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the commune Focus: Gay RepublicansApril 19, 2004 |
Flatbush, NJ Mrs. Bird/Graphics Department Graphics brought together images typically associated with being gay and being Republican. If we could have fit in a Cher album and a platoon of energy company lobbyists, rest assured, we would have.   he election debates have grown extremely heated, even in mid-April, and with Ralph Nader tossing his durag in the ring, the outcome in November is ever up for question. Analysts are even trying to predict the effect frustrated gay Republicans will have if they pull out of the president and get behind John Kerry. Which leads many to speculate: What the fuck? There are gay Republicans?
Apparently so. They even have a national organization, the Log Cabin Republicans, which possibly a reference to a place Lincoln used to "entertain" visiting dignitaries. the Log Cabin Republicans, or "Loggers," as I've just said, aren't completely sold on voting for Bush this November, following the president's hard-on stance for a "Defense of Marriage" act to amend the constitution. Neither part...
he election debates have grown extremely heated, even in mid-April, and with Ralph Nader tossing his durag in the ring, the outcome in November is ever up for question. Analysts are even trying to predict the effect frustrated gay Republicans will have if they pull out of the president and get behind John Kerry. Which leads many to speculate: What the fuck? There are gay Republicans?
Apparently so. They even have a national organization, the Log Cabin Republicans, which possibly a reference to a place Lincoln used to "entertain" visiting dignitaries. the Log Cabin Republicans, or "Loggers," as I've just said, aren't completely sold on voting for Bush this November, following the president's hard-on stance for a "Defense of Marriage" act to amend the constitution. Neither party has come out publicly in support of gay marriage, but the Democrats have taken the bold step of saying they wouldn't fuck with the constitution. According to polls mysteriously conducted, average Americans are against homosexual marriage but also against a constitutional amendment outlawing it.
As a heterosexual woman trapped in the body of a man, I've always found homosexuals something of a mystery. But at least they seem pretty straightforward, no pun intended, in their political support of candidates who pledge their support. Why would homosexuals want to support Republicans, with their history of voting against issues that support them? It's almost as crazy as the notion of a black Republican.
Paula Squatt, a spokesperson for the Loggers and big-time lesbian, espoused the organization's point of view.
"Just because you're gay doesn't mean it's the only thing that affects the way you vote," said Squatt, feathering her hair in a mirror. "We are multi-layered individuals, and issue-conscious voters. We believe in an unrestricted market and stressing the power of the individual to make his own fortune in our society. We think social programs do not encourage people to make better lives for themselves. And overwhelmingly, we believe in a stronger defense for this country, and putting more money into the military. Just because you're gay it doesn't mean you can't vote for Bush in November. I'm not voting for him because I'm a woman, and his gender politics really piss me off."
Still not convinced, I interviewed some gay Republican friends I know from a local dancing establishment. Why did you vote for Bush in 2000?
Del Beauchamp: "He had it goin' on."
Smonika: "He had more 'strut' than Gore."
Roberto Love-Package: "I've always had a thing for Texans."
Vera Wadlow: "The ballot was confusing."
Obie Dufresne: "I liked how he wanted to get tough with crime. I'm a criminal, Mr. President. Get tough with me."
Pete: "I'm a masochist."
Admittedly, they might not be the most representative of gay political groups, but they know how to party. The ultimate answer for why homosexuals would support Bush, even in the much smaller numbers than they support Democratic candidates, should lie in the numbers. Republicans and Democrats both have a history of voting for and supporting legislation that by a large margin favors those with incomes over $150,000 a year. Since a great majority of Americans live far under that annual income level, the question becomes: Why would anyone vote for either party? the commune news does not employ any Log Cabin Republicans, but we do employ two reporters who really like maple syrup. Stigmata Spent provides full coverage to gay Republicans, but she likes them better fully uncovered.
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Media Plugs CIA Leak ne the most potentially controversial stories in recent years was successfully nipped in the bud by the Bush White House and its ever-faithful assistant, the national news media, as the ongoing story of former Cheney Chief of Staff Lewis Libby’s indictment, the first of a sitting White House official in history, was relegated to page 3 by bored news directors and other major Republican-driven news stories. Libby, called “Scooter” by his many enemies, is the first and likely only casualty of the under-covered story of a White House leak, in which the identity of a working CIA operative, conveniently the wife of Bush opponent Joseph Wilson. Wilson’s wife Valerie Plame was outed as a spy by a conservative columnist, and his source was traced back to the White House. While liberals hoped the 22-month investigation by Special Counsel Patrick Fitzgerald would reveal the dirty tactic came from a source as high as presidential counselor Karl Rove, the most the Democrats could succeed with was a guy named Scooter. And the victory itself was short-lived. French Protestors Politely Riot urious French protestors continued to riot over the weekend, gently overturning traffic cones and unleashing salvos of pithy wit at assembled riot police across some of the roughest neighborhoods in all of Paris. The riots began the previous week in the Seine-Saint-Denis suburb northeast of Paris, sparked by what officials believe was a disagreement over food. “Those incorrigible police buffoons know nothing of fine chocolate!” said impassioned teenage rioter Jean Touloc, only in French. The urbane French police were overwhelmed almost before the rioting even began, requiring the French Army to be brought in last week. The army surrendered four hours later, and plans were being drawn up for a transitional government when some joker switched out the treaty-signing pen with a novelty model that laughs electronically when you try to write with it. The rioters, perhaps correctly believing that they were not being taken seriously, stepped up their boisterous chants of “We beg to differ!” and their disorderly milling-about. Bob Barker Ceases to Exist After Retiring From Television Tree Bark Face Turns Out to Be Likeness of Jesus Lookalike Vance Waxman |
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 January 1, 2000
Fortune 1There is a very tricky method for applying a neutral shadow to animal consciousness. If a lion could talk, it would be too low for humans to hear, but he would tell the story of the Greatest Elephant That Ever Lived. If we could hear him, which we can't. Duh. Squirrels don't warn the bourgeois because they find their hairstyles threatening and their accents an act of war. They're not seeing your make-up, they're seeing remarkable cariboo and gnats from Dusseldorf. According to the latest Gallup poll, at least. It also said that global warming actually makes you a better feminist and helps with Windows 95 conflicts. Though regardless I still can't get these birth control pills to load. The moon's reflective quality made the crab nervous so he took up smoking Virginia Slims, he was still using Windows 3.1. The lion whispered in my ear and it sounded like he said I needed to write a book called "Chicken Soup for Assholes", that it would sell like hotcakes. It was either that or "get me out of these hotpants", he was quite a mumbler.
You will affect the president's ability to act decisively in a crisis. Try again... º more columns
There is a very tricky method for applying a neutral shadow to animal consciousness. If a lion could talk, it would be too low for humans to hear, but he would tell the story of the Greatest Elephant That Ever Lived. If we could hear him, which we can't. Duh. Squirrels don't warn the bourgeois because they find their hairstyles threatening and their accents an act of war. They're not seeing your make-up, they're seeing remarkable cariboo and gnats from Dusseldorf. According to the latest Gallup poll, at least. It also said that global warming actually makes you a better feminist and helps with Windows 95 conflicts. Though regardless I still can't get these birth control pills to load. The moon's reflective quality made the crab nervous so he took up smoking Virginia Slims, he was still using Windows 3.1. The lion whispered in my ear and it sounded like he said I needed to write a book called "Chicken Soup for Assholes", that it would sell like hotcakes. It was either that or "get me out of these hotpants", he was quite a mumbler.
You will affect the president's ability to act decisively in a crisis. Try again later.º more columns
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|  March 7, 2005
FalloutI think we gave up on Chernobyl too easily. I say that knowing full-well that too much radiation can make your sack blow up like a beach ball and your fruit starts talking to you and shit, which could be plenty scary depending on what the fruit is saying. I know some people who would be terrified no matter what their pear was belching out at them over the breakfast table, but I for one believe you can't live on that uptight of a level. At least I wouldn't consider it living. If I'm greeted to a chorus of "Mornin', Omar" from my fruit bowl in the morning, who's the victim? As long as they don't scream when I eat them, I don't really consider talking fruit to have a downside.
I'm not a doctor, at least when I'm not hard-up for cash, but I've got to imagine the health effects of living in a raging nuclear fallout zone have been overstated. You know how doctors are, one month immense dosages of radiation will turn you into a puddle of goop, the next month they'll give you super powers and you'll live to be 150. It's like the whole red wine thing. I'm willing to take my chances, because even in the worst-case scenario, being a puddle of super-powered goop doesn't sound all bad. No way you've got to pay normal tax rates when you're filing as "goop."
And Chernobyl itself could really be an ideal place to live, when you think about it. It's like an empty readymade city, just without all the giant Barbie dolls and the plastic Thunderbird with nothing under...
º Last Column: Panama º more columns
I think we gave up on Chernobyl too easily. I say that knowing full-well that too much radiation can make your sack blow up like a beach ball and your fruit starts talking to you and shit, which could be plenty scary depending on what the fruit is saying. I know some people who would be terrified no matter what their pear was belching out at them over the breakfast table, but I for one believe you can't live on that uptight of a level. At least I wouldn't consider it living. If I'm greeted to a chorus of "Mornin', Omar" from my fruit bowl in the morning, who's the victim? As long as they don't scream when I eat them, I don't really consider talking fruit to have a downside.
I'm not a doctor, at least when I'm not hard-up for cash, but I've got to imagine the health effects of living in a raging nuclear fallout zone have been overstated. You know how doctors are, one month immense dosages of radiation will turn you into a puddle of goop, the next month they'll give you super powers and you'll live to be 150. It's like the whole red wine thing. I'm willing to take my chances, because even in the worst-case scenario, being a puddle of super-powered goop doesn't sound all bad. No way you've got to pay normal tax rates when you're filing as "goop."
And Chernobyl itself could really be an ideal place to live, when you think about it. It's like an empty readymade city, just without all the giant Barbie dolls and the plastic Thunderbird with nothing under the hood. It'd be like Oklahoma City without the hick smell. They could hold a wild land grab like back in the old west days! Give me a cattle prod and let me loose in that place, trust me; I'll come out of the deal with Bricks Towers under my arm. It may have been Bank of Ruskie before the shit went Three Mile, but now that vault's Foghat's room, Ivan. What can I say; the dog likes to feel secure when he sleeps. Plus I think he might be catching on to the fact that the "Panic Room" in the Bricks Manor is just a walk-in closet with a bunch of pennies jammed in the door frame.
Still not sold on the whole Chernobyl thing? How would you like to wipe your ass with the electricity bill? You'd be living that large in Chernobyl, since who needs electricity when the whole town glows in the dark? And if that shit can power a submarine, it should have no problem juicing up my Mr. Coffee. It would be like solar power, without the suck.
I got to thinking about fallout this week because of The Man's reaction to my oceanizing of the Bricksmobile III: Red Bagel Edition last month when I was down in Panama. Turns out the big Bagel had a real emotional attachment to that car, and a real dead space alien on dry ice in the trunk. That's what he says anyway, the story smelled suspiciously of hooker mishap to me. But if that's the case, he can consider that problem solved, because the only law that's getting into that trunk now is the Fish Police. And it was my understanding that they were cancelled years ago. Bagel always has been the paranoid sort, however, and I don't think he watches TV. Something about mind-control dolphin sounds in the audio mix, I didn't read the whole pamphlet.
So now I'm on the commune shit list, of Bricks List as it's being called at the moment. Quite a change from the Dunkin Detail as it had been known for years. Thanks to my loyal readership of gun nuts, truckers and the vicarious, my ratings the office chicken has been tabulating are keeping me from napping under the axe, but I'm still keeping my options open for a career move to the Far East in case shit goes bad again like last year when I ate all of Bagel's astronaut ice cream. One more mix-up like that and Omar Bricks will be the top name on the commune's Comrade Exchange Program, because I don't think those sly fuckers want Boris Utzov back. Wish me luck.
Bricks Out. º Last Column: Panamaº more columns
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Quote of the Day“What joyous spring, what sylvan glade, alive with growth and life anew, springing forth in buds of nature's splendor, what miracle of- what, it's snowing? Again? FUUUUUCK. I'll be at the pub.”
-Roderick YoungfellowFortune 500 CookieYou are so ugly, the mere sight of you makes small children give up on life. No twist to that, it just needed to be said. Instead of Band-Aids this week, use bacon. Everybody loves bacon. The only cure for breath like yours is the Hemmingway solution. This week's lucky haiku: Luke Luck licks dykes, Luke's dick sticks Mikes, Mike's wife knifes like OJ.
Try again later.Top 5 Questions in the Wake of the Harry Whittington Shooting| 1. | How come it took so long to find out there were no weapons of mass destruction? | | 2. | Why do they call it birdshot instead of leadshot? And, as a follow-up, what's buckshot? | | 3. | What did Whittington know, and when? | | 4. | When exactly did Brangelina hear about it? | | 5. | So, where do you wanna eat? | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Violet Tiara 2/28/2005 QuadrophoniaLove is a many-splendored thing
with tentacles.
"Ding-dong, the witch has snacks,
that Rax hires blacks
and Jack hates jacks.
Which old witch?
Fool, how many witches you know?
Shiiiit."
Felt manacles felt fantastical
when I was bound
to the brownie hound
(a giant cartoon dog
with a love for fudge,
not my dirty neighbor who mooned the judge).
To judge the moon is to prune your doom,
its mood is construed as rude
by those who've measured its glows.
The hose grows a nose when I close
my eyes to a slit but peek a bit
and the world lies in blurs the size
of the space on my face
where the air escapes.
Seeping sleep...
Love is a many-splendored thing
with tentacles.
"Ding-dong, the witch has snacks,
that Rax hires blacks
and Jack hates jacks.
Which old witch?
Fool, how many witches you know?
Shiiiit."
Felt manacles felt fantastical
when I was bound
to the brownie hound
(a giant cartoon dog
with a love for fudge,
not my dirty neighbor who mooned the judge).
To judge the moon is to prune your doom,
its mood is construed as rude
by those who've measured its glows.
The hose grows a nose when I close
my eyes to a slit but peek a bit
and the world lies in blurs the size
of the space on my face
where the air escapes.
Seeping sleep hisses out of your pores
while little brother pisses on lists of chores
animal crackers crack under the weight
of a mailman waiting for Annabelle's date.
Joy, joy, the Christmas bear
flew into a rage and pulled out his hair,
Dancing Clancey's pants were fancy
enough that the cops took an interest in him
and made him down a fifth of gin
before they made him spin spin spin!
Like a sprinkler of vomit
a comet of bile
shot from poor Clancey's face-part while
the cops ran for cover
and Eldaway's mother
opened an umbrella just in time
and I ate a lime just to make it rhyme.   |