Judge to Miss North Carolina Pageant Contestants: "Girls, You're Both Pretty"

dispute over the rightful inheritor of the Miss North Carolina crown was settled Thursday when U.S. District Judge James Fox issued the ruling that both competitors were pretty.

Rebekah Revels had won the Miss North Carolina pageant, only to be forced to resign when a letter from her ex-boyfriend claimed he had topless pictures of her. Misty Clymer was chosen as Miss North Carolina afterwards, though Revels sued the pageant for the right to wear the crown. The winner of the lawsuit would go on to represent North Carolina in the Miss American pageant Sept. 21st.

The judge refused to pick one contestant over the other, leaving that to the Miss North Carolina pageant committee. Instead, the judge said in his ruling: "I see what this is really all about, Misty… Rebekah. Girls, you're both pretty. There's no need for all this fighting and competition."

The allegation of a forced resignation was the basis for Revels' case as she claimed the judges had rightfully chosen her to represent North Carolina. Pageant officials felt the nude photos taken by the ex-boyfriend tarnished the crown of the pageant and put dozens of future scholarships and sponsors for the Miss America and Miss North Carolina pageants in jeopardy. These photos, so crucial to the case, could not be obtained despite countless requests to both parties, but nude photos of Alyssa Milano were available on the Internet, as well as a compromising picture of Mandy Moore and two black men, but those pictures could possibly have been Photoshopped.

The case was settled amicably by the judge's declaration of equal prettiness. Miss North Carolina pageant representatives said Misty Clymer would go on to represent North Carolina in the national pageant. But the judge's ruling was a tremendous boost to Clymer's confidence.

"Like all girls, Misty needs a compliment every now and then to keep her going," said pageant representative Vill Gording. "And with all this stress of the case and the high pressure of being in a court setting, you can imagine she was a little down. The judge reminded her she was pretty—she knew it, but still, you like to hear it—and it made her day."

The declaration was also well-received by plaintiff Rebekah Revels and counsel. "Obviously, Ms. Revels is disappointed by the pageant's decision to uphold her resignation," said Revels attorney Wax Musstash. "But my client was more than satisfactorily compensated for her loss by the reassurance she is pretty. That's all she really wanted anyway—the judge was wise to acknowledge that."

"I'm glad that the court system is finally able to get past the frivolous lawsuits to the important stuff," said some smart-ass on the court steps as this reporter attempted to get better quotes from the lawyers involved.

The potential for future disappointments in both contestants' futures being high, the judge issued also his telephone number to both plaintiff and defendant, urging that they should call him sometime soon in the future for private rulings. That may or may not have been true, but this reporter certainly would have been disappointed to find the judge missed out on such an opportunity.

Again, if any informant has laid hands on the photos in question, please contact Ramon Nootles at the commune and we'll talk finder's fee.

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OH MY GOD SNOW

I have never before been interested in music. Music is like water, as far as I'm concerned, and me being mostly oil, we do not mix. But this has changed recently now that Lee is part of my scene.

In addition to all his other talents, Lee is, as he put it, a wicked bassist. Some thump the bass, Lee says, some prick it; Lee makes love to it. He has been thrown out of numerous bands for this, especially Christian rock bands, but he sees it as an asset. And whatever Lee sees, Rok sees, good people. That's why I have decided to form a rock musical band.

It's a good idea—anybody can see it's a good idea. Building a sharp power trio around our infallible bassist Lee. The only problem is that the other members of our power trio have, how Lee phrased it, "absolutely no musical ability." Not that this will stop us, it merely slows us, like the molasses swamp in Candyland.

I thought it was genius to put Camembert on drums, since you always see drummers sitting down in musical videos, and Camembert is always sitting down because he is paralyzed. Well, guess what? Drummers use their feet for something. I believe it's some kind of big drum they kick or something, traditional in rock music. Camembert informed me we could avoid this by playing bluegrass, but if you think I got into music to end up on some Coen Brothers film soundtrack, you're dead wrong. Rok plays rock, or nothing at all. So right now we're playing nothing at all. But Lee said Camembert can rig up some electronic cheat like the drummer from Def Leopard who only has one arm, or John Bonham, who was drunk into oblivion most of the time he played.

Which leaves me as the problem spot on this hard-to-clean sofa. I play nothing. I do not even play video games, which is just as well since that would be the strangest band since Devo. So while Camembert has a chance of playing drums in our band very well, I have no chance of playing anything. True, I own a grand piano, but that's always more for lying seductively on and enticing the ladies rather than playing piano-style. I tried playing it once and the neighbors sealed all exits and set the apartment on fire, which doesn't bode well for trying to learn again. And the last time I tried playing a guitar I tightened the strings too much and lost a finger.

My best luck so far has been in reading my spoken-word poetry while standing in a box full of cats. I find that if I do a little two-step in the box I produce noises, in no certain order or tone, but it is a sort of tenor that sounds good with the bass and drums, at least how I imagine the drums will sound. Our sound is sometimes defined as punk, post-punk, proto-punk or alternative. At least that's how Lee defined it, our neighbors say it is pure shit, post-vomit, proto-garbage or gangrenous cock.

Not that we're letting it stop us. You don't let a little thing like a horrible sound stop you from forming a band with a tremendous bass talent. I'm not ashamed to say with our big drumless drumming and cat-stomping poetry-reading sound that Lee is carrying our band. Without Lee, there would be no band.

In fact, this is so true that, upon reflection, the band has no need for me. I think I'll hang up my box of cats strap and call it a career. That still makes my time in the music spotlight longer than Taylor Dayne. Camembert can do what he wants, but since I forced him into this venture with thinly-veiled threats anyway, he'll probably drop out as well. Which leaves Lee to carry on with the band, a band only in namesake, basically a front to showcase his talents.

That bastard. The least he could have done was meet with Master C and me before kicking us out of the band. Screw him. Camembert and I will form our own band. He thinks he's the big talent, eh? That we're not the spirit of the band itself? We'll show him.

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Dear commune:

I have a bone to pick with you, commune. It's about time someone stood up and stated the obvious: the commune's mascot, Poopey Chalupa, is a shameful and offensive stereotype that cheapens, exploits and degrades the fine heritage of the people of Mexico. And if you're reading this out loud, you'd best be sure to pronounce that "Mey-heeco" to avoid further damage to these fine people.

Shame on you, commune: this kind of schoolyard tomfoolery is beneath you and frankly I expected more from the publication that has brought us the wit and wisdom of Tom Turkel's "Home Town" for more than 20 years. You may consider this formal notice of the cancellation of my subscription.

Beth Romerlaud
Pierce Mountain, Delaware


Dear Beth:

The commune shares your outrage at the exploitation of helpless minorities, unless they're on our payroll. No one here will soon forget the intolerance and hatred bred by shows like Taxi and Perfect Strangers in years past, and we have no interest in breeding further misconceptions, or rabbits. However, we regret to inform you that Poopey Chalupa does not work here; in actuality he is the mascot for El Común, the newsletter of the annual Mexico City street bazaar. Have you seen our mascot, lady? We'd kill to get that cute little sombrero-wearing rascal.

Furthermore, Tom Turkel's "Home Town" has never appeared on the commune, and it never will; not so long as he keeps putting on airs like he's better than everyone and has a special need for medical and dental coverage.

Lastly: though we don't sell subscriptions to the commune, we'd be happy to cancel yours and send a bill immediately. Thanks for your letter, and we'll be sending a box of rabbits to help ease your liberal guilt. Feel free to keep them as pets or eat them or whatever bizarre kinds of shit you people do.

the commune

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Dear commune:

Yeah, I've got a question for you. If all that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream, then why the hell won't my Chevy start? Normally when I have a dream it's something like I've got a chicken head where my penis is supposed to be or my mother-in-law is trying to give my dog an enema. Never anything about a blown head gasket or scored pistons. What gives?

John John Fridley
Elmwood, Texas


Dear John John:

Like most teenage English majors, it appears that you've confused poetry with reality. If life were truly a dream within a dream, your letter would have been from the commune's ex-girlfriend, confessing that she really did steal the commune's CDs and the commune's Notre Dame sweatshirt. There is an upside, however: that bird that's been following you around isn't really a nagging reminder of your lost love, it just wants some of the beef jerky in your pocket.

the commune

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Dear commune:

I'm dick and tired of hearing the stereotype that all men are obsessed with sex and that they can't help but think about tit every ten seconds. Sure, some guys may be certified hooter hounds, but that doesn't mean the chest of us are just helpless dogs, salivating at the taut of glimpsing naked female flesh. It's unfair to hump us in with that fist group, when we as a sex have cum so far. I'm a head-blooded American male, boner of a healthy sex drive, but I ride myself on being capable of suck things as intelligent thought and higher brainal function, and I think moist men are, ass well.

I thrust that we're in agreement on this topless.

Kent Boobner
Knobjob, New York


Dear Kent:

You have a good point there, Kent. Good fuck with your crusade, and spank you for riding.

the commune

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Editor's Note: the commune news would like to issue a warm greeting to our new scab tiny-type writers, even though it feels kind of weird to issue a warm greeting to yourself. But what the hell, they pay better than Stride Rite.

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