uthorities were just plain pissed off with the news that America's "Runaway Asshole" had struck twice more this week, further eroding the nation's confidence in the common decency of man, while thrilling asshole fans and vindicating the merely inconsiderate nationwide.

In the first such incident, officials claim the asshole struck in Illinois, defacing the hallowed image of the Virgin Mary formed by salt run-off and pigeon shit on the underpass of an interstate expressway near Chicago. The emergency turnoff area and impromptu holy shrine had become an instant tourist attraction almost overnight, drawing the devout and bored from miles around ever since a homeless man was spotted trying to piss a complete manger scene onto the underpass last week. The holiness would prove short-lived, however, when the "Runaway Asshole" allegedly spray painted the word "bullshit" over the apparition and drew a Fu Manchu mustache on the Virgin Mary with a Sharpie marker.

Authorities believe this to be the work of the same asshole that destroyed the Virgin Mary image appearing in the window of a Clearwater, Florida office building in 1996. Before the window was destroyed, thousands of hoopleheads had gathered to gawk at the colorful apparition, which scientists claimed to be caused by extreme maintenance neglect, and a nearby Target store had begun to sell special bottles of Windex adorned with apparitions of the holy virgin. Authorities later retrieved the slingshot round that had destroyed the window, but apparently some asshole had coated the ball bearing with grease, making fingerprint identification impossible.

Mere days after the Chicago incident, the asshole appeared again in Wilmington, North Carolina, ordering a pint of frozen custard from Kohl's Frozen Custard, which is in no way affiliated with the Kohl's chain of department stores known for their lousy custard. Only minutes later, custard worker Brandon Fizer, distracted by some asshole in line yelling for him to "hurry it up with the custard, dickless," somehow managed to chop the end of his index finger off in the custard machine. Authorities remain uncertain about how this is even possible, considering that the machine consists of little more than a lever and a custard nozzle, but few deny that Fizer somehow miraculously found a way.

According to witnesses, upon finding Fizer's digit in his mouthful of custard, the asshole spit the fingertip into a nearby baby's eye, then snatched it up off the floor and ran straight to his lawyer's office. Numerous attempts to recover the tip so it could be surgically reattached to the rest of Fizer proved unsuccessful, as the asshole claimed to need it for evidence of emotional suffering in the upcoming civil suit.

Extremely amateur detectives have questioned whether there could be a connection between America's "Runaway Asshole" and Georgia's recently-famous "Runaway Bride," either by blood or through a marriage in the family. Some have even gone so far as to infer that the asshole may have talked the bride into buying her infamous bus ticket, or maybe he was even the one driving the bus, you never know. Others are intrigued by the possibility that the two could get together to record a cover of Soul Asylum's 1992 hit "Runaway Train" for charity.

Though the identity of the "Runaway Asshole" remains unknown, authorities claim to have several compelling asshole leads, and are currently seeking out both Donald Trump and the commune's own Omar Bricks for questioning.

President Demands More Wheels on Airplanes

Today’s Hurricanes Not Worth a Damn, Say Elderly Southerners

Conditions at Walter Reed Upgraded to “Nightmarishly Clive Barker-esque”

Unveiling of First Black Disney Character Raises Some Concerns

I've never been forthcoming about the commune's history, I freely admit. As far as I was concerned, how we got here isn't an issue. I prefer not to dwell on the past, unless we're talking about the time-traveling carpetbaggers who foiled the Bay of Pigs invasion. When it comes to the commune, where it came from is better off unknown, like the creation of hot dogs. Until recently, that is. With the death of my father Duke Bagel, and the impending legal action by my brother for control of the commune, it's quite clear I need to establish why the commune is mine, no matter what paper and lawyers say.

Unfortunately, this involves the unpleasant history between me and my father, which is the major reason I've not discussed the commune openly with many people before now. It is true my father owned the commune, legally, the original commune and therefore the name and likenesses. To an extent. Father was a wealthynaire, the exact figure of his wealth unknown to virtually everybody. Who knew there was so much money to be made in smoked buffalo meat? Well, my father did. It was no mere accident he began selling the delicious product just before the animal was declared endangered. It was a risky illegal venture, sure, but there's no money to be made in playing it safe, he always used to say.

I was not a blood relation to Duke Bagel, which is to say Duke himself did not give birth to me. I was adopted, a nasty a-word right up there with abortion and Agnes Moorehead, for me. But after my simple beginnings as an island boy, Duke adopted me into the fold and made me a Bagel, just as sure as he was, and always told me I was no better or worse than my brother Gay, except for we were entirely unrelated.

Still, despite my deep affection for the old twisto, I had my destiny set before me. I knew conspiracy and intrigue and getting the truth to the American people would be my path, and not buffalo smoking. This caused a rift between my father we never recovered from. The buffalo smoking empire was left to Gay, his protégé, while I only received one thing from my father, some forgotten old commune once owned by a dumb Indian, which is to say the native couldn't talk, though just between you and me he wasn't all that bright either, to lose it to my dad.

the commune, as it was called, has been mine since that day. If there is any doubt, its humble origins as a refugee from the white man, until a white man swindled the found out of it, was only the starting place. Once I took custody of the commune, a throwaway gift from my father, it was my idea to draw people in with news and columns written on the back of other brochures. From there I found my true calling, and though the names and faces have changed over the years—except for loyal medicine man Sully, who has been our Marketing VP since day one—we have kept spirit to the simple beginnings I created and kept true to one ideal: People will believe anything, if only you tell it to them.

Well, of course, the buffalo smoking empire mostly went down in flames over the years through mismanagement. Gay, in his infinite direct opposite of wisdom, refused to admit mango-flavored smoked buffalo had no future, and entirely screwed himself out of the industry. Dad may have been senile in his final years, but no one was senile enough not to notice. He wished me well in a letter written on a prostitute he sent me, and all but started clearly the commune was mine. And he was proud of me, sort of.

However, this is not enough for Gay. Even if he is my brother, though unrelated, I will not roll over in the interest of family peace and allow him to wrest from my control what I have worked so hard and worked others into their graves to build. the commune is all that I have in the world, and the millions I made from our underground casino, and I refuse to give it up. Or the casino. If Gay wants to take it from me, he's got a fight before him.

And now, I request a moment of silence for my dead dad. You can talk if you want to, but make sure you write and tell me you were silent for a bit. I appreciate it.

º Last Column: Boys, You're All Pretty
º more columns

Dear commune:

Damn. Damn, damn, damn. I just learned the word damn.

If there's one thing I hate, commune, it's being limited to hating just one thing. There are so many ugly things out there to hate. Why did it take me so long to learn the word "damn," you ask? Well, don't ask.

Sometimes when I hear the state of politics, I think it's Washington. Then I forgot there's another Washington on the west coast. And then the other Washington, the one I was thinking of, it's not even a state. What's with that? How come so many states steal each other's names? West Virginia? East Virginia? North Carolina, South Carolina? Two Dakotas? That's a dumb name. I knew a girl named Dakota, or it was a TV show or something. But why even one? There's so many great names out there to use. Why Dakota at all? Like Andy. "Hi, I'm from the great state of Andy," you could say. Now there's a state name.

Once again, I have digressed. I will change my pants and wash thoroughly and write to you again.

Sincerity,
Freedy Amos
So Cal

---

Dear commune:

What is with all the gay jokes? I swear sometimes me and my dicksucking friends think you're homophobic or something.

Is it insecurity? Perhaps you're not sure enough of your own masculinity to respect other human beings. Does it make you feel big in front of your friends? I assure you when I'm squeezing my erection into another man's anal cavity we're not making fun of you heterosexuals, like, "Oh, how straight they are! Yeah, they love to make love to women. That's smart." Say that last part in a sarcastic voice to hear it the way I meant it.

There's nothing wrong with being homosexual. Maybe if you'd try it you'd like it yourself. But I'm not offering or anything. Don't show up on my doorstep at 3 a.m. wanting a little crash course in homosexuality. That's not what I'm saying at all. I think you totally misread the signals. Jesus, don't tell my friends, okay? Something like that could get me in a lot of trouble.

Greg Dandy
New York City, NY


Greg:

Whoa, I think you totally mis-read us, Greg. Obviously the commune respects everyone in the world and their lifestyle choices, especially homosexuals. Our reader statistics estimate over 90% of our readership is made up of homosexuals. As much as 99%, maybe, we don't even know. And according to our own columnist Omar Bricks, everyone in our main office is queer.

Even those of our staff and contributors who are not homosexual like a little on the side every now and then. There is even a tape of our own Lil Duncan engaging in a little hot action with a stockroom girl going around the office. If you would like a copy, just send $19.95 to our letters address with "Lesbo Tape" marked clearly on the envelope.

the commune

---

Dear commune:

The freedom to bear arms is a sacred right in America. How can left-wing freaks want to take that away from us?

I've worked construction for ten years now. Sure, I've gotten sunburned before, I admit there's a danger. But sometimes it's just too hot to where a long-sleeve shirt or something like that. And chicks love it when you where shirts without sleeves at all so they can see all the tattoos. Some guys, like Danny K., he don't even wear a shirt in most of the summer. It ain't my cup of tea, but it's a free country. Or is it? Huh? You tell me.

If I can't work outside or inside with bear arms, this certainly isn't the land of the free like I thought it was supposed to be.

Merle Jackson
Elbow, MO


Merle:

We're glad you could express your opinion to us. In fact, after considering your letter, we're glad you can read the commune at all, or are gainfully employed. Most of all we're glad you're there and we're here.

the commune

---

Editor's Note: the commune is not responsible for the content or context of any of it's reader letters. Secondly, the commune IS NOT hosting a contest for a free low-flow toilet that involves sending in letters about why you need a new toilet the most. Those letters should be directed to the-commode.com. Our staff thanks you profusely.

º Last Column: Volume 3
º more columns