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 February 28, 2005 |
Medina, Washingto Shaki Meadows An artist’s concept of just how hard this thing might blow
The enigmatic uberdork Gates first attempted to purchase the art installation earlier this month, after seeing it on USA Today and screaming “I want those things!” to the various electronic henchmen whirring about his family’s high-tech Medina, Washington home. But despite being t...
rap-art lovers of New York have had their chicken salad shat upon this week with the news that their beloved The Gates of Central Park, a conceptual-art project by French artists Christo and Jeanne-Claude consisting of 7,500 orange gates strewn throughout the famous park, may be in jeopardy. A lawsuit filed by Microsoft headcheese Bill Gates over copyright issues would have the famous art-things torn down from their current location in the park, then re-erected on Gates’ front lawn.
The enigmatic uberdork Gates first attempted to purchase the art installation earlier this month, after seeing it on USA Today and screaming “I want those things!” to the various electronic henchmen whirring about his family’s high-tech Medina, Washington home. But despite being the world’s richest man, and crying like a little girl during the negotiations, Gates was unable to sway the money-hating French.
At first, Gates reacted to the snub by ordering Microsoft engineers to build a replica of The Gates on his lawn. Unfortunately, several of the gates crashed during construction, killing three itinerant laborers. Gates then turned to his current lawsuit, which he hopes to win in the name of the nameless Mexicans killed in that frustrating tragedy.
Surprising all and completely wrecking the commune betting pool, the rismurfulously wealthy Gates granted this reporter access to his heavily fortified Redmond home, which is rumored to hover five inches above the ground at all times to cut down on worm noise, for an exclusive interview.
“Art should be enjoyed by all,” explained Gates from deep within his lair, perched atop the earth’s crust. “And I hardly ever get a chance to go to New York.”
Gates also gave this lucky reporter a tour of this cutting edge techno-hovel, which is completely computer automated with voice activated controls for temperature, ambient music, and air ionification. In addition, the entire house goes apeshit when you say the day’s secret word: “Ziggy Stardust.”
The home is also ringed by a miniature monorail system which delivers food and other essentials to the hard-working frabjillionaire. Looking like a cross between the mechanical rabbit at a dog racing track and the trolley in Mr. Rogers’ house, Gates explained how the monorail system works while he reprogrammed the house’s secret word, due to this reporter’s inability to construct a sentence that didn’t include “Ziggy Stardust” and the resultant epileptic fit suffered by Gates’ dog, Bytes.
The installation of The Gates on the Gates’ front lawn would replace a small placard currently located near the home’s main entrance, which reads “The Gates.”
“It’ll be a bit more high-concept, for sure,” explained Gates, turning a dial to remedy a smell that this reporter certainly didn’t deal. “And I always hated that damned placard.”
The thrust of Gates’ lawsuit lies on The Gates’ visual similarity to the heavily-copyrighted Windows logo, which is some kind of weird little flag thing made of plastic-colored nacho chips. This week’s opening arguments also touched upon the obvious plagiarism involved when the French artists named their epic art installation after the computing pioneer. Gates, whose name is a registered trademark in 397 countries worldwide, has thus far been unsuccessful in applying the same protection in several English-speaking nations, including the United States, where the word also means “a thing to keep in the dog.”
This case is thought to be a slam dunk, however, since Gates has already promised to help the judge install a wireless network router on his Windows PC, a task thought to be otherwise impossible.
When faced with similar challenges to the Gates brand in the past, the Microsoft founder has often struck back with his wallet, including his 1999 purchase of Rodin’s massive portal sculpture The Gates of Hell from the Musée Rodin in Paris. The Gates of Hell currently serve as a thoroughfare between Gates’ home office and bedroom.
No stranger to appropriating popular art for his own uses, Gates drew criticism in 1999 for using the 1977 David Bowie classic “Heroes” to promote some kind of Windows bullshit in a television commercial. Though some were equally critical of Bowie for selling out, most were understanding when it was revealed that the Microsoft honcho had persuaded Bowie by offering to rid his PC of the nefarious Michelangelo virus. the commune news is no stranger to huge public art installations, but we still don’t think anything Christo has done can compare to the Red Fire Hydrants exhibit on display in many major cities nationwide. Boner Cunningham has a teenager’s eye for art: that is, if you can see tits, he’ll keep an eye on it.
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Asian black market organ transplants accelerated by eBay
New Apple Power Mac G5 to boost user feelings of superiority 20%
Zimbabwe's Mugabe bitch-slapped with sanctions
Spam King beheaded in royal coup by Duke of Dick Pills
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Guilty: Libby Takes Blame in Plame Name Game Court Battle Continues as Worms Claim Ownership of Anna Nicole’s Body Finely Aged Winemaker Ernest Gallo Corked Failure of Sirius Radio Blamed on "You Can't be Sirius!" Ad Campaign |
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 April 16, 2007
I Could Never Audit Your HeartWhat lurks inside the human heart? Even the most fickle of love muscles has moments where it is full of nothing but joy, and I would only seek these moments for us.
I do not believe the heart can be judged when it is not in love. For a heart in love is at its most pure, like a Hershey chocolate bar with absolutely no nuts, no nougat, nothing but the chocolate you want. A heart in love is a heart as it really is. These moments when we're not in love are moments where we are not even truly existing. It is like love is the band we came to see, the big name on the marquee, and every other moment is us sitting in our seats in the dark, or watching Big Country and calling them assholes while we really seek U2. U2 on stage is akin to the love in our hearts, and that is why we are all really here.
Oh, my Nancy—the Nancy whose heart is mine and no one else's. I am so convinced of our perfect union that I need no proof of our entwined fates. I can see into your heart, and I stare intently at your chest while you try to sleep just in case I could ever do so. But it is in your eyes that I recognize we are the one love either of us will ever have. If your heart were a tax return, I would never audit your heart. Even if some of the math were a little shady and you clearly didn't have 9 dependents like you filled in, I could not bring myself to ask you to bring in your love receipts to my office where I could pore over them and see if everything added up—it...
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What lurks inside the human heart? Even the most fickle of love muscles has moments where it is full of nothing but joy, and I would only seek these moments for us. I do not believe the heart can be judged when it is not in love. For a heart in love is at its most pure, like a Hershey chocolate bar with absolutely no nuts, no nougat, nothing but the chocolate you want. A heart in love is a heart as it really is. These moments when we're not in love are moments where we are not even truly existing. It is like love is the band we came to see, the big name on the marquee, and every other moment is us sitting in our seats in the dark, or watching Big Country and calling them assholes while we really seek U2. U2 on stage is akin to the love in our hearts, and that is why we are all really here. Oh, my Nancy—the Nancy whose heart is mine and no one else's. I am so convinced of our perfect union that I need no proof of our entwined fates. I can see into your heart, and I stare intently at your chest while you try to sleep just in case I could ever do so. But it is in your eyes that I recognize we are the one love either of us will ever have. If your heart were a tax return, I would never audit your heart. Even if some of the math were a little shady and you clearly didn't have 9 dependents like you filled in, I could not bring myself to ask you to bring in your love receipts to my office where I could pore over them and see if everything added up—it doesn't matter. Love has ruined my math skills. The only math that makes sense to me now is 1 + 1 = Us. And even that would not get me through a second grade elementary school. I wish I could be tested on other subjects, for even the most elementary of things I am stupid about since accepting you into my heart. Basic English skills are unwelcome in my mind, phone numbers are quickly forgotten. I have become retarded for love. People should write notes about where I'm going and who I had to see and pin them to my shirt so that I might remain functional in a world where loving you is my only competent skill. I would drink Liquid Plumber right out from under the cabinet, if I momentarily forgot its lethality in the face of your beauty. You would have to rush me to the hospital and get my stomach pumped so I could continue to love you, and in my stomach they might well extract pure love along with the Liquid Plumber, because love is the only thing that fills me. Nancy, why must we ever disagree? You should know when I called the ending to that Reese Witherspoon movie total horseshit that I could never second-guess your opinion. We've already talked about how completely helpless I am, roaming the world like a blithering idiot due to my obsession with you. It is an obsession that everyone would call unhealthy and dangerous if I were not so handsome and you did not return my love even a fraction, which you do. I am incapable of rational action as long as you are alive. Killing you would be the only way to return me to regular intelligence, and I would sooner die than let someone kill you. I love you too much to be intelligent. Allow me to take that I.Q. test as a I offered last night. You will see that you are in love with an unmistakable moron, and that any opinion I ever offer that offends you should count for nothing. Even my opinion on this love is collectively worthless, given I'm two brain cells away from drooling into a bedpan for the rest of my life. I love you that much. At least, that's my perception of it, given my extremely limited capacity. º Last Column: My Band Alone Can Save Rock 'N' Rollº more columns
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|  July 22, 2002
The Truth Behind John Walker LindhDoes everyone recall when John Walker was busted by our elite killing force of C.I.A. operatives over in Afghanistan? Sure they do. And then, all of a sudden, after announcing to us all that John Walker, an American, had been arrested among the Al Qaeda forces, they come out and start calling him John Walker Lindh? Hold on to your asses, folks, 'cause medicine man Red Bagel is about to seriously blow your mind.
How convenient that a plea bargain prevented Lindh's case from reaching his testimonial. Some might say it was the work of defense and prosecutors to put this nightmare of the American judicial system behind us, so Lindh could get on to facing his punishment and the American people could feel some sense of justice. I say malarkey! Ma-lar-key! Nobody wanted Lindh to testify—not his attorney, not the Justice Department, not Lindh himself.
The truth is that John Walker and John Walker Lindh are two separate people. Whoa, eh? Blew your mind out your ass, didn't I? Red Bagel promises, Red Bagel delivers.
If Lindh had testified, he would have doubtlessly revealed his horrid true story. Even if he had attempted to keep it a secret, those of us who know the real John Walker, or the most basic of human behaviors, would have suspected something was amiss. Because John Walker was sent to Afghanistan to infiltrate the Al Qaeda terrorist organization after the bombing of the U.S. Naval ship. That's right, Walker was no traitor, but the...
º Last Column: We're Through the Looking Glass, People
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Does everyone recall when John Walker was busted by our elite killing force of C.I.A. operatives over in Afghanistan? Sure they do. And then, all of a sudden, after announcing to us all that John Walker, an American, had been arrested among the Al Qaeda forces, they come out and start calling him John Walker Lindh? Hold on to your asses, folks, 'cause medicine man Red Bagel is about to seriously blow your mind.
How convenient that a plea bargain prevented Lindh's case from reaching his testimonial. Some might say it was the work of defense and prosecutors to put this nightmare of the American judicial system behind us, so Lindh could get on to facing his punishment and the American people could feel some sense of justice. I say malarkey! Ma-lar-key! Nobody wanted Lindh to testify—not his attorney, not the Justice Department, not Lindh himself.
The truth is that John Walker and John Walker Lindh are two separate people. Whoa, eh? Blew your mind out your ass, didn't I? Red Bagel promises, Red Bagel delivers.
If Lindh had testified, he would have doubtlessly revealed his horrid true story. Even if he had attempted to keep it a secret, those of us who know the real John Walker, or the most basic of human behaviors, would have suspected something was amiss. Because John Walker was sent to Afghanistan to infiltrate the Al Qaeda terrorist organization after the bombing of the U.S. Naval ship. That's right, Walker was no traitor, but the noblest of subversive, patriotic spies.
It was only once over there that Walker discovered how closed Al Qaeda was to outsiders. It was this close-knit secrecy that impeded Walker's infiltration attempts, and kept him from finding out about the Sept. 11 attacks until it was too late. Only shortly after, the Al Qaeda realized how valuable a symbol Walker could prove—an American traitor joining their cause. So they put Walker through the loyalty ritual.
Not all Al Qaeda members go through the loyalty ritual. Only outsiders that Osama bin Laden does not personally know or people he thinks would be funny to humiliate. Walker, and other possible recruits, were forced to eat alien larvae that had been found among cowpies in Saudi Arabia. The origin of these alien larvae were unknown, and picked by bin Laden only because of their strange purplish color. Those who wish to prove their loyalty eat the disgusting larvae and therefore show their dedication, which beats their previous test of eating dynamite and running into a wall, which really limited their new recruits.
Unfortunately, this larvae ingested by Walker and others contained sentient alien life that slowly began to reproduce his shape from the inside. In fact, by the time of the Al Qaeda Oz-like prison riot in which he was apprehended, John Walker as we knew him was no more. He had been disintegrated inside out, replaced with a hybrid alien-human being calling itself John Walker Lindh (after the alien larvae's own name in its own tongue). By the time our government realized their recovered spy was not the same person, they had to treat him like a traitor and silence him with this mock trial, but keep him from testifying to the American people as to his true nature.
For those who might doubt the legitimacy of this story, admittedly pieced together through my own ten minutes of research on the Internet, I pose this question to you: What other reasons would an American have to side with another country against his own, the noblest and most Christian-like in the world? º Last Column: We're Through the Looking Glass, Peopleº more columns
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Milestones2001: Red Bagel foolishly promises paid vacations next year, only to be later surprised the commune still in business at that time.Now HiringRoadie. Duties include setting up mics, antagonizing audience hours before band comes on, picking up busty ladies of legal age for private band business. No pay, work for throwaway ladies.Top commune Searches| 1. | Double-Buck Naked | | 2. | Runyuns | | 3. | Lil Duncan Lesbo Video | | 4. | Shamu's Splashtime Adventure | | 5. | Mark Buckles | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Albert Forrest Hyne 1/20/2003 The Tell-Tale Cell PhoneTRUE! I am shitting bricks like some kind of gigantic house-building robot, but does that make me crazy? Fuck you if you say I'm crazy! Fuck you and all of your crazy-saying friends! Fuck you right in the antelope! Yeah, I'm crazy like the bionic man was crazy. I can see through walls, motherfucker! You come and get some of this, I'll hear your eyelashes rub together when you reach for the car door! I'll drop a safe on your ass, and I'm not talking about some little file folder box with a lock on it, I mean one of those huge goddamned gun safes you could fit a Samoan in! Still think I'm crazy? Step a little to the left, motherfucker!
I don't know why I did it, okay? People do some fucked-up shit after snorting a pound of coke. I knew a guy once who tried to paint a house...
TRUE! I am shitting bricks like some kind of gigantic house-building robot, but does that make me crazy? Fuck you if you say I'm crazy! Fuck you and all of your crazy-saying friends! Fuck you right in the antelope! Yeah, I'm crazy like the bionic man was crazy. I can see through walls, motherfucker! You come and get some of this, I'll hear your eyelashes rub together when you reach for the car door! I'll drop a safe on your ass, and I'm not talking about some little file folder box with a lock on it, I mean one of those huge goddamned gun safes you could fit a Samoan in! Still think I'm crazy? Step a little to the left, motherfucker!
I don't know why I did it, okay? People do some fucked-up shit after snorting a pound of coke. I knew a guy once who tried to paint a house with his dick, I'm just sayin' it gives you some strange ideas. It's true, I never had a problem with Ernesto. He was always okay by me. But tonight he showed up and he had the ringer on his goddamned cell phone playing "Somewhere Out There" and that thing was ringing like every two SECONDS. At first I figured people would eventually stop calling him but then his bitch of a girlfriend kept calling every two minutes to see if he loved her yet and that thing drove me out of my mind like in a Ferrari.
Finally I got pissed and asked him why he didn't put the thing on vibrate before I had to club him to death with a jack handle, but he said he couldn't because he had a can of Red Bull in his pocket and he didn't want the thing to get shook up and jizz all over his new pants. This seemed fair enough, but still that phone was DRIVING ME FUCKING CRAZY and I asked him if he could change the ringer to something else, like something by the Baha Boys or Shaggy or whatever, anything really. But he was a prick and wouldn't change it so I had to club him to death with a jack handle.
Would you still think me crazy if I told you how cunningly I disposed of the body? If you looked in the dictionary to check and make sure cunningly was really a word, and it turned out it was, what would you think then? A madman would have attempted to dispose of the body in some crazy way, like shooting it out of a cannon or trying to inflate it with helium so it would float away. Or putting fake cardboard ears on the head and saying "My dog got hit by a car!" But not I, who is not mad. I buried that novelty-ringing fucker in the bathroom. And if anyone questions the uneven tile floor in there, I will tell them I have moles. The animal kind.
Just then there came a knock at the door, and it was Terrance and his brother Marcus. At first I told them to fuck off, because Marcus is the dick who never returned my Shirelles tape, but then I realized how that might look so I invited them in. We hung out for a while talking about thong underwears and that was cool, but Marcus was going on so long my ears started to ring. Then after a while I realized it wasn't my ears at all, there was a faint ringing sound in the air, impossible to locate or ignore. That's when it hit me. THE PHONE!
Terrance scrunched up his nose when he heard it too.
"Hey man, is Ernesto here? That sounds like his goddamned phone. I hate that fuckin' thing."
"No!" I told him. "And why are you asking such stupid fucking questions? Damn is you stupid. If Ernesto was here, why wouldn't he be out here with us? What, you think he's hiding in the bathroom or something? Shit. If Ernesto was here, I'd beat his ass to death with a jack handle, that's how not here he is."
I had covered my tracks deftly but still, the phone rang on. Again and AGAIN. That stupid bitch girlfriend! Couldn't she take a hint that he was dead? By now it was becoming impossible to ignore or deny it, Ernesto's annoying goddamn phone was in my apartment somewhere! At first I had Terrence and Marcus convinced that it was just me humming "Somewhere Out There," but then Marcus asked how come I could hum and drink beer at the same time, was I some kind of ventriloqueer or something?
SHIT!! They KNEW! My eyes darted around the room for something else to blame the ringing on as it grew louder and louder. In an instant it was deafening! My head was pounding as Terrence and Marcus laughed and talked about Barbershop. Were they fucking with me?? They had to know, and now they were fucking with me! Those pricks!
"Alright you cocksuckers!" I shouted. "I confess!"
The both looked at me with genuine puzzlement. Hmm.
"I, uh… haven't seen Barbershop yet."
"Well, shit dog," smiled Terrence. "Get your coat man, we goin'."   |
