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Iraq Withdrawal Bill Threatened With White House VitoApril 2, 2007 |
Washington, D.C. Junior Bacon President Bush visits Congress for last-minute negotiations before the Iraq withdrawal bill Thursday; burly pal "White House Vito" Pantusi brings out his "negotiators" for the visit.
Presidential advisor and former CEO of the Dallas Quik-Dry Cement Company Vito Pantusi has been working closely with Bush on a compromise that will make all involved parties happy, a White House inside source says, particularly the President Bush party.
"Mr. Pantusi plans on visiting House and Senate Democrats personally with some associates to convince them the...
otes along party lines heralded the passing of Congress' new military budget, which would allow $122 billion in funding with the stipulation that all troops be removed from Iraq by the deadline of March 31, 2008. It was a critical blow to the G.O.P. and the president, who did not concede defeat but instead promised the bill, if it passes the House, would have to face the merciless wall of "White House Vito." Presidential advisor and former CEO of the Dallas Quik-Dry Cement Company Vito Pantusi has been working closely with Bush on a compromise that will make all involved parties happy, a White House inside source says, particularly the President Bush party. "Mr. Pantusi plans on visiting House and Senate Democrats personally with some associates to convince them they've voted improperly," said our source. "His associates are sporting enthusiasts, as anyone can tell by their baseball bats, and Mr. Pantusi is sure he can teach certain Congressmen all about fair play." Acquitted on three different charges of influencing a congressional vote with a large tank of piranha fish, "White House Vito" has been an associate of the president since their days together in the Texas business community, and the president has brought in Pantusi as an advisor in hard negotiations in the past. In 2005, with an end-of-year deadline fast approaching, Pantusi assisted in advising the president in negotiating the Andean Free Trade agreement. "The White House would like to consider this matter resolved-like," Pantusi said in a follow-up news conference, cracking his knuckles audibly for the press in one of his rare public appearances. Other involved parties declined comment, and quickly shrunk from reporters who approached them too fast with microphones. Speculation has already begun as to what role Mr. Pantusi and his special "commission o' negotiatin' muscle" might play in opposition to the deadline bill. Representatives of the negotiating commission, including White House Vito standing ominously in the background, fielded a few quick questions from reporters on Friday. "In, uh, response to the question, ah, from the ravishing lady from The Washington Post with the killer rack," replied Pantusi associate Johnny Lips, "the president is, uh, looking for an amicable solution to the, er, Iraq budgetary disagreement. The president would, uh, prefer to leave the decisions on, um, monetary needs and appropriate troop presence to the, er, military personnel in charge of that there decision." Pantuis himself only responded to one question, when a reporter from CNN asked if the president had any doubts about pursuing a war the public increasingly opposes. To which White House Vito answered by throwing his cigar at the trembling reporter and shouting over the microphone, "You want me to come down there and show you some fucking opposition? You like that, tough guy? I should smack your fucking glasses off, numbnuts." If the White House chooses to pass the bill, the new budget requires Bush to start bringing troops home from Iraq and Afghanistan within 120 days. If negotiations go roughly with Vito Pantusi, 120 days is also the average length of hospital stay expected for congressmen who have enjoyed a difficult compromise with Bush's advisor. The Democratic majority in the Senate, however, warned that they would not be scared by White House intimidation. "It's the president's right to respond with Vito to any legislation he disagrees with," said Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid, "but Congress is not without its own powers. If the president tries to force through his own Iraq budget through the Senate after rejecting ours, we're always willing to respond with Philly Buster." The Senator gestured to a husky Samoan page standing behind the speaking Democrats, scratching his goatee and nodding his head ominously. the commune news is glad we're not in politics, but we still have to face the scrutiny of "Line Item Vito," the guy at the supermarket who counts up our goods and tells us to get the fuck out of the express lane. Correspondent Ramrod Hurley is no stranger to cement shoes, although he finds concrete flip-flops more enjoyable for summer.
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 December 10, 2001
Your Honor, the Whole Damn Vending Machine in the Hall is Out of OrderOne night several weeks ago, I got home after a grueling day of communing to find a strange-assed envelope in my mail box, wedged between the usual offer for Sea Monkeys and a Carmen Electra poster catalog. At first I thought I might have won a Harley or maybe my report card from the third grade had finally shown up. No such luck. When I studied the return-address more closely, I realized it was from the Jury Commissioner's Office, and that could only mean one thing.
The game was on.
Ever since the I was in shortpants, watching my dad do battle with unseenfoes over the telephone line, I'd waited for this day. The time had come to do what any honest, red-blooded American would do when they got the call: to match wits with the American justice system and try like hell to get out of jury duty. This is what our fathers have fought and died for time and time again, compadres: the right to outsmart The Man and avoid having to find parking downtown.
I decided to warm up by trying my old stand-by dodge. I called the number listed on the back of the summons and, in a bone-chilling facsimile of my mother's voice, told the jury duty operator that Omar would be unable to make it, because he had the measles or some shit. Looking back now, it was probably throwing that "or some shit" on the end that sunk my subterfuge, because the operator said I'd have to reschedule for another date. I thought fast and tried adding on that I had whiskey-dick as...
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One night several weeks ago, I got home after a grueling day of communing to find a strange-assed envelope in my mail box, wedged between the usual offer for Sea Monkeys and a Carmen Electra poster catalog. At first I thought I might have won a Harley or maybe my report card from the third grade had finally shown up. No such luck. When I studied the return-address more closely, I realized it was from the Jury Commissioner's Office, and that could only mean one thing.
The game was on.
Ever since the I was in shortpants, watching my dad do battle with unseenfoes over the telephone line, I'd waited for this day. The time had come to do what any honest, red-blooded American would do when they got the call: to match wits with the American justice system and try like hell to get out of jury duty. This is what our fathers have fought and died for time and time again, compadres: the right to outsmart The Man and avoid having to find parking downtown.
I decided to warm up by trying my old stand-by dodge. I called the number listed on the back of the summons and, in a bone-chilling facsimile of my mother's voice, told the jury duty operator that Omar would be unable to make it, because he had the measles or some shit. Looking back now, it was probably throwing that "or some shit" on the end that sunk my subterfuge, because the operator said I'd have to reschedule for another date. I thought fast and tried adding on that I had whiskey-dick as well, but she seemed pretty unimpressed by that improvisation.
I knew then that the old stand-by wasn't going to cut it this time, not by a long-shot. It was like trying to carve a jack-o-lantern with a piece of cooked spaghetti: damn useless. I was pretty surprised, too, because the exact same ploy worked wonders that time when I had to get out of a date with the ugly-assed daughter of one of my uncle's business partners. Shit, by the time I got to the whiskey-dick part I don't even think she wanted to go on the date any more, but these jury duty mugs had far tougher nuts to crack.
Several subsequent calls to the jury duty line proved equally unsuccessful: it turns out that swearing like a motherfucker, being a Communist or having a thick Mexican accent are all honky-dory if you want to be a juror these days. Go figure.
I went to the drawing board and read the pamphlet that came with my summons, figuring I had to beat these hard-asses at their own game. According to the pamphlet, there were only three excuses that would get you out of jury duty: you don't speak word uno of English, you're so damned old you scare little kids, or you've already been on a jury in the last two years. Now I know what you're thinking, and believe me I thought of it first: between that wet pajama contest I judged locally and being in the audience for that taping of Divorce Court last year, I should be good for another four years at least. Not so, claim the Jury Nazis.
Since they had to be such assholes about the whole two-year thing, I decided to play a little hardball and spent the next two weeks answering the phone in a made-up nonsense language that was like some kind of cross between German and the ingredients of a Snapple. Once again, those clever motherfuckers got the drop on your friend Omar by calling at eight in the morning when I was dead asleep and had momentarily forgotten about the whole "No English" ruse. So much for project "Nein Sorbate Verboten."
I briefly considered making some kind of old-man suit out of croissant mix and talcum powder, but after a particularly nasty talcum mishap I got pissed off and just called those uptight pigfuckers and told them that it's my constitutional whoozumwhatzit to have them kiss my pale white ass, with whipped topping if you please, and that in the mean time I hoped they all choked on a turd. It was a bold shift in strategy, I admit, but for a while I thought it might have worked and that I'd scared them off.
Then one day I received a notice in the mail saying that if I didn't show up for jury duty, I'd be held in contempt of court and fined $121. Woah. Now, I don't know how they arrived at that figure, I suspect they were peeking into the old Bricks Checking Account again, but suffice it to say they were now officially speaking my language. These were some stone-cold bastards.
After a rousing rental of "A Few Good Men", I decided that jury duty probably wouldn't be that bad, and that maybe I'd luck out and get some kind of case that involved a dude being smothered by fake boobs or something. Really, any case that involved topless testimony would've been cool by me, I'm flexible.
And to tell you the truth, in the end, I actually had a good time. And man was I glad that I'd thought to wear my judge costume from last Halloween, because they treat those regular jurors like assholes. I got a much better seat and even got to give some dude the chair for eating his neighbor's horse in some kind of funny-assed cultural misunderstanding. The rest of the day probably would have been a blast too if the real judge hadn't shown up and had me re-assigned to some boring damned murder trial. Since when does it take a whole friggin' week to figure out that the dude with the chain-saw did it? I'd planned on two hours tops, with maybe a break for a romantic interlude in the middle. Some fussy sacks of juror-scat might argue that it would have been over sooner if I hadn't been playing the "Do you have a verdict?/Your honor, we have a dickfour" game with the judge, but that only added twenty minutes, tops.
And the memories, as they say, will last a lifetime. I think the taser scars probably will too. º Last Column: A Three Hour Tour of Conspiracyº more columns
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|  December 24, 2001
Christmas"Every Christmas was the same thing at my house. Us kids hung up our socks by the chimney, except for Goose, who was not allowed to post socks anymore due to that court order from the neighborhood block association.
Dad would dress up as Santa and ask all the kids what we wanted for Christmas. Goose would want something different every year, and usually very unreasonable requests at that. One year he asked for a pie as big as the living room and another he wanted a donkey that could speak Spanish. I think Goose was convinced it was more like a contest, like 'Stump Santa!' or something, and consequently he would only get a football every year and they began to pile up in his room.
It began to grate on Dad, who kept trying to get a gift that would pacify Goose every year but Goose would always beat him. The year I got my Radio Flyer wagon and Stephanie got her Holly Hobbie doll, Goose asked for a trunk full of gunpowder. Dad came darn close that time, but on Christmas day he had to forfeit when Goose discovered it was full of dyed flour cut with real gunpowder. Made for quite an explosion anyway, and mom tried to fill the thing with meaning by saying it was like a guiding star for the baby Jesus or something, but we just thought it looked cool.
Goose won every year until that last one, when he got particularly uncreative and asked for a giant robot suit he could climb inside. Dad had to quit work and spend all day and night on it, and...
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"Every Christmas was the same thing at my house. Us kids hung up our socks by the chimney, except for Goose, who was not allowed to post socks anymore due to that court order from the neighborhood block association.
Dad would dress up as Santa and ask all the kids what we wanted for Christmas. Goose would want something different every year, and usually very unreasonable requests at that. One year he asked for a pie as big as the living room and another he wanted a donkey that could speak Spanish. I think Goose was convinced it was more like a contest, like 'Stump Santa!' or something, and consequently he would only get a football every year and they began to pile up in his room.
It began to grate on Dad, who kept trying to get a gift that would pacify Goose every year but Goose would always beat him. The year I got my Radio Flyer wagon and Stephanie got her Holly Hobbie doll, Goose asked for a trunk full of gunpowder. Dad came darn close that time, but on Christmas day he had to forfeit when Goose discovered it was full of dyed flour cut with real gunpowder. Made for quite an explosion anyway, and mom tried to fill the thing with meaning by saying it was like a guiding star for the baby Jesus or something, but we just thought it looked cool.
Goose won every year until that last one, when he got particularly uncreative and asked for a giant robot suit he could climb inside. Dad had to quit work and spend all day and night on it, and technically only the head part could move, but it qualified under the rules Mom had established. Dad danced a jig that night, and all Goose could do was shake his robot suit head in disappointment." º Last Column: Moonº more columns
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Milestones1999: Rok Finger's highly offensive rendition of "White Christmas" marks the end of the commune's yearly Christmas parties, and the birth of the Parents Against Rok Finger Coalition (PARF).Now HiringRubik. Crazy puzzle-making hermit needed to devise a way to keep staff out of Red Bagel's mini-fridge. Knowledge of trap doors and spinning blades a plus.Least Heard Mobster Euphemisms for Murder| 1. | Treat this guy to a steel sundae | | 2. | Make his shoes a lot heavier, more sinkable | | 3. | Invalidate his parking | | 4. | Go apeshit on this fuck | | 5. | Fill him full of holes like a Dade County ballot (2000 only) | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 3/27/2006 Â 2
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    6 Oscarama!
What's that smell, America? Why, that's Oscar Fever in the air, and yes, it smells a lot like Kenny Roger's Roasters. It's Oscar Season, pure and simple, and as the big night approaches, we should take a moment to root through the nominees, digging for picks to stick and chick flicks to kick. So without further adieu, let's strap on the hip waders and get down to business!
Best Picture Brokeback Mountin'
Gay, you have a new name, and it's… not...
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    6 Oscarama! What's that smell, America? Why, that's Oscar Fever in the air, and yes, it smells a lot like Kenny Roger's Roasters. It's Oscar Season, pure and simple, and as the big night approaches, we should take a moment to root through the nominees, digging for picks to stick and chick flicks to kick. So without further adieu, let's strap on the hip waders and get down to business! Best Picture Brokeback Mountin'Gay, you have a new name, and it's… not coming to me right now. White guy, kind of good looking. Plays a gay guy in— nevermind. While this one will surely win the gay vote in Hollywood, look for staunch resistance from Hollywood's teaming hoards of fundamentalist Christians. Should be a close one, as "Battles of Civilizations" go. CarpartThis moving biopic about the squeaky-voiced guy who did the voice for my personal-favorite muppet, Carpart, moved viewers and massive quantities of popcorn, so look for it to get strong support from the popcorn lobby, a powerful ally come Oscar time. CrashWhile undoubtably the best Dave Matthews video ever, Hollywood insiders have a hard time taking a four- minute film seriously as a Best Picture contender. And the complete snub of Dave Matthews in the Best Actor category doesn't bode well for this one's chances. Look for it to lock in the frat vote regardless. Good Night,
and Fuck OffThe man who was born to be Batman, George "Rosemary's Baby" Clooney, thrilled us once again with this moving tale of the rudest AT&T operator to ever wear the smock. Did you know those guys wore smocks? Neither did I, before this movie. Sometimes they did sound kind of smocked-up when I'd call, but I always chalked it up to a bad connection on my end, since I used to keep my phone in the freezer when not in use, to help preserve freshness. Anyway… MunchSure to lock in the art-freak vote, Marilyn Manson's turn as that freaky screaming guy on the bridge brought a lot of attention to this little film about the Norwegian painter who was terrified of cloaked dudes with butcher knives taunting him over the phone. The film's real triumph was lending gravitas to a character crazy enough to be terrified of a scenario involving a device that wouldn't be invented for several more decades. If the academy doesn't go gay this year, this film could take home the little chiseled naked guy. Best Actor Philip Dustin Hoffman
CarpartI don't know how many hours of old Sesame Streets he had to watch to get the voice right, but PDH has done it again, greasing up the screen with his inimitably slouchy appearance. Seriously, if the next Tenacious D album incorporates Muppet-like backing vocals, I'll know their long-lost third member has finally bellied up to the band. Terrence Howard
Bustle & FloatProving once again that it ain't over until the fat lady sings an Annie Lennox song, Terrence Howard, better known as Moe from the old Three Stooges shorts, came out of retirement this year and bitch-slapped his way back into our hearts. I'd call him the front-runner for the award even if he wasn't, because I don't want to get my nose twisted in a wrench. Heath Ledgbar
Brokeback Mountin'That's right, I knew his name sounded like a candy bar I don't like. But to my embarrassment I've been calling him Baby Ruth all week. Ledgbar and his fellow screen pirate Skor Gylllenhaall, steamed up gay drive-ins across the country with their startlingly believable portrayal of two straight guys pretending to be gay and cowboys. Considering Ledgbar's redneck background, this was especially impressive, because he likely had to kick his own ass every day at the end of filming. Youaqueen Phoenix
Wok the LimeBringing country superstar Johnny Cash's bizarre mid-career period spent as a troubled Asian cooking show host couldn't have been easy, but it had to have been a cakewalk compared to growing up as a man with a first name like You-a-queen, and Phoenix knocks this one out of the park. David Straighthair
Good Night, and Fuck OffDon't know who he is, don't know where he came from, but he can be rude to me on the phone any time. 'Nuff said. Best Actress Judi Dench
Mrs. Harry and the HendersonsDidn't see it, smelt it, and that was enough. Good night and fuck off. Charlie's Theron
North CountryThat Ugandan supermodel with the weirdly-possessive first name stuns the easily- stunned glitterati of Hollywood yet again with her amazing transfor- mation into Oliver North, in this well-starched biopic yawner. Kudos to her, and I can't wait to see her upcoming turn as Grimace in the currently-filming McDonaldland movie. Let's hope she takes a break from filming that one to show up at the Oscars, in character! Akira Nightly
Pride & PrejuiceThanks for the traditional gag name nominee, Academy! I'll get back to you as soon as I get the gag. Felicity Huffman
TransamericairlinesThat black chick from the WB show nobody every watched finally gets her shot at the big screen, in a movie nobody watched, either, but they had to nominate her in case she was great. Simple enough. Reese Witherspieces
Wok the LimeIllegally Blonde star Reese Witherspieces rocks the cazbah with her thrilling turn as Johnny Cash's loyal wife Whatserpieces, nailing the role right down to her pitch-perfect Asian accent and hilarious "Me so haaawwwny!" catch phrase. Oscar, your new name is Whatserpieces! Second-Best Actor George Clooney
Silly AnnaThe 'cloon was busy this year, writing, directing, acting, and throwing telephones at the help, but some have argued he was nowhere better than in his make-up heavy role as Anna Nichole Smith's 700-year-old millionaire husband, an oil tycoon obsessed with the age-defying nutritive properties of breast milk. I've seen the movie twice (and some parts more than that) and can say with a blasé confidence that he's got the SBA Oscar wrapped up like a deli sandwich to go. William Hurt
A History of ViolenceNow there's a gag nominee I can get behind! Second-Best Actress Michelle Williams
Brokeback Mountin'There was a chick in this movie? Freaky. Whoever she was gets an Oscar automatically in my book, though they might want to piggyback some kind of make-up award onto this one as well, to be fair. And that's about all we've got time to cover this week, America. There will surely be some other minor awards, for writing, directing, and catering, but I think we've hit all the biggies. And I don't know about you, but I can't wait to see who takes home the nudie! See you there, in the sense that I'll be watching it on TV and you'll be watching it on TV, too, so in some strange way I'll be seeing you through some kind of Matrix cross- networked brain-mesh wave thing. I don't pretend to understand the science of this. Un   |
