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 April 11, 2005 |
Ames, IA Bolchek University Microscope Weirdo foreign virus responsible for Marburg haemorrhagic fever, too much of a scaredy puss to butt heads with corn-fed U.S.A. DNA.
The news comes as a great relief to weary earth-dwellers in the United States, as word came of a deadly Ebola-like virus continuing its rampage through Angola, some country most Americans aren't familiar with in Africa. The World Health Organization (WHO, sometimes known as the Teenage Wasteland Group) announced shortly before the Bolchek press release that 173 people in Angola have died from the viru...
report released Friday disclosed that savage viruses that shred most human flesh and destroy normal mortal bodies will not even mess with people on American soil. The study, researched at Bolchek University in Ames, Iowa, and financed by the American Family First organization, had been going on for more than five weeks when it made its findings public in Friday's press release.
The news comes as a great relief to weary earth-dwellers in the United States, as word came of a deadly Ebola-like virus continuing its rampage through Angola, some country most Americans aren't familiar with in Africa. The World Health Organization (WHO, sometimes known as the Teenage Wasteland Group) announced shortly before the Bolchek press release that 173 people in Angola have died from the virus known as Marburg, and four more non-U.S. countries have been placed on the warning list.
News media assured American citizens the country will be alright, since they have something of a track record for surviving problems without U.S. intervention, and have even survived some caused by them.
The Bolchek study findings, however, provided a large relief from worry about viral invasions by other dangerous contagions such as Marberg and Ebola, including CCHF, Dengue, SARS, Lassa fever, and the Kinks. According to research, done in Bolchek's famous $3 million Sid Caesar Facility, virus cells, when given the choice between healthy cells of different nationalities, will always shy away from American DNA.
"It's totally awesome," said project head, 18-year-old super-genius Nills Van Raftan. "We stumbled on it a bit by accident. We were testing the effect of Ebola on the blood cells of African mice—since we wanted to save the American mice for better experiments—when one of the team members had a nosebleed and accidentally contaminated the sample. Imagine our surprise when we saw the Ebola contagions were scared shitless of messing with the American cells. And who can blame 'em?"
If the results are verified, and frankly nobody's doubting the outcome of a second test much, it answers a great number of questions for the world's nerdy virus-following community. Such as why have SARS and Mad Cow and other disease variants been too chickenshit to mess with the U.S. of A.?
"For any number of reasons," posited spindly weakling Van Raftan, "virus cells simply will not infect American cells, at least those of the United States. It could be because U.S. cells don't brook backtalk from foreign viruses. But, if my personification of American cells is way off, it might also be because viruses know that if they mess with American cells, they're risking a massive investment of money in destroying their asses. They can work their way through Africa, Asia, and even Eastern Europe for years, and we'll leave them alone—but first time they start infecting Americans on American soil, they're on our list. Companies even drop all the new dick pill technology they're working on and concentrate on the hot new market for pharmaceuticals to keep Americans healthier than foreigners."
When asked about AIDS, a virus long plaguing even American citizens, Van Raftan made a squeal, smiled sheepishly with his braces on display, and shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe some viruses are retarded. But it does give us something to work on when we get frustrated with erection research." the commune news owes its exceptional health to a lifetime of jogging, swimming, and eating right, as well as refusing to drink unknown substances from petri dishes. Mordecai "Three-Finger" Brown owes his long afterlife to the fact he died years ago.
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Australian record industry cracks down on mate-to-mate file-swapping
Weepy NASA: Rover ran away; not coming back
Poll: If election was held today, Bush would steal it
 Sharon Still in Coma, Phyllis Still Total Slutbag |
Iraq blah blah blah Suicide blah blah blah Dead Big Whup: Whale Swims Across the English Channel Heather Graham’s Career Found Dead in Apartment Polish Roof Falls in Following “Drinks Are on the House” Debacle |
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 May 13, 2002
Prohibition Here We ComeRegular readers of this column know me to be neither rash nor impulsive. So when I say that we need to bring back the eighteenth amendment (or whatever it was) and once again prohibit the sale of alcohol to minors in this country, you know that I've given the shit some serious thought.
Plain and simple, something has to be done about these slack-ass teenagers who drink until all hours of the night and then pass out on my doorstep. They buy lousy booze and almost always finish the bottle, and half the time they get into fights with my friends who have also passed out drunk in the doorway. And I don't think I need to tell you, commune reader, that when you wake up at the crack of eleven with a hangover the size of Elvis Presley's sweaty liver and shit all the way up the back of your shirt, the last thing in the world you want to see is Regis Philbin French-kissing a sheep. Egads, right?
But after that, the second-to-last things you want to see are a couple of fifteen year-olds arguing about who would win in a fight between Korn and the Doors. Because even though you know the answer is obviously the Doors, those dumbass kids don't listen to reason and they don't realize that Ray Manzarek knew judo. But that's their own problem and hopefully for them they'll never get caught talking smack during a book signing for Light My Fire at Borders or something and have to learn the hard, ass-flattening oriental smackdown way.
Now don't get...
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Regular readers of this column know me to be neither rash nor impulsive. So when I say that we need to bring back the eighteenth amendment (or whatever it was) and once again prohibit the sale of alcohol to minors in this country, you know that I've given the shit some serious thought.
Plain and simple, something has to be done about these slack-ass teenagers who drink until all hours of the night and then pass out on my doorstep. They buy lousy booze and almost always finish the bottle, and half the time they get into fights with my friends who have also passed out drunk in the doorway. And I don't think I need to tell you, commune reader, that when you wake up at the crack of eleven with a hangover the size of Elvis Presley's sweaty liver and shit all the way up the back of your shirt, the last thing in the world you want to see is Regis Philbin French-kissing a sheep. Egads, right?
But after that, the second-to-last things you want to see are a couple of fifteen year-olds arguing about who would win in a fight between Korn and the Doors. Because even though you know the answer is obviously the Doors, those dumbass kids don't listen to reason and they don't realize that Ray Manzarek knew judo. But that's their own problem and hopefully for them they'll never get caught talking smack during a book signing for Light My Fire at Borders or something and have to learn the hard, ass-flattening oriental smackdown way.
Now don't get all carried away popping words in my mouth that I didn't cough up first myself, I'm not saying I want a return to the rum-running, big-fat-gangster days of the twenties. From what I've heard those guys were serious assholes who would kill a man for farting out an open window. Or something, they had some kind of bizarre code of ethics that nobody understood. Bottom line is people got tommy-gunned and baseball-batted left and right and it was just generally an ugly scene all around.
Nobody today needs that, especially not over a couple of fuzzy-faced high school geeks getting cranked on a case of expired Zimas. But can't we do something about all of these kids riding their bikes around with a case of beer balanced on the handlebars? That's got to be some kind of public-safety hazard or at least bad for Budweiser's image. Whatever happened to teenagers sniffing glue or whiteout or huffing furniture polish, anyway? Since when is that not good enough for them? Now we've got to put up with all of these twist-n-win contests for Britney Spears tickets printed on bottle caps of Red Dog, not to mention having to wade through rack after rack of different packs of Pokemon cigarettes to find some Marlboros. That's some serious bullshit and we're fresh out of shinola.
Aren't teenagers supposed to be out cramming for their SATs or getting knocked up or something? Alcohol should be reserved for adults, or at least all of the good stuff. If they want to sell their overstock of Lucky Duck Ale or Sgt. Zippertongue's to kids who are too dumb to know better then that's their business, I guess. But good alcohol should be reserved for adults who know how to drink responsibly, and how to line up your thumbs on the steering wheel with the lane markings so you don't drive into a ditch or a condo. The last time I checked they don't teach that shit in Driver's Ed, and kids have to drive into a few IHOPs in the dead of night or take out a Taco Bell Drive-Thru before they figure that trick out and make the transition into responsible adult drinker-drivers.
Don't get me wrong, I'm all for the rights of kids and all of that happy-assed bullshit myself, and it's not like I want mandatory explosive tracking collars like in that Schwarzenegger movie. Nobody under the age of 40 wants that. Though that would make going to the mall more fun, especially if by some fuck-up they ran on the same frequency as those car door keychain clickers. Damn! But the simple truth of the matter is that there are just some experiences that come with age that can't be bypassed. Rites of passage like backing your car at fifty miles an hour through a carwash at two in the morning because your buddy didn't believe you'd do it, and then you realize he was passed out so you have to smack him awake and do it again. Experiences like that build character, and character should be rewarded with the right to drink and discount rates on auto-body repair.
So, before we're all reduced to drinking our beer from a little foil pouch with a straw, let's take a minute and write to our Senators, demanding that they reinstate the eighteenth amendment. Or whatever it was. Bricks out. º Last Column: Time to Check Up on Tunisiaº more columns
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|  September 6, 2004
Rok Finger: Not HotAs many of you good people may know, I am a small man, but I am overfilled with confidence. I move with a sureness many others in the world lack—whether justified or not, I am secure in every single thing I do and have ever done. Of course, like most people, I may have a few regrets here and there, but what is important at heart is I don’t regret anything I’ve ever done. Perfect? No, I’m afraid not. But I come damn close. All except one gargantuan elephant-in-the-room exception: My appearance.
Yes, whether it’s my miniscule, stocky body or the train wreck sitting on my shoulders that is mockingly called my face, I am a hideous man. Or, as my ex-wife Arvelyn used to say, before the divorce, I am insecure about my looks. Since the divorce she calls me Leatherface. So I prefer to remember before the divorce. And you know, I thought—she’s right. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with my features, at least not individually, even if they make a nauseating mess in the specific way they’re compiled. I merely lack the confidence in my looks to enjoy them.
It’s not my fault I feel bad about the way I look. Years of screams and crying children have made me believe I am not easy on the eyes. Like whiny women complain, I have been held up to unrealistic images presented in the media, or in my case, everyone else in the world surrounding me. If it were not for the people standing by, silently declaring differently, I would be quite a...
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As many of you good people may know, I am a small man, but I am overfilled with confidence. I move with a sureness many others in the world lack—whether justified or not, I am secure in every single thing I do and have ever done. Of course, like most people, I may have a few regrets here and there, but what is important at heart is I don’t regret anything I’ve ever done. Perfect? No, I’m afraid not. But I come damn close. All except one gargantuan elephant-in-the-room exception: My appearance. Yes, whether it’s my miniscule, stocky body or the train wreck sitting on my shoulders that is mockingly called my face, I am a hideous man. Or, as my ex-wife Arvelyn used to say, before the divorce, I am insecure about my looks. Since the divorce she calls me Leatherface. So I prefer to remember before the divorce. And you know, I thought—she’s right. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with my features, at least not individually, even if they make a nauseating mess in the specific way they’re compiled. I merely lack the confidence in my looks to enjoy them. It’s not my fault I feel bad about the way I look. Years of screams and crying children have made me believe I am not easy on the eyes. Like whiny women complain, I have been held up to unrealistic images presented in the media, or in my case, everyone else in the world surrounding me. If it were not for the people standing by, silently declaring differently, I would be quite a handsome man. Well, that may be going too far, but I at least wouldn’t notice I frighten animals. I might even be able to destroy all the world’s mirrors and reflective surfaces and forget the plight covering my skull. But enough of this sad-sack moping, I thought. I have spent too many years assuming the worst about my mug, and it was high time I proved the world at large wrong. The opportunity came with a cable that runs right into my house. Yes, since moving back to these United States, we have acquired the Inter-Net in my house. If you haven’t received it yet, you should really look into it. Ask your doctor, or whoever needs to be asked about getting it. In addition to receiving great offers for mortgages at reduced interest rates and exciting new pornography, the Inter-Net is a great source of information. In my case, I can post my pictures on websites and find out how I rate on the "Hot/Not Hot" scale. I didn’t even know there was such a scale until a routine search for Tabasco products enlightened me. What a tool! That’s how the Inter-Net installer Mitch referred to it. Or possibly to me, the specificity was quite uncertain. But I agree, with the former. The Inter-Net finally allows anonymous strangers to tell each other they completely conform to society’s expectations. No more needless posturing about the substance of a person. We can now know instantly whether or not we’re desirable in ways that people really care about. Some disagreeable people—hippies—might tell us the inner beauty of a person really matters. Get real. How many sites on the Inter-Net rate your personality? I don’t care. I’m not interested. All Rok Finger needed to know was: Hot or Not? Well, I’m not. Not hot. Not at all. Quite amazingly non-hot, according to the numerical ratings. Some of the weaker-stomach sites refused to even post my pictures. The "thong of the day" site filed a lawsuit just for my mailing Polaroids. It’s a hard, brutal truth, like a White Castle hamburger, very difficult to swallow. But I’m tough, and forget many things quickly. I’ll find a way to suck up my misery and get past it. In fact, I think as a treat to myself I’ll order that Inter-Net that everyone’s been talking about. º Last Column: Camembert in Loveº more columns
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Quote of the Day“The good die first. Then, the not-so good. Then the ugly. Strike that, the ugly should die first. Can I start again? If there are any good left, don't kill them yet, we've still got some uglies over here.”
-Billiam SwordswartFortune 500 CookieThe next time you give a dog as a gift, why don't you try poking some holes in the cellophane, ay handyman? Here's something to chew on: gum. Remember: you can't hurry love, but you can get your ass in motion when you're blocking the express lane, chunky. This week's lucky ducks: Donald, Daffy, Dontrelle, Fukka.
Try again later.Top 5 commune Features This Week| 1. | How Do You Keep a Moron in Suspense? | | 2. | Uncle Macho's Naked Lunch | | 3. | Grenades Are from Granada and other Historical Nuggets | | 4. | Raoul Dunkin: Pussyfoot | | 5. | The Best of Wrinkly Raisin Breasts | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 11/12/2001 Well, it seems that another two weeks have passed us by, leaving some of us wiser and others of us with a burn in the shape of an exhaust pipe on our ankle. I've found myself especially reflective this week, wondering at the marvelous ballet of life, the opera of death, and the wine-tasting of being in a coma. Heady thoughts for a movie review column, I know, but it's best not to forget that should we ever doze off at the wheel of our Bonneville and drive into a lake, we might end up in a coma. And on that day we stop watching the movies… and the movies start watching us. I'll let you chew on that for a while whilst we go about our business with this week's edition of "Ask Roland":
Q. Roland, in light of the events on September 11th, do you think we've seen...
Well, it seems that another two weeks have passed us by, leaving some of us wiser and others of us with a burn in the shape of an exhaust pipe on our ankle. I've found myself especially reflective this week, wondering at the marvelous ballet of life, the opera of death, and the wine-tasting of being in a coma. Heady thoughts for a movie review column, I know, but it's best not to forget that should we ever doze off at the wheel of our Bonneville and drive into a lake, we might end up in a coma. And on that day we stop watching the movies… and the movies start watching us. I'll let you chew on that for a while whilst we go about our business with this week's edition of "Ask Roland":
Q. Roland, in light of the events on September 11th, do you think we've seen the end of the "Age of Irony"? Is it even possible to be ironic in the current national climate? And what will this mean for the lowest-common-denominator comedic filmmakers of the last few years?
Ted Huxley, Angel's Rump, New Hampshire
A. Good question, Ted. But I'm afraid I'm going to have to split with the consensus here and predict that the "Age of Irony" is far from over. After all, what's an action film without Arnold's menacing, irony stare after the bad guy feeds his entire family to a cannibalistic new-age cult? And who would bother to watch a Christina Aguilera video if her taut, irony thighs were not on display for all to see? I predict that the "irony" look has a lot more mileage left in it, and that it's only real threat is from the also-popular "steely" look, not the long-awaited release of the "Dr Who: The Robots of Death" DVD on September 11th.
Q. I'm so close, Roland. Years ago I realized that someone—or someTHING was trying to communicate with me during ABC's movie of the week. It all started years back when I was watching "Another 48 Hours" on a Sunday evening, enjoying Murphy and Nolte's comical misadventures. During one especially funny scene, where Nolte is mad at Murphy from some bone-headed thing or another, I noticed a distinct pattern of beeping during their dialogue. It took me a while to figure it out, but then suddenly it dawned on me: Morse code. What the devil could this mean? A subliminal subtext to the film? A secret message for the eagle-eared? I had to find out. I decided to rent the film to watch it again… I'd earned my merit badge in Morse code as a scout years ago, but shamefully admit that my decoding skills have slipped over the years. If Samuel Morse stood before me now, well, I imagine he'd get sick all over himself and frankly I don't blame him. I make no excuses at my Morse coding ineptitude, and I don't expect others to make excuses for me either. Anyhow, I rented the movie at my local Hombre Video store and was shocked to find that it contained no Morse code in it at all! Apparently whoever was behind this was choosing the ABC movie as a forum to communicate with me and me alone. So I returned to my post in front of my 35 inch Zenith TruTube set, armed with only a pen, some paper, an Amstel Light and "The Idiot's Guide to Morse Code and Pig Latin (Doubleday, 1995)" the following Sunday night. Week after week I kept vigilant watch over the Movie of the Week, each week receiving a new coded message. But who could it be sending me these messages, Roland? The Russians? The Venusians? The Jeffersons? Is it you, Roland? So far the messages have been vague about their source. Here's what I have so far: GNUTLE. ZEEPRO. HAMMY. ZIPLX. FZZRT. ILM. TEET. TEET. I'm so close, Roland. Maybe it's Pig Latin.
Morris Timbaker, Oleo, Nebraska
A. Wow, Morris. Sounds like Nebraska's a pretty exciting place to live. If I were you, I'd keep myself within the state lines and never, ever leave. I mean that.
The preceeding letters were edited for clarity and because the second one was over fourteen pages long. Now it's time for the movies!
In Theaters Now:
Domestic Disturbance
I was beginning to think that Chuck Norris would never recover from the humiliating beating he took from the Hillbilly Twins in Wrestlemania XV, but now he's returning to the big screen to give Stephen Seagal and Jet Li a taste of old-school box-office thug competition. Here, Norris plays a retired CIA karate guy who just wants a little peace and quiet… but some Jehovah's Witnesses, an Amway salesman and a young woman running for city council have other ideas! Jackie Chan could learn a little something from this one about kicking someone's ass with a phone.
Mobsters, Inc
Nobody gets tired of hilarious CGI goombas smacking each other around with frying pans and scratching themselves with ice picks, that's the first rule of Hollywood. This kids' classic should give Disney's upcoming Jack the Ripper animated film a run for it's money, and you can bet your kids will be singing "There's a Body in the Trunk" and "Two Through The Eyes, Tony-Boy" until you want to hide the cursed CD and tell them the family dog has a taste for plastic. Maybe then they'll finally let you take Rex on the "big walk", eh?
Shallow Hal
Mix "Clueless" with "2001: A Space Oddity" and what do you get? I don't know, they're not screening this one for the critics. Way to pencil your names in on my shit list, guys.
Now on Video:
The Animal
I've been saying for years that the Muppets movie franchise has been going down the tubes, and it looks like the Hollywood big-wigs are finally taking notice. After the dismal failures of "The Muppets and Mary Kate and Ashley's Favorite Sleep-Overs", "Muppet Mall Party", "The Great Muppet Salmonella Scare", "Muppets in a Waiting Room", "The Muppets Meet the Yankees", and "The Muppets Vs. The Department of Justice", I was afraid the next Muppet movie might try to kick my elderly mother in the teeth. But thank God for small favors, because "The Animal" is the best Muppet picture in years, harkening back to the glory days of "Muppet Lambada Lesson" and "Fame". Finally the quiet dignity behind the Muppet empire, Animal, gets his own movie. And if you don't think watching Animal yell "Wipe-Out! Wipe-Out!" for two hours while he jumps on shit is entertaining, then my friend I think the child in you has just choked on a Duplo block.
Baby Boyscouts
Normally I'd puke at the mention of a low-rent rip-off of the hip urban hit "Baby Geniuses", but I have to admit that this potent mix of "The Edge" and "Look Who's Talking" kept me in stitches from the opening shot of the Columbia chick in a diaper to the closing credits scroll, which was continually interrupted so the babies could be fed and hosed down. You've never seen camping done like this, as the baby boyscouts are, one-by-one, eaten by bears, birds of prey, large muskies and even a moose in the film's hysterical high-note. Kudos go to the inventive writers who mine comedy from such ingenious scenarios as having the babies try to start a campfire by leaving a soiled diaper out in the sun, only to have it explode and blow out a crater bigger than the one in Raymond Burr's bed.
The Golden Bowl
Finally taking toilet humor to it's logical extreme, the Farley Brothers pinch this wonderful loaf on our entertainment lawn. Here we have the tale of the four brave knights of Crapalot, played by Jack Nicholson, Buster Keaton, David Lee Roth and that fat guy from Remember the Titans. They're on a quest to bring a holy throne back to it's rightful place in the king of England's bathroom, and quickly because he ate some pork that may have turned some time last week.
Television:
Alias (ABC)
ABC continues its downhill slide into network oblivion with this awful re-hash with the remaining cast members of the original Alice, the fun show about the single mom waitress and her friends at work. But everyone's gotten predictably boring over the years, not to mention their spelling's pretty fucked up, and to sum up this show: No Flo? No go!
Crossing Jordan (NBC)
That Michael Jordan is amazing! How on earth that guy has time to lead a fantastic basketball team to victory, star in a new hit series, and still perform his regular full-time job of endorsing every product made here and overseas is beyond me. And this is no fluff comedy, either: Jordan is a tough Lean on Me-style crossing guard, when he says stop, he means STOP!
The Big Mac Show (Fox)
Everybody loved those popular McDonald's commercials and nobody was sadder than Roland M. they couldn't get everybody for a regular series. But who would have thought Big Mac, of all characters, would be the big network star? Nobody, and rightly so, since this show is on UPN. But it's still a lot of fun, despite the lame substitute characters like McFish and Shamrock Shake. Still, maybe if the show gets big enough good ol' Grimace and maybe even Ronald himself will drop by for an episode!
Video Games:
Boy O Boy, is Roland McShyster pickled tink! Yep, you guessed it, I got my hands on a preview version of Microsoft's Sexbox Console and some games! I'm as surprised as you are the company would mail me a preview console to review, and the dude who delivered it required a generous tip. He may not have been a mailman, but I remember seeing him in some capacity at the post office, or a picture of him, maybe. Who cares? I'm too busy gaming to ask questions or describe faces for sketch artists!
Kabuki Warriors (XB)
Before you get yourself all hyped out, be warned: Kabuki is Japanese for mime. Man, what a weak concept. All in all, it's not bad, but c'mon, without learning all the specialty moves all you can really do is pretend you're in a box. I tried roping my opponent, but the controls are too damned difficult, so it ends up the guy beats me by walking against the wind across the screen and nailing me with a big heavy invisible hammer. Not for me.
SEX Tricky (XB)
Now this here's a game with power! Cut phat beats worthy of your master, the awesome DJ Tricky, or be banished to the realm of nerddom and no longer able to get into any clubs. Much better than the Super Mario rip-off where you're Björk and have to escape the giant teddy bear.
Tony Hawk's Prosecutor Tux (XB)
Same as the game I reviewed last week for PS2, but in this one you're dressed like a motherfucker. Comparing it to PS2, the graphics and sound and game play and all are better, or maybe not as good, or perhaps not that much different. But the controls are definitely not the same for each game system, unless I was playing the PS2 version. It's hard to tell with the exact same game, folks.
NFL Prime Time 2002 (XB)
Your average football game, you ask? No! This one is above and beyond expectations as the game play is generated by the computer itself. Instead, you're Dennis Miller and you have to quickly come up with anachronistic references and jokes that sound way more intelligent than football fans could get, thus maintaining your feeling of superiority over the rest of the human race. Now this is the next century of gaming!
A mixed bag of games, true, but the power and style of the system is beyond belief. And so I give the Sexbox my highest rating ever: Good!
I hope it was good for you, too, America! Stop by in another two weeks and we'll see what we can do about that stutter of yours.   |
