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November 24, 2003 |
Geneva, Switzerland Alton Onus An anonymous nature freak makes a big fuss over one of the last remaining Sumatran drooling rhinos in existence he Bornean junk monkey, Stevensons' slug, Malaysian sitting bird and the world's largest species of blind sea trout are in grave danger of extinction, the World Conservation Union warned an assemblage of world leaders on Tuesday to the sound of one tiny violin playing sarcastically. Also among the newly-threatened species nobody has ever heard of are the shovelnosed arctic frog, the smoke weasel, the Andean left-handed dolphin and the three-toed nervous elephant of lower Peru.
All are among 13,279 varieties critically endangered and possibly-imaginary animal, plant and water life precious to bleeding-heart liberals the world over. Many are new to this year's edition of the group's list, a yearly "wake-up call to the world" that unless serious changes are made to environmental ...
he Bornean junk monkey, Stevensons' slug, Malaysian sitting bird and the world's largest species of blind sea trout are in grave danger of extinction, the World Conservation Union warned an assemblage of world leaders on Tuesday to the sound of one tiny violin playing sarcastically. Also among the newly-threatened species nobody has ever heard of are the shovelnosed arctic frog, the smoke weasel, the Andean left-handed dolphin and the three-toed nervous elephant of lower Peru.
All are among 13,279 varieties critically endangered and possibly-imaginary animal, plant and water life precious to bleeding-heart liberals the world over. Many are new to this year's edition of the group's list, a yearly "wake-up call to the world" that unless serious changes are made to environmental policy, the earth's biodiversity might one day shrink to comprehensible levels.
This year's list, like all that came before it, has drawn a collective boo-hoo from the planet's human inhabitants.
"Excuse me, but what has the Columbian rice shrew ever done for me or my family?" questioned an indignant Don Cloyd from Williamsburg, Virginia. "My uncle lost a logging job because of some stupid owl that didn't want to live at a box at the zoo or something, so sorry if that ruined it for all the other creatures out there, but I still say animals that don't taste good can kiss my ass."
Various world leaders questioned about the organization's list issued similar mock-sincere statements, vowing to halt all future economic progress in order to make the world safe for such hilariously improbable creatures as the Chilean trouser trout and the loud Spanish jackass.
Over 762 animals have gone extinct worldwide since various governments and the NRA began keeping records in the 1600's. Among the beautiful creatures the earth will never again know are the Tittleosen snot sloth, the North American windshield sparrow and the sickly cave bear of Nepal.
Perhaps the most stirring symbol for lost species is the majestic dodo, a once-useless bird that wobbled off into the history books in the early 17th century when Dutch sailors visiting islands in the Indian Ocean discovered the birds, whose strange compulsion to hop into cooking pots and offer themselves up for soups and other entrees led quickly to their extinction.
According to the WCU, thousands more creatures will join these ranks shortly if steps are not taken to slow the destruction of their native habitats in industrialized and developing nations. Saddest of all may be the possible fate of the Scottish brownie hound, once numbering in the thousands but now thought to be down to the last one and a half specimens in existence. Even that shocking number is sinking fast as scientists are unsure of how long you can keep half a dog alive in a cooler full of ice.
In delivering the study to world leaders, WCU Director General Achim Steiner also pointed out the success of recent efforts to save formerly endangered species such as Arabian oryx and the white rhino, news which inspired several unimpressed heads of state to mouth the word "super" while mimicking the jerk-off motion with their hands. the commune news is personally responsible for eradicating three species of roadside badgers, but if nature didn't see fit to outfit them with reflective pelts we don't see fit to mourn their fender-denting passing. Ted Ted is officially considered an endangered species whenever he wanders into a lesbian bar, a dangerous clash of habitats conservation experts are working hard around the clock to prevent.
 | 1000+ laid-off workers don't like Sara Lee
Obama: "Fine, you guys do whatever the hell you want."
Yale bombed, Harvard too drunk to walk home
Mars rover a bad dog—very bad dog
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MySpace Premieres in Communist China as OurSpace Pain in the Ass Hawking Demands Handicapped- Accessible Space Shuttle “Blond Highlights the Devil’s Work,” Says Iran, Straight Men Dow Reaches 13,000, Tao Reaches ∞ |
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 September 20, 2004
Volume 61Dear commune:
I read a preview copy of Kitty Kelley’s upcoming biography of Red Bagel, which I regularly do in the course of my job—read other people’s mail. I couldn’t believe some of the stories she tells. It’s a disgrace. However, I’m not naïve enough to believe she made up everything. The best biographies are 75% truth and 25% embellishment. Or something like that—for a more exact formula, I’d need my slide rule, and they don’t let me have one while I’m working since I’m not supposed to be doing math. So is it true or what? Or how much of it is true? Because this is some seriously wicked shit to be true.
Jimmy Connors Trumpet, New Mexico
Dear Jimmy:
Ah, Jimmy. It’s not often we get a chance to defend ourselves from outside allegations, since fearless leader Red Bagel won’t allow us to respond to questions until they’re asked. But he’s been dying to set the record straight ever since that biography-writing harlot (not in a bad way) started digging her rhinoplastied nose into his past. So let’s do that now.
The stories about drug experimentation are partially true, but misrepresented. All of Red Bagel’s forays into drugs were just searches for cures to his uncontrollable temper. No one here has actually seen Red transform into the giant blue beast, and we’re praying to God we never will. You can hardly blame him for messing around with psychedelic drugs...
º Last Column: Volume 60 º more columns
Dear commune: I read a preview copy of Kitty Kelley’s upcoming biography of Red Bagel, which I regularly do in the course of my job—read other people’s mail. I couldn’t believe some of the stories she tells. It’s a disgrace. However, I’m not naïve enough to believe she made up everything. The best biographies are 75% truth and 25% embellishment. Or something like that—for a more exact formula, I’d need my slide rule, and they don’t let me have one while I’m working since I’m not supposed to be doing math. So is it true or what? Or how much of it is true? Because this is some seriously wicked shit to be true. Jimmy Connors Trumpet, New MexicoDear Jimmy:
Ah, Jimmy. It’s not often we get a chance to defend ourselves from outside allegations, since fearless leader Red Bagel won’t allow us to respond to questions until they’re asked. But he’s been dying to set the record straight ever since that biography-writing harlot (not in a bad way) started digging her rhinoplastied nose into his past. So let’s do that now.
The stories about drug experimentation are partially true, but misrepresented. All of Red Bagel’s forays into drugs were just searches for cures to his uncontrollable temper. No one here has actually seen Red transform into the giant blue beast, and we’re praying to God we never will. You can hardly blame him for messing around with psychedelic drugs and stool softeners in that case.
All this stuff about him knocking Newt Gingrich off a balcony in Venice is pure baloney. It’s funny how stories get all tangled up and the details are fouled up. The real story: Red was having sex with Ann Coulter and punched her in the back of her head while she was telling him a story about Newt Gingrich falling off a balcony in Venice. And the punch was only part of their foreplay.
The thing about Donahue was true, and nobody need apologize to anyone. They’re still close friends, and exchange baking tips over the phone once in a while. Red Bagel did not vote for Reagan in the 1984 election. This kind of character-assassination is depraved and will not be tolerated. Red voted for Jimmy Carter four times in 1980, breaking his previous voting record of six times for George McGovern. In 1984, Red was distressed about the choice of Walter Mondale as the Democratic candidate, so he declined to vote. But he did burn his draft card in protest of the Vietnam war. It had been over for years, but still a worthy cause.
We hope this makes sense. Or if that’s asking too much, we hope you at least quit reading sleazy biographies. But we hear that one on Bush Jr. is going to be a real pot-boiler. We’re getting ours soon.
the commune Editor’s Note: the commune is not responsible for the rising gas prices. It can probably be attributed to the flaming reserves of oil in Iraq. If you want to know who started those fires, feel free to ask around, but unless you want a long diatribe, don’t ask Billy Joel.º Last Column: Volume 60º more columns
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|  February 2, 2004
I Didn't Come Here to Argue SemanticsYou say I ruined your life, whatever. Who gets machine-gunned to death these days, anyway? I mean, seriously. The chances have got to be astronomical. You practically have to be begging to be machine-gunned to death. My cousin was on the waiting list to get machine-gunned to death for three years when he was hit by a train. I'm serious! The way I see it, you should be writing me a thank-you note. I'd call you an inconsiderate prick if I wasn't certain you'd take it the wrong way. Ruined your life, ha. That's rich. I'll have to remember that to tell my ex-wife, she'll get a real kick out of that one. She loves jokes like that, about me ruining her life or sucking out her will to live, all those old chestnuts. She has this great new one about me chewing up the best years of her life and spitting them out like tobacco juice, it goes over really well at parties. Because really, how do you ruin somebody's life? Seriously. I can't even fathom it. A priceless Faberge egg, now that's something you can ruin. You can't play catch with one of those things without ruining it completely, trust me on that one. Friendships? Yeah, I suppose you can ruin a friendship. Especially if it's with a stuffy Faberge egg collector who doesn't keep his house locked securely at night. Those are both ruinable, I'll admit. But an entire life? Keep dreaming. So what, so you have to get all your sustenance by licking pulp off the filter screen from...
º Last Column: Admit it, You Think Cancer is Funny º more columns
You say I ruined your life, whatever. Who gets machine-gunned to death these days, anyway? I mean, seriously. The chances have got to be astronomical. You practically have to be begging to be machine-gunned to death. My cousin was on the waiting list to get machine-gunned to death for three years when he was hit by a train. I'm serious! The way I see it, you should be writing me a thank-you note. I'd call you an inconsiderate prick if I wasn't certain you'd take it the wrong way. Ruined your life, ha. That's rich. I'll have to remember that to tell my ex-wife, she'll get a real kick out of that one. She loves jokes like that, about me ruining her life or sucking out her will to live, all those old chestnuts. She has this great new one about me chewing up the best years of her life and spitting them out like tobacco juice, it goes over really well at parties. Because really, how do you ruin somebody's life? Seriously. I can't even fathom it. A priceless Faberge egg, now that's something you can ruin. You can't play catch with one of those things without ruining it completely, trust me on that one. Friendships? Yeah, I suppose you can ruin a friendship. Especially if it's with a stuffy Faberge egg collector who doesn't keep his house locked securely at night. Those are both ruinable, I'll admit. But an entire life? Keep dreaming. So what, so you have to get all your sustenance by licking pulp off the filter screen from a juicer now. Who doesn't? I'm serious, my grandpa lived off juicer pulp for years, and I didn't hear him complaining. Sure, after the kangaroo ripped out his voice box he had to talk by tapping out Morse code on a pair of spoons, but if he'd really wanted to complain I'm sure he'd have found the time. If he'd wanted to, grandpa could have sat around all day, bitching about how I took him to Australia and told him all the kangaroos were so tame you could get them to eat chewed-up peaches right out of your mouth. But did he? No way! Not after I took away his spoons. Who can sleep with that rat-a-tat-tat going on all night? Jesus. He acted like any of us actually bothered to learn Morse code. You kind of remind me of my grandpa, actually. That fuckin' guy would believe anything. Well, I'm not sure he'd believe a tall tale like "Go on, stick your hand in there. It's not like they'd keep a loaded machine gun laying around!" but he wasn't an idiot. He was just old and feeble of mind. He didn't run around, sticking his fingers inside the gears of a loaded machine gun on a fool's dare, just because the fool had talked him into sneaking onto a military base in the middle of the night. But then again, grandpa always did hold his liquor better than some people who I won't mention by name. (You.) So come on, let's drop this tired old argument. Any reasonable person knows you can't really ruin a life unless it's two thirds of the way there already. Yeah, then maybe you can give it a nudge down the crapper, but hey, that's life. The important thing to acknowledge is that we're both a little to blame. Sure, I may have pulled the trigger, but whose idea was it to ignore me when I was yelling "Dodge! Dodge!" like a good friend? Sure wasn't mine. Granted, you might not have thought it was funny when I was shooting the machine gun down at your feet and yelling "Dance, motherfucker!" but I sure did, so that's really your word against mine when you think about it. And hell, if your fingers hadn't been caught in the gears I don't think most of those bullets would have even hit you, if you insist on calling a spade a spade. I swear, when those doctors brought you back to life sometimes I think you left your sense of humor on the other side. Let me know if they ever sift it out of that sack of unidentified gristle that was left over after the operation. Otherwise, I don't even know why we're talking. º Last Column: Admit it, You Think Cancer is Funnyº more columns
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Milestones1812: Some kind of war of note happened, probably involving some big shot historical guys. People waved their dicks around and shouted, most likely.Now HiringBitchin' Ninja. Ass-kicking ninja needed for sword-swallowing, punching through solid rock, hiding underwater for days at a time, providing tactical superiority over other online news-magazines, cosmetics consultations, brick-laying, snowboarding out of airplanes, cooking delicious soufflés, cowering foes with a steely glare, and taxidermy. Mystical world-view a plus.Top Selling Dog Food Flavors| 1. | Kibbles 'n Christ | | 2. | Meow'd Mix | | 3. | Low Carb Horse Nuggets | | 4. | Tastes Like Ass Smells | | 5. | Upchuck Wagon | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Red Bagel 4/23/2007 A Fistful of Tannenbaum, Chapter 18: The Pope WarEditor's Note: In the last prematurely published chapter, time-traveling Fancy Dan Jed Foster stepped up his flirting with the buttonesque-cute Princess Penny. King Arthur, Jed's host for his visit to his century, was not amused, and unfolded a plot to have Jed promoted to Supreme Knight of the King's Army and sent to battle, where he would surely be killed. We also introduced the lovable Catpants, whose full function in this story couldn't even be hinted at in the briefest of parts he played.
Yesterday things had been going so well. Jed Foster had at last kissed the endmost fingernail of the Princess Penny, and could probably work his way up to the back of the hand itself by the end of the month. But in one day it all changed, since the King had just promoted...
Editor's Note: In the last prematurely published chapter, time-traveling Fancy Dan Jed Foster stepped up his flirting with the buttonesque-cute Princess Penny. King Arthur, Jed's host for his visit to his century, was not amused, and unfolded a plot to have Jed promoted to Supreme Knight of the King's Army and sent to battle, where he would surely be killed. We also introduced the lovable Catpants, whose full function in this story couldn't even be hinted at in the briefest of parts he played. Yesterday things had been going so well. Jed Foster had at last kissed the endmost fingernail of the Princess Penny, and could probably work his way up to the back of the hand itself by the end of the month. But in one day it all changed, since the King had just promoted him in a very quick ceremony hardly worth writing about as part of the King's "Get On With It Already" policy. And then in the blink of an eye, thirteen weeks later, he found himself on the battlefield, pitching a tent in the least comical sense, and ready to command his men against the Pope's legion of pompous assholes. "The sky looks ripe for battle, Sir Uncle." Jed sat collecting a pinch of snuff from a borrowed snuffbox, which is highly unsanitary, but he had become a fiend for the stuff. Sir Uncle agreed, because he had no personality of his own. "Are you ready for battle, my lord?" He always called Jed that because he couldn't remember his name. Jed shrugged his shoulders, which takes a lot of muscles to do under thick chainmail and armored shoulder pads. "As ready as I ever will be. You know, Sir Uncle, I have a maiden back home." "I've got a maiden, too, my lord. My mum." "No, no, Sir Uncle. My maiden is legal to sleep with." Jed's mind wandered back to his fair maiden with the golden locks and luscious backside. Suddenly, a young peasant squire came running into Jed's command tent. I mean, this guy was a real tool of the feudalistic society. Dirty face, humped posture, and eyebrows brewing their own penicillin. "Suh! Suh!" shouted the cockney git to Jed. "The Pope's Legion of the Damned are coming over the 'illside!" Jed slapped the young rogue and grappled him roughly about the collar. "You insipid fool, you use your G's when you talk to me!" "Sorry, my lord," corrected the brash idiot. "The Pope, he and his army are coming over the hillside. They look harmed to the teeth, my lord." "Goddamn that Pope," said Jed, picking up his sword and its attachable bayonet to ready himself for the battle. "To death and glory, I suppose, Sir Uncle. Jed and his army formed themselves into a brilliant formation widely known as Foster's Square, and took to the battlefield. Foster heard the chilling battle cry of the Pope's men, " In nomine pater!" His own men trembled in fear at the sea of ridiculously large hats flocking toward them, but Foster held them fast with threats of running them out of showbusiness. Suddenly, as the battle seemed to turn, with tons of flying arrows, swinging swords, and real Peter Jackson-quality filmmaking, and Jed's men had the advantage at last. But then, a holy staff blindsided him and sent him tumbling to the ground. His armored thighs scraped together and sent sparks flying in all directions. He opened his eyes and his little face flap on his helmet to see a sinister figure standing over him. "Pope von Hufnagel the Pious the Fucking First, at your service," growled a familiar face. Either Professor von Hufnagel, Ostrich's insidious leader, had traveled back in time with Jed, or this guy was tremendously, unluckily ugly. Next Chapter: World's Worst Pope   |