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"Sunfart" Wreaks Havoc on Earth October 27, 2003 |
Incriminating photograpic evidence of the embarrassing breech in solar etiquette “Yo I was tryin’ to ring up my girl for a booty call you know?” lamented cell-phone user Tyrell Keck. “But then the sun farted right in my face and my call got dropped and shit! Bam! Can’t believe that. Happens all the time with this shitty prepaid phone I got, but this time I got the sun’s stanky ass to blame. Ain’t right.” Thousands of cellular customers report...
powerful stream of energized gas and particles ejected from the sun last Friday may have a lingering effect on satellites and communications devices this week, scientistic men announced this morning. The coronal mass ejection, or “sunfart” as it is popularly known in the scientific community, reached Earth Friday afternoon, immediately making it clear that something was rotten in the state of Denmark. “Yo I was tryin’ to ring up my girl for a booty call you know?” lamented cell-phone user Tyrell Keck. “But then the sun farted right in my face and my call got dropped and shit! Bam! Can’t believe that. Happens all the time with this shitty prepaid phone I got, but this time I got the sun’s stanky ass to blame. Ain’t right.” Thousands of cellular customers reported dropped calls, and drug dealers the world over lost important pages as Earth passed through the solar wind stream. Several major television satellites also went on the fritz, with YoungBloodZ’s Damn! video appearing briefly on the History Channel during a segment on Nazi propaganda head Joseph Goebbels. According to men dressed like scientists, the sun occasionally unleashes powerful salvos of ionized gas that can cause beautiful aurora borealis as well as disrupt power grids and kill canaries if the gasses collide with Earth’s magnetic field. Sunfarts are classified on a scale of 1 to 5 like earthquakes or hurricanes, with a 1 meaning, “Is somebody cooking pork?” and a 5 being strong enough to curl hair and clear out a planet. Friday’s blast ranked a 3, which put it in the “God, Dad!” category. “Coronal holes, or what we like to call ‘corn holes,’ can leak out strong gusts of solar wind from time to time,” explained lab-coat-wearer Mark Carter. “And if one of those gusts is headed your planet’s way—look out!” Friday’s sunfart erupted rudely from a cluster of sunspots on the surface of the sun, and was rank like boiled cabbage. This giant dark patch, known as the solanus, had grown to the size of Jupiter in recent days as it slowly migrated across the face of the sun to a position where it faced Earth. Science fans stress that while it’s impossible to determine if the sunfart was aimed intentionally, the evidence doesn’t look good. “Look, all I’m saying is if a G-type star cut a big old nasty fart on my planet, and then was like ‘Who, me? I’m just the sun!’ I wouldn’t stand for it,” confided Ngu Ryon, not trying to start anything. “I’m just sayin’. Where’s the respect?” While seldom as ripe as the current solar air biscuit, sunfarts are not a rare occurrence. Airline navigational systems were temporarily knocked out when the sun cut the solar cheese in earth’s direction with eye-watering power in the year 2000. In 1989, one long, wet sunfart knocked out the power grid in Quebec, Canada, though the Canadian government initially blamed the power outage on a stray dog. Data indicates that earth should exit from the solar wind stream by week’s end, restoring satellite function but possibly damaging sales of the popular “Who Farted?” tee shirts featuring a picture of the sun that began to pop up over the weekend.
the commune news has always adhered to a strict “Whomever smelt it, dealt it!” policy regarding space phenomena, so we think these “scientists” have some explaining to do. Bludney Pludd earned lifelong office ignominy on his first day as a commune reporter when he blamed his vile, desk-rattling gas passage on a nearby mannequin that Omar Bricks had smuggled out of a J.C. Penny’s retail store.
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 June 13, 2005
You Are Cordially Insulted...Every one of you are cordially invited to attend the wedding of Rockwell T. Finger and Rutherford Ginger Baker this Sunday, at the Flatbush Mall of 'Merica. Invited, of course, as long as you actually receive one of those little cardboard notes saying you can come. They all should be in the mail by now, according to Ginger. They are handwritten, so we can save all the money for the honeymoon in Haiti. We are going there to save money for buying something we really want, like solid gold dollar-sign rims for our automobile.
If you haven't received an invitation, it probably means you're shit out of luck. We'll be sending out the shit-out-of-luck cards tomorrow, to verify to everyone. There are a lot of those. But fewer guests mean more catered food for us and our eight or nine close friends we invited.
Unfortunately, someone—I think that no-goodnik Omar Bricks, or probably one of those other many, many no-goodniks who work here, posted our wedding invitation on the commune bulletin board. Ginger doesn't believe many of them will come to the wedding anyway, since I'm generally hated here at the office, but we're serving fried baloney and hosting square dancing (with a real caller!) so you can imagine I'm fearing a rush of uninvited guests. Damn, I didn't want to have the squad dancing caller! Like putting an open bar at a wedding. But an old friend of mine from the Russian mob was available, so we decided to ask him.
It occurs to me...
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Every one of you are cordially invited to attend the wedding of Rockwell T. Finger and Rutherford Ginger Baker this Sunday, at the Flatbush Mall of 'Merica. Invited, of course, as long as you actually receive one of those little cardboard notes saying you can come. They all should be in the mail by now, according to Ginger. They are handwritten, so we can save all the money for the honeymoon in Haiti. We are going there to save money for buying something we really want, like solid gold dollar-sign rims for our automobile.
If you haven't received an invitation, it probably means you're shit out of luck. We'll be sending out the shit-out-of-luck cards tomorrow, to verify to everyone. There are a lot of those. But fewer guests mean more catered food for us and our eight or nine close friends we invited.
Unfortunately, someone—I think that no-goodnik Omar Bricks, or probably one of those other many, many no-goodniks who work here, posted our wedding invitation on the commune bulletin board. Ginger doesn't believe many of them will come to the wedding anyway, since I'm generally hated here at the office, but we're serving fried baloney and hosting square dancing (with a real caller!) so you can imagine I'm fearing a rush of uninvited guests. Damn, I didn't want to have the squad dancing caller! Like putting an open bar at a wedding. But an old friend of mine from the Russian mob was available, so we decided to ask him.
It occurs to me only now I probably shouldn't have contacted the Russian mob again at all, given they have tried to kill me in the past for turning state's evidence against them. Let alone invited them to the wedding. I was so excited I didn't think clearly when I made up my list. Oh, well. Hopefully they'll be the sentimental sort and let our murky histories with each other slide. It's a joyous occasion, after all.
My betrothed and I have decided to write our own vows. We got off to a rocky start, but I think it's going exceptionally well now. At first, I admit, I sort of confused the vows with New Year's resolutions, promising her I would cut out chocolate and lose ten pounds by Christmas. But she corrected me, and didn't even use violence—what a woman!
So then I wrote the vows I'm using. I promise to take her in sickness and health, as long as the health outweighs the sickness by an 85% margin. I also promised to buy her a little red wagon for putting things in and dragging them from place to place; I wanted one so badly when I was a kid, and I swore then that no wife of mine would ever do without one when she was hauling groceries home from the store or doing other work-oriented wife things. I also promised her ten cents on the dollar, should we ever divorce, which I think is a pretty fair deal. You try reading that in a mall full of loved ones and see if there's a dry eye in the food court. I doubt you could find one.
Also, she doesn't know this, but I snuck a peek at her vows, too, even though she wanted to keep them secret. If you'll excuse a little bragging, I also edited them pretty cleverly. Hers went on a little too much, talking about searching all her life for a man who really understood her and would treat her like a princess, blah, blah, blah—stuff everyone's heard before, and pretty cliché. I cut a lot of that down, and I also snuck in some sexy rejoinders, just to keep the crowd from falling asleep. Like, "I also pledge to be your eternal love slave, you handsome beefstick. I vow to do the nasty nightly." Not that I want nightly nasty. The wedding's just a show for the audience anyway.
So once again, I hope to see each and everyone of you there, because I love you all like my family. That is, if you're one of the selected few who are related to me. The rest of you just ignore all that, and whatever you do, don't come to the wedding. º Last Column: Abducted by Beatniksº more columns
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| November 29, 2004
The Passion of CamembertI address this column to roommate Camembert, my long-time friend Camembert, and my wheelchair-bound fellow adventurer Camembert, who has stood by me through every hardship, despite not being able to stand, and has never failed to follow me through thick and thin, mainly because he has had no choice. All these three are one person, make no mistake, in case you don't know. But what are you doing still reading this? It's for Camembert's bespectacled eyes only, I say.
I couldn't stand to sit across the breakfast table from you for this conversation, especially since after 11 a.m. it becomes the lunch table, and around 4 p.m., well, you know what happens, goddamn that dinner table. But this is a conversation that would have been quite embarrassing to hold with you, face to face, so I choose to spare you that discomfort by bringing it to you in my national column. Camembert, you are having very loud sex and it is starting to bug me.
Sure, at first I tried to turn a blind ear to it, until I discovered there is no such thing. I thought I would get used to it. I don't like to talk about sex as much as the next prude, and I never believed it would come to this. For one, I never believed you would have sex. I could handle the loud masturbation, the sound of bed springs squeaking loudly and the headboard bumping against the wall, and the ugly squishy sound permanently stuck in my memory. It was only three or four times a day, up to nine on the weekends, and...
º Last Column: The Costumer's Always Right
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I address this column to roommate Camembert, my long-time friend Camembert, and my wheelchair-bound fellow adventurer Camembert, who has stood by me through every hardship, despite not being able to stand, and has never failed to follow me through thick and thin, mainly because he has had no choice. All these three are one person, make no mistake, in case you don't know. But what are you doing still reading this? It's for Camembert's bespectacled eyes only, I say.
I couldn't stand to sit across the breakfast table from you for this conversation, especially since after 11 a.m. it becomes the lunch table, and around 4 p.m., well, you know what happens, goddamn that dinner table. But this is a conversation that would have been quite embarrassing to hold with you, face to face, so I choose to spare you that discomfort by bringing it to you in my national column. Camembert, you are having very loud sex and it is starting to bug me.
Sure, at first I tried to turn a blind ear to it, until I discovered there is no such thing. I thought I would get used to it. I don't like to talk about sex as much as the next prude, and I never believed it would come to this. For one, I never believed you would have sex. I could handle the loud masturbation, the sound of bed springs squeaking loudly and the headboard bumping against the wall, and the ugly squishy sound permanently stuck in my memory. It was only three or four times a day, up to nine on the weekends, and most of the time I could drown it out with a loud TV show. But my behavior is my own business, and what you do with your girlfriend is something else entirely.
I'm glad you met Girl Elvis, and I remind you I am the one who played the instrumental part in bringing you two together when I foolishly invited her to stay with us for as long as she wanted. Who knew she would? Her brazen mooching aside, I think you two make a very nice couple, though quite unsettling to see together in any fashion. At least you have companionship, and you have been good for her act with your Anne-Margaret impression. But the sex… once again, it's kept me awake one night too many.
Dating is one thing. Finding you two lip-locked on my couch in the evening, that's one thing, too. Together that's two things. But having loud, boisterous sex when someone else isn't having any, that's a third thing, and this third thing I will not stand for. You two will simply have to find an apartment or house or something, or perhaps some kind of sex booth available for rent or by-the-minute fees. I need to get some work done already!
By the way, Camembert, congratulations for "hitting it," as the young people say. I would have thought your lower-body paralysis would have negatively affected "li'l Rok," as I call it, but I'm impressed to find out differently. You should also be impressed I named your penis after myself. That's how much the little devil impresses me.
But again, back to the subject, this every night "bang bang bang" has got to stop. And I don't mean stop in a climax, like when you make that gurgling sound and Girl Elvis starts singing "Viva Las Vegas." I mean cease and desist, start being considerate of your housemates. After all, it is my commune employment which pays for nearly half of the cost of our mortgage.
I'll even make a deal with you, to play fair. Find somewhere else to do your nasty business and I'll only practice my bagpipes during the day, as you've asked for many weeks. But this offer is going fast, so deal quickly. Act now and I'll throw in a key to your room, so you can get in there when I'm not there. º Last Column: The Costumer's Always Rightº more columns
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Quote of the Day“If you can't stand the heat, turn down the goddamned heater.”
-Cheri S. TrumanFortune 500 CookieYou will find great happiness in wok. Be on the lookout for signs, they may guide you to riches or prevent you from driving on the railroad tracks. A large dog will determine your fate. Remember: Just a dab heals dry skin, but larger quantities can lube an entire baby. Lucky numbers: 0, 0, 0, 6.
Try again later.Worst Things to Yell in Church| 1. | "Who the hell I gotta fuck to get a communion wafer around here?" | | 2. | "Father, bless me for I have pissed the confessional again…" | | 3. | "Altar boy sleepover? Bitchin'!" | | 4. | "Gawd, did you see that dude up there nailed to that cross? Creeeep-y!" | | 5. | "Am I the only one here for the monster truck show?" | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 4/28/2003 Leave it to Hollywood, just when you think nothing good is coming out, all of a sudden nothing good really doesn't come out. Hopefully you can find a beach ball or some dirty playing cards or something to keep you busy while you're in the theater because trust me, you won't be there for the movies. Let's take a look under the hood.
In Theaters
Anger Management
Is there any specific reason they give Adam Sandler a different name for every movie he's in? It must have something to do with keeping the writers happy, like they'd feel too constrained if they had to just give up the ghost and call his "character" Adam Sandler every time. It certainly doesn't help Sandler's fans, who are constantly...
Leave it to Hollywood, just when you think nothing good is coming out, all of a sudden nothing good really doesn't come out. Hopefully you can find a beach ball or some dirty playing cards or something to keep you busy while you're in the theater because trust me, you won't be there for the movies. Let's take a look under the hood.
In Theaters
Anger Management
Is there any specific reason they give Adam Sandler a different name for every movie he's in? It must have something to do with keeping the writers happy, like they'd feel too constrained if they had to just give up the ghost and call his "character" Adam Sandler every time. It certainly doesn't help Sandler's fans, who are constantly turning to each other during his movies and having conversations like:
"Wait a minute, why do they keep calling Adam Sandler 'Barry'?"
"I don't know dude, watch and find out."
This latest flick is more of the same, though Sandler may have finally met his match in always-acting-the-same virtuoso Jack Nicholson. Strangely enough, Nicholson's character in the film isn't named Jack either, so I guess he's still harboring the same delusions after all these years.
Thankfully Jack at least provides us visual clues so we know we're not watching Sophie's Choice, because in this movie he wears a different hat. I think more actors should try this; George Clooney could really expand his range if he'd put on a sombrero every once in a while.
As for the film itself, it's your standard "boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy leaves giant dildo formed out of cheetos on girl's doorstep at night" picture, spiced up by a little rhyming dialogue. You could do worse, especially if you think Jamie Kennedy is funny.
Bulletproof Monkey
Looks like that voodoo priestess I paid to keep Sean William Scott out of any more movies has failed me yet again. Here he plays the annoying little monkey of the title, who steals Chow Yun-Fat's Asian accent, making it tough for him to find work in any half-assed knockoffs of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. The resulting film is sort of like a cross between Kangaroo Jack and having your girlfriend leave you for Bob Denver. It's better than Iron Monkey, the Beastie Boys' Brass Monkey and Pauley Shore's Ass Monkey, but that's kind of like saying getting kicked in the face is better than getting kicked in the taint.
Holes
Though they have probably the worst name ever for a teenage girl group (despite stiff competition from B*Witched and Gynotopia), Holes have always charmed with their angst-free songs about being young and spoiled. Was that enough to justify a feature-length film? Of course not, but nobody really believed the caning of the Spice Girls in Singapore was really going to be the deterrent that kept some soulless hack trying to pull this crap again. The supporting cast of John "Must've Had Sex with Some Kind of Goddess to Produce Angelina Jolie" Voight and Segourney "No Matter How You Spell My Name It Still Doesn't Look Right" Weaver keep the proceedings mildly respectable while Holes travels around the world trying to discover why some people are ugly. If this movie were a beverage, it would be a can full of air, but it's not like the target audience has ever heard of thinking.
House of 1000 Islands
Rob Zombie's obviously a big fan of salad dressing, and it shows in this reverent homage to many of the masters of the medium. Throughout the film you'll see people eating salads with blue cheese, Italian vinaigrette, honey mustard, all the big names. There's kind of a tacked-on horror angle to the picture where the guy running the restaurant is really making the dressing out of kidnapped cheerleaders and surplus members of boy bands, but I wouldn't get too wrapped up in that side of the film. If you like watching people eat salad, you'll like this movie.
Identity
Look, unless David Lynch in involved, I just don't accept "the Hamburgler did it" as the resolution to any film. Sorry. I was willing to let the film try again to get it right, but it just ended instead, so piss on this movie. Yeah, sure, I'll stare at John Cusack for two hours, because I'm in a good mood and I already bought a soda. I'll even buy Ray Liotta in a role where he doesn't have a coke problem, sure. But the whole strangers in a room/lights go out/a woman screams/lights go up and--somebody fucked the cat!--angle is just tired. Been done too many times, and it was done better the last time I played Clue. They should have blamed it all on the ghost of Abraham Lincoln. Nobody ever sees that one coming.
And that's all we've go to report as of right now. Word on the street is that there are several more crappy movies in production as… we… speak… so we'll have the latest on those as soon as they crap themselves into the theater. If you're like me, you hope to develop a drinking problem before then, to ease the pain. Best of luck to both of us. Bottoms up America!    |
