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Shuttle Analysts: Man Was Never Meant to Fly February 17, 2003 |
Houston, Texas UNKNOWN LONG-DEAD PH Early Americans earn Godâs ire by leaving the ground they were destined for.
âMan was never meant to fly,â said shuttle analysts Thursday. âItâs clear the kind of damage that caused the shuttleâs destruction, coupled with all the obvious other signs, that weâve overstepped our bounds greatly. I suggest we all get used to walking.â
Though the reaction may seem extreme, even for space nerds, others are saying duh—itâs about time weâve realized it.
Biblical doomsayer and Readerâ...
an took a collective step backward, arms behind the back, whistling, and rolling eyes when the space shuttle Columbia exploded over Texas two weeks ago. Texans, used to loud unexpected explosions, were slow to realize exactly what had happened, but some analysts are now saying it was the âfuck youâ heard âround the world. âMan was never meant to fly,â said shuttle analysts Thursday. âItâs clear the kind of damage that caused the shuttleâs destruction, coupled with all the obvious other signs, that weâve overstepped our bounds greatly. I suggest we all get used to walking.â Though the reaction may seem extreme, even for space nerds, others are saying duh—itâs about time weâve realized it. Biblical doomsayer and Readerâs Digest editor James Bartle: âItâs taken too long to get this message, folks. All the plane crashes, not to mention the daily hot air balloon disasters that donât even make the news—hasnât it been made clear yet? Man was not meant to fly. Even the Wright Brothers plane didnât fly more than a few seconds. People will say trial-and-error, necessary experimentation, blah, blah, blah. The truth is, we were shaking the apple tree that wasnât meant to be shaked.â But not only religious weirdoes are preaching this gospel now. In the wake of the loss of the shuttle and seven astronauts, people are reconsidering the 1986 Challenger disaster, which also cost the lives of seven astronauts, and even 2001âs use of aircraft by Allah to smite American capitalists. âNobody wanted to believe in the space program more than me,â said NASA helmsman and space aficionado Shansy Miller. âBut the loss of countless craft and lives in the space program has finally become too much to ignore. How many times have we lost good people over the course of these fifty years in our vain attempts to exceed our limitations? Ten? Twenty or more? I think it was three, actually, but you get what Iâm saying. It isnât to be.â Despite the innovations in technology and the potential offered by space travel, many are saying this is the final straw. Man has tried for far too long to explore space and has only gotten so far as the moon, or Mars, if you count unmanned probes, which no one cares about. Itâs time to call it quits. âWe had a good run,â according to former astronaut and space cowboy Maurice Graham. âWe been up into space, we planted a flag on the moon. I donât see any point in doing anything more. All weâre doing is putting good multi-ethnic men and woman at risk and providing years of dead astronaut jokes for playground kids.â âThere will be no further shuttles in the foreseeable future,â said a faceless NASA drone, possibly an android. âI hope we didnât leave anything valuable on the space station because weâre not going back there for a while. Watch out for Predators when we do. Thatâs all Iâm saying.â Currently, the president will be hearing arguments to ground all earth-traveling aircraft such as commercial jets and military planes, but there is no decision expected until at least after Iraq has been thoroughly carpet-bombed. the commune news just wants to fly, put your arms around us, baby. Ramon Nootles was never meant to fly either, at least thatâs what we tell him when we pack him onto a Greyhound when he travels for a story.
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World's best airline: Cathay Pacific; world's worst: Hindenberg Airways
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 March 14, 2005
Steal Guitars and Cowedboy BootsSomeone once told me I had such bad luck in my life I ought to be a country singer. A blues singer told me that, after he heard me sing the blues. Mom said he was just trying to get me to leave the club so the people would stop booing, but I went and bought the hat anyway.
Mom warned me my country singing career would be short-lived, like my hamster. I sang one song about my wife running off with my best friend and having a flat tire on my truck, but I had made it upâI wish I had a truck. My wife did run off with my best friend, though. Although she wasn't my wife yet, just a mail-order bride that had stepped off the plane from Korea, and the guy she ran away with was the pilot, but he looked like my best friend, dead up, I swear. Tommy? Timmy? It's something like that. I haven't seen him since the fourth grade, you can't blame me for getting the name messed up.
The audience didn't like my song. "Open mic," sure, until you actually try to sing, then it closes pretty damn fast. People told me nobody sings feel-bad old country anymore. Now they sing feel-good new country, and only fans of real music feel bad when they hear it. You know me, you can't stop me with a brick wall or pure logic or the fact nobody likes me. I went and bought some leather pants to match my new hat and became a feel-good new country singer. Okay, I didn't buy the pants, but I made them out of the seats of my car. They're more chaps than pants right now, but after I hit it...
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Someone once told me I had such bad luck in my life I ought to be a country singer. A blues singer told me that, after he heard me sing the blues. Mom said he was just trying to get me to leave the club so the people would stop booing, but I went and bought the hat anyway.
Mom warned me my country singing career would be short-lived, like my hamster. I sang one song about my wife running off with my best friend and having a flat tire on my truck, but I had made it upâI wish I had a truck. My wife did run off with my best friend, though. Although she wasn't my wife yet, just a mail-order bride that had stepped off the plane from Korea, and the guy she ran away with was the pilot, but he looked like my best friend, dead up, I swear. Tommy? Timmy? It's something like that. I haven't seen him since the fourth grade, you can't blame me for getting the name messed up.
The audience didn't like my song. "Open mic," sure, until you actually try to sing, then it closes pretty damn fast. People told me nobody sings feel-bad old country anymore. Now they sing feel-good new country, and only fans of real music feel bad when they hear it. You know me, you can't stop me with a brick wall or pure logic or the fact nobody likes me. I went and bought some leather pants to match my new hat and became a feel-good new country singer. Okay, I didn't buy the pants, but I made them out of the seats of my car. They're more chaps than pants right now, but after I hit it big I'm going to buy the material to sew backs onto them.
I had to get a day job to support my nights of singing at open mics. A few wise guys have told me not to quit my day job, but I'm not going toâI'll probably get fired, as soon as they find out I've been throwing all the mail in the garbage instead of delivering it. I don't need hang-ups with office politics and bullshit. I've got my music to think about, and that homemade guitar has really been fueling my songwriting. It's not a typical guitar, either. It's more of a small TV set with a plunger on the side, but I've already written five songs. Two of them are just the theme to "The Rockford Files," but I made up the lyrics. I tried making up lyrics to the song from "The Facts of Life," but my talent doesn't work when someone's already singing lyrics to it.
My favorite song I wrote so far is "You Don't Love Me 'Cause You're Stuck Up." It's about my mother. Gets me all misty-eyed every time I sing it. I want to write a song about my dad, just to even things out, but my mom can't remember his name. I'm hoping it's "Adlai," 'cause I really need something that rhymes with "left me to die" so I can end the song.
So far none of the audiences have responded too well, but it's not like they're paying me anything, and it's better than standing in line, waiting for a movie and doing nothing, right? That's not what the theater manager says, but he's just mad because I gave away the ending to Million Dollar Baby in one of my songs. Don't blame me, dude, you're the one who let me in the theater to use the bathroom. Who knows, maybe a movie-going audience is more of a jazz crowd. I could do jazz really well, if I wanted to. I never rehearse and my songs always sound different the second time I play them 'cause I can't remember how I played them the first time.
That's it. I'm switching to jazz. º Last Column: Losing in Loveº more columns
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|  December 10, 2001
There is No "I" in "Camp Songs"Kind friends, I'm more than aware of America's fondest for the individual. Actually, strike that, I'm simply aware of it, I doubt it's possible to be more than aware of something, it's the knowledge-based equivalent of being more than dead, you either are or aren't. Suffice to say I know of our need to be individuals, I myself am an individual along with my wife and friends, so I do not suggest we all needlessly conform. And even if I do suggest that, I'm willing to understand when people don't obey. But one thing is damn sure, and there is no quarter given for this fact: There is no "I" in "camp songs."
As Den Boss (I am neither mother nor father to any of them, it's shameful to lead them on like some adult den leaders do) of Troop 54, I am the short, thin green line between fascism and full-out hippie love fest. I will have neither, particularly the latter. I will even take a significant helping of the former in order to avoid any smidgen of the latter, to be blunt and honest. And until last week, order was held and maintained by Den Boss Rokwell T. Finger. Until a freckled kid, I'll refer to him as "The Turd" in order to protect small children from the shame of their actions. Okay, I can give you a hint, his real first name is Todd and his last name begins with a C., he's roughly 9, but that's all I can give you without incriminating him. If you write to me here at the commune I'll send a discreet e-mail sharing his name, just between you and me, but...
º Last Column: There's A Bustle in My Hedgerow
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Kind friends, I'm more than aware of America's fondest for the individual. Actually, strike that, I'm simply aware of it, I doubt it's possible to be more than aware of something, it's the knowledge-based equivalent of being more than dead, you either are or aren't. Suffice to say I know of our need to be individuals, I myself am an individual along with my wife and friends, so I do not suggest we all needlessly conform. And even if I do suggest that, I'm willing to understand when people don't obey. But one thing is damn sure, and there is no quarter given for this fact: There is no "I" in "camp songs."
As Den Boss (I am neither mother nor father to any of them, it's shameful to lead them on like some adult den leaders do) of Troop 54, I am the short, thin green line between fascism and full-out hippie love fest. I will have neither, particularly the latter. I will even take a significant helping of the former in order to avoid any smidgen of the latter, to be blunt and honest. And until last week, order was held and maintained by Den Boss Rokwell T. Finger. Until a freckled kid, I'll refer to him as "The Turd" in order to protect small children from the shame of their actions. Okay, I can give you a hint, his real first name is Todd and his last name begins with a C., he's roughly 9, but that's all I can give you without incriminating him. If you write to me here at the commune I'll send a discreet e-mail sharing his name, just between you and me, but otherwise, "The Turd" thing is still in effect.
During an especially well-tempoed version of "Row, Row, Row Your Boat," I heard a clattering off-key voice chime in, a second late I might add, and bring the whole thing tumbling down like a fat man on glass platform shoes. This voice was high-pitched, so I knew it wasn't my own, again starting up without my control under the boisterous sway of the song's appeal; it was one of the boys.
The freckle-faced Turd was the culprit. It was more than poorly-executed singing; I could tell by his flustered face, the squeaks of giggles from others, and the half-smile his wide-open pie hole was curtained by that the Turd was a revolutionary, a Che Guevara amidst my stolid camper robots. Well, naturally I warned him it was fruitless to defy our singing rules, and I thought that would work. Needless to say it did not.
"The Wheels on the Bus" did not go 'round and 'round, my friends. Old McDonald's Farm was full of blithering, retarded animals, including cats that mooed and chickens that made farting noises. And instead of coming around the mountain when she came, the bitch downright derailed. I was furious, more than furious, which I think may be possible to a reasonable extent.
I had a choice, right then and there: Allow my authority to vaporize to a pudgy anarchist or make an example of him to the others.
It wasn't a pleasant choice, obviously, but I took the only realistic course of action: I abandoned Turd to the wilderness as Troop 54 packed quickly and left. He believed his punishment was gathering nuts and berries, and in a way it was since he must have done that to survive his long stay in the woods and find his way back to civilization. I received stern criticism, true, and lost the command of my scout regiment, but at least I have left an indelible lesson of the importance of conformity impressed upon them, especially one arrogant young boy.
Turd has since managed to find his way back, judging by the signatures on the legal summons, and nobody is happier than me. Hopefully he'll grow up one day and, when a gaggle of young boys are put in his custody, he'll realize a stern rod can shape any young Jimmy Dean Rebel-Without-A-Cause into an impressive soprano. º Last Column: There's A Bustle in My Hedgerowº more columns
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Quote of the Day“Learning without thought is labor lost; except in public schools, where it keeps most teachers employed.”
-Confused-ass CarmenFortune 500 CookieYou'll have a brush with death this week, and that fucker has some of the yellowest teeth you've ever seen, so make sure you go first. This time the lyrics to the song you're pretending to know the words to actually are "Watermelon, Watermelon, Watermelon." You'll make the most expensive movie ever made in your kitchen this week, for ten dollars. Lucky strikes, camels, kools, and bel-airs.
Try again later.Worst Country Songs Ever| 1. | She Left Me for an African-American | | 2. | I Don't Feel Like Drinkin' | | 3. | Here's a Quarter, Go Buy Some Bubblegum | | 4. | What's the Capital of Tennessee Again? | | 5. | If Anyone Needs Me, I'll be Down at the Nail Salon | | 6. | Regretfulness is the Hardest Word to Spell | | 7. | Mama Didn't Raise No Episcopalians | | 8. | I'm So Lonesome I Could Call an Escort Service | | 9. | I Got This Hat on Sale | | 10. | You Mispronounced My Name for the Very Last Time | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Orson Welch 6/18/2007 Good day and good-bye, at least according to the rumors around here at the commune rubble. It matters not to me that we may not publish again, since Iâm focusing my time and energy on a very lucrative weight loss research project starting up next week, and wouldnât have time to continue reviewing movies anyway. And since my dwarf mage Welchy reached level 10 last week on World of Warcraft, I havenât had much time to review new movies either. So I thought I would say sayonara with a different kind of column, Orsonâs favorite movies of all time. Whatâs that? Movies I like? Thatâs correct. They are few, but they exist. Letâs see the âtheyâ to which Iâm referring.
The Great Muppet Caper
There has never been a wiser move in all of Hollywood...
Good day and good-bye, at least according to the rumors around here at the commune rubble. It matters not to me that we may not publish again, since Iâm focusing my time and energy on a very lucrative weight loss research project starting up next week, and wouldnât have time to continue reviewing movies anyway. And since my dwarf mage Welchy reached level 10 last week on World of Warcraft, I havenât had much time to review new movies either. So I thought I would say sayonara with a different kind of column, Orsonâs favorite movies of all time. Whatâs that? Movies I like? Thatâs correct. They are few, but they exist. Letâs see the âtheyâ to which Iâm referring. The Great Muppet CaperThere has never been a wiser move in all of Hollywood than to team up Charles Grodin with felt-headed puppets. Never. I challenge you to find one. Grodin is a daring jewel thief who attempts to manipulate Miss Piggy with a romantic relationship. Yes, you read that right. Simply for the tantalizing daydreams Iâve had about how Charles Grodin would get busy with a pig puppet, if that involves Frank Ozâs hand at all or not, this movie ranks very highly in my list. And like all Muppet movies, the human are not at all curious why these somewhat inarticulate animal puppets are welcomed rather than scorned by society, a great commentary on the generation gap of the 1960s and 1970s, though a bit dark for the taste of most. YojimboAkira Kurosawaâs samurai epic has been remade many times, but too many remakes miss the exceptional subtlety and style of Kurosawa. This movie is not as excellent as it is because it is a tightly-plotted story of a samurai in feudal Japan playing two greedy sides against each other; itâs brilliant because without telling us, Kurosawa has staged the timeless story of a collection of insane Japanese men who have taken up residence in the old west. When Sergio Leone remade this tale as A Fistful of Dollars, he unwittingly sapped all the brilliance out of it by staging it in the old west where it was originally set in Kurosawaâs version. The fact the main character has no name is a subtle testament to the fact everyone is completely out of their minds in this movie and thatâs why they think theyâre samurai. A searing and subversive indictment of everyone who goes to see a movie and expects the characters to be in full possession of their faculties. Toshiro Mifune was a god among actors with hyperactive attention deficit disorder. THX-1138Before George Lucas decided it was more fun to make money than cutting social commentary films, he made THX-1138, and weâre all the better for it. Contrary to Lucasâ opinion he was making a sharp attack on the drug-abusing rule-following fascism of pre-1960s culture, he was actually making a critical symphony that mocked white Americaâs subtle hatred of itself. Not only are very few of the actors in the movie black at all, but the lead actor, Robert Duvall, can only escape the dirty world of which heâs part and the dull silver automatons who enforce the law by crossing the longest expanse of pure white ever seen on screen. Fascinating. So only by running toward something even whiter can we at least be safe from our basic whiteness? No wonder people complained so loudly about the low-key racism in the Star Wars prequels. Lucas definitely has issues. Paris on FireThere is no better film alive than Paris on Fire. No, this has nothing to do with Hilton heiresses. Quite simply, Paris on Fire is the most damning fire safety film ever made in the French New Wave vein. The acting is excellent as Marie Chevalier plays âWoman Woken By Fire Alarm,â trying for the entire length of the film to find a way out of her burning house only to find fire behind every door. She tries each door several times, and while some audiences might find these repeated scenes fairly boring, theyâre actually morons because it makes a pointed statement about the repetitive nature of trying to avoid burning to death in general. Paris on Fire makes the bold statement that, no matter how any of us might die, we are truly burning to death, slowly but surely, and we should probably enjoy it. Fucking genius. Is that all there is? Possibly. I know itâs not for me, as I have that research thing starting next week. I will miss these little chats weâve had, but I suppose itâs all for naught, as weâre but burning to death slowly over along period of time. So enjoy.   |
