|  | 
February 9, 2004 |
President Bush (inset) makes eerie noises to underscore the pressing danger of the rogue M64 galaxy aced with tough questions about the economy and pre-war intelligence failures this week, President Bush interrupted a press conference Thursday with an unusual display of astronomical panic.
âLook! Up in the sky!â shouted Bush, pointing upward in mock terror. âWeâre all going to die!â
According to White House press secretary Scott McClellan, the airborne terror President Bush cringed beneath before darting out of the room was the âEvil Eyeâ galaxy, a distant cluster of stars recently photographed by the Hubble space telescope, which according to Bush staffers will soon spell our mortal demise.
âThe President cannot stress enough the importance of putting aside divisive squabbling involving lost jobs or unnecessary invasions,â ...
aced with tough questions about the economy and pre-war intelligence failures this week, President Bush interrupted a press conference Thursday with an unusual display of astronomical panic.
âLook! Up in the sky!â shouted Bush, pointing upward in mock terror. âWeâre all going to die!â
According to White House press secretary Scott McClellan, the airborne terror President Bush cringed beneath before darting out of the room was the âEvil Eyeâ galaxy, a distant cluster of stars recently photographed by the Hubble space telescope, which according to Bush staffers will soon spell our mortal demise.
âThe President cannot stress enough the importance of putting aside divisive squabbling involving lost jobs or unnecessary invasions,â explained McClellan. âOur very lives may be in his hands this day, and itâs time for the American people to band together with the president, now and through this coming November to repel this terrible threat to the American way of life.â
All available scientists and high-school educated adults have dismissed the presidentâs claims that the Messier 64 galaxy, known as the âEvil Eyeâ for an unusual appearance caused by stars and interstellar gas rotating in opposite directions, will within the next ten months attempt to suck the United States of America off the globe like a small child sucking the sticker off an orange. While no scientific evidence exists to suggest this is even the remotest of possibilities, President Bush remains steadfast in his message.
âHoly shit, run for your lives!â Bush screamed before ducking out of the room during a press conference on Saturday, shortly after being asked to reconcile conflicting statements heâd made about rolling back last yearâs tax cuts.
Political pundits have observed that Bushâs obsession with the M64 galaxy began shortly after the results of a recent AP poll were released, showing the president had taken a sharp nosedive in public opinion after a month of Democratic presidential candidates pointing out his ample flaws. For the first time during Bushâs term, polls showed more Americans likely to vote against the president than for him, and similar polls showed Bush losing to Democratic presidential hopeful and dead man walking John Kerry in head-to-head voting. Bush staffers refute these claims, however, pointing out that Poles are unreliable and often the butt of stereotypical humor.
Other results of the AP polls show Bushâs numbers across the board as down sharply from one month ago, signaling that the presidentâs attempts to distract voters with fantastical tales of moon bases and Mars adventures were largely unsuccessful and kind of silly.
âObviously putting a man on Mars didnât turn peopleâs cranks as much as the president had hoped,â commented political strategist Vaughn Casey. âSo Bush has wisely returned to his âGreatest Hitsâ playbook in an effort to parlay national paranoia into a second term. Itâs a longshot, sure, but if the president could convince average Americans that Al Qaeda actually posed a serious threat in their everyday lives, then I suppose some kind of sucking space monster isnât really a giant leap of faith from there.â
Further requests to question the president as to the scientific basis of his fears were turned down on the grounds that Messier 64 might be listening. the commune news must admit, weâve been terrified of galaxies ever since owning a 1961 Ford Galaxie with a bum transmission in the late 80âs. Lil Duncan is the communeâs Washington correspondent and resident joie di vie, which we think is French for hose hound.
 | Search for Bin Laden made into fun scavenger hunt
Saudi Arabian royal impersonator pardons self
 Bush's MySpace Page Traffic Way Down Whale-dolphin hybrid born to overeager whale, traumatized dolphin
|
Black Friday Sales Slow; Black People Blamed he nations African-American community had to bear another injustice over the weekend as it was revealed the sales on their own personal super-saving shopping event, Black Friday, were moderate at best. Undoubtedly, the responsibility for the lower-than-projected sales will fall squarely on the shoulders of the black community. Sales were not as high as initially expected, announced economical tool and white person spokesperson Neil Van Hurst of Columbia Universitys School of Business. This is owed mostly to continuing downward spending trends in recent holiday seasons. And its all the fault of black people, Van Hurst all but said. Child Left Behind recent round of standardized DMAS testing in Americas elementary schools has revealed that in spite of President Bushs ambitious No Child Left Behind education policy, at least one American child has been left way the fuck behind. I dont 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 months DMAS, a feat previously thought mathematically impossible. Female Sex Patch Nothing But Dermal Tequila Shooters Constipation Drug Pulled; Results Not Shitty Enough |
|  |
 | 
 October 1, 2001
Where the Fuck's Jesus?As you may have heard from the local townsfolk, or from those smartalec kids who hang out in front of the TruValue over on fifth and Wayne, I've dedicated my life to a search for Jesus. For years I have searched far and wide, from the highest peaks to the deepest valleys, deep under the polar icecap and at the bottom of the mariana trench. I've looked in closets, I've looked under rugs, picnic tables and once even inside the girls' dressing room at a Foxy Boxing match. I've scoured the bus stops, the zoos and the trendy bars of our fair land and all of my searching has left me with but one question: Where the fuck's Jesus?
I mean, maybe I heard wrong, but he did say he was coming back, didn't he? I seem to remember something along those lines, maybe it was "Save my seat dude, I gotta whiz!" or maybe it was something a bit more poetic, but I was left with the distinct impression that he'd be draggin' his sorry ass back here sooner or later. And I'm about out of places to look.
Over the years there have been times when I thought I'd found him, but impostor Jesusi they were, every last one of them. Bogus Jesusitos. I was fairly sure I'd found him back in 1984 but then that guy ended up smoking all of my weed and sleeping with my sister, so I had to throw him out. I know, I know, whatever you do unto the least of my brothers, yadda yadda yadda. Well, in that case, Jesus got a Birkenstock crammed halfway up his ass that day.
And don't even...
º Last Column: When's God Gonna Quit Bustin' My Balls? º more columns
As you may have heard from the local townsfolk, or from those smartalec kids who hang out in front of the TruValue over on fifth and Wayne, I've dedicated my life to a search for Jesus. For years I have searched far and wide, from the highest peaks to the deepest valleys, deep under the polar icecap and at the bottom of the mariana trench. I've looked in closets, I've looked under rugs, picnic tables and once even inside the girls' dressing room at a Foxy Boxing match. I've scoured the bus stops, the zoos and the trendy bars of our fair land and all of my searching has left me with but one question: Where the fuck's Jesus?
I mean, maybe I heard wrong, but he did say he was coming back, didn't he? I seem to remember something along those lines, maybe it was "Save my seat dude, I gotta whiz!" or maybe it was something a bit more poetic, but I was left with the distinct impression that he'd be draggin' his sorry ass back here sooner or later. And I'm about out of places to look.
Over the years there have been times when I thought I'd found him, but impostor Jesusi they were, every last one of them. Bogus Jesusitos. I was fairly sure I'd found him back in 1984 but then that guy ended up smoking all of my weed and sleeping with my sister, so I had to throw him out. I know, I know, whatever you do unto the least of my brothers, yadda yadda yadda. Well, in that case, Jesus got a Birkenstock crammed halfway up his ass that day.
And don't even get me started about latino guys named Jesus. I fell for that one a few dozen times too many and even spent most of the late 80's running guns down in Panama with Jesus and his brother Chuy. He may not have been a member of the holy trinity, but lord knows the real Jesus never saw that kind of money curing lepers and the blind and all that noise.
Probably my worst near-Jesus experience was when I thought I'd found him back in '79, but it turned out the guy was really the Phoenix Kindergarten Killer, that guy who was abducting all the little kids and filling Tylenol bottles with their teeth, then sneaking the bottles back onto the shelves at K-Mart. I very nearly had to do some jail time over that one, when the police discovered that he was making muppet dolls out of their corpses and putting on a live-action variety show in my basement. Hell, I just thought the savior had some strange friends, y'know? I mean, who questions the son of God, anyway? You want to end up out in a cornfield with your head on a jack-in-the-box or something?
I'm sad to say, it looks like my latest potential Jesus is turning out to be a big disappointment as well. No corpse-puppets or anything (so far) but all he seems to do is lay on the couch and watch Happy Days. I also think he's been chowing down on my Chips Ahoy while I'm at work, so unless he starts turning water to wine some time soon I'm going to have to ask him if he can stay with his sister.
Frankly, I'm getting a little tired of this shit. If Jesus was going to take this goddamn long, he could have at least phoned ahead to tell us not to wait up. Personally, I'm petitioning my church to change their daily prayer from "Our lord in heaven who art merciful and kind" to "Dude! You fucking fall in or something?" I suggest you do the same. º Last Column: When's God Gonna Quit Bustin' My Balls?º more columns
| 
|  June 27, 2005
I Plead "Not Guilty" to the Charge of Breeding VelocimonkeysThat's right, your honor, you heard the title. I've prepared this statement in my defense because this country's legal system is inherently biased against the kind of "shock and awe" courtroom antics that would most memorably and quickly prove my innocence, and so I've been forced to make humble words, and periodic karate gestures, my servants. I stand here before you today a man innocent of the baseless accusations that I personally bred and trained a small army of vicious and lightning-quick monkeys to keep government ninjas out of my house.
These charges are untrue, your honor, and I bear no responsibility for the power company meter reader who was torn to shreds by these cunning, genetically-modified apes. The berserk primates that witnesses saw fleeing my home on May 17th had invaded my innocent dwelling only moments before, possibly descending by rope from a blimp, or creating an elaborate series of underground tunnels leading to my basement, or possibly both.
The prosecution will be calling two witnesses, Reginald "Dickface" Tungstein and Charlize "Dirty Lying Bitch" Overborn, who are both professional liars hired to gain my trust, plant monkey-breeding evidence in my home, and to fake video footage of me running frighteningly-swift killer monkeys though training drills in my own back yard. Neither of these individuals, you will note, has ever seen the movie Congo. As your honor obviously knows, this seriously calls into question...
º Last Column: My Fucking Living Will Just Died º more columns
That's right, your honor, you heard the title. I've prepared this statement in my defense because this country's legal system is inherently biased against the kind of "shock and awe" courtroom antics that would most memorably and quickly prove my innocence, and so I've been forced to make humble words, and periodic karate gestures, my servants. I stand here before you today a man innocent of the baseless accusations that I personally bred and trained a small army of vicious and lightning-quick monkeys to keep government ninjas out of my house.
These charges are untrue, your honor, and I bear no responsibility for the power company meter reader who was torn to shreds by these cunning, genetically-modified apes. The berserk primates that witnesses saw fleeing my home on May 17th had invaded my innocent dwelling only moments before, possibly descending by rope from a blimp, or creating an elaborate series of underground tunnels leading to my basement, or possibly both.
The prosecution will be calling two witnesses, Reginald "Dickface" Tungstein and Charlize "Dirty Lying Bitch" Overborn, who are both professional liars hired to gain my trust, plant monkey-breeding evidence in my home, and to fake video footage of me running frighteningly-swift killer monkeys though training drills in my own back yard. Neither of these individuals, you will note, has ever seen the movie Congo. As your honor obviously knows, this seriously calls into question their knowledge of killer ape matters and the relevance of their testimony. Also, "Dickface" Tungstein once slept with my ex-girlfriend. Draw your own conclusions from that.
And I'm sure your honor will also be hearing a lot about these so-called "Velocimonkeys." That they have eyes dark as night and slender, scheming fingers. That I bred them by crossing insane howler monkeys with a Tasmanian devil. That when cornered, they go for the nuts like a nut-hungry piranha, and that three of them can skeletonize a bull in fourteen seconds. That at night, they sing beautiful, high harmonies to lure in birds and children for snack and sport.
I'm sure you'll also be hearing that after they tore the meter reader into confetti, the Velocimonkeys escaped, terrorizing a Dairy Queen and hijacking a 1998 Toyota Camry moments before driving it off a nearby bridge and into the river, where they all drowned at an alarming rate of speed. That no Velocimonkey bodies were ever found, because I rescued them with scuba gear and a tuna net, bringing them home and locking them in a titanium footlocker in my basement that nobody knows about. These charges and more, your honor, are horseshit times three.
I saw these monkeys, your honor, as they invaded my home while I was praying and working on the cure for childhood cancer, and I didn't think they were all that. I even hit one with a bottle of scotch and it was clearly phased, as all normal monkeys are when hit with booze. It wouldn't surprise me if that meter reader in fact suffered from a medical condition that predisposed him to falling apart like sloppy joe meat when threatened by apes.
Furthermore, your honor, in my defense I plan on exposing the powerful racism at work within our local police force. This case is clearly less about the facts and more about my Dutch-Irish heritage, and the painful stereotypes that persist about the Dutch-Irish and their love of breeding killer primate hybrids with a taste for blood. This is the case that might very well change the way we think about race in this country, and hopefully it will do so in the next 34 minutes since I've got tickets for Nickelback. Case dismissed. º Last Column: My Fucking Living Will Just Diedº more columns
|

|  |
Quote of the Day“Early to bed and early to rise make a man healthy, wealthy, and in total compliance with puritan mores. All others will be stoned to death, just as soon as they wake up.”
-Dan FranklinFortune 500 CookieYou are the jovial type who would gladly eat shit and ask for more, which will serve you well in the coming year, what with the shovel fork you got for Christmas. But for the sake of Buddha, remember to pack a roll of Certs. Lucky numbers 33, 57, 89, 105.
Try again later.Top Unsigned Retro 70s Funk Bands| 1. | Captain Dance and His Delicious Groove Posse | | 2. | Shithouse Delight | | 3. | The Unfuckables | | 4. | Danny Gyrate Presents Sensual Musk | | 5. | The Wonder Holes | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Bran Downey 11/1/2004 The Secrets of MichelangeloA ruggedly-handsome, sensitively masculine, manly-beautiful pseudo-archaeologist in his mid-30s, Professor Couth Banger walked right past the Italian police tape and into the Sistine Chapel. He had been here plenty of times, but he never failed to be awed by the roof painting. But he wasnât here to admire artâhe was here to admire the murder.
"You musta be Professor a-Banger," said a tall, thin detective. He had a thick mustache and no hair, like Mussolini, but spoke fluent English, except for a humiliating dialect. "Thereâs-a da dead man-a, right up-a there."
Banger directed his attention to a man, dead, swinging from a rope from the ceiling. The rope came right down through Godâs navel. What a shame. That had been Bangerâs favorite part of the...
A ruggedly-handsome, sensitively masculine, manly-beautiful pseudo-archaeologist in his mid-30s, Professor Couth Banger walked right past the Italian police tape and into the Sistine Chapel. He had been here plenty of times, but he never failed to be awed by the roof painting. But he wasnât here to admire artâhe was here to admire the murder.
"You musta be Professor a-Banger," said a tall, thin detective. He had a thick mustache and no hair, like Mussolini, but spoke fluent English, except for a humiliating dialect. "Thereâs-a da dead man-a, right up-a there."
Banger directed his attention to a man, dead, swinging from a rope from the ceiling. The rope came right down through Godâs navel. What a shame. That had been Bangerâs favorite part of the painting.
"Yeah, itâs nice, but is it art?" quipped Banger, with a self-satisfied smirk. Then, seriously, he asked a question. "Iâm a little confused, Detective Typecastio. Iâm an eminent researcher on gang signs and graffiti. Some would say, an expert on hidden meanings and secret in artwork. What does this have to do with me?"
"We-a found a disturbing note-a, with-a da body. Here." He passed the vital crime evidence to the stranger who had just walked into the room. "We appreciate-a you-a coming from America so fast. We have-a held da crime-a scene for-a three days now. Itâs-a highly irregular, but-a what da hell. Iâm-a up on racketeering charges next-a week anyway."
The note read: "Fuck you, Johnny. If you donât want pizza, weâll just the rest of us get one and you can fucking eat whatever you want."
Banger furrowed his sexy brow. "Itâs a⌠code. Of some kind. You were right to call me. I think this note says more than it means. In fact, I think this entire murder fits well into my lifelong obsession with the art of Michelangelo." The professor studied the ceiling again, looking past the stiff dead man swinging like a hard-on in the wind.
Hours went by, and the cryptic message didnât quite reveal itself. Then, suddenly, like a tiger on a school child, it sprang on Banger: He had uncovered one of Michelangeloâs secrets.
"Shit for breakfast!" exclaimed Banger. "Look!"
The detective, who had been napping while standing up, instantly awoke and followed Bangerâs pointing finger.
"That angel in the background⌠that one right there, third from the left in that one picture."
"Is that an angel or a clown?"
"An angel, Iâm pretty sure. Look! Heâs trying to fit his whole hand in his mouth. When I first saw it, I thought maybe he was just retarded. In fact, usually when I come to see the Sistine Chapel, I usually just look at the penises, Iâve never noticed that angel. But what ifâŚ"
Banger raced across the floor, pulling the keys to his plane from his pocket. "Iâve got to fly to Paris, immediately!"
"They wonât let you in at this hour, if you just want to stare at Davidâs penis."
"No, I donât have time for that tonight," said Banger, over his shoulder. "I think Iâm onto the biggest conspiracy in the entire history of the twenty-first century!"
For more of this great story, buy Bran Downeyâs novel
The Secrets of Michelangelo   |