for that matter, but she does prefer the president's plan to entertainter Michael Jackson's "No Child's Behind Left" policy, about which we think the less said the better.
 |  "Blond Highlights the Devil's Work," Says Iran, Straight Men
T-Rex found with primitive bathroom tissue stuck to foot
Amphibians threatened with extinction better pay protection money
Miami DJs: Castro confirms refrigerator is running
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President Demands More Wheels on Airplanes learly delighted to have an offensive position at last, President Bush lashed out at “safety ign’rant” airlines and the FAA for its low-wheel requirements on commercial aircraft. According the president’s amusing new platform, safety could be increased a bunchfold with the addition of 8-10 new sets of landing gear on standard airplanes, and hopefully would prevent scenes like the dramatic emergency landing of JetBlue Flight 292 on Thursday. The commercial airline flight JetBlue 292 ran into difficulty landing when its foremost landing wheel arrogantly faced the wrong direction and forced a tense landing situation. The event was made all the more worthy of national attention when it was revealed passengers/potential victims aboard Flight 292 were watching their own ordeal on satellite television, one of the perks the airline offers passengers willing to risk becoming human charcoal on their flights. In the end, the plane landed successful, jetting down the runway covered with foam and emitting sparks in a thrilling scene of real life danger only seen previously on repeats of Jackass. Today’s Hurricanes Not Worth a Damn, Say Elderly Southerners In the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, and the currentmath of Hurricane Rita hot on Katrina’s high heels, elderly southerners who’ve been there before are offering a reassuring voice of bitter calm to troubled Americans across the South. “Today’s hurricanes aren’t worth a hot goddamn,” groused Boca Raton resident Carter Dunlop, 88. “You all can quit your bellyaching. Back in the day, we had hurricanes to remember. I don’t recall their names or any details, but you can rest assured these latest pipsqueaks are even less noteworthy. Trust me, you’ll all hear Carter Dunlop scream like a woman when a real hurricane hits.” “Category 5? Pssh, they’ll call any old stiff breeze a hurricane nowadays,” griped Biloxi native Ted Knuck. “Back in my day, you wouldn’t cross the street for anything less then a Category 15. And that was only because it blew you across the street.” Oasis, Killers Combine Forces to Ruin Sgt. Pepper’s for Everyone Global Warming Poses Threat to National Parks, Says WWF’s “Machoman” Savage |
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 December 22, 2003
Gift of the MergerMy balls are jingling with the hopes of enterprise, readers. Christmas time is the time for expansion! You know what that means—merger. Merger, merger, merger!
Of course, I realize I don't have any money, which is to say none of the business' private money, and even on my own considerable wealth I may lack the necessary fundage to merge with another business. Or another successful business at least, heh, which is to say a successful business since the commune is generally considered a complete failure. But that is only as you base the financial prospects as a mark of success. I think the commune contributes immeasurably to society even if it doesn't turn a dime of profit, so that's only a partial failure in my book.
But I don't have to worry about money around this, the most "wonderful" time of the year. That's right, bitch—it's Christmas! Hot frozen egg nog on a stick! Say a little Christmas prayer for me!
How could you not love Christmas? People give you things for free and you don't even have to have incriminating pictures of them. It's the bomb, yuletide bomb. My biggest respect, or at least false respect, is held for that big rube of Christmas crackers, Santa Claus! Yow! Line me up for a free gift, sir, thank you very much.
Now everybody knows there's not really a Santa, hopefully you're all old enough you don't need a conspiratologist to tell you so. No, not a real Santa, but it's a proven fact someone...
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My balls are jingling with the hopes of enterprise, readers. Christmas time is the time for expansion! You know what that means—merger. Merger, merger, merger!
Of course, I realize I don't have any money, which is to say none of the business' private money, and even on my own considerable wealth I may lack the necessary fundage to merge with another business. Or another successful business at least, heh, which is to say a successful business since the commune is generally considered a complete failure. But that is only as you base the financial prospects as a mark of success. I think the commune contributes immeasurably to society even if it doesn't turn a dime of profit, so that's only a partial failure in my book.
But I don't have to worry about money around this, the most "wonderful" time of the year. That's right, bitch—it's Christmas! Hot frozen egg nog on a stick! Say a little Christmas prayer for me!
How could you not love Christmas? People give you things for free and you don't even have to have incriminating pictures of them. It's the bomb, yuletide bomb. My biggest respect, or at least false respect, is held for that big rube of Christmas crackers, Santa Claus! Yow! Line me up for a free gift, sir, thank you very much.
Now everybody knows there's not really a Santa, hopefully you're all old enough you don't need a conspiratologist to tell you so. No, not a real Santa, but it's a proven fact someone else has probably proved that the post office takes all those letters to Santa and delivers them to the richest 1% of the nation. Yahoo! That's how all the presents get under the tree.
And I, for one, am not planning on being left out. You may have seen on the news ten years ago when a mysterious stranger purchased the world's biggest stocking for a record auction price—guess who. And "Santa" is legally obligated to fill every bare inch of the thing, so that was well worth the investment after two or three Christmases. Five, if you're a big financial details sort of asshole, but I don't care what Gay or anyone else says, it is not "a big fat smelly sock you went into hock to buy." It is a pure gold magnet. And unlike the one I bought from that prospector, this one actually works.
But a freakishly large stocking bought from the man with the world's largest foot is only part of my plan for world domination (the friendly kind, I mean). My next plan is a big whopping merger. To guarantee that's what I'm getting this Christmas, I spent all my time writing Christmas letters to Santa ever since the end of Thanksgiving. Which is to say I've paid the commune staff overtime and freed many reporters from their reporting obligations to handwrite letters to Santa since we all know they have machines that prove you photocopied, and that pisses them off. I'm getting a merger, that's for damn sure.
Microsoft, Wal-Mart, News Corp., I'm not too picky. And don't think I'm too greedy either. If I was I'd be asking for a complete hostile takeover, mine of theirs, and that's not what I want. I just want a friendly merger. I want our two brands to be compatible, forced compatibility if necessary, and for our brand loyalties to extend to the other's customers. I want Wal-Mart shopped everywhere reading the commune by this time next year, and hopefully by the same date commune fans will be shopping at Wal-Mart instead of simply living there.
The nation's wealthiest men can certainly spare that, considering I've been such a good boy. Besides, I'm technically in the top 2% of the nation's wealthiest people, so I'm sure with a little hedging they would like to have some new blood on their stodgy old list. But either way I'm dead set on getting that merger, if for no other reasons than it will shut my brother Gay up about the company never turning a profit. So by the start of next year, look for the wealthiest commune yet! Or should I say the Amazon.commune? º Last Column: A Third Sniper is Still on the Looseº more columns
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|  December 10, 2001
President Bush Will Have to Kill a Man to Get Some Goddamn RespectThe time has come, and no one is happier than I am. The honus is on the president to prove he's a man. He's been disrespected every which way by everybody in the business. Celebrities, political commentators, foreigners living abroad. Now the president has but one option to earn some respect: Kill a man with his bare hands.
Yes, at this point, even shooting a man in a gunfight in the middle of the day, high noon, will not get the president the respect he needs. He has waited far too long to make an example out of some ballsy jackass badmouthing him. The only way to get some goddamn respect at this point is a hands-on, take-no-prisoners approach.
When you think of our least-respected presidents, you know, Gerald Ford, think to yourself: Did he ever kill a man? Nope. Ford was not an elected official either, let's not forget that. He had more reason than anybody else to kill a man, it was necessary for him to earn the public's respect in a way no elected official needs. Especially with that Chevy Chase smart-ass giving him the business on Saturday Night Live each week. Sure, there are reports that Ford rubbed out a guy here or there for making fun of him and his golfing accidents, but without a body, without some verified film of it or whatever, he's a big pussy in the eyes of the nation—and our history books.
Who didn't sit up and take notice when Reagan, his first week in office, grabbed that cook in the White House kitchen and...
º Last Column: A Third Sniper is Still on the Loose
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The time has come, and no one is happier than I am. The honus is on the president to prove he's a man. He's been disrespected every which way by everybody in the business. Celebrities, political commentators, foreigners living abroad. Now the president has but one option to earn some respect: Kill a man with his bare hands. Yes, at this point, even shooting a man in a gunfight in the middle of the day, high noon, will not get the president the respect he needs. He has waited far too long to make an example out of some ballsy jackass badmouthing him. The only way to get some goddamn respect at this point is a hands-on, take-no-prisoners approach. When you think of our least-respected presidents, you know, Gerald Ford, think to yourself: Did he ever kill a man? Nope. Ford was not an elected official either, let's not forget that. He had more reason than anybody else to kill a man, it was necessary for him to earn the public's respect in a way no elected official needs. Especially with that Chevy Chase smart-ass giving him the business on Saturday Night Live each week. Sure, there are reports that Ford rubbed out a guy here or there for making fun of him and his golfing accidents, but without a body, without some verified film of it or whatever, he's a big pussy in the eyes of the nation—and our history books. Who didn't sit up and take notice when Reagan, his first week in office, grabbed that cook in the White House kitchen and drowned him in the big pot of clam chowder? All those wise-asses shut the fuck up real quick back then. The statement was clear: Shut the fuck up now or you're next. Bush followed suit strongly, leading the charge into Panama in 1989, not even a weapon in hand, and beating Manuel Noriega to death with a loaf of stale bread, impaling him on an American flag that was left flying on the capitol building for some months for all to see. A tough move, no doubt, he got some respect with a capital R. And now, with the current president under such strain and trial, a lot of pundits are asking: Like father, like son? George W. Bush has but one course of action as I see it: The next time he's out in public somewhere, pick the biggest guy out of the crowd. And break him like a goddamned baby. Whether or not the guy says anything, hell, he can even be Bush's biggest supporter, I don't care, that's the only way he's going to get props at this point. And weapons are out. Bare hands, kung fu or backstreet brawler style, the kind of mano-a-mano the Ultimate Fighting Championship founders would be proud of. If Bush's shirt happens to tear and reveal his ripped muscular physique, all the better. People need to be saying, for weeks afterward, "Christ on the rag, did you see what the president did to that big motherfucker on the White House lawn? I wouldn't want to be that asshole, that's for sure." I have faith in the president. As his campaign slogan made clear, he comes from a long line of ass-kickers goin' way back. But now, if there was ever a time, now is the time to prove it. º Last Column: A Third Sniper is Still on the Looseº more columns
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Quote of the Day“How many roads must a man walk down before someone will give him a fucking ride? What, do I look like a serial killer or something? Blow me in the wind, buddy.”
-Zimm BobbermanFortune 500 CookieHere comes another lecture on the same old tax-and-spend bullshit, courtesy your butler. Quit picking at it and maybe it wouldn't get infected. Who beefed? Details inside. Better save that big comeback tour until after you've had at least one hit song.
Try again later.Top Cruel New Rumors| 1. | Gay people can't whistle | | 2. | Tennessee quarter shows state trooper harassing black motorist | | 3. | French Stewart not actually French | | 4. | Cats love vodka | | 5. | Donald Trump is secret owner of McDonald's chain | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 5/17/2004 Hello readers, and welcome to the greatest Entertainment Police ever. Sure, we can't say for certain that this truly will be the best the column's ever been, especially since I just started writing it, but we can hope, can't we? After all, it's a new season and the smell of spring movies is in the air like somebody farted. So let's hope for the best as we peek through the keyhole this week, to see what Hollywood's been doing in there that's been making so much noise and making the house smell kind of like bacon. To the movies!
In Theaters Now:
13 Going on 30
I don't know who the hell was clamoring for a Michael Jackson movie this month, but the sick bastard got what he deserved with this piece of shit. If...
Hello readers, and welcome to the greatest Entertainment Police ever. Sure, we can't say for certain that this truly will be the best the column's ever been, especially since I just started writing it, but we can hope, can't we? After all, it's a new season and the smell of spring movies is in the air like somebody farted. So let's hope for the best as we peek through the keyhole this week, to see what Hollywood's been doing in there that's been making so much noise and making the house smell kind of like bacon. To the movies!
In Theaters Now:
13 Going on 30
I don't know who the hell was clamoring for a Michael Jackson movie this month, but the sick bastard got what he deserved with this piece of shit. If turds could fly, this thing would be a 747. Though the vanity of not calling the movie 9 going on 50 is pretty appalling, that's nothing compared to the film's creepy vision of Jackson sprinkling magic powder on his birthday cake and waking up as a 13-year-old boy. Normally this kind of scenario would be good for some fish-out-of-water comedy, but in this case the results make a lot more sense than Jackson's real everyday life. Because of that, the film is little more than one man's boring-to-watch wish fulfillment, though there is one funny part near the end where Jackson realizes he undershot his mark a little and is still too old for sleepovers, but won't be tall enough to reach the magic-powder shelf for another five or six years. Still though, creepy.
Man on Fire
It's a rare actor who can believably pull of playing both Malcolm X and Richard Pryor (not in the same movie, though that would be kind of cool), but Denzel Washington wins that honor either by virtue of his talent or the fact that he's the only marketable black actor around for a dramatic leading role. Some might question the tasteless title of this Pryor biopic, or the slow-motion trailers that show the comedian running around with his shit all on fire, but few can argue that a film about Pryor wasn't overdue, and this one qualifies since it's got a character in it named Richard Pryor who is sort of vaguely like the real thing. My history may not be rock-solid here, but I'm pretty sure Richard Pryor didn't know karate in real life, if he did I'm nearly certain he would have used it in the movies more, because nothing sells like a funny black man who can kick some ass. Hollywood attempted many times to teach Eddie Murphy Ken-Po for this very purpose, but that went about as well as their attempts to teach Wesley Snipes to do impressions. Regardless of how much ass the real-life Pryor could kick, the Denzelified version boots much of it in Man on Fire, which covers up well for the fact that the filmmakers didn't bother to learn anything about Pryor before making the film. Though in truth the facts might have just got in the way of their desire to make a movie about a troubled CIA comedian who's followed around all the time by a creepy little white girl who sees dead people.
National Lampoon's Van Helsing
Have you ever wondered what you'd get if you crossed Dracula, Dead and Loving It, every monster movie ever, X-Men, Underworld, The Three Stooges and the Monsters of Rock pinball machine? You really have? Weird. I don't know what the chances of that are, but I'd imagine they'd have to be up there with the corpse of Adolph Hitler winning the Miss America swimsuit competition. You either wrote this movie or are totally out of your fucking mind. Anyway, somebody wondered, and then they made National Lampoon's Van Helsing in a desperate attempt to exorcize their demons and get some sleep at night. The results, I have to admit, are pretty fun, in an "I left my brain in my other pants" kind of way. Canadian wrestling legend and Teen Wolf, Too star Huge Ackman suits up as the title character, Venice Beach washout Van "Big Hat" Helsing, who is randomly pressed into service protecting the world from 100 years of movie villains using only open hand slaps, eye pokes, and that thing where you wiggle your hand in front of the guy's eyes up and down and then hit him with a wrench when he's mesmerized. In this role, Ackman proves he's got the range not only to act like he's got really funny hair, but to make you believe he's wearing a big, goofy hat as well.
New York Minute
Wow, an Olsen twins movie based on that crappy Don Henley song? Where do I stick the gun?
Well damn, America, looks like that's it. Looks like we've got so caught up in the viewing and reviewing that another column's passed us by. Don't let the same happen to you, America, be sure to take the time to stop and smell the roses, count the commas, whatever the hell you do when you're appreciating life and reading a movie review at the same time. Ciao.   |
